The End. And Again. Dino Bauk

always fell into place.

      But this time, the world in which gloomy men in blue smocks and overalls cast their eyes down and acquiesce when old man Stepinšek raises his voice, disappeared sometime between the start of the workday and lunch. When Stepinšek’s thundering at the rebellious men peaked, just when he was effectively to conclude his sermon, from somewhere, completely unexpectedly, totally out of the context of the established rules, as if in slow motion, there came a slap that changed everything. Goran heard it just at the door to his office, wanting to go out into the hall to see yet another of Stepinšek’s triumphant finales, after which the defeated troop of men in blue go back downstairs. The blow from a large, heavy, cold-swollen hand against the old director’s still soft cheek had a mighty, almost exaggerated sound effect. As if someone slammed the cymbals with all his might at the end of a wild rock ’n roll piece, the sound of the slap marked the moment when some irretrievable old era came to an end, one in which roles were clear and assumed by everyone present, and there was a transition to something new, and none of those present had the slightest idea what was coming, and no one understood how it would work out. Goran’s immediate instinct was to lock himself in his office, move away from the door, and circle the space nervously two or three times. Then he again approached the door and tried to make out what was happening in Stepinšek’s office. For a few seconds after the slap exploded, nothing at all could be heard. Just a menacing silence. He imagined the surprised looks on the faces of the shocked director and workers, who were probably somewhat terrified at their own actions. But only for a short time. When the minutes of fear and disbelief passed, the hinges finally came off. Blows started raining down on Stepinšek. None of them reached the sound effect of the first, historic slap, probably because the director hid his face in his palms, crossed over his face. The blows now sounded duller, because they were falling on the sleeves of his cotton jacket. They gradually increased, like a hailstorm preceded by one fat advance pellet. After several seconds of quiet, another falls, then a third and a fourth, and they increase mightily until the climax, and… silence again. The last blow could be heard after a short pause interrupted only by Stepinšek’s quiet groaning and the secretary Suzi’s somewhat hysterical sobbing. Goran then clearly heard a kick. The guy must have aimed it more at the parquet floor than at Stepinšek’s crotch, because you could hear his sole hit the floor, and the dull blow of his toe against the ball of the director’s curled up body was barely audible. Apparently at least one of the enraged workers took pity on the old director, had a hard time deciding to hit him, was almost too late, but in the end did give him a toned down one so as not to stand out from the incensed mob.

      ‘I knew they’d come for me next, but I couldn’t think how to get away. I could only get the fuck out the window and bust my… So I quickly started to make myself small, so small that I could close the suitcase. Now I can’t get out, the workers took over the whole factory, they’re in Stepinšek’s office drinking his single malt like it’s lemonade, the tossers, and they’re screaming at Stepinšek: ‘Go get the money you hid, you old pig!’ and so on. They’re taunting the poor secretary, Suzi, and grabbing her ass. You can’t believe it.’

      ‘So the guys in blue lost it, bravo’ Peter thought to himself. He was surprised at the malice he felt listening to his shaken and reduced friend, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt some perverse satisfaction, as if universal Justice had been done that morning in the small factory at the edge of town. He could only hope – he couldn’t be sure – that the sweetish feeling of satisfaction that crept into his voice even as he unsuccessfully tried to hide it was the result of his inborn sense of justice, not something more base, such as envy, which could have seized him in recent years due to the fact that he had been side-lined, shunted into some middling place in the bureaucratic pyramid, where an upward move was unattainable, and a downward one practically impossible, while not only Goran, but others too, even other more or less close acquaintances raced by him on the highway of success, decked out with all of its unmistakable attributes. He never drove that road. He explained to others that not taking part in the race was part of his unbending moral code, but if he were fully sincere, he would admit that for all those years he didn’t quite know how to even get on the road. Goran’s voice, now quieter and calmer, woke him from this brief contemplation.

      ‘Do you ever think of him? Of Denis?’

      As if he sensed through the connection that he and his childhood friend were losing their shared frequency, Goran transported him some twenty years back with the sudden change of topic. The war had ended in time for them to enter the university without problems: Goran to study economics, Peter in the liberal arts, and Denis to art school. By then, not much was left of the long summer between the end of high school and the beginning of their studies. Who would have believed only two years previously that it would be possible to say something as bizarre as ‘the war had taken up the first half’. They wanted to spend the second half wandering the Adriatic coast, but they soon realized it wasn’t the same there as a year ago. From today’s vantage point, the war had hardly even started, but at the time it seemed it had exceeded all reasonable bounds, and its spirit would soon be squeezed back into the bottle, because of course it was clear to Both Sides that it was senseless, while it was everywhere, although at that moment still at a distance, beyond the Velebit, Dinara, and Biokovo highlands. The smell of war overcame the smells of pine trees, the sea, and girls’ skin. The echo of its drums brought new songs to the seaside terraces, ones to which you didn’t dance, as in past years, in a dim light, your eyes fixed on your partner’s eyes and her mysterious smile, across which a light breeze cast her unruly hair, but with arms raised high and eyes fixed on the sky, in a trance, showing your newly discovered allegiance to your tribe and menacing the other. Ritualistic dances replaced couples’ dances. That wasn’t what they had come for, so they returned home early to Ljubljana, in time to avoid starting to believe that at a moment when history was being made and nations were being made it was untoward to look for something as frivolous as summer fun and a little love. Home to Ljubljana! They couldn’t know at the time that the same, their Ljubljana would a year later mercilessly reject one of them, like a mountain rejects a climber who makes a small but fatal mistake on his ascent.

      ‘Why are you asking me that now?’

      There was annoyance, almost anger in Peter’s voice at Goran’s question.

      ‘Is that a knock on my bad conscience? Don’t bother, because I don’t have one. What happened to him isn’t our fault.’

      ‘I know, I know we’re not guilty man, only damn: we didn’t do anything to stop it. We let the pigs take him away like a common criminal. We just stood there like two morons.’

      A late autumn day in 1992. They were just leaving classes.