THE THIRD FUTURE TENSE
SANDRA VLAŠIĆ TRANSLATED FROM CROATIAN BY LARA RADOVIĆ
ART BY FAINA YUNUSOVA
I’ve been waiting for this day all year. And a special day it is. I finally have my prescription for tuna.
I’ve anticipated it like Dad would anticipate his doctor’s appointment, and Mom an MRI on her knee. A full year, or, with any luck, eight or nine months.
I did everything that was required. All the tests and checkups that prove I can’t live without tuna. Luckily, I have a reasonable doctor who’s willing to write referrals for all those tests. I’ve settled into a rhythm now. Once a year my prescription gets filled, and that’s the cycle by which I renew my happiness.
Out of all the exams, the psychiatrist’s is the most demanding. I prepare for it all month. I go through family albums, pausing on photos, and play records on the old gramophone. Nono Tonko, a fisherman, never liked to have his picture taken, but every now and then, we’d sneak one as he docked, carrying a meter-long amberjack. Although the last time we grilled was over twenty years ago, my nostrils immediately fill with the scent of fish, rosemary, garlic, and olive oil, drizzled over its crackling skin. You can’t grill the stuff from the vending machines we eat nowadays, and the smell is artificial.
I especially like this one photo of Nono at the prow of his boat, hauling up a crate packed with hake, sea bream, and an enormous scorpionfish. He’d call out to Nona to hurry home and put it on ice for Christmas Eve dinner.
Recently I got a call from the museum, asking whether I’d sell them the photos for their collection of extinct handicrafts and trades, but I’m no idiot. No way. They’re my therapy. I feed my brain on those old photos for an entire month—which is how long it takes to release the adequate amount of grief, sorrow, and pain hormones for my psychiatrist to double my dose of tuna. It works every time. There’s no real fish nowadays. What little is left is outrageously expensive. Plus, you need a prescription for that, too. Sure, there’s the black market, but I’m not getting involved in all that—I’m not brave enough. So I’ll keep my old photographs.
Today is a special occasion, and I treat it as such. I put on my favorite dress—the one with the big pink and green peonies—yellow shoes, and a green coat. As a final touch, I put on dark crimson lipstick.
I head to the site of the old fish market. I would have never gone into the market dressed like this—I’d be worried about ruining my clothes and shoes. But now, it’s part tax office and part pharmacy, the place where I hand in my prescription. They require two separate verification codes. They check my taxpayer identification number and demand proof of monthly contributions to the Ecuadorian Fishermen’s Fund, and toward the education of farmers and fishermen in South Africa. Without that money, they’d no longer be able to fish what little remains, and we in Europe would never taste a real fish again. The sea has warmed two or three degrees, depending on where you are. It’s become acidic, and the fish have retreated to deeper waters, farther, much farther from shore, where small boats can’t go—so we’ve had to get bigger ones. Some types of fish are completely extinct, others half the size they used to be in my childhood.
And even with those contributions, there’s no guarantee we’ll actually get any fish. The uncertainty makes me anxious. A few times, hurricanes wiped out entire fishing fleets, leaving us without our annual ration. And I can’t stand the lab-made substitutes you get from the vending machines.
For good measure, I also make a direct contribution to a fishing family in Morocco, and donate to the global marine research fund. I show all of this to the clerk, which earns me an additional quarter-dose of tuna on top of what the doctor prescribed. The extra came in handy that time a tropical cyclone left insufficient tuna for all the prescriptions.
They carefully scan my codes and information, prick my finger again for an updated sample, and take my temperature. The clerk raises his eyebrows, then frowns, as the knot in my stomach tightens. As though I wasn’t myself?! I take deep breaths, aching for the green light to flash and confirm the tuna is mine at last.
The clerk clears his throat and disappears into the back of the pharmacy, where the refrigerators of fish are kept. He returns with a small packet, my golden dose. Ten ounces of tuna three times a day. And a fourth, my extra dose. I reach for it with a nervous smile, but the packet isn’t in my hands just yet. The clerk keeps it on his side of the glass as he reads something on the screen of the verification and authorization scanner.
“Do we have the right perscription, ma’am?” he asks, looking up at me.
I don’t know what to say. I’m shaking, sweating.
The clerk goes on: “I hear it’s best if you rub it with orange juice—if you have any, of course. And naturally, use only sea salt. I’ll see you next year, and you’ll have to tell me then if I was right!”
The clerk hands me my tuna. I nod in relief and tap away in my yellow shoes, my nose catching a whiff of smoke, grilled fish, and rosemary.
About the Work by Lara Radović
To read Futur treći (The Third Future Tense) is not to stand outside its world, but to be quietly a part of it. The novel denies us the comfort of distance; its future is assembled from the all-too-familiar present-day with its political language, ecological data, and moral shortcuts. This creates a particular reading experience—not so much that of suspense, but recognition. The unease comes not from what is unfamiliar, but from what is already known and insufficiently acted upon.
One of the first issues I ran into while translating this excerpt from The Third Future Tense was its title. Bosnian, Croatian, Montenegrin, and Serbian (BCMS) use verbal tenses that do not exist in English, so I had to go with a more generic option that seemed closest in tone and aligned with the author’s intention, even at the expense of some nuance. The title aims to communicate a sense of inevitability: something that will have happened by the time we reach a particular future. Vlašić uses this fabricated tense not as a grammatical reference, but as a conceptual frame for thinking about the climate crisis. While choosing a more general title in English meant sacrificing some of its layered meaning, it preserves the novel’s central idea: that the future we are moving toward is shaped by our present actions.
I also broke up longer sentences to better suit the particular rhythm of English. Of course English can have long and complex sentences, but it often handles them differently. In BCMS prose, especially in literary writing, ideas are often developed through long sentences with many clauses that gradually build meaning. In English, however, this kind of structure might feel dense or difficult to follow if translated too directly. English tends to prefer clearer breaks between ideas and a more noticeable sense of pacing. With that in mind, dividing longer sentences wasn’t about simplifying the content, but about making the text flow more naturally for an English reader.
A specifically challenging word was nono, as I wasn’t sure whether grandpa or pawpaw—or something else altogether—would capture the cultural richness and the inter-imperial history of coastal Croatia. The word nono reflects centuries of Venetian influence in Dalmatia and Istria. Unlike the more neutral English word grandfather, nono suggests more than just a familial relationship. It brings to mind stone houses, island childhoods, local dialects passed down through generations, and a world shaped by both Slavic and Romantic traditions. Translating nono is not simply a matter of picking the right word in English, but of deciding how much of this cultural background should be conveyed to an English reader, and how much gets lost (or softened) in translation. I debated similarly how much dialect and ambiguity to carry over.
I normally translate English prose and poetry into Croatian, so translating this excerpt from Croatian into English felt like a walk in the dark. When translating into my native language, I often rely on intuition and a wide range of stylistic options. Translating into English required more control over tone, register, and word choice, especially in a text like this one, which moves between personal moments and ecological discourse. I am more comfortable translating from English into Croatian, in which I have a better sense of which words will resonate with readers and carry the appropriate emotional weight. In English, though, I could not always rely on the same instinct and experience, and even small shifts in wording could make the text sound too flat or dramatic.
* *
SANDRA VLAŠIĆ was born in Zagreb on a hot summer day, around the time of Woodstock. An environmental expert, she has over twenty-five years of experience in sustainable development. She holds a Master’s degree in environmental science. For the last ten years, she has been actively engaged in creative writing, honing her craft in workshops led by authors such as Zoran Ferić and Kristian Novak. Her debut novel, Futur treći (The Third Future Tense, 2025), is an eco-thriller that combines environmental activism with political intrigue, drawing from real-life oil exploitation. Sandra’s fiction explores themes of ecological urgency and human responsibility. She has received recognition in climate fiction contests, winning Homo Climaticum (2018) and earning a place in KRONOmetaFORA (2019). She lives in Zagreb and draws inspiration from the sea, forests, and the quiet beauty of the Adriatic islands.
LARA RADOVIĆ is a second-year graduate student of Pedagogy and English Language and Literature at the University of Zadar, where she is enrolled in the Literary Translation module. Her works have been published in Kvaka and Perkatonic. Her translation of a poem by Miroslav Kirin was published in [sic] – a journal of literature, culture, and literary translation. She has also translated works by Raine Geoghegan for Booksa’s 21st annual Review of Small Literatures, which spotlighted Romani literature. She co-organized the third edition of the LITaf literary festival. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, reading contemporary literature, and literary translation.
Source Text by Sandra Vlašić
Futur treći
Ovaj dan čekam cijelu godinu. Ovo je poseban dan. Imam konačno svoj recept za tunu.
Dočekala sam ga kao što je nekada tata čekao za pregled interniste, a mama za snimak magnetske rezonance koljena. Ravno godinu dana, uz nešto sreće, osam do devet mjeseci. Napravila sam sve što je bilo potrebno. Sve laboratorijske testove i preglede kojima dokazujem da bez tune ne mogu živjeti. Srećom imam normalnu doktoricu koja mi hoće dati uputnice za sve te preglede. Sada sam ušla u ritam, jednom godišnje dobijem svoj recept i to je ciklus kojim održavam sreću.
Najzahtjevniji pregled je onaj kod psihijatra, za taj se pripremam cijeli mjesec. Vadim obiteljske albume i gledam slike, puštam glazbu s ploča. Nono Tonko, ribar, nije se volio slikavat', ali potajno bi ga uspjeli okinuti koji puta kad bi došao s mora noseći gofa od metra. Premda su zadnje gradele koje smo jeli bile prije više od dvadeset godina, odmah mi u nosnice dođe miris ribe, ružmarina, češnjaka i maslinovog ulja koje bi polila po svježe pečenoj ribi. Ribu iz automata koju sada jedemo ne možeš stavit' na gradele, a miris je umjetan.
Posebno mi je draga slika na kojoj nono s barke preko prove izvlači punu kašetu oslića, orada i divovsku škarpinu. Vikao bi noni da brzo odnese to kući i stavi u led, da nam bude za Badnjak.
Nedavno su me zvali iz muzeja da hoću li im prodati te fotografije za zbirku izumrlih zanata i zanimanja, ali nisam luda. Ne dam. To je moja terapija. Starim fotografijama čitav mjesec hranim mozak, toliko mu treba da pusti dovoljnu količinu hormona tuge, patnje i boli, tako da mi psihijatar napiše mišljenje kojim dobivam duplu dozu tune na recept. Svaki puta mi uspije. Prave ribe više nema. To malo što još ima jako je skupo i izdaje se samo na recept. Crno tržište isto postoji, ali u to se ne upuštam, nisam dovoljno hrabra. Ja zato čuvam stare fotografije.
Današnji dan doživljavam jako svečano. Oblačim najdražu haljinu na velike roza-zelene božure, žute cipele i zeleni kaput. Na usne stavljam tamno crveni ruž.
Odlazim do mjesta gdje je nekada bila ribarnica. Prije ne bih mogla tako svečano odjevena ući u ribarnicu, od straha da ne poprskam odjeću i cipele. No sada je to nešto između poreznog ureda i apoteke u kojem provjeravaju moj recept. Traže me da unesem dva različita koda za provjeru autentičnosti. Provjeravaju moju poreznu karticu i traže dokaze mjesečnih uplata u fond za ribare iz Ekvadora i uplatu za školovanje seljaka i ribara iz Južne Afrike. Bez tog novca oni više ne bi mogli loviti niti to malo ribe što je ostalo, a mi u Europi ne bi više uopće jeli pravu ribu. More se zagrijalo dva-tri stupnja, kako gdje, zakiselilo se, riba se povlači u dublje vode i dalje, mnogo dalje od obale, njihove male barke više ne mogu do tamo i morali smo im kupiti veće. Neke ribe više niti nema, a neke su upola manje nego su bile prije, kada sam ja bila mala.
Niti s tim uplatama nismo sigurni da će riba stići do nas. Osjećam tjeskobu zbog te nepredvidivosti. Orkanske oluje su već nekoliko puta pomele čitave flote ribarica i ostavile nas bez redovne godišnje doze. A ne podnosim zamjenske preparate iz automata i laboratorija.
Za svaki slučaj, ja sama dodatno uplaćujem mjesečni iznos za obitelj ribara iz Maroka koju osobno uzdržavam i u globalni fond za istraživanje mora. Pokazujem službeniku i te dokaze, a to mi donosi još četvrtinu doze tunjevine više od onog što mi je prepisala doktorica. Jednom mi je to pomoglo kada je zbog tropskog ciklona bilo premalo tune za sve nas s receptom.
Pažljivo skeniraju moje kodove i podatke, ponovno mi vade krv iz prsta i mjere temperaturu. Službenik diže obrve, mršti se, meni se steže čvor u želucu. Kao da to nisam ja!? Duboko dišem, ne mogu dočekati da se upali zelena lampica i da dobijem konačnu potvrdu za tunu.
Službenik se nakašlje i odlazi u stražnji dio apoteke, tamo gdje su frižideri s ribom. Vraća se s malim paketićem, mojom zlatnom dozom. Tri puta deset unci tune. I četvrta, moja ekstra doza. Pružam ruku i smješkam se sa strahom, ali paketić još nije kod mene. Službenik je zadržava na svojoj strani stakla i čita nešto na ekranu uređaja za skeniranje, provjere i dozvole:
— Koji vam je to recept gospođo? – gleda me.
Ne znam što bih rekla. Drhtim, znojim se. Službenik nastavlja
— Čujem da je dobro istrljati je narančinim sokom, ako ga imate, naravno. I svakako upotrijebite samo krupnu sol. Vidimo se za godinu dana pa ćete mi reći jesam li u pravu!
Službenik mi dodaje moj paketić tune. Ja s olakšanjem potvrdno klimnem i odlazim lupkajući svojim žutim cipelama, a u nosu već osjećam lagani miris dima, pečene ribe i ružmarina.