Svoja najbolja prijateljica

Što smo stariji to češće posećujemo sećanja.

U tom sve udaljenijem prostranstvu ugledam leto 1975. Seminarska biblioteka Filološkog fakulteta, Kapetan Mišino zdanje. Pripremao sam prvi deo diplomskog, istoriju jezika, šest semestara slušanu. Dolazio sam u pusti seminar oko pola deset pre podne i sedeo do četrnaest časova, kada se čitaonica zatvarala.

Stara bibliotekarka, neljubazna naočarka, navikla se ubrzo na mene, pa bi moja pojava ujutro, posle početne mrzovolje kod nje izazivala osmejak u uglu usana. Učio sam i učio, podvlačio, prepisivao, utuvljivao obrasce složenih glagolskih paradigmi.
Sredinom avgusta je u čitaonicu ušla oniska devojka u crnom. Jedan ovlašan pogled – zaključio sam da je dosta ovlašno poznajem, sa nekih predavanja. Poticala je iz Vranja ili iz njegove okoline. Ime sam joj zaboravio. Spustio sam pogled na beleške i nastavio da radim. Devojka u crnom je ušla u bibliotekarkino sopče, zatvorila za sobom tiho vrata, a potom, posle nekoliko minuta, izašla iz njega, prteći u rukama separat izbledelih korica. Sela je u suprotni ugao seminarske čitaonice i počela da čita. U tišini, preko starih, praznih klupa, u prostoru opkoljenom vitrinama sa kompletima lingvističke periodike, mogao sam da čujem kako devojka diše ili kako olovkom podvlači neki redak.

Oko petnaest do dva sam napustio seminar, predavši naočarki svoje knjige sa reversom, rekavši da ću sutra nastaviti spremanje ispita. Dok sam zatvarao vrata bibliotekarkine sobice, pogledao sam prema devojci u crnom i naši pogledi su se sreli. Posmatrala me je crnim, krupnim očima, zatim je naglo spustila pogled i olovkom povukla crtu po margini separata.
Ukratko, jer svaka prava rečenica je kratka: crna koleginica je i sutradan došla u seminar. Povremeno, odmarajući se, zažmurio bih, a onda sam gledao kroz prozor, u dvorište Kapetan Mišinog zdanja. Na betonskim stazama pokrivenim senkama video sam dve senice. Prhnule bi kada bi im se, u upornom koračanju i teško dišući, približio bolesni profesor Radosav Bošković. A kada bi on, gegajući se otkoračao dalje, vratile bi se na betonsku stazu, da kljucaju semenke i zrncad. Onda bih se vratio svojim beleškama, staroslovenskim konjugacijama. Poslednjeg radnog dana u nedelji, u petak, oko podneva otišao sam do buregdžijske radnje na Studenskom trgu i pojeo burek sa jabukama. Potom sam se vratio u seminar, seo sam u svoju klupu do prozora, a devojka u crnom je bila na drugom kraju prostorije, dijagonalno u odnosu na mene. Otvorio sam skriptu – tačnije otvorila se sama – i u njoj sam ugledao papirić sa porukom: „Moja najbolja prijateljica je zaljubljena u tebe. Šta da joj kažem?“ Ponovo sam pročitao malu, neverovatnu poruku, ispisanu grafitnom olovkom na pogužvanom papiriću. Potom sam pogledao sasvim nepomično telo devojke u crnom. Poruku u moju skriptu je mogla da ubaci samo ona. Onda sam uzeo skriptu i otišao do bibliotekarkinog sopčeta. Otvorio vrata, pozdravio naočarku, rekao da ću ponovo doći u ponedeljak i nastaviti sa učenjem. Zatim sam izašao u čitaonicu. Devojčin pogled je bio spušten, prošao sam kraj nje bez reči.

Tokom vikenda nisam odlučio šta da činim. Odložio sam odluku za sam susret s devojkom u crnom, za ponedeljak. Ali u ponedeljak ona nije došla. NI u utorak, sredu, četvrtak. Kada sam u petak, oko četrnaest časova, umoran izašao iz seminara, devojka me je čekala u hodniku. „Šta da kažem prijateljici?“ upitala me je jednostavno. Neko vreme sam zbunjeno ćutao. Rekoh: „Kaži joj da imam devojku.“
Dok sam izlazio iz Kapetan Mišinog zdanja, shvatio sam da sam pogrešio, pa se osvrnuh, ali koleginice u crnom više nije bilo. Laknulo mi je. Koračajući Knez Mihailovom, držeći se senki, tog vrelog popodneva, nisam sumnjao da je moja čvrsta, nagla odluka bila jedna od onih koja nam usmerava život dalje od određenog smera i prostora, ka neizvesnom nizu smerova i prostora koji nas očekuju. Bejah nekako lak, kao odsutan iz same težine svog tela i postojanja u telu.
Devojku u crnom sam video još dva-tri puta, narednog semestra, ali nismo razgovarali. Ona je nestala iz mog života, u koji suštinski nije ni stupila, mada je pokušala. Kada četvrt veka docnije posećujem svoja jadna sećanja, ne sumnjam da je ona bila svoja „najbolja prijateljica“ ali nisam siguran da sam onda, u hodniku seminara, kao i mnogo puta docnije, ja bio „svoj najbolji prijatelj“.

HER BEST FRIEND

The older we grow the more frequently we turn to our memories.
I look back on the more and more distant summer of 1975. The place was the seminar library of the Philological Faculty, in the Captain Miša Building. I was preparing for the first part of my final examination, the history of language, after having attended six semesters of lectures. I would come to the empty library at about half past nine in the morning and would sit there until two in the afternoon, the library’s closing time.
The old librarian, an unfriendly bespectacled viper, soon got used to me and my morning entrance would, after her initial surliness, produce a smile at the corners of her lips. I would study and study, underline, copy, filling my head with all the forms of complex verbal paradigms.
In mid-August, a rather short girl in black entered the reading room. I took one glance and realized that I recognized her from certain classes. She was from Vranje or its surroundings. I forgot her name. I looked down at my notes and continued to work. The girl in black entered the librarian’s room, closed the door, and then, several minutes later, left the room carrying a folder with faded covers. She sat at the opposite corner of the seminar library and started reading. In silence, across the old empty benches, in the room with showcases of volumes of linguistic periodicals covering its walls, I could hear the girl’s breathing and the scratch of her pencil as she underlined sentences.
At about quarter to two I left the library, returning my books to the bespectacled viper together with my call card, informing her that I would continue to study for the exam the next day. As I closed the door of the librarian’s room, I looked at the girl in black and our eyes met. She looked at me with her dark big eyes then suddenly lowered them and drew a margin in pen along the fold of her notepaper.
In short, as every good sentence is short: the colleague in black returned to the library the following day. From time to time, while relaxing, I would partly close my eyes, and then I would look through the window, into the yard of the Captain Miša Building. On the paved path covered with shadows I saw two titmice. They would fly off when the ill Professor Radosav Bošković would near them at his determined pace, breathing heavily. And when he, staggering, would move on, they would return to the paved path to peck at seeds and grain. Then I would return to my notes, to the Old Slavic conjugations. On the last work day in the week, on Friday, around noon, I went to the burek shop off Students’ Square and had an apple-filled burek. Then I returned to the library and sat alone on my bench by the window, while the girl in black was in another part of the room, diagonal from me. I opened the book – to be more precise it opened itself – and inside I found a piece of paper with a message: “My best friend has fallen in love with you. What am I to tell her?” I read this short unbelievable message again, written in led pencil on a crumpled piece of paper. Then I cast a look at the completely motionless figure of the girl in black. She was the only one who could have put the message in my book. Then I took the book and went into the librarian’s room. I opened the door, greeted the bespectacled viper and told her that I would come again on Monday to continue studying. Then I exited the library. The girl’s eyes were lowered; I passed her without a word.
During the weekend I wasn’t sure what to do. I delayed my decision for the very meeting with the girl in black, on Monday. But she didn’t come on Monday. Nor on Tuesday, Wednesday or Thursday. When on Friday, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, I left the library, tired, the girl was waiting for me in the corridor. “What am I to say to my friend?” she asked simply. For a time, I was silent, embarrassed. I said: “Tell her that I have a girlfriend.”
While leaving the Captain Miša building I realized that I had made a mistake, so I turned back, but the classmate in black wasn’t there any more. I felt relief. Walking along Prince Mihailo street, keeping in the shade that hot afternoon, I had no doubts that my firm, sudden decision was one of those that change the direction of our life – moving life from its determined path towards uncertain directions and spaces that wait for us. I was somehow light, as if I had escaped the very weight of my body and corporeal existence.
I saw the girl in black two or three times the next semester, but we didn’t talk. She disappeared from my life, which she, basically, hadn’t entered, although she had attempted. When, a quarter of century later, I revisit my poor memories, I have no doubt that she was her “best friend” but I am not sure that then, in the corridor of the library, as many times later, I had been my “best friend”.