I took some other road. It was not paved. I didn't look for it, he found me. On the street I left the ladies – former colleagues, occasional friends, whatnot – all dressed to kill – furs, heels, gold around their necks. "Oh oh," whines one, rolling her eyes, "Oh God, how you look, that's not for women, think about yourself. It will seduce you, use you, you'll get a name." Etc, etc.
"Go fuck yourself," I said, "what do you know about me."
On me – boots, winter jacket, knapsack with food, a sleeping bag.
I took off not knowing the beginning or the end. No, he didn't seduce me, force me, nothing like that. He was natural, you see, him and his voice and all. Call it passion if you wish. He had the wild beauty of forests, rivers, volcanoes, everything living and his voice was soothing, promising, gentle as a summer dawn, low and full at the same time. What can I do.
He is leading me somewhere – that road – but I am leading him too. What would he be without me, without us?
Alone – I am not. What is that nitwit blabbing about. Pobrecita. Didn't my grandma Yanya, a beauty she was, they say, didn't she give a kiss of death to three occupiers when they charged into the house – hit them with the skillet then dumped them in the river. Darkness covered them up. The enemy got what they came for. They deserved it. When was that? Balkan, First or Second World War. Defend yourself, defend, resist, fight and rise up over and over again.
Alone – I am not. In front and in back a column. Moving. Dead and the living, young and the old and some I meet for the first time.
The dead have it easy, they float in the air, with such lightness you wish to be in their place. Some on horses, others on donkeys, anything. Alone – I am not. In me, a joy as never before, you wish to shout and embrace all.
A miracle! I saw Janya for the first time. On a horse without a saddle she resembled Chief Crazy Horse. I recognized her by the stories about her. Coal-black hair falls to her waist and in her hair, like a ribbon, two live snakes. Instead of her iron skillet she carried some strange weapon and waved it in front of her. "May you drown in your blood, may the vultures eat your guts," she cursed the occupier. From her curses, it began to thunder.
Uncles Chaslav and Andriya ride behind her – young and handsome and they died young, heroes and fighters both. They shout towards me, "Soon, very soon, its coming, don't be afraid." I recognized Andriya because of a photo, dead in Kosovo in 43, tortured terribly but now nobody could tell, he is so beautiful with shiny dark eyes.
There is no fear in me, as if I have done this before. Maybe its genetic, who knows.
The column moves, curving like a mountain river. All races, colors, honest. American Indians – Apache, Comanche, Navajo, Sioux, Kiowa, Crow, Iroquois tribes, the wind makes their feathers tremble. All on bare horses while we, the living, have only our feet. How come?
Somewhere far away the sound of a drum. Who is drumming tam-tam-tam, who is yelling Lumumba.Lumumba, Mumia. The air smells of something to come and you don't know the end.
What a surprise! I Recognized Guevara, who wouldn't, the most beautiful man ever, and his beret is the same, with a star. He looks like a saint, which one I wonder, Jesus maybe.
He walked alone, eyes fixed in the distance, silence around him. He said nothing. I was pissed, expecting something. Damn it, make a sign, Che. Suddenly I see – with the left hand he signals – one – two – three – four – aha, his old idea – not one country but many and with the right one he waves – spread it around the world. Message, what else. In code. Who would among these kids understand that. He, too was murdered buy the machine. The machine erases everything, wipes out stories, countries and people, machines gives birth to machine.
The Commandante books alive maybe because of his crumpled uniform on the wounds on his chest, color of wild cherry. He disappeared with the others. Without shoes, bare bloody feet. The only important dead person so far. Maybe others had already passed. Maybe they didn't come, how should I know.
Blacks, Afro-Americans, not dead but alive run with clenched fists, the anger in them could start a fire. Puerto Ricans, Cubans, everyone who speaks Spanish shouts, "Avanti America Latina". Che left a mark after all. The machine can't conquer all.
Imani, a young woman with cropped hair, a real Zulu warrior in appearance, otherwise from Harlem, slugged me in the shoulder, a form of greeting. "It's starting soon. I can hardly wait, the victory is ours. What a feast we'll have."
Brian, calm always, no matter what, a lucky guy, whispered, "It's going to start. All united, no splintering. Pay attention to trouble makers, pay attention to infiltrators." H is always like that.
There are so many of us you can't see the beginning in the end. Thank God. Milosh and Sanja, Mica and Radosh are all here. Singing and dancing as if for a wedding. Mica jumps across the potholes, her boobs shake and you can tell she is in her sixth or seventh month. I worry, not her. What'll happen if it stars on the march. It'll fall on me, I know, who else delivers babies, if necessary, but never like this.
"She won't be the first or the last who delivered by the road", my mother whispers inside me. "Don't you know that I delivered you alone, alone with my teeth the cord was cut". There is no end when she starts, no pity for the coward; she doesn't recognize the pain. Let it be the way it must be, I calmed myself. If it's a boy we'll call him Wolf.
There are a lot of young people. And many said, ravaged, poorly dressed, an army of homeless came with us. Alone – I am not. All of us took this road. There was no other.
The enemy is invisible but we heard its voice, color of metal, the sound of the machine. And he is a machine, people say. Imani says he kills everything human.
"Spread it, its starting, its starting," the road murmurs through the leaves, "it has to start".
We have no leader. The road leads us. We are fighting for joy, for life for people. We are fighting against the machine, against that nameless something we call the void. New tribes are joining us. Daily.
Imani spreads optimism, "It'll be easy, don't fret, the machine moves in a straight line, we got other ways. The machine has no soul, no imagination, nothing at all. When one part breaks, you destroy it all." In her hands a strange weapon made out of wire.
I realized – I have no weapon. Everyone is carrying something except me. I protest. Finally, they gave me a drum and I began up and down – spread – carry over – repeat – let it be known – the struggle is starting, it has to start.
So, here I am, drumming and drumming when something hit me. "Long live our fight, long live life," I managed to scream and fell in the leaves. Branches of a fir tree received me gently. The sky is the most beautiful color of Adriatic in July. I see swallows, I see flocks of other birds, I observe a butterfly in flight, on the earth first tender green grass. It's spring, everything is alive, bursting. In me a joy as never before, you wish to die from bliss. Soon I'll embrace the sun I thought.
The drum was drumming by itself.
My heart or the police siren wakes me up. Here, in this city, nobody lives really, nobody sleeps well. Across the park, on the other side, a drum began, then another and more, constant rhythm without pause, tam, tam-tam, tako. A cop siren again. The air smells of something to come and you just can't guess the end.