Cultural Institution Blesok • Established 1998
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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 06 | volume II | January, 1999



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 06January, 1999

Miss Brolly

p. 1
Dragi Mihajlovski

    She appeared from nowhere. From the blue Washington sky or from the damp sticky air or from the very cupola of the Capitol. None of us could tell. And immediately, tiny as she was, in her Rayburn sunglasses and with an umbrella in her left hand, she commandeered our bus.
    “This is my bus!” creaked her unoiled voice, as if she was a disembodied Sybil in her thousandth year wandering after the holy Babylonian speech, and then she added something, and threatened us with the index finger of her right hand, which was hanging onto the rail behind the driver’s seat, and something else which had to be her name.
    “What’s she on about, what’s she on about?” Simon asked, leaning back in the seat next to me, although it seemed to me his thoughts were far away in Macedonia, as if at that precise moment – while we were passing the lofty obelisk with its two little windows that looked like the hood of some petrified Klu Klux Klansman – he was trying to clear up some questions concerning loneliness and death, about our Balkan solitude and death, or again he was preparing for a boar hunt in the forests of Lazaropole, above Radika.
    “She didn’t say anything,” I refused to translate, and my gaze wandered over the satisified white, black and yellow faces of the passengers who, happy with the morning’s successful visit to the Washington Times, and more particularly with the rich lunch, were nestling back into their seats. I’ve always disliked tourists. I’ve seen them, garish and inappropriately dressed, with their cameras slung over their shoulders, gawping at the walls of our churches and monasteries, at the many deep seams of our secrets, or crowded into deliberately jolly buses, with their superior stare at our misery, with no understanding and with no comfort for us out there on the street. And now I simply couldn’t get rid of the thought that I and these learned people from all over the world were in precisely that situation, having drunk, eaten, to satiety – crowded into this bus that was to go past everything that was important in this city in three hours.
    “National Gallery of Art.” I think that’s what our guide mumbled into the microphone, for her ruined voice swallowed whole syllables, as is she was eating something – or someone – so that each of us had to decide

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