By Andrej Nikolaidis, CdM columnist
Grass variant
Once upon a time there was a poet and musician whose name was, let’s say, Perovic and he knew how to play trumpet effortlessly. He lived in a rented apartment on the fourth floor, had four cats – the largest and most beautiful one called Njegos – and from dawn to dusk he used to drink domestic rakija. He had been doing it until an accident sobered him up.
And the accident, as it should be clear, can’t be locked in a basement. With the wastewater, it travels through the sewers, travels through the water supply, sticks to the soles of shoes and marches through them through the city streets, enters schools, hospitals and administration buildings, finally enters the power lines, so that the one who puts the soup on the stove has no idea that they’re cooking a meal for their child based on an accident.
During religious procession across the Montenegrin towns, Perovic was clearly playing trumpet. He entered into indefinite employment, had part-time jobs and, all in all, enough money to buy cat food and a domestic rakija. He was not a member of the ruling party but didn’t resist it either. He voted for the ruling party. On public holidays, he would display the Montenegrin flag on the balcony. He played the national anthem at the celebrations. He himself wrote several patriotic songs, each of which, he believed, deserved to be celebrated.
Less than a month has passed since the beginning of religious processions when it came up to him … He was sitting in an armchair, Njegos nestled in his lap and, as I said, it came up to him: they’re done. People at work, people in the market, people in public transport – they all used to take part in religious processions. Wouldn’t it be smarter for a small, lonely man playing trumpet to do the same, to join the winner in time, he wondered?
Once upon a time there was a poet and musician whose name could be Perovic, and who knew how to play trumpet effortlessly. He lived alone with his four cats, one of whom was called Njegos, and drank for days and nights on end domestic rakija, until he joined religious processions.
Perovic returned from a protest march through the city in a good mood, almost delighted. He felt cleansed of the doubts and fears that had trapped him in a small rented apartment on the fourth floor, put a bottle into his hands, and thwarted him from becoming someone bigger. Perovic felt strong and willing.
Not a month has passed since Perovic joined the crowd in religious processions, and he was already their leader. In the photos from that time, we see him surrounded by priests watching him like a boy on a potty, sometimes carrying a cross, sometimes blowing a trumpet, while behind him, in an endless column, the people are marching.
Perovic soon got the opportunity to publish columns inspired by the Saint Sava in a local newspaper. In them, he announced the victory of the faith and the people in the elections that were to follow in August. He displayed the Serbian flag on the balcony and had even more money to buy cat food and domestic rakija. Not that he had stopped drinking altogether, he would have done it still from time to time, but the days he had once spent in drunkenness were spent in faith: above all in the faith that he would soon become someone really, really important.
Once upon a time there was a poet and a musician whose name was, or was not, Perovic and who played trumpet effortlessly. He lived in a rented apartment on the fourth floor, had four cats – the name of the biggest one was Njegos. When the former government was overthrown in the August election, he knew that his time had come.
In his columns, Perovic, if that was his name, branded the deviant and praised the role models. He praised the metropolitan, the prime minister and the people, resolutely announcing a better tomorrow.
And that really happened to him. Less than a month has passed since the formation of the new government, and it appointed him head teacher and moved into his new apartment.
Once upon a time there was a poet and musician and for this story, we’re going to call him – Perovic. He played trumpet effortlessly and had four cats – of whom the one with largest moustache was called Njegos – and lived with them in a comfy apartment in one of the fanciest Podgorica neighborhoods.
Not a month has passed since his appointment as the head teacher, and he already dismissed supporters of the former regime and forced the rebels to subdue. He saluted his collaborators and neighbors with “God Help You” and received the same reply.
In his columns, which he published in a local newspaper, Perovic had no mercy for the suspects and enemies of change. The people stood up, and he wrote: those who thought they were above the people would have to bow to the ground before them.
Once upon a time there was a poet and musician who could have been called Perovic and who knew how to play trumpet wonderfully. He lived in a luxury apartment with his four cats, one of whom was called Njegos, and from dawn to dusk he read the holy scriptures and the hagiographies of Saint Sava, until he learned that the government that hired him and moved in – fell.
Once upon a time there was a poet and musician whose name, to be honest, wasn’t Perovic. He lived with four cats, and the name of the most beautiful one was Njegos. He lived in a large new apartment in which he probably still lives, because in his columns he used to publish in a local newspaper, which in the meantime changed its editorial policy, he supported the new government in time and resolutely, newer than the previous one –new as well, and again in time, displayed the Montenegrin flag on the balcony again.
Once upon a time there was a poet and musician whose name wasn’t Perovic and who kept his post as director even after the change of power, as well as his big apartment and four cats, of whom one called Njegos.
Once upon a time there was a poet and musician whose name wasn’t Perovic, and who again started to drink domestic rakija from dawn till dusk.
Once upon a time there was a poet and musician whose name wasn’t – but could have been – Perovic. Years have passed, the leaves got a bit mushy and turned into humus from which flowers sprouted for new celebrations and new funerals, the snow fell and melted, the government fell again and again, and the Earth, what can I tell you, still “dances the dead dance” and because of that a man doesn’t have a choice but to think that the Danube, the former border of the former world, “is being crossed by boats full of lunatics traveling towards a dark place”. Everything’s new, but new in an old way. It’s why I think that Perovic, who’s not Perovic, if alive, still holds Njegos in his lap and plays trumpet.
Or it was and still is, pardon my French, another Montenegrin bullshit.
*Gusle – a Montenegrin single-string instrument
