Spirit

BI BY TIJANA RAKOČEVIĆ

Art by Tony Brinkley

Translator’s Note

Tijana Rakočević’s short story “Bi,” one of the thirteen from her collection Intimus (Confidante), is a dense, intense tale of love between two women in the very patriarchal environment of rural Montenegro. The language is full of allusions, stark imagery, and dialect expressions, which I have significantly domesticated to make it comprehensible—and still the translation makes a wild read! I had to ask the author lots of questions because my approach to BCMS has always been via the contemporary standard language in its four codified varieties (Bosnian, Croatian, Montenegrin, and Serbian), not through any particular local idiom. 

 

An intimate relationship between two women is so taboo, so unthinkable even, that the two women give themselves roles—one of them has to be Him, and the other, so she can still feel herself, is You. These pronouns are used intermittently as names, and the verb forms they require make the text feel jolty and awkward in places. This is an intentional effect to remind the reader that the two women are committed to their trysts up in the mountains (some may think of Brokeback Mountain), but they are constantly aware that they are out on a limb, and it’s almost as if they need this role-playing fiction as a way of justifying the relationship to themselves. 

 

Incidentally, Rakočević uses the two new letters ś and ź introduced into Montenegrin with the spelling reform conducted soon after the country’s independence in 2006. 

 

The title of the story is itself ambiguous. While the main meaning is the same in both languages—bisexual—the original contains a hint of both conditionality and elevated style. Namely, “bi” is the second person and third person singular form of the aorist (a narrative past tense) of the verb “biti” (=to be), so it essentially means “was,” but with a kind of epic ring to it. The aorist of “biti” is also used as an auxiliary verb to form the conditional tense, e.g. “vidjeli bi” (=they would see / they would have seen). So, after the tragic ending, the reader can think of the relationship as something special and beautiful that was, and/or as something that could have been possible in a better world. I bore this nuance in mind while translating, and it influenced my choice of words in some places, but I couldn’t find a simple, one-to-one way to replicate it. For example, my formulation “the tally of their trysts” is more poignant than “witness to the chances they seized,” and “a cornucopia of their love” is higher style than the original’s “open bag of surprises.”  

Will Firth

BI

By Tijana Rakočević

Ti budi ti, ja ću biti on, kaže, ti si ti, ja sam on. 

Ti nije nosila krplje, već se oslanjala na njega dok joj je prštavi snijeg, suv poput gašenog vapna, probijao izlizanu vjetrovku i vezao se za rijetke vunene niti preko grudi. On ju je vukla do grča, do iščašenja, vojnički rezolutna da joj, premda zbojita bješe, upali muskulaturu, da je – oborivši je na površicu – poduči kako će nizbrdo, s bremenom koje će, ako bude istrajno argatovala, od njene kičme načiniti gudalo. Između lica i krvi nema razlike, primijetila je dok mu se ti, propadajući cijelom težinom u smet, približavala kao da s njim odlazi izvjesnost, žena okata i, treba li reći, plava kao samur, između lica, čudi se, i onog drugog, koje je, budući jastučasto, oblo i rozaceom zahvaćeno, podśećalo na crveni kukuruz. U njihovim životinjskim imenima bilo je više namjere nego zakučaste slučajnosti: one su dotle prispjele, na pola puta zamijenivši obuću, samo zato što je jedna od njih, a možda su to i obje, vuk s pičkom, muškobanjaste gorštakinje kojima je rad oduzeo dojke i pretvorio ih u mišić, bliskoznačnice čiji je krovni pojam posve isti. 

Da joj je svekrva govorila ja visoko śedim i daleko vidim onda kada su se, stigavši na sâm vrh, ulogorile na zavjetrini oko Sedla ne bi li povratile snagu, jednako predano kao što je, uostalom, dosaljala za njom ne krčka li se štogod po njenome jusu, da joj je govorila ne śedi na panjić, ne jedi kolačić, i ti bi – umjesto da se zanese, bila ukočenija od svinjske noge. Da je; trebalo je razvući konop niz padinu i sabiti, najprije kakvim drvetom, sniježni laporac tako da se pahulje, slijepljene sasvim, ušpinuju u čvrst rolat, a onda će on, zauzlavši ga sa svih strana, dati rukom znak da se krene jer on je on. Teret koji se ne predaje. Na vrhu su, ako je vjerovati njihovim pestima, zlikovke i hajdučice koje, muževima opkoljene, osipaju paljbu, a dolje s oproštenjem, njihove žene, male bojeve glave s ručnim navođenjem; ti, dakle, i on, a od dva zla gore može biti samo dobro. Pušiš li, pita dok odlažu povratak u krtičnjak, a ti ‒ navikla da je dvaput dnevno dobar odgovor i kad se ne driješi duvankesa nego čakšire ‒ gledajući je u oči reče: daj. On je, liznuvši palac, dodirnula snop karticā u pridžepku i prva s reda joj, ovlažena balom, pođe uz prste; taj listić bi, pritisnut na donju usnu, nježno zavibrirao svaki put kad bi izgovorila m, b, p, f ili v. 

To više nije bio motani dim, to je bio pravi pravcati poljubac poslije kojega, ako ne voliš, obrišeš usta doručjem. Neće je odmah pripaliti; ako je onaj moj, misli, ono deblo na putu njihovog razgovora, ako je onaj njen, to jest ‒ naš, velmoža s altimetrom, s tri komada zvocao kako bog zapovijeda, ti će taj poklonjeni denjak, ravnomjerno raspoređen udno cigaret-valjka, sačuvati za kasnije, za nekad. Onaj moj, priši mu, ne umije, ne nišaneći na trutinu koju je svojim trudom održavala živom, već na ono što je, internirana registrom zabranjenih stvari, često brkala s ljubaznošću; kao junac, veli on, a ti se smije jer ga ne shvata. Stiđela se (ti, ti) jer se podrazumijevalo da zna šta to znači, ali kako je sa svojim, mada je i to nekakva predbračna klauzula, živjela u čednosti već deceniju, mogla je samo da povija zamaramljeni crnogorski profil i da ćuti. Ti budi ti, kaže, ti si ti, posve neposredno kao da će joj, prišavši joj s namjerom da je potkupi, iščupati trn a ne poljubac; ja sam on, uvjeravala ju je dok im se usne, uskoro izukrštane kao zupci rajsferšlusa, ne onečistiše jedna drugom. 

 

Durmitor, nad Tarom koja je Šajok ‒ surovi sin Karakorum. 

Nijesu se dogovarale, ali je život bio podešen tako da im, dok god se takvom čemu raduju, omogući susret. Dvije vjeverice, moj doušnik i moja mužica, ću-ću-ću koje ispada iz legla kao ptiče, proljepšane škakljivom ikonografijom ljubavi zlorabile su post i pričest tek da u gospodi i pomiluj potonje bude iznad, vodeći računa da se ni za vrijeme liturgije, za vrijeme, to jest, iže jesi, ne osile dovoljno da se pogledaju, da se, poetski rečeno, zrȁknu jer je, i to znaju, samouvjerenost orah koji ljudi, spazivši ga kod nekog, bacaju o zemlju dok ga ne slome. Onaj usijani freskolik u crkvenoj priprati, pravoslavan koliko i Manetova Victorine-Louise Meurent, upravo je bio ti koja je, krsteći se nad lojanicama procurelim niz čirak, uživala u toplom odoru stajskog đubriva iz njegove potkošulje, napose što su, pored onih za mrtve, slinave svijeće za žive bile notari ujagmljenih šansi – cijelih dvadeset šest. Njihov odnos bi, po pričanju ipođakona Ilariona (koji je, sumnjičav ali vođen Teodosijevom mišlju da što bi bi i dobro bi jer od Boga bi, sve vrijeme mučao kao grob), ni prostrt a već svršen, zacijelio da su se one, nagle i đetinjaste, zadovoljile time što imaju. Ali ne. 

Ne, ne, odmahnula je neki dan, to je za tebe, nakon što je ispod teškog seljačkog gunja, zametnuvši kosu za uvo, otkrila pregršt heljdinih orašica koje su, u kecelji smještene, trljanjem proizvodile huk; i ovo, klibereći se dok im se miješaju stada, i ovo, uzvareno mlijeko u koje će greškom doliti kvas, još nešto što je, doduše, kao njoj samoj potrebno ‒ bilo važnije, a sve je, ne određujući tržišnu vrijednost, dala s punom sviješću da će, zaljubljena u sopstvenu dobrotu više no u njega, i zaista dati opet. Nema moje-tvoje, vrdao je rašnirani torbak prije nego što je ti, bez takta i nadasve prostodušna, spuštila na njega dlan, usudim se reći oblog, i postala jabučicom čaše koje će se đeca, ako ikada saznaju a hoće, zbog te falinke odreći. Sad ruku, učila ju je on, i drugu, zanemarujući to što su ovce koje su ih svojim runima zaklanjale ‒ odjednom prekinule pašu jednovremeno streknuv na zapad, ka lugu, a nije se baš svakoj moglo pričiniti tek da je nešto šušnulo, divljač ili čovjek, pokazna vježba nesmotrenosti kojom one, jer ponovo bjehu žene, dokazuju svoje prvijenstvo. 

Otkazavši joj poslušnost, iako bi se to moglo nazvati i predośećanjem, njena vojska je gacala preko pirlitorske gradine: oči su im dremovne, a usta puna uštirkanih travki koje, otkako su probile nanos, glavinjaju kao periskopi. Grla na začelju, straga tobož opucnuta, silno su je zabavljala svojom šmirom ‒ be-e pa be-e i najzad, uz tutanj i topot i bleku, udariše sopstveni tempo. Čekaju je majstori i konobdžije, sedam Momčilovih slugu, Durmitor ‒ nad Tarom Eufratom gordi Ararat, i među njima muž njen, pravi a ne lažni on, kućni gospod i Njegov produženi ud. Čekaju je, zanago, ukrug nastrojeni kao kljusa, s ciglama prešavšim u žar; onaj visoki, s izgledom poslastice koja, šećerom prečašćena, izaziva mučninu, vezao ju je i, tresnuvši pečeni blok, zamolio da skupi noge. Ti si ti, a s tobom on, makar te zazidali živu. 

BI

Translated from Montenegrin by Will Firth

You be You, and I’ll be Him, she said, you’re You, and I’m Him.

You wasn’t wearing snowshoes but clung onto Him as the crackling snow, as dry as slaked lime, penetrated her worn windbreaker and fused with the sparse woolen threads over her chest. He dragged her downhill to the point of cramping, to the point of dislocation, amazonishly determined, even though she was sturdy, to warm up her muscles, after bumping her over on the crusted snow to teach her how to go downhill with a load that would make her spine curve like a bow if she strove onward. There’s no difference between the face and blood, she noted as You, sinking with all her weight into the snowbank, came up to Him as if certainty was departing with Him, a woman with eyes big and, naturally, as blue as sable, or between one face and the other, she wondered, which, being pillowy, round, and ruddy from rosacea, resembled red maize. There was more intention than coincidence in their animal-based names: they only made it to the high pasture after changing their shoes half way because one of them was a dyke, or maybe both of them—rugged mountain women, whom work deprived of breasts and turned them into muscle, synonyms of the same generic term. 

They reached the peak and camped on the leeward side near the saddle to regain their strength; if her mother-in-law had then told her I sit high and see far with the same persistence as when she added salt to everything her son’s bride cooked; if she’d repeated her throwaway phrase, don’t kiss a frog or lie in a bog, and You—instead of being carried away in the moment—had been as stiff as a leg of ham. If she had... 

A rope had to be let down the slope and the snowy marl compressed, best with a piece of wood, so that the crystals glued together in a firm roll, and then He, tying it from all sides, would signal for them to move, because He was He, a beast of burden that never gave up. At the top, if their clenched fists were to be believed, they became Phoolan Devis and Clydeless Bonnies who, surrounded by the world of men, fired away at all and sundry, whereas down in the valley they were meek, all-forgiving wives with modest small arms at best; so it’s You and Him, and the worst of two evils can only be good. Do you smoke, He asked once they decided to put off their return to the molehill, and You—accustomed to twice a day being a good answer even when He wasn’t untying the tobacco pouch but her trousers—looked into His eyes and said: give it here. He licked his thumb and reached for the little bundle of rolling papers in His vest pocket, moistened one, and handed it to her; that leaf, clinging to her lower lip, vibrated gently every time He pronounced m, b, p, f, or v. 

It wasn’t a roll-your-own anymore but an out-and-out kiss after which, if she didn’t like it, she could wipe her mouth on her wrist. She didn’t light it right away; if she said my man, she meant that obstacle to their conversation, and if she said hers, that is—ours, a macho with a gauge for all things, who nagged, judged, and was always right, You would keep that little bundle He gave You, that masterfully rolled cigarette, for after. My man can’t… she told Him, without being more explicit about the loafer she kept alive with her labor, but about what she, constrained by the catalog of taboos, often confused with civility; like a steer, He said, and You laughed since she didn’t understand Him. You felt ashamed (yes, You) because she was expected to know what that meant, but since she and her man down in the valley hadn’t slept together for a decade, which was common in these climes after childbearing age, all she could do was to don the headscarf of a tight-lipped Montenegress. You be You, she said, you are You, coming right up close as if to pull out a thorn rather than give her a kiss, but her aim was to win her; I’m Him, she assured her before their lips crisscrossed like the teeth of a zipper, and then devoured each other. 

The Durmitor Range above the Tara Gorge, which is the Shyok River—a cruel son Karakoram. 

They didn’t plan it, yet the way of life left opportunities for them to meet almost whenever they wanted. Two squirrels, my confidante and my little husband; they billed and cooed like two lovebirds that fall out of the nest, embellished with the risky iconography of love; they only exploited fasting and communion with its Lord have mercy if the M-word was emphasized, taking care not to become emboldened to exchange glances during liturgy with its who art in heaven because, as they knew, self-confidence is like a walnut that the envious espy and then throw to the ground until it shatters. The incandescent fresco in the parvis of the church, as Orthodox as Manet’s Victorine-Louise Meurent, was a spitting image of You, who, crossing herself over the tallow that had trickled down the candlestick, enjoyed the warm odor of manure from His undershirt; everyone knew candles for the dead, but the guttering ones for the living were notaries of the chances they’d seized—twenty-six in all, the tally of their trysts. Their relationship, concealed but consummated, would have been consigned to oblivion if they’d been satisfied with what they had, Subdeacon Hilarion explained; although distrustful, he was guided by Teodosije’s idea that what was, was, and it was good, for it was from God, and thus he remained silent the whole time. But He and You were childishly impulsive. 

No, no, it’s for you, she waved in her all-weather coat one day and tucked her hair behind her ear, after discovering a handful of buckwheat hulls placed in her apron as a gift, and they made a warm rustle when rubbed; and this, giggling while their herds mingled, and this too, a little pot of boiled milk, which the other then mistakenly poured kvas into, another gift that she herself would have needed, but she gave freely, without asking its value, fully aware that she was more enamored of her own goodness than of Him, and she’d certainly give again. Mine-or-yours no longer existed when the bag was unlaced and opened up between them—a cornucopia of their love—before You, without tact or experience, lowered Your hand onto Him, like mist hugging the ground on a cool night, and became like the bolt for the nut, which the children would reject as defective one day if they ever found out, and they did. Now one hand, now the other, He taught her, forgetting about the sheep, whose fleeces had concealed them from view until then; suddenly the animals all stopped their grazing and turned with a jolt westward, heading for the woods, and not all of them can have caught a whiff of human or wild animal; it was a demonstration of incautiousness, which they, now women again, evidently excelled at. 

It was an act of collective disobedience, though it could also have been called a premonition: the herd tramped like an ancient horde over the ruins of Pirlitor, a medieval fortress: their ovine eyes were drowsy and their mouths full of stiff mountain herbs that had poked up like periscopes ever since they were born. The woolies bringing up the rear, as if goaded by a shepherd’s staff, amused her immensely with their slapstick baa-baa, until finally, with a semi-stampede, clatter, and much bleating, they found their own pace. 

They were waiting for her down in the valley: the tradesmen and innkeepers, Momčilo’s seven servants,1 Mount Durmitor—a proud Ararat above the Tara, the Montenegrin Euphrates—and amidst them her husband, the real one, not the false Him; he was the master of the house and God’s long arm on earth. Indeed, they were all waiting for her, standing in a circle like tired old horses, with a pile of fired bricks; the tall one, who looked like a sweetmeat with a nauseous coat of icing, tied her, began laying the baked clay, and ordered her to put her feet together. You are You, and He is with You. Be grateful you’re just being immured.2

1 In the medieval ballad The Marriage of King Vukašin, the monarch has his wife-to-be torn apart by horses because she allegedly betrayed her former husband, the hero Momčilo. The fabled events took place on the Durmitor Range, where this story is also set.

2 A reference to an old tradition of sacrificing a person (usually a woman or child) by immuring them in the foundations of a building. This was meant to appease the local spirits so they wouldn’t harm the construction. An infamous Montenegrin example lies at the heart of the ballad The Building of Skadar.

  • Tijana Rakočević was born in 1994 in Podgorica, Montenegro. She is a PhD student at the Department of Montenegrin Language and South Slavic Literature at the University of Nikšić. She has published a book of poetry Svi blistavi kvanti (All Those Shining Quantums), a collection of short fiction, Intimus (Confidante), as well as various essays, reviews, poems, and short stories. Rakočević won the Central European Initiative’s Award for Young Writers in 2023. She is currently employed by the government of Montenegro. 

  • Will Firth was born in 1965 in Newcastle, Australia. He studied German and Slavic languages in Canberra, Zagreb, and Moscow. He lives in Berlin and works as a translator of literature and the humanities (from Russian, Macedonian, and all variants of Serbo-Croatian, aka “BCMS”). His best-received translations of recent years have been Faruk Šehić’s Quiet Flows the Una, Tatjana Gromača Divine Child, and Andrej Nikolaidis’s Anomaly. www.willfirth.de.