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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 107 | volume  | May 2016



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 107May 2016

The Morning of the Last Day

p. 1
Mirana Likar Bajželj


The Morning of the Last Day

Translated from Slovenian by Špela Bibič

Who am I? On this night? This day? In general? What am I? A badante. A tool. I’m lying in the hallway, not sure whether I’m awake or asleep, examining myself in the quiet, empty, utter grayness of the night. Is it the sheet that’s bothering me? Is it still night? Is it already the next day? Which day?
    I have the penetrating eyes of a hawk. I’m looking at myself from above. It’s five AM. Friday. It tastes like warm, slightly sour coffee. I’m getting into an old rusty twingo. The neighbour always gives me a ride. The road winding from Pero to the Pula bus station is soaked with rain. I’m sleepy. Agitated. I never sleep the night before I leave. The leaving pains me. It bothers me. Or maybe it’s just the sheet. I take my trolley bag out of the boot. Every badante has one. Or a suitcase on wheels. I prefer the trolley. It’s lighter. I’ve adorned it with a silk bow because there is still beauty in the world. I have stuffed it with fourteen-days-worth of things. I buy a ticket. It costs me a day’s work. Bye, says the neighbour, kissing the air next to my cheek, call me, I’ll come and pick you up. I don’t wave at her. I can’t. Looking at her paralyses me. She’s free. She doesn’t have to go. She’ll be back home cooking her potato soup today. Her kitchen will be smelling of thyme today. Her thyme. Her own thyme. From the garden bed under the window.
    Good morning, Marija, says Oto who is both the conductor and the driver. My name is still my name. I won’t be hearing it for the next fourteen days. The houses by the path are enveloped by darkness. Drops are falling on the windowpane, rolling down in trickles. The speed or the south wind is smearing them horizontally across the window. The windowpane smells of metal, salt, needle and something else. Why do things that I see have a smell? If I didn’t have the eyes of a hawk, he could stab me. With a knife, a fork, anything fit for stabbing he could get his hands on when my back was turned. When I actually closed my eyes. When I wasn’t looking. With a shard, even?
    I’m a badante.

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