IVO ANDRIC
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At the time, no contact existed or could have existed between us.
Everything separated us: age, looks and habits, material circumstances,
and the social status of our parents.
But I remember him much better at a later point, when I was in the
fifth grade and he was in the eighth. By that time he was already a lanky
young man with light eyes showing unusual sensitivity and great viva–
ciousness of spirit, well but carelessly dressed, with thick blond hair that
constantly fell in strong, restless whips, now from one then the other
side of his face. We met and became closer during some discussions led
by a group of senior boys in the park on a bench.
There were no limits and no considerations, all the principles were
shifted, and the foundations of whole spiritual worlds were mined with
bombastic words. Everything would, of course, return back to its place
afterwards, but those passionate words were significant for us and for
the destiny that awaited us, as a certain foretelling of great feats of the
fighting times and the painful perplexities that were about to come.
When I left for home after one of our lively discussions, quivering
from excitement and convinced of my triumph (as much as my adver–
sary in the discussion), Maks joined me. That was the first time the two
of us had been alone. It flattered me and uplifted my winner's elation as
well as my self-esteem. He asked what I was reading and watched me
carefully as if seeing me for the first time in his life. I answered in excite–
ment. He suddenly stopped, looked me straight in the eye and said in an
oddly calm manner: "You know, I wanted to tell you that you've mis–
quoted Ernst Haeckel."
I felt my face blushing and the earth slowly shifting beneath my feet
before returning to its original position. Of course I had misquoted; my
quotation had come from some cheap brochure, remembered with
uncertainty and, probably, badly translated. All my triumph turned into
a pang of conscience and feeling of shame. The light blue eyes watched
me without compassion but also without the slightest trace of malice or
superiority. And Maks repeated my unfortunate quote in the correct
form. And when we arrived in front of his beautiful house on the bank
of Miljacka, he shook my hand forcefully and invited me
to
visit him the
following afternoon to see his books.
That afternoon was an experience for me. I saw the first real library
in my life and it was clear to me that I was looking at my destiny. Maks
had many German and some Italian and French books that belonged
to
his mother. He showed me all this with a calm that I envied more than
the books. It was not envy exactly, but a feeling of limitless satisfaction,
and an immense desire that I might one day move so freely through this
