JANKO POLle KAMOV
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and my father. But he only shakes our hands and says nothing. Joso turns
away, Mother embraces him and I take his hand. I think he is going to cry
too. It is getting dark again. The sky is clear. All our neighbors are at their
windows. I can see each one. What's more, my friend Ferko is pointing at
something with his finger. He is still a child. His mother slaps his face. She
is right: he doesn't know how to behave.
It
is not nice to point with your
finger! His sisters, one more beautiful than the other, are at the other
windows. And that's just for today. What will happen tomorrow? All
houses will be filled with light. And I am not to go? We'll see. How long
it is taking! It seems to me that we have been walking for a full hour, and
the road is right next to our door. I know Joso can spit at the road from
our windows-a few years ago we respected him for it. But not today. We
are no longer children.
Matija will probably cry. Will he? The same old crones are at the door.
Matija is looking down, his hand on his chin. He will surely cry.
He is inside. He is moaning. He can no longer contain himself. He is
sobbing. The crones are whispering: "That's the eldest. He loved her most."
He is a wonderful man. Milan steps aside. I look at him, but he dares not
look at me. Joso also looks away. They are afraid to look at him, to look at
Matija . And with my eyes I try to tell them: he too is crying, and he is not
a child. He is a man, bigger and older than us....He smokes the finest cig–
ars. ..he drinks, good Lord, what none of us has ever seen....He already
had a fiancee and he broke off with her....He is already capable of being
a husband and a father, he is more capable thanJoso and more learned than
Milan. And he does not hide his tears! He acts wonderful, we can all sense
that and everyone will talk about it. We cry with him. I am proud of my
brother Matija, we can all be proud of him. What a man! What a brother!
He knows how to behave! It is indeed wonderful "behavior."
Milan and Joso saw it all-and vanished. They left in order to avoid
my eyes. For if I cry, it doesn't mean that [ am a child; and if they don't
cry, it doesn't mean they are something special.
It
is natural that I should
be more impressed with Matija who, among other things, writes articles for
newspapers and who is personally acquainted with many writers, than with
Milan who published a single poem-titled "Brother"-three years ago.
Mter all, Matija lives in Zagreb, he has been to Vienna, Budapest and
God knows where else, while Milan has only seen the places I too have seen.
No more and no less. So Matija knows better how a grown man is to act in
such moments. Provided such a man actually loved his sister, of course.
I dislike Milan now. His behavior-not wanting to cry when we all
cried-offends and depresses me. He is younger than Matija, a student like
me, and still-Matija is much closer to me now. His crying, I think, is the
only, or at least the main reason. Milan is becoming a stranger to us, and
