Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

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?

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