Where do you go to my lovely?

A yellow staircase leads up to her apartment. In some places it has already turned brown; it is the spots where children’s fingers left behind traces of ice-cream and where teenage girls in love caressed the wall with their hands. She struggles along these imprints of time, counting down the stairs left to the door. Three more to go... two... one...
She opens the door to her small and empty apartment, which smells of childhood memories and mothballs. In the kitchen she divides up the contents of the bags, which have carved painful lines into her hands, into small, manageable units. Milk, sugar, oil, some canned food and bread. She undoes the large red buttons on her flowery dress and scuffs her slippers towards the bedroom where her day gown is resting on an armchair next to a TV set which allows the world to visit her every evening. But she halts half way, as the evening sun reflects in the mirror and exposes her half naked body. She stops to observe this body that has skin hanging off it, as if it were a slightly oversized costume she is wearing to a masquerade ball. Her skin, cut up by deep wrinkles and home to brown liver spots. She used to dye her long gray hair brown, but that was a long time ago. Now her hair falls out in flocks and she combs it into a bun. But in her eyes, her brown eyes, the sparkle is still there, she thinks to herself. Her brown eyes are a reminder of her youth just as the eyes of a young girl are a premonition of the old age to come. She stares into her eyes and stares, until her legs begin to tremble and deeper still until the wrinkles around her eyes begin to smooth.
It is Friday and he is probably already waiting in front of her house to take her to the dance. And she combs her hair, puts on her make-up and observes herself in the little mirror, tinted blue by the evening sun. She applies her perfume, so a tender mist of fragrance is lifted behind her like a veil in the wind and is carried towards the white flowers he is holding in his hands. Along the banks of the Ljubljanica the weeping willow trees hang their branches in the water, like they were trying to catch time. The two of them walk slowly, as if every step could take them further away from the brightly lit ball room and the colorful swirling bodies which are stirring up the hot summer air. Lovers are sitting on banks of the river, couples stroll, vendors are selling their sweet treats to children’s eager eyes. Street lamps cast a warm glow onto the promenade. When they step into the ballroom, ranks of bodies united sweep past them upon the glazed dance floor. For a while they observe the happy faces and listen to the laughter, which reaches them in pockets of sound. Then his hand locks her to his body and they join the dancing river. As they launch into their dance step beneath the grand chandeliers, they feel the ever more familiar scent of each other, gathering the moments, piece by piece in their memories like children collecting stones on the beach. They spin and spin, slowly and carefully at first, and then faster and faster, until the colors start to mix and the sounds echo and their feet totter…
Until she falls down tired into the arm chair in her empty apartment wrapped in darkness and falls asleep, her nostrils full of memory.

Maja Cimerman(Slovenia)


Kam greš, ljuba moja?

V njeno stanovanje vodi rumeno stopnišče. Barva se je na nekaterih delih že umazala v rjavkasto, tam, kjer so otroški prsti pustili sledi sladoleda in kjer so zaljubljene najstnice vlekle roke za seboj ter z njimi nežno gladile steno. Med temi odtisi časa se prebija s težkima vrečkama v rokah in šteje stopnice do vrat. Še tri… Še dve… Še ena…
Odpre vrata v svoje majhno in prazno stanovanje, ki diši po otroških spominih in sredstvu proti moljem. V kuhinji razvrsti vsebino vrečk, ki sta ji v dlani vrezali boleče črte, v majhne obvladljive kose. Mleko, sladkor, olje, nekaj konzerv in kruh. Odpenja velike rdeče gumbe na svoji rožasti obleki in vleče copate v spalnico, kjer poleg televizije, iz katere ji vsak večer hodi na obisk svet, na naslonjaču leži njena dnevna halja. Vendar na pol poti obstane, ko se večerno sonce odbije v ogledalu na hodniku in ji osvetli napol golo telo. Obstane in opazuje to telo, s katerega visi koža, kot da ji je malce prevelika, kot malce prevelik kostim, ki ga je oblekla za maškarado. Koža, ki jo režejo globoke gube in naseljujejo rjave pege. Dolge sive lase si je nekoč še barvala rjavo, vendar že dolgo ne več, ker ji ponekod izpadajo v kosmih in si jih češe v figo. Ampak oči, njene rjave oči, se še zmeraj iskrijo, pomisli. Njene rjave oči so spomin na mladost, kot so oči mladenke slutnja starosti. Zazre se v svoje oči in zre, dokler ji noge ne začnejo omahovati in še dlje, dokler se ne začnejo gube okrog njenih oči gladiti.
Petek je in on jo najbrž že čaka pred vhodom, da jo pelje na ples. Ona pa češe lase, nanaša šminko in se ogleduje v ogledalcu, ki je od večerne svetlobe obarvan modro. Nanese še parfum, da se nežen vonj vleče za njo kot tančica v vetru in steče proti belim cveticam, ki jih on drži v rokah. Ob Ljubljanici vrbe žalujke kot ribiči časa namakajo svoje veje v vodo. Onadva pa stopata počasi in si želita, da bi z vsakim korakom lahko bila dlje od osvetljene plesne dvorane in valujočih pisanih teles, ki mešajo vroč poletni zrak. Na bregovih reke sedijo zaljubljenci, se sprehajajo pari, prodajalci prodajajo svoje dišeče dobrote velikim otroškim očem. Svetilke pa mečejo toplo luč na promenado. Ko stopita v dvorano, mimo njiju švignejo vrste združenih teles, ki se vrtijo po pološčenih tleh. Nekaj časa opazujeta vesele obraze in poslušata smeh, ki v majhnih kosih prodira do njiju, potem pa jo njegova roka priklene nase in pridružita se plešoči reki. Stopata plesne korake pod velikimi lestenci, čutita vse bolj znan vonj drug drugega in shranjujeta drobce trenutka, kot otroci kamne s plaže, v svoj spomin. Vrtita se, najprej počasi in pazljivo, potem pa vse hitreje in hitreje, dokler se barve ne začnejo mešati in zvoki odmevati in noge opotekati…
Dokler ne pade utrujena na naslonjač v svojem praznem stanovanju, ki ga je že zagrnila tema in zaspi, z nosnicami polnimi spomina.

Maja Cimerman(Slovenija)