ALEKSANDAR TISMA
563
encounters and experiences, of which Funkenstein is unfortunately a part.
He is not sure the old man will recognize
him.
Blam was still a boy at the
time Funkenstein came to the house. But in the past few years, he has given
Funkenstein several opportunities to refresh his memory, calling attention
to himself with a shy smile, a nod, a barely audible greeting when their eyes
meet on a narrow street. But this time there is plenty of room-the whole
square beckons Blam to former Jew Street-and Funkenstein stands at the
far end of the square bending over the radiator of a dusty gray Fiat, his bald
pate so far down that he seems to be sniffing as well as inspecting it.
But as so often happens when he wants to steer clear of someone,
Blam directs his steps straight at the man, crossing the square in such a way
as to be most visible, justifying his conspicuous route by curiosity.
Watching him fiddle with the car, Blam suddenly wonders whether
Funkenstein hasn't changed profession. It would be perfectly understand–
able, given that all rent-bearing properties have long since been
nationalized, which leaves only small-and therefore cheap-single-farni–
ly dwelliIJgs on the market like the house the Blams used to own in
Vojvoda Supljikac Square, the one that Funkenstein had sold for Blam's
father, Vilim. But he sold it just before Blam's father died, so his father may
not have received payment in full, or if he had, then he hadn't had time to
spend it all and it had fallen into the hands of plunderers.
He chafes at the thought that he will eventually have to talk to
Funkenstein, quiz him on the particulars of the sale of the house to allay
his doubts. He realizes he has postponed the talk too long as it is (and post–
poned putting to rest the doubts), but now he turns his head in
Funkenstein's direction and is surprised to find Funkenstein looking
straight at him. He can hardly believe it, but there can be no doubt: from
the old man's broad, pink face, still lowered over the Fiat's radiator, a pair
of tiny but piercing brown eyes beneath unruly gray eyebrows and a shiny
forehead are looking at him, Blam.
Blam pauses, whereupon Funkenstein straightens. The straightening
does not much alter his spatial relation to the car-he is too short for that–
but it does reveal his bold taste in clothes: he is wearing a white shirt with
an apache collar over a pair of yellowish imitation-silk trousers. He sets his
youthful outfit in motion by circling the car with a sprightly step-surpris–
ingly sprightly for a body so stumpy-and plants himself in front of Blam.
"Hello, Mr. Funkenstein," Blam says, taken aback.
"Hello, hello," Funkenstein answers cordially, but without using
Blam's name, which indicates Blam's assumption that Funkenstein would
not be able to place him was correct. Funkenstein holds out his firm, fleshy
hand, though casually, almost incidentally, and with no more than a glance
at Blam's face. "What brings you here?" he asks, clearly aloof and quickly
