Ivan Dobnik - Vilenica

Stanka Hrastelj · 123
of a sudden something rattled, struck against the windowpane, we looked
at each other, Polič sprang to the balcony, opened the door and stopped
in his tracks, hollow-faced, Irena sprang after him, followed his gaze and
screamed, she screamed stamping her feet, we rose too, calmly and elegantly,
I can still see in my mind's eye the slow motion shot of us two serenely
laying our napkins on the table and gracefully rising, with soft, fluffy
movements turning towards the balcony, with soothing, fatherly gestures
putting our hands on their shoulders and ushering them back inside, Erik
said to the troubadour, Erik said like a prophet, bring a plastic bag, and I
made a living shield in front of the balcony, I looked into the black dots
of eyes on the tiles and the broken little body, the chest was still rising and
fall ing, now in fast and shallow breaths now in deep ones now not at all,
the tiny black eyes were still clear, it might take them hours to close, then
Erik went down on his right knee, respectfully taking up the little bird on
his palm but not dawdling, he worked fast, put the bird in the bag, pulled
himself up and brought it down against the floor, forcefully and from high
up, he swung three times, then he carried the dead to the dustbin but we
both knew that he had done it only so that I would not have to, he knew
that I would be the one to do it otherwise, the man on the balcony had
protected his wife from killing, he did precisely what I'd done, years ago, at
his place when we were still dating, a young nuthatch had crashed into the
window and could not die, the routine of putting it in a bag and ending
it is the routine of those who are capable of love. It's been five weeks since
our last visit, at night, thinking Erik was asleep, I cried into the pillow, you
aren't crying for that little bird Marinka are you, yes, for the little bird, I
lied aloud because in fact I had remembered my grandmother, her worn
gaunt body in the oversized whiteness of the hospital room, her cold bony
fingers, if you love me Marinka you will let me die, we'll wash down the
memory of the killed bird with the musk wine from Samos.
Translated by Nada Grošelj