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Faruk Šehić
I came so close to meeting
‘Smith the Redeemer’, but
he eluded me every time
by hiding behind a screen
of leaves, fleeing into the
shade of a willow tree by
the river, or jumping into the
water and swimming to the
other side. When he took
the shape of a grass snake,
cutting the water’s surface
in two like a giant zipper that
threatened to spill open the
whole world, swimming was
in vain because he would
already be on the opposite
bank, striding with the pace
of someone going home at
dusk and leaving an aromatic
trail of Solea sun cream and
beer behind them. And I
would quickly forget where
my thoughts had gone off
to and what kind of search
I’d started out on, as I stood
at the edge of the steep
bank, while schools of little
fish swam in the greenhole
before my feet. They were
bleaks, which could never
grow to more than 10 cm and
so were good bait for going
after voracious salmonids.
Sometimes I felt sorry for
catching them because they
were so beautiful. Perfect
and vulnerable. I would grab
Smith the Redeemer by the
lapel of his coat, he would
have to stop, and I would pull
him back so we were standing
face to face at a respectable
distance and I would ask him
questions from the future:
Where would my books from
the shelf above the Grundig
tv set go?
What would happen to the
television with the soft-touch
command panel?
Where would my original
cassettes disappear to, which
were stacked above the books,
a good hundred of them?