REŽA

 

Rdečelasa deklica je z nekoliko vase povlečenim zgornjim delom telesa iz temne kleti gledala proti špranji v vratih. Če si Alino videl na ulici, kadar je z mamo ali očetom stopala proti šoli, trgovini in na bližnje otroško igrišče, je bila videti mirna, a malo odmaknjena. V svojem svetu. Tu in tam je dvignila pogled in se spomnila, kje je. In kam gre. Tudi klet je poseben svet. Drugačen od ulice. Je prostor, v katerem se Alinin fokus izostri. Okrepijo se njeni čuti, popolnoma je navzoča.

V temi je redko jokala. Pri dnevu nikoli. Kot da z jokom ni imela česa dokazovati ali braniti. V kleti jo je bilo strah, vendar je drget nadzorovala. Vedela je, da jo bo babica v klet zaprla takrat, ko bo za njen okus preveč glasno izkazovala svojo voljo, svoje želje, potrebe, ki niso v skladu z babičinimi. Stikalo na steni je bilo tako visoko, da ga ni dosegla. Ko se je kletno prestajanje kazni začelo, se je še stegovala po stikalu, kasneje je poskuse opustila. Čeprav je v nekaj mesecih zrasla za vsaj dva centimetra, to ni bilo dovolj. Potem še za dva, a ni šlo. Babica, mama njenega očeta, je iz kleti odnesla pručko in mali stol, ki bi Alini lahko pomagala. Po kotih plesnivega prostora se je tu in tam sprehodila kakšna miš. Smrdelo je po zatohlosti. Izgubila je občutek za čas. Lahko bi pognala korenine. V vlažnih tleh. Se vrasla v podzemlje. Ozirala se je k mali odprtini v starih vratih. Po zraku je s prstom sledila svetlobni razpoki in se včasih, da bi se pomirila, zibala naprej in nazaj.

Njena starša sta bila igralca, profesionalna, a svobodnjakarja, boema, selila sta se iz enega gledališča v drugo in se lotevala vseh vrst neinstitucionalnih projektov, nekakšne postavantgarde, ki sta jo ustvarjala skupaj s kolegi, obstranci. V šestdesetih letih, preden se jima je rodila Alina, sta se za pet let preselila v New York in za kratek čas postala del ekipe teatra La MaMa. Včasih sta hčerki pokazala kakšno fotografijo iz tistega časa. Še posebej ji je ostala v spominu slika mame, ki stoji pred vhodom v gledališče, rekla sta, da je v Ist Vilidžu, Alina je nekajkrat ponovila besedi, smešno sta ji zveneli, mama ima na glavi velik vijoličast klobuk, za katerega je zataknjeno ptičje pero, liže sladoled in zre v objektiv, oče si prižiga cigaro in se pogovarja z nekim plešastim moškim z odtisom velike črne roke na glavi. Mama je rekla, da je fotografija nastala po predstavi nekega slavnega Sama. To so bili najlepši dnevi mojega življenja, je večkrat zatrdila mama, oče ji je prikimal. Skoraj nič denarja nisva imela, živela sva v mali sobi v Sohu in se stapljala z avantgardno newyorško umetniško sceno. Dnevi so se zlivali v noči in jutra so se začenjala opoldan. Ko je tako pripovedovala, je Alina ni čisto dobro razumela, a počutila se je nevidno in nepotrebno.

Bohemska linija prijateljev njenih staršev se je nadaljevala tudi v Sloveniji. Nekateri zapiti, drugi na meji genialne blaznosti, spet tretji ponosni in vendar nekako predvidljivi v svoji odmaknjeni drži, ki naj bi nasprotovala režimu, institucijam, zakonom. Skoraj vsak večer sta kje nastopala in Alina je veliko časa preživela v družbi babice, ki je moža izgubila, ko je imela deklica tri leta, se preselila k sinu in njegovi družini, in je zdaj vso pozornost usmerjala v vnukinjo. Govorila ji je: Vedno te bom čuvala, nikoli ne boš sama, Alina, tudi če te starša zapustita, te jaz ne bom. Alina ni razumela, zakaj bi jo starša zapustila. Babičine besede so jo strašile. Bili so večeri, ko sta se igrali človek ne jezi se ali pa sta skupaj šivali in vezli. Babica je bila mojstrica, poklicna šivilja, Alina se je potrpežljivo učila delati obrobe na blagu in tu in tam je na belem platnu izvezla tudi podobo nedoločljive rože. Ko je šlo za šivanje, in včasih tudi kuhanje in peko, je imela babica precej potrpljenja. Znala pa je vpiti pankrt usrani, naredi, kot sem ti rekla, vse delaš narobe. Nikoli ni šlo za kuho ali šiviljska opravila. Raztogotila jo je dekletova volja, včasih zgolj to, da je bila poleg nje, da je hodila sem in tja po stanovanju. Babica je najbolje vedela, kdaj se počiva, kaj se je za kosilo, kdaj se je, koliko se je. Kaj se govori, kaj ne. Alini se je približala z usnjenim pasom v rokah. Oranžen je bil, potegnila ga je iz dekličine odslužene šolske torbice. Alina je negibno stala. Dobila jih je po zadnjici, po rokah, nogah in včasih po hrbtu. Za povrhu še klofuto. Izraz na Alininem obrazu je bil zamrznjen, ni pa bil vdan.

Ob najtežjih dneh so bili Alinini premiki počasni, oprezni, namenjeni preživetju, zajemanju zraka in previdnim izdihom. Vse, kar je takrat zmogla, je bil dvig roke, ki je k ustom ponesel hrano in pijačo. Razvila je občutek stalne pripravljenosti, nikjer se ni počutila varno. Vedno je bila z mislimi tudi v prihodnosti, v pričakovanju tistega, kar je prihajalo. Babi, kdaj prideta mami in oči, je spraševala, kadar sta zamujala s predstave. Skoraj nikoli nista prišla domov takrat, ko sta obljubila. Ne vem, Alinca, je odvrnila babica, potem pa zavila z očmi in zmajala z glavo. Tvoja starša sta neodgovorna, eden bolj kot drugi. Moj sin še ima nekaj občutka za čas in držanje obljub, tvoja mama pa je popolnoma razpuščena, kot najstnica se vede. Alina je poslušala in razbirala spreminjajoče se izraze na babičinem obrazu. Mamo in očeta je imela rada, pogrešala ju je, premalo časa so preživljali skupaj. Morda se pripravljata na to, da jo zapustita. Slabo ji je postalo, ko je pomislila, da bi ostala sama z babi. Saj ne moreta kar izginiti. In s seboj bi jo vzela, sigurno bi jo, je razmišljala Alina.

Staršem je povedala. Za zmerjanje, za tepež z usnjenim pasom in občasno z leseno šibo, ki je bila v babičini kuhinji vedno pri roki. Babica je ob bližnjem potoku nabirala koprive in šipek in najbrž si je iz grmičevja ob vodi odlomila vejo, jo očistila malih vejic in listov in jo zgladila v orodje za kaznovanje. V kotu pri hladilniku je stala, naslonjena na steno, iz katere se je luščila bledo rumena barva. Kuhinjske kote s pogledom na oškrbnjeno steno je Alina dobro poznala. Vsaj enkrat tedensko je morala klečati. Tvoj oče je klečal na zrnih fižola, punčara nesramna, je zijala babica. Dogajalo se je takrat, ko staršev ni bilo doma. Njena beseda proti babičini. Ko sta se mama in oče vrnila z dela, se je oče največkrat zaprl v kabinet, mama pa je stopila k Alini in jo vprašala, kako je preživela dan. Alina je natančno opisala vse, kar se je zgodilo. Povedala je, da je bila tepena, naštela je besede, s katerimi jo je ozmerjala babica, in prosila mamo, naj ji verjame, da ni naredila nič narobe. Mama se je skušala postaviti za hčer. Z babico sta najprej govorili tišje, potem pa vedno glasneje, dokler nista vpili druga na drugo, babičin glas je preglasil maminega, sikala je in togotila, včasih je s pestjo udarila po mizi. Mama je v pol ure ponavadi omagala in planila v jok. Alina je sanjarila, da bi šli z mamo proč, nekam stran, dobro bi jima bilo. Zamišljala si je, kako bi skupaj gledali nadaljevanke, jedli tople sendviče, pili kakav. Očetov odnos do Alininih težav je bil ves čas odnos nekoga, ki se ne želi vpletati. Ti verjamemo, ja, ampak zdaj je že bolje, tisto je bilo včeraj, saj ni tako hudo, so bile njegove običajne besede. Očetov umik je odmaknil tudi njo. Gledala sta se z razdalje. Kadar jo je skušal objeti, se je prisilila, da sta se dotaknila, potem se je hitro odmaknila. Nikoli se nista zares pogovarjala o njenih strahovih. Ko ga je enkrat vprašala, kako je bilo klečati na fižolu, je zamahnil z roko, odšel na dvorišče in si prižgal cigaro.

Sedemletna sedi na tleh mrzle kleti in razmišlja, kako bi bilo, če bi povedala sosedom. Ampak saj so morali slišati kričanje in zmerjanje, ki se je včasih iz hiše preselilo na vrt. Vendar je moralo takrat vse ostati neizrečeno, potisnjeno v navidezno nevidnost. Babi, babi, je izmučeno tolkla po vratih. Odpri mi, kaj sem ti naredila, je vpila, dokler ji glas od utrujenosti ni začel pojenjati. Kletnim dnem so ponavadi sledili dnevi, ko ji je babica pekla peciva, ji kupovala obleke, jo vodila v kino, in obe vsakič znova še globlje zapletala v nemogoč odnos. “Naredila ti bom krofe in ogromno slivove marmelade bom dala notri, boš imela za zajtrk,” je rekla in njene sive oči so takrat zrcalile nekaj mehkega.

Rada je imela babičine oči in tiste gube na njenih okroglih licih, pa tanke sive lase, ki si jih je vsako jutro pozorno spletla v kito. Prava babica. Zlata. In temna obenem. Vmes skoraj nobenih odtenkov. 

Sedi na prašnem kletnem toplem podu. Prehlajena je, in ker nima robčkov, posmrkuje in smrkelj vleče globoko v nos. Iz kuhinje, ki je na drugi strani dolgega hodnika, se sliši stepanje. Babica najbrž pripravlja biskvit. Vse mora biti popolno. Temperatura v kuhinji je nadzorovana, jajca so domača, s tržnice, moka štirikrat presejana. Nihče je ne sme motiti. Ampak ni zato zaprta. Zaprta je, ker ni pojedla polpete. Posebej za Alino jih je naredila, iz kuhane govedine. Res mi ne pašejo danes, babi. Vse ostalo bom pojedla, obljubim, polpete pa jutri, lahko spraviš, za jutri. Nič ni pomagalo. Govedina se je jedla tisti dan in samo tisti dan v tistem tednu. Vonj biskvita se je stisnil skozi špranjo na vratih kleti, Alina je postajala lačna. Še enkrat je potolkla po vratih. Strašansko dolg se ji je zdel zapor tistega dne. Še nekaj časa je tolkla in postajala je zaskrbljena, ker iz kuhinje že kakšne pol ure ni bilo več nikakršnih zvokov. Svetloba, ki je v klet prodirala iz veže z velikim oknom z razgledom na vrt, je pojenjala. Alina je skušala ujeti zvok kakšnega premika. Nekajkrat je zavpila “babi babi”, potem se je sesedla na tla in se stisnila v klopčič. Od utrujenosti je zadremala.

Zbudil jo je mamin glas, ki se je v veži mešal z neznanimi glasovi. Začela je tolči po vratih kleti. Mama je bliskovito odklenila in Alina se je oklenila maminega pasu. Ničesar drugega ni videla, popolnoma spojila se je z maminim telesom in nekaj trenutkov sta se zamrznili v vežna tla. Alina je potem le začutila, da se mama trese in da neznani glasovi zdaj prihajajo iz kuhinje. Mama, imamo goste? Kje je babi? Spet me je zaprla, zelo sem vpila, pa ni hotela odpreti. Rekla mi je, da me bosta vidva zapustila. Spet se je drla, da je jedla brom, in kazala mi je številke za roki. Prav tresla se je od togote. Mama se je z Alino usedla na stopnice v trenutku, ko sta dva moška iz kuhinje na nosilih na kolesih pripeljala veliko črno vrečo, ki je imela obrise človeškega telesa, iz špranje pri zadrgi je visel pramen sivih las. Babi? je zakričala Alina. Mama jo je mirila, v vežo je stopil tudi oče in moškima nekaj potiho dejal. Nato se je obrnil k ženi in Alini in rekel, da bo zaradi obdukcije odšel v bolnišnico. Z vrta je prihajal soparen poletni zrak, ki je napovedoval nevihto. Alina, babi ni več, je monotono rekel oče. In še: Na tleh je veliko krvi, suši se.

Po veži se širi vonj po jajčnem biskvitu. Meša se je z vonjem po dežju, ki je začel z vso silo tolči. Alina sedi na stopnicah. Mama jo drži za roko. Nočeta v kuhinjo. Alino potresuje jok, a obenem čuti lahkotnost.

 

(Enakozvočja, Založba Miš, 2022)

THE CREVICE

 

A red-haired girl, her upper body slightly drawn in, gazed from the darkness of the basement toward the crack in the door. On the street, walking beside her mother or father to school, the store, or the nearby playground, Alina appeared calm, though a little distant, lost in her own world. Every now and then, she would look up, as if suddenly remembering where she was. And where she was going. The basement, too, was a world of its own, very different from the street. It was a place where Alina's focus sharpened, her senses heightened; she was fully present.

She rarely cried in the dark. Never in daylight. As if there was nothing to prove, nothing to defend. She was afraid in the basement but kept her trembling in check. She knew her grandmother would lock her away whenever she voiced her will, desires, or needs too loudly for her approval. The light switch on the wall was too high to reach. At first, Alina would reach upward, fingertips stretching desperately toward it. Later, she gave up all together. Though she had grown at least two centimeters in a few months, it wasn’t enough. Another two followed, and still it fell short. Her grandmother, her father’s mother, had removed the small chair and step stool from the basement, objects that might have helped. Occasionally, a mouse scurried along the edges of the moldy walls. The air hung heavy with mustiness. Time lost all meaning. She might as well have grown roots, taken hold in the damp soil, and become part of the underground herself. Often, she would turn back to the narrow crack in the old door, tracing the thin line of light with her fingertip. Sometimes, to soothe herself, she would rock gently back and forth.

Her parents were professional actors, yet freelancers. Bohemians, drifting from one theater to another, working on odd, non-institutional projects. They helped build a kind of post-avant-garde scene alongside fellow outsiders. In the 1960s, before Alina was born, they spent five years in New York City, briefly joining the La MaMa theater collective. Occasionally, they showed her photos from that time. One image remained with her: her mother standing in front of a theater in the East Village. East Village, Alina repeated softly, amused by the sound of it. In the photo, her mother licked an ice cream cone, wearing a large purple hat with a bird’s feather tucked into it. Her father stood beside her, lighting a cigar, talking to a bald man with a large black handprint painted on his head. “That was after a performance by the legendary Sam,” they explained. “Those were the best days of my life,” her mother would repeat, and her father would nod in agreement. “We barely had any money. We lived in a tiny room in SoHo and simply blended into the New York avant-garde scene. Days flowed into nights and mornings began at noon.” As her mother spoke, Alina struggled to grasp the story and always felt invisible in it, unnecessary.

The bohemian circle persisted in Slovenia. Some friends were drunks, others teetered on the edge of genius and madness, and still others wore aloofness like a badge, proud, yet predictably defiant of regimes, institutions, and laws. Nearly every evening, they performed somewhere, leaving Alina with her grandmother. Widowed when Alina was just three, her grandmother had moved in with the family soon after, dedicating herself entirely to her granddaughter. “I’ll always look after you,” she promised. “You’ll never be alone, Alina. Even if your parents leave, I won’t.” Alina didn’t understand why they would ever leave. Her grandmother’s words unsettled her. They spent some evenings playing Sorry or sewing and embroidering together. Once a professional seamstress, her grandmother was a master of her craft. Patiently, Alina learned to hem fabric, sometimes stitching strange, indescribable flowers into white canvas. Her grandmother’s patience seemed endless, whether in sewing, cooking, or baking. But it could shatter suddenly. “You little bastard, do as I tell you! You’re doing everything wrong!” she’d scream. It was never about the task itself. What enraged her was Alina’s willpower, even her quiet presence and her pacing through the apartment. Grandma always knew best - when to rest, what to eat, how much, what to say, what to keep silent. She would approach Alina, clutching the orange leather belt pulled from Alina’s worn school bag. Alina stood still. The blows rained down on her thighs, arms, sometimes back. A sharp slap followed. Her face remained frozen, yet never compliant.

On the hardest days, Alina moved slowly and cautiously, each gesture carefully measured for survival, every breath deliberate. All she could manage was to lift her hand, bringing food or drink to her lips. She lived on constant alert, never feeling truly safe. Her thoughts raced ahead, always anticipating what might come next. Whenever her parents were late returning from a play, she would ask, “When will Mom and Dad be home?” They almost never arrived on time. “I don’t know, Alina,” her grandmother would sigh, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “Your parents are irresponsible, one more than the other. My son at least tries to be on time, to keep his promises. But your mother? Completely dissolute, still acting like a teenager.” Alina listened quietly, watching her grandmother’s face shift and harden with each word. She loved her parents and missed them terribly. Their time together was always too brief. A gnawing thought plagued her; maybe they were preparing to leave her behind. The thought made her sick. She couldn’t bear the idea of being left alone with her grandmother. “They wouldn’t just disappear”, she told herself desperately. “They would take me with them. They must.”

She told her parents about the scoldings and beatings, the leather belt, sometimes the wooden stick, always within reach in Grandma’s kitchen. Grandma would gather nettles and rose hips from the nearby stream, snapping branches bare, and smoothing them into makeshift rods for punishment. They rested in the kitchen corner, propped against the pale-yellow wall with peeling paint, right beside the refrigerator. That corner was all too familiar. Alina was forced to kneel there at least once a week. “Your father knelt on dry beans, you little brat,” Grandma used to sneer.

It always happened when her parents weren’t home. It was her word against Grandma’s. Her father usually retreated into his office, keeping distance. Her mother came gently, asking how her day had been. Alina told her everything; about the beatings, the cruel names, the punishments. She begged her mother to believe her. Mom tried, confronting Grandma in hushed tones at first, voices gradually rising to shouting. Grandma’s voice always drowned hers, sharp, hissing, sometimes punctuated by a fist pounding the table. Within half an hour, Mom would break down and retreat. Alina dreamed of escaping with her mother, fleeing to a quiet place where it was just the two of them, curled up, watching TV, eating grilled sandwiches, sipping cocoa. Her father avoided the issue. “We believe you. But it’s better now, isn’t it? That was yesterday. It’s not so bad,” he would say. His withdrawal kept them distant. When he tried to hug her, she allowed it stiffly, then pulled away. They never spoke seriously about her fears. Once she asked him what it was like to kneel on dry beans. He waved her off, stepped outside, and lit a cigar.

A seven-year-old sat on the cold basement floor, wondering what would happen if she told the neighbors. Surely, they had heard the shouting and cursing, sometimes spilling into the garden. Yet all had to remain unspoken, forced into fragile invisibility. “Grandma…, Grandma…” she pounded weakly on the locked door. “Open up. What did I do to you?” Her cries dwindled into silence, her voice faded from exhaustion.  Days spent in the basement were almost always followed by days of Grandma baking cakes, buying new clothes, taking Alina to the movies. Each act of kindness wove them tighter into a tangled, impossible bond. “I’ll make you donuts,” Grandma would promise. “With lots of plum jam. You’ll have them for breakfast.” In those moments, something soft and tender flickered in her gray eyes. Alina loved Grandma’s eyes, the delicate wrinkles, the round cheeks, the thin gray hair carefully braided each morning. A true grandmother. Golden and dark all at once. Almost no shades in between.

Alina sat on the dusty vinyl floor of the basement, sniffling and wiping stubborn mucus with no tissues at hand. From the kitchen at the far end of the long hallway, she could hear Grandma whisking, probably making a sponge cake. Everything had to be perfect: the temperature just right, the eggs fresh from the market, the flour sifted four times. No one was allowed to disturb her. But that’s not why Alina was locked away. It was because she hadn’t eaten the meat patties. “I made them just for you,” Grandma had said. “Boiled beef.” “I just can’t have them today, Grandma,” Alina pleaded. “I’ll eat everything else, I promise. Save the patties for tomorrow, I’ll have them then.” Alina’s promises fell on deaf ears. The beef had to be eaten that very day. The sweet aroma of sponge cake seeped through the crack in the door, making Alina's stomach growl. She knocked softly again. Her punishment that day felt endless. She kept pounding for a while, and her worry was mounting. There hadn’t been a sound from the kitchen in nearly half an hour. Light from the hallway’s garden window began to fade. Alina strained to catch the faintest noise. “Grandma, Grandma,” she called several times, then sank to the floor, curling into a ball. Worn out, she drifted off.

Alina woke to the sound of her mother’s voice, mixed with voices she didn’t recognize. She began pounding on the basement door. Her mother unlocked it in a rush, and Alina threw herself into her arms, clutching her waist. She saw nothing but her whole body folding into her mother’s, the two of them frozen into the hallway. Her mother trembled and Alina realized the unfamiliar voices were coming from the kitchen. “Mom, do we have guests? Where’s Grandma? She locked me in the basement again. I kept screaming, but she wouldn’t open the door. She said you and Daddy were going to leave me. She shouted something about eating bromine and showed me the numbers on her arm. She was shaking with anger.” Her mother said nothing. She only held Alina tighter. They sat on the stairs as two men wheeled a stretcher out of the kitchen. A large black bag, shaped like a human body, spilled a lock of gray hair from a small gap near the zipper. “Grandma?” Alina cried. Her mother tried to soothe her. Then her father stepped into the hallway, spoke quietly to the two men, and turned to them. “I’m going to the hospital, for the autopsy,” he said. Heavy summer air drifted in from the garden, signaling an approaching storm. “Alina,” her father said flatly, “Grandma is gone.” After a long pause, he added, “There’s a lot of blood on the floor. It’s starting to dry.”

The scent of pound cake lingered in the hallway, blending with the smell of pouring rain. Alina sat on the stairs, her mother holding her hand. They wouldn’t step into the kitchen. Though Alina trembled with sobs, a strange lightness began to stir within her.

 

(From the collection Enakozvočja/Homonymies, published by Založba Miš, 2022)

 

(Translated from the Slovenian by Martha Kosir)