TE22 Potpourri

Lejla Kalamujić

Call Me Esteban

one particular mother who lost her son.

in the World.” My forehead wrinkles when I realize he too is named Esteban. The sun surrenders the protective zone of the umbrella. The beach mat drinks the sweat frommy skin. I take a pen frommy backpack and circle every mention of his name: Esteban, Esteban, Esteban . . . The blue ink dries instantly, isolating the seven-letterword like police tape at a crime scene. Gabo’s Esteban is dressed in algae and shells, enveloped in the scent of the sea. Who knows how long the water carried him. His corpse washed up at the coastal village that would become his hallowed grave. I touch my palm to my neck. It’s blazing. Painful. I should cover up. Without thinking, I stare directly into the sun. Fiery and white, the type that shines only in the south, it upends my perspective. It flips just like Almodóvar’s camera immediately after we hear the dull thud of the young man’s body against the windshield of the luxury sedan. Manuela’s running, the rhythm of her heels hitting the pavement, pulsates through my thoughts. When the moment of blindness passes, I behold my dead body on the surface of the sea. Gentle waves drag it along, like a refined horse trying to towa hearse at a trot. Once I’mdelivered to the shallows, the children notice me. They abandon their fighting and teasing. The pebbles slip from their hands. They come running. They gape at me, grab my nose, yank my hair, stick their small fingers in my ears. They tear at my algae, pour sand in my open mouth, pound my chest. Playful, euphoric, they attract their mothers’ attention. When the women detect the dead toy amidst their children’s little bodies, they take off running breathlessly. Every last one of them sprints to us, 223

It was in the film All About My Mother . The mother, Manuela, hadherEsteban,whowaskilledbyacaronhisbirthday. Esteban had wanted to write a novel about his mother, but Almodóvar made a film about the mother mourning her son. I saw the film at the Meeting Point Cinema. That evening I went home right after. I walked through the old part of town, toward my motherless house. The figure of Esteban vibrated before my eyes. I saw him there, drenched in his jeans and windbreaker, clutching his soggy notebook. The street I was trudging up was called Širokac, and it was incredibly steep. At the top I paused to catch my breath, and turned to face the valley. The city below was sinking into darkness, and it occurred to me: What if my mother were still alive today, and it had been me who’d died that faraway night seventeen years before? The sun is sizzling on the beach. The mothers sit fanning themselves under a clutch of pine trees. Sweat drips down their necks, their thighs glistening, theirvoices hushed. Thechildren run wild on the hot pebbles. They pelt each other, chase each other; their teacher yells at them. Every nowand then some kid wades into the shallow water without permission, soaking his arms and legs, then turning toward the shore and sticking out his tongue at the others. The teacher races to him; the mothers shout. Dreams crystallize into salt on skin. I read Márquez. Short stories. One of them is called “The Handsomest Drowned Man 222