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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 108-109 | volume  | July-August, 2016



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 108-109July-August, 2016
Prose

CALL ME ESTEBAN

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p. 1
Lejla Kalamujić

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CALL ME ESTEBAN

Translated from Bosnian: Elizabeta Bakovska  

My first summer at the seaside after the war. I and my seven-year-old relative Haris, who goes to the sea for the first time. The school holiday at Mali Drvenik was organised by his school. The other first graders are accompanied by their moms, Haris is accompanied by me. Fuck it, that was the only possible way. His mom Melida works in a supermarket, no days off, no weekends. We all live on her labour and my grandpa's pension. We'll pay for the summer holiday in instalments. What matters is that he's here, with his friends and his teacher.
    I am in my first college year. Philosophy, literature… I got a big room smelling of lavender. In my suitcase I have more books than underwear. Everything that I read piles up in my head like a rain cloud ready to pour down and melt into the heat of the day.
    At the beach, the moms rest in a pack. They sip coffee, lick ice-creams, yell at the kids. They talk and talk… When they see me with my book in my hands they smile mildly, nostalgically. I don’t understand their smiles. I smile at them shyly, and I quickly dive my eyes into the paper and letters. I think of a mother who’s lost her son.
    It was in the movie “All about My Mother”. She, Manuela, had her Esteban, who was killed by a car on his birthday. Esteban wanted to write a novel about his mother, and Almodovar made a movie in which the mother mourns her son. I saw the movie at the Meeting Point cinema. That evening, I went straight home. I climbed up the steep street of the old neighbourhood, to my motherless house. Esteban’s face was in front of my eyes. I saw him wet, in his jacket and jeans, with a wet notebook in his hands. The street that I walked on is called the Wide Street and it is quite steep. At the end of the street I paused to catch my breath. During this break I turned to the valley. The city was sinking into darkness, and I thought: what if my mother was alive now, and I was the one to die that night, seventeen years ago?
    The son burns on the beach. In the shadow of the pine trees, the moms fan






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