NEBOJŠA LAPČEVIĆ

THE STORM BRINGER

He was cold and rather hard, he was a mast. He was disguised as Poseidon, the bringer of storms and earthquakes. While the water waves rage, waves roar through those shaggy chests. On the left side of his thighs, I dug my fingers with sharp overgrown nails firmly into his muscular tissue as into bare clay. I was lying in bed like a nymph, gazing at the pathless heights of the firmament, and waited as long as I had to wait. A mast once raised does not stop being a mast until it is torn down by the one who raised it. I raised it. Stretch out, mast, with your masthead, to the four winds that hold like a wall four sides of the world . 

I can hear, listening carefully, the creaking of the front door. Why wasn't it locked? Now already scared, I tried to wake up my husband, the one who was shaking and wildly steering me. I got up a little, and slowly approached the window. Looking at the path, I noticed wet traces of bare feet that led to the end of the yard. But there was no one in sight. I tried again to wake up my husband, he was snoring terribly, but to no avail... I ran to the other window and put my hand on the glass, I watched and listened for a while longer. I checked the key and additionally attached the latch, the door was locked. And the creaking of the door stopped. I tried to get back into bed, turning from my back to my side. My husband's sweaty and boiling body radiated from his side of the bed. His mouth gaped with a long tongue like the open zipper on his "harashovka" pants that he simply adored. Since his military service on Brioni, as he said revelrously: "those pants, or cotton brief underwear, boxer briefs now, the heart of my body fell for them." The moonlight illuminated everything unevenly, his thunderous hair, his wild limbs, including his limp, wounded leg. He never wanted to admit whether he shot himself with the rifle or whether a friend did it, inadvertently or on purpose. That has been never discussed. 

I stopped pushing and shaking him, my husband was simply in high heaven. The door creaked again, first in even, quiet intervals and then in unbearably loud and chaotic intervals. I got up and put on a silk jacquard appliqué dressing gown, but when I saw myself in the mirror I realized that it was unnecessary, I threw it resolutely on the floor, I was suddenly encouraged by my radiant, lustful appearance, I’d read somewhere that natural breasts, hair under the armpits and on legs, completely naturist, were now in fashion... Well, I was still satisfied with my "vintage" waxed version of my body, transparently pinkish in color…

Then, the door unlocked itself and opened wide. In the distance I saw an unknown man, we are goig to call him the Unpredictable, who had just left his stable, saddled first a strong black stallion and then a white filly with transparent pink rump. I ran my hands over my smooth breasts, and let my hair down to the wind that was lifting everything. Before I mounted, I wanted to ask him, "Where are we riding?" The Unpredictable said nothing, just ran his hand over his forehead, adjusted his black and red cap better, and looked towards the gust of wind that was lifting everything. But he could have said, "No one knows it... A dream is a vague wasteland... Far, far to the top..." Climbing towards the top, I felt that the distance was my goal.

The leeches of time are crawling around us... I brought a few of these leeches in a primadora water soup in a jar of gherkins as a souvenir on the Unpredictable.

The black stallion that smelled of sea salt jumped on the white filly, wetting the nape of its neck and mane with saliva in the streams. Previously, they had grunted and lapped their tongues over the swollen "fleshy" tools of passion. They snorted and neighed standing on the back legs: We are free horses! The earth echoes! We are free! It bursts under the onslaught of chthonic forces. Filling all the hollows of the dry earth, the streams flooded all the gardens that celebrated love. The black horse with the white mark turned completely white... Did it reach perfection with its whiteness? The clatter of heavy hooves still echoes…

Like a bountiful garden, I felt my bed, I felt the wet blankets, the bedclothes that was used to shameful work. The creaking of the door no longer bothered me. My husband, who had a solid and sticky sleep, didn't bother me either. He just clicked and gritted his teeth as if he wanted to chew tobacco, maybe he was "high" from the aroma of the "Cohiba" Cuban quality.

I decided, let it be, tomorrow I will confess everything to him. I finally want to sleep. I turned to one side, I turned to another side, I turned to the third side. I don't even know where all those leeches on the walls and ceiling came from. My husband, disguised as Poseidon, was the one who had raised the storm. One leech slid towards his mouth. And he swallowed it involuntarily. And the leech itself somehow got stuck in his throat and struggled. And, he was cold and hard, like a mast.

I was lying in bed like a nymph, gazing at the pathless heights of the firmament, and waited as long as I had to wait.

                                                                      Translated by Danijela Trajković

Nebojša Lapčević ć (1966) is a Serbian poet, writer, novelist, playwright, libretto writer. He has been rewarded with the Meša Selimović Award for the best poetry book 2023 for Philatelist. He is the author of many books including two novels Lake in the Cells, NKC, 2013 and Screenplay for WoodyAllen, Arte,Belgrade, 2014. Both of the novels were the novels of the year, rewarded by prestigious awards. He also writes poetry for children. His newest book is Sower, Agora, 2024. He is a member of Association Of Serbian Writers, President of Bagdala Literary Club. He works in Cultural Centre of Kruševac.