Ivan Dobnik - Vilenica

Vesna Lemaić · 165
clothes hanger and reaches for the first piece of clothing. Made in Taiwan.
All these stitches are compromising Europe. Her fingers extend and contract.
In the same rhythm that the hands of Taiwanese seamstresses sewed
the clothes, Chop Sui unsews them, undoes the prescribed cut. Chop Sui’s
hands work swiftly, as if the movements of Taiwanese seamstresses were archived
in her body; her speed is excessive, she rattles like a sewing machine
whose working memory has crashed. Threads are curling and knotting,
the threads weaving the garment of Europe. But Chop Sui is not a machine,
she is still a mannequin, she is sweating, out of every removed stitch
evaporates the perspiration of a Taiwanese seamstress, fog rises, screening
the scene.
A thought occurred to Angela: how about sugarcoating the next couple of
minutes of her life? The life cut into short-term contracts. She looked at
her wristwatch; in ten minutes’ time, she would be officially out of work.
She was unable to imagine what would happen, if anything at all, when
the clock struck midnight. That was one of the reasons why she ordered a
spring-roll at one of the food stands, to await the new day on a full stomach.
Short-term contracts had confined her to a sandglass position: time
was running out and after six months, it was up to Rodendrich to turn the
sandglass around and prolong her life for another six months. Working
conditions had also turned her existence into a short-term life. She was
counting the minutes, wolfing down the spring-roll, as if she knew it was
her last. It proved to be fatal, that damn shiitake mushroom which had
crossed the border illegally to get stuck in Angela’s windpipe, interrupting
her breathing. The shop assistant’s heart said farewell in a superior manner,
60 times/min, in the tempo of the Viennese waltz, skipped to 32 times/
min, in the tempo of the English waltz, finally stopping with a gallant
bow. But the hands on the face of her wristwatch, stained with soy sauce,
ticked on.
The male and female mannequins know that chaos must be endured. One
two three, one two three. With obstinate determination, they spin on – at
least it feels like it, even though they are standing still – for the waltz is the
dance of the universe. The waltz imitates the Earth’s motion, the endless
rotation of society around its axis, distorted in the fear of chaos and anarchy
of uncivilised beings.
Making his way through the fog, Rodendrich will think all will be well, his
store is insured against burglary, vandalism and terrorist attacks. When he
is done thinking, he will crash into the shop window, falling down at the
feet of the male and female mannequins. His bloody forehead will leave an
impression on the windowpane: Unmade in Europe.
Translated by Špela Bibič