Lela B. Njatin [links] Lela B. Njatin works as a consultant to the public relations manager of the Scientific Research Centre of the Slovenian Academy for Sciences and Arts. She writes novels and short stories. Her first novel Intolerance (1987, reprinted in 1991) received the national award for young writers and is now recognised as a prediction of the wars in the Balkans. English translations of her work were included in The day Tito died (Forest Books, London, 1993), The veiled landscape (Ljubljana, Urad za žensko politiko, 1995) and A day in Europe (Bratislava, Slovakian PEN Centre, 1995). Her short story I want to use time as matter; and I'm a writer was included in Antony Gormley's Monography (London, Phaidon Press, 1995). Her shorter pieces have been translated into several other languages, and she has held readings all over Europe. In 2000 she was awarded a grant by the Ledighouse International Writers' Colony in New York State. Lela B. Njatin has also written stage plays, and designed costumes for theatre and music groups.

Fragments from the novel Intolerance

(the beginning)

"Attention!"

The tunnel is wet, slippery, I cannot stand, I'm losing my balance, the order is stuck in my chest like a threat, I try to lean onto a comrade, I'm sliding down somewhere, I catch hold of his groin, there are bars between his legs, he's slippery too, his plastic overalls are slimy, they're the colour of the skin, and so is the clay in the tunnel. Everybody is losing ground, all the people in the line are trying to stand at attention while the commander is going through the final check.

Light is pouring through the narrow slit. What's behind it? Enemy soldiers? A minefield?

Fear is gripping my throat, the edge of the slit is sharp, when I climb through it I find myself in a vast green meadow. From the horizon to the horizon a wide field of grass. No elevation, no tree. Nothing anywhere. Only the strong sun, warmth. I stand numb with pleasure. Absorbed in this endlessness.

The benches are all taken. People are shouting, they're impatient, waiting for the curtain to rise. From behind the curtain they push out an accordionist to calm them down. They applaud, stomp their feet and sing along, my fellow traveller is very amused.

I'm looking around. The houses are decorated with greenery and hand-written paper posters: LONG LIVE OUR ARMY! WELCOME CULTURE GROUP! WE ARE ALL SOLDIERS! WAR WRITES BEST STORIES! WE SHALL WIN! They brought a barrel of wine, but it is to be opened after the show.

Kids rush to the benches: "Soldiers! Soldiers are coming!"

"What soldiers?"

"Enemies! They're very close!"

"How many?"

"Whole garrison!"

With incredible speed the villagers and actors start jointly dismantling the stage, taking away the benches and scraping off posters and decorations from the houses. The culture group is not numerous or armed enough to face the enemy. I want to run away with them, but my fellow traveller wants to say good-bye to our friend.

The witch's house stands on the edge of a forest, and my friend is certain we will be able to escape in time. We send our servant to gather all our belongings: maps, measuring equipment, bottles with liquids, boxes with stones, telescope and compass. We locate the witch by the pool. With long black hair, wearing a long turquoise gown and a massive golden necklace, she is reminiscent of ancient Egyptian queens.

My friend, enchanted, can't get away from her. She's telling him that the forest is packed with wild beasts hostile to people. She asks him to go for a swim together before we leave. She leaves to change. She sends us her son with farewell presents. I rejoice at the books, but am disappointed to find out they're actually albums containing her photos.

My friend, as if in a dream, walks along the edge of the pool. I hear grenades exploding in the village. Our servant is back; we talk to the witch's son and try to make him tell us some of the witch's secrets. All of a sudden my fellow traveller falls into the water. From the pool he emerges with clothes soaked through. The witch's son brings towels for him to wrap into, but the witch is still not back.

Now we sit in silence and wait. Out there the battle is raging. Perhaps the villagers rebelled. Or else a squad of our army arrived. The fire doesn't stop, the guns roar deafeningly somewhere close by.

It's burning and throwing red light through the window.

When finally everything calms down, our servant is a grown man with a long beard. The witch's son gives him three monkeys, and they part as old friends. As we are leaving, I hide in my palm an amulet I stole from the witch.

(a fragment)

The border line divides the foreign and our parts of the town. A mother with two children is coming out of the house by the border-line road. A young man fixing a bike at the opposite side of the road notices her and rushes away from what he's doing.

"Bloodsucker!" he shouts after her.

"Shut up idiot!" the smaller of the two children shouts back.

"Hush," the mother interrupts, "don't mind those who want what isn't theirs."

"Scum can only give birth to scum!" the young man at the opposite side of the road continues. "Murderers! End of the world!"

Down the road patrol soldiers of both sides in the same car. A foreign soldier is sitting on the dark-coloured side of the car, the home one on the bright. Each of them has his own wheel, and for each of them a special machine gun is installed on the car. The latter peacefully watches when the former fires at the enemy who crosses the border. They both fire at the civilians who want to demonstrate they are neutral, and walk in protest down the line. I set off towards the back lines.

It's stuffy in the casino. In the fog of cigarette smoke and sweat men of all ages are jammed together. There's a long queue for the pinball machines. Some people have been waiting for days. I push my way through and stand very close to one of the players.

The orange-red lights are flicking, the ball is cracking at contact, the springs are jumping out and sinking back in. The level drops and the ball rotates on a lower level. The numbers are flashing on the digital display. Malicious, synthetic laughter is heard. From the title head repulsively stares a cyborg, the beauty on his back piercingly gazes at the player pressing the numbers, banging on the machine and shaking it. His lips are twitching, he's frowning and raising himself up on his toes. When the last ball sinks he wipes his sweaty palms and waits for a new game.

I press against him and kiss him. He looks at me questioningly. I offer him a handful of tokens. He smiles and starts throwing them into the slots, and the men behind him start shoving him and shouting at him. With all my might I push away the first in the line and get hold of the player. I'd like to reserve the pinball machine for Srečko, who's supposed to come here after work.

In the square a policeman is fining two tourists who were walking down the left lane instead of the right. The lights are red for women. I turn into a side street. A red inscription is flashing: FOR EMPLOYEES OF GENERAL COUZCO ONLY. Suddenly it goes off and I walk on. From the cellar under the sign there come women working in the factory of General Couzco. On top of the stairs a policeman is waiting for them; he directs them to walk only down the lane specially assigned for them. He screams, whistles his whistle and swings his truncheon. He gives me a shove in the back and pushes me into the crowd. Srečko grabs hold of my hand and we run away.

The buildings in the town are high and they throw long shadows. Nevertheless the streets are hot, I can feel the heat emanating from the concrete. Time and again I wipe the sweat off my nape. I envy the two niggers their clothes, which flutter as they hoppingly push their way through the crowd. One's wearing a yellow tunic and trousers; with crystal laughter he answers to any detail that attracts his attention. With his finger he points at the people in the procession, at the huge banner which has twisted itself through the window into the interior of a block of flats, and covered with the part that remained outside quite a number of flats, at plastic pigeons filled with air embellishing the government palaces, at stalls containing all kinds of junk placed there by the locals in order to take advantage of the holiday and earn some money, at hostesses wearing national garbs ... The other, wearing a gown reaching down to his ankles, is cheerfully nodding through the eye of his camera.

On the main square I listen to one speech after another. The two foreigners don't speak our language, they become bored and tired. They suggest we go for a drink. The gardens of the restaurants around the square are packed. We walk and walk, but can't find any empty tables. The niggers invite us to their hotel.

The blinds of the windows in the room are pulled down because of the sun. Artificial leather armchairs are so heated I daren't lean onto them. Air-conditioning is out of order. The waiter serving drinks is old and purple in the face due to the heat. When he closes the door behind him, the Chinese in a violet gown takes a knife from the drawer and says to me I have pretty legs. I'm frightened. The yellow Chinese questioningly stares at the violet one.

"Doesn't your wife have pretty legs too?" Srečko asks him.

The man with the knife starts thinking. The nigger in yellow clothes winks at the girls. They start undressing each other. The corsets, suspender belts, brassieres are changing colours from greenish-blue to fiery-red when I switch on the TV set. The girls on the screen collapse on the couch, they kiss and caress each other's bodies. I narrow and widen the screen, I change the contrast, I disassemble it into lines, dots, into indecipherable shapes. Suddenly I hear passionate sighs behind my back. I turn. On the bed lies Srečko embracing his penis with both hands.

"Come!" he says.

People in the procession are carrying signs, shouting out slogans and singing militant songs. The town is festively decorated with sweets. Above the heads hang candies wrapped in glittering paper, the streets are paved with chocolate, the facades of the houses are coated with sugar glazing. Huge cakes are blocking the way in the cross-roads. I want to eat cream cakes and I slip into a shop selling sweet stuff, alcoholic beverages and makeup.

Before the counter there is a glass cabinet. On silver tinfoil make-up is on display. Tainted wax penetrates from boxes. I'm attracted by a lipstick wrapped in paper. It's red and fat, it protrudes from the wrapping like the head of the penis.

It's hot. After every fourth step I have to pull my dress down to the knees in order for it not to stick to my body. I press my legs together to stop the streams of sweat tickling me. Even the spider-web tights feel too much, as if my flesh were bursting with the heat, the web-like texture eating into it. A red truck presses me against the wall. HAPPINESS AT THIS MOMENT. From the advert at its side a boy and a girl under a sharp sprinkling shower laugh at millions of drops into which the spray breaks on their chests.

"Srečko, we'll have fun!" I shout into the bedroom, where he's sweating in front of the TV. "I'll order us a shower!"

The phone rings. "To the other side of the town?! All right, in half an hour."

Srečko is smoking, leaning to the door post.

"Come, take your clothes off, let's have a shower."

Wrapped in towels we walk towards the town, where a shower has been installed for us. We meet the two Chinese.

"Oh, you're off to have a bath! Great, wonderful! Your stories are very interesting. Over there at our place, in China, we'd like to publish some. The commissar admires your work and would like to meet you. Actually, he's expecting you, would you come with me, please?"

He takes us to a deserted storehouse filled with huge sacks and empty cases. The sacks are piled up, and the cases stand as kind of barriers. They're blocking the light of the few lamps hanging from the high ceiling on ropes.

I'm not certain whether the commissar is truly Chinese. He has a very wrinkled face, monstrously crooked, the furrows in his skin are kind of threatening; in any case, he could be European. He's surrounded by body-guards, and next to him there nestle a yellow, a violet and a green monster. He speaks slowly, and at every set of words he swallows up the saliva while his wrinkles undulate.

"I like you very much - your stories, comrade. I believe - you have - a rare gift - for observing life. And particularly - you're sensitive to - certain human inclinations. As if you wanted - to burn in them."

Srečko and I exchange glances. I thank him.

"Yes, - I'd like to immortalise - these abilities of yours. But, I'd like to ask you - I, an old man to whom - the beauties of life are counted - and is suffering for it, because - he can finally appreciate them - as only few people can - to show me - how you're taken over by passion - just as you describe it in your - stories."

Srečko and I exchange glances. "This I can't do," I protest.

"I understand that - the circumstances - are not exactly stimulating. But - you have my sweethearts - at your disposal - to play with." The monsters purr as he hugs them.

"You don't understand me. I can't do it in front of you. What I write in my stories isn't true. I mean, I don't do it in reality."

"Ah! So you're - pretending." His face becomes like stone.

"No, this is part of me, but these are also my dreams. My private and public lives are separated."

The Chinese raises his voice and the monsters get upset: "You are - turning him into an exhibitionist!"

"I'm disclosing my dreams, not my life among the four walls."

The Chinese screams and the beasts roar: "You're - pretending yourself!"

"Oh, no, I'm full of prejudice!"

The Chinese hisses: "Well - we'll make sure - that some of your - adventures -become real." He orders the yellow beast to grab me.

(a fragment)

Srečko, Dejan, Vesna and I, behind a white curtain in the middle of a cemetery, are exchanging clothes and trying them on. Suddenly a repulsive old man emerges before us. He's naked to the waist, and his trousers hang loose on his fat body. His hands are joined on the back; with a bloated face he stares at us. We set off.

On the deserted football pitch next to the cemetery there's a crowd. People run one after another as if they were kicking the ball, which isn't there. When we get closer I notice their skin is yellow and desiccated, the hair white, the eyes blood-shot. All of a sudden they all start rushing towards us. We start running away in panic. The zombies follow us with mind-cracking noise: they sputter, gurgle, roar, howl ... My head reels with fear and strain, I'm trying to overtake myself. The fear is tying me to the beasts behind me, with desperate effort I tighten the bond with which they're pulling me towards them, my legs are taking me away, towards the forest, they're still slower than the rhythm of my heart. At the edge of the forest I turn round. Dejan and Vesna wade into the river, Srečko is running towards me. The zombies turn and look at him.

With difficulty I make my way through the thicket. The undergrowth is thick and the floor wet; I'm sinking ankle-deep into the mud. As I push aside the bushes I frighten a white dove. It takes off low above my head and then sits down within my reach; I stretch my hand to touch it, but it shifts. I jump towards it. It flutters a few metres away. I'm trying to catch it with such fervour that I can't feel the branches whipping my body, or the thorns scratching my face. Boštjan peeks out from behind the tree. I wave him away: "I'm in a hurry." And once more I rush after the dove. When I catch it, it turns into a fish, it slips out of my palms and hastens away through the mud.

The ceiling is high, with the walls it forms vaults. The windows are large, yet high above the head. Nobody will be peeking in, all I'll do is position the bed and install a huge book-case. Finally I have a room of my own, I won't move anywhere from here.

Soldiers - carrying loads of ammo and guns ready to fire - enter. I squeeze into the very corner and hide behind the back of a striped cat with a black cub.

"Take her away," I hear a roaring voice distorted by the megaphone.

I climb over the half-demolished wall and cut myself on the broken glass. Nevertheless I firmly clutch the two scared cats, which want to run away, and I flee from the soldiers. Bombs are still being dropped all around us. The cat scratches me and almost frees itself from my hands; it seizes the cub by the nape. I raise my skirt and wrap the cat into it. The soldiers are catching up with me. The cat in my lap goes crazy, it bites me in the thigh and I let go of it. It charges after the fastest soldier so that he stumbles.

Spitefully I stop by a pile of manure. I strip off the upper layer and grab a handful of worms burrowing into the putrefaction. I start stuffing myself with them. The soldiers stop and stare at me in disbelief.

"Let her be, she's gone mad," one of them says after a while.

"Our guys are far, let's change and go have some fun in the town," another one suggests.

Covered in mud and blood I return to the hotel to take a shower. I feel terrible hunger. I haven't eaten for days. It's late at night, is there anyone still in the kitchen? I enter fearfully, the kitchen is sparkling clean, the counters empty, the cutlery arranged, the dishes covered with napkins. On the fridge there's a lock. I can't open the cupboards either. In the corner I notice a narrow door the colour of the walls. The larder! I find myself in a small niche before the freezer. I lift the cover easily. The baskets are full of tubes containing blood. I grab as many I can carry.

Under the vault there are two heads standing like guards. Ambulances stop before them. The doctor orders the nurse, who, bored, is sitting before one of the heads, sticking a blade of grass into the sand, to take the heads away. The nurse protests, he screams that it makes no sense any more. I run there and lift the heads from the ground. Somebody swings a sword and cuts a shock of hair from the nurse's head. When he presses both hands against his head as if he wanted to block his ears, the sword decapitates him.

But the nurse is still alive. He's in rage and starts smashing the cars. The metal gives way, parts of engines fly in all directions. The nurse is tying up the hospital stuff by threes and assembles torturing machines out of the engine parts. I grab a shaft, but he seizes it from me. He ties my back to two large cylinders with furrows, the kind machines for making noodles have. My skin is being pulled inside and my head backwards, but I can still see that he's doing much more horrible things to the others.

Then he comes to me. He tells me he likes me, and would like the two of us to experience some pleasure together. An iron hangs from his belt. Yet he wants us to procrastinate in order to make the whole thing sweeter. He moves into my flat. The police are looking for him, and I'm not to tell anybody he's here.

He's joking with my guests. For a few days they have to walk naked along his room, and he's sticking forks into them and twisting them in their flesh. Then he locks himself into the bathroom with them. He doesn't let me see what he's doing there. He wants the ungiven pleasure and imagination to strengthen my lust.

In the cinema I meet Remško. He finds the film boring, and wants to leave the theatre shortly after the film begins. But I want to see it to the end, it's an excellent film. I can't talk him into staying, I'm afraid I'll never see him again. I want to tell him that the nurse is staying at my place. I can't call the police because I also have diamonds hidden in my flat, the ones my girl-friend stole. He doesn't believe me that the film is good, and leaves.

Workers in grey overalls with pockets full of tools are constantly bringing in new machines, and installing them. They're carrying them along the narrow-gauged railway, piled up in carriages, pulling them on carts, carrying them in bags. As I enter deeper, I see control panels lined up along the sides. They're assembled into a single long counter. The roar of electric devices and saws, and the shrill whistles of soldering apparatuses are being drowned in the whirr of high voltage.

I approach the counter: one switch next to another - commutators, a countless number of small ones, huge square ones, others in the shape of levers, glittering keys, regulators, round, as large as a human palm, with large dials, oscilloscopes with whizzing curves, displays with double digits, sockets from which cables are running to other units. Every few metres there are monitors with microphones.

From the dark emerges a man in blue overalls. I notice we're alone. I move my eyes away from the counter and calmly walk on. The man is heading right towards me. I turn round and collide with his piercing, devouring eyes. He wants me. But he's hostile. I hurry up. The man starts running. I charge into the black gorge of the tunnel.

When I turn round, he's standing next to the phone on the wall, he's putting down the receiver, then he once more runs after me. The roar of the machines is pulsating in my temples, I can feel the electric undulation, I'm being carried to and fro along the corridor - and I can hear the blunt pounding of my follower's shoes with an unknown echo; suddenly I slip, I fall on the ground and am swallowed by darkness.

I find myself on a staircase. I climb the stairs, I firmly hold onto the handrail, I keep slipping because of the spilt blood. It's old and thick, it's blending with the pattern of the reddish marble. On top of the stairs the tunnel is opening up again, it's all marble like the staircase. Now I have nothing to hold onto. I move with utter effort. I try to put my feet on the ground at a right angle, I try to concentrate all my weight in my feet not to slip.

Then the tunnel is again elevated by three steps. From the walls stick out brains, kidneys and livers. I manage to overcome sickness and take hold of them. Now I move faster.

Workers in grey overalls are switching off the machines with which they're digging the tunnel, putting away shovels and heavy hammers, lowering themselves down the scaffolds hanging from the ceiling, and gathering round a small glass dome. I push my way nearer, a man wearing a carefully tailored suit made of expensive material, with a face desiccated by time, is kneeling down with his hands placed on the dome, staring at the instrument underneath it. "It really moves," he says silently. The worker standing behind his back is sick. The others press themselves against the wall in the direction in which the tunnel is being drilled.

There appears a machine with a long neck on which there's a sphere with tiny teeth. They move it closer and the sphere starts slowly rotating and shifting away layers of soil which the two mechanic hands at its front are clearing away. When the machine drills a hole, it's stopped. Somebody rushes near and peeks into it.

"Frescoes!" he shouts, "frescoes!"

One after another we climb through the hole. In the catacombs the wind is strong, and it's carrying along the dust from the tunnel. I pull my head into the collar of my jacket.

The frescoes are beautiful. Slender, erect figures look at us with clear, joyous eyes. Clothed in glamorous attire. Warriors girded with swords as if with jewellery, pure from the blood of fight, in stances expressing the unstoppable power in the same way as the gentleness of the movements of their bodies, and women with broad foreheads and slender limbs, mistresses of Death, who never were mothers.

The water dripping on the floor is becoming deeper and calmer. It's being gathered in a well, in the middle of which there's a statue of a bent female figure, her back turned towards us. Everybody is entering the well to see the face.

"Look!" I scream in terror. The wind is sharpening the layers of paint in the frescoes, and the proud people are disappearing.

"Do something!" I shout to the engineer.

The frescoes are vanishing. The statue in the well, too, is just a twisted mass of stone.

The engines of the vehicles are humming, curtains of dust are being lifted, they stink of burnt petrol. I spot Srečko. In a black shirt and a violet tie shining fluorescently, he's smoking and talking to the engineer. Two policemen reach him before I do. They exchange a few short sentences with the stunned engineer, and take Srečko away.

(the end)

The bus is almost empty. The conductor's in no hurry: we've come a quarter of the way, and he hasn't started selling the tickets yet. I wipe the window with my finger and look out: wet shrubbery, slightly veiled over with mist, which is muddily touching the grey road along which we drive slowly. From the opposite direction there come two more buses, but full of soldiers. Their looks, too, are wet, blunt. Tiredly abandoned to the journey. The conductor takes the money from my hand and sticks the two tickets over the seat before me. Silently. The radio is silent as well.

We're setting off into the landscape where the war ended without a single true battle. No obvious signs of devastation. Only thick bitterness is turning the palate into a slimy roof of sorrow. A lorry passes us by. It's covered in leaves. In absent haste. Like a released prisoner leaving an occupied homeland. The streets of the towns are deserted. The people, numb, are keeping close to the stoves, contemplating the image of the enemy whom bombs can't harm - blankets of disappointment, which has penetrated to their bones. In vain did the army invade these places: the desperation emanating from every corner can't be dispelled by guns. We're lost in our individuality, with weapons destroying the known into the unknown and is dispersing life into separation. In my chest there echoes the anxiety of intolerance, jealousy of the greatness of eternity, rage against the weakness of solitude.

Translated from the Slovene by Lili Potpara