God's Patience

GOD’S PATIENCE

Azra Širovnik

Translated by

Zoran Anchevski

and

Richard Gaughran

Copyright © 1996, 2012 by Azra Širovnik

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-5585-0 (sc)

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Balboa Press rev. date: 07/23/2012

I dedicate this book to the innocent victims of war

in the former Yugoslavia and to the victims of any war,

any time, any place.

War is the greatest of all crimes.

Still, there is no aggressor who does not

whitewash his crime with justice.

Voltaire

The novel God’s Patience is composed of the personal diaries of two women who lived at the same time, in identical houses, in the same neighborhood in the city of Alphen-on-Rijn, Holland.

Both of their stories are true and signed with their real names.

I ask the reader to forgive me for any errors that might have occurred due to my combining of the two diaries and the need to add sentences in the service of art.

For example, the end of Laura’s second letter, which I received a week after I received her diary, is added as a conclusion to her diary.

It is interesting how a person who travels through life without great problems is limited: to what he takes from his house, his neighborhood, his society. And the time that he slides along his existence on this earth, he is one person, of one color, who perhaps takes on some kind of shading. But when he is faced with the path through the tunnel of knowledge, he comes out of that hell with more layers, standing taller.

So I could not draw a clear line between where Laura’s story ends and mine begins. There is a point at which we merged, unbreakable, into one another.

Azra Sirovnik

I am Laura Lopez, born in Spain, thirty-seven years ago, by the sea, whose powerful waves I attempted to depict on painter’s canvas since my thirteenth year. It was not only I who plotted an escape into the world of color—my entrance into the multi-colored kingdom was initiated by my father, a famous Spanish painter, by whom I was raised until I began my studies. I lost my mother very early, she died before my third birthday. My father never remarried, though he had several pleasant and intelligent girlfriends. His greatest love was me. A year before my graduation, during an unplanned summer in Madrid, I met John, who lived in London, and he, only six months later, asked for my hand, and my father, despite my expectations, immediately gave his consent. In fact, he was delighted: "You’ll never meet such a man again. John is one of a kind. He is the only one who can love you as honestly as I do, my child . . . ," he said with tears in his eyes. Even if my father had not approved of our union, I would have fallen for John, as I was madly in love with him. He was a tall, attractive man, the son of a French woman and an Englishman, in whom were mixed French charm, passion, and warmth with the elegant refinement of his father. He was five years older than me, and he gave me the same sense of security and protection to which I had grown accustomed living with my father.

In fourteen years of steady happiness, we had two children. We were happy for several years, until certain events went beyond our ability to understand them. They drew us into a whirlpool and tore us into pieces. We were surrounded by blood and body parts, but the brain was missing.

Just tonight I made a decision: I took my children—they are waiting in my car as I write this entry in my diary for you, Mrs. Azra. I am very sorry that we never became better acquainted, as is customary between neighbors, but when you read the pages of this diary, you will understand what I had to endure behind the walls of this splendid villa. You will understand how hard it was for me, in such a disturbed state of mind, to meet with people.

Now I am somewhat composed, enough to concentrate on myself and the children. I am leaving John, who tonight is off on one of his trips.

Please accept this confession of mine and do not hold against me my somewhat childish avoidance of you and the other neighbors. I would like to meet you after a while, when I am ready for such a meeting. I know that you are writing a novel. If you find my story suitable, you can use it; you can even use my name, as it is a story about the male ego, which, once wounded, never heals.

I know that in your novel you write about the wounds that opened up in you because of the war in your country, and I don’t imagine that my destiny resembles your pain, connected to the pain of your people, in which they drown. So, if you don’t make use of it now, perhaps you can another time.

And not just because of me personally, but as a kind of Medusa’s mirror, like truth’s shield. For others . . .

Wishing you all the best,

Laura Lopez

September 1992.

Almost four months into the Bosnian slaughter . . .

Holland

And it happened… Finally, for good. The boundary between my world and the other has collapsed… I am barely thirty-seven and there is no road of retreat. The events in the past year—in a few days it will be exactly a year since everything started—have systematically and intensely pushed me towards it, forcefully and persistently…

Now I am here…

Young and… old, at the same time, because of knowledge… Dead. At this very moment I can die with no regret. There is no knowledge in the world that I have not taken on as a burden.

In saying this I do not mean the intimate knowledge about myself as a woman, as a mother, not at all, that is wonderful knowledge by means of which a person matures. I stumbled before the knowledge of the human in me…

But I will rise with all that is dead, with everything that has been killed in me, and I will rise with all the knowledge that lives, that fiercely burns, and I will speak up…

January 1991.

Through the hell of confession

So… Then I told him…

My husband.

Last night… Exactly…

That I had a lover.

Three o’clock in the morning, still pitch dark, a wild wind blowing outside, my home chilled by an icy January… I am sitting in a large living room, slouched in a great leather armchair, chilled by the leather, chilled by the large windows stretching along the entire wall; they let so much darkness inside, everything around me is dark, cold, too large and unconquerable…

Why am I so small, so thin, why is there no flesh on my bones, why does my blood run so slowly and coldly within my veins, so that my whole being shudders from the deadly chill…

It is not good for my brain, its twists and turns are sluggish and dull, unable to perform even their basic functions… I should perhaps stand on my head, which supposedly Aristotle did to force his mind to work… I am raving: my dearest neurons, talk to me, I am desperate, I need you…

Nothing. They are deaf and dead. No help. I clutch my shuddering knees and feel it approaching with an immense speed… Fear! Fear! Fear? It suddenly entered every cell of my nervous system and all of my body started shaking. And when it relentlessly started expanding and pressing upon my heart, I got scared and, in panic, as if drugged, hurried down the stairs…

I virtually broke into her room…

My friend was not asleep. She sat in her bed, her hair falling over her shoulders. Although she held a book in her hands, she was not reading. She was staring into the void. She had come to my house for a visit. Speechless, I plunged my head between her outstretched arms, sobbing: I’m dying… Tonight I will either die or go insane. I’m smothering, suffocating… , I whispered and fainted…

I do not know when I came to. She offered me a glass of water and whispered gently: Here, take this pill…

With difficulty I forced myself to swallow the small white tablet. My temples were throbbing. She gently helped me up. Breathe slowly and deeply. You hear? Deeply.

Quietly I composed myself. I tried to get up from the bed with her help.

Then she asked: What happened?

I looked at her: Let’s go downstairs. It’s warmer.

We sat down. She lit a cigarette, waiting: It seemed to me you loved each other. So passionately.

I agreed without thinking: We did.

Then I smiled quietly: Yes, very passionately. But it sounds funny, strange and difficult to understand. You tell your husband who hasn’t noticed the woman in you for a long time that you have a lover, he rushes to the toilet and throws up, then looks at you with glazed eyes as if seeing you for the first time, then touches you as if you were a creature from another planet, and finally falls into flames of lust, jumps upon you as if crazy, loving you for all the time past and to come, and in the end, several hours later, exhausted and shocked, again with the same glazed eyes, looks through you and whimpers: ‘Give me some time, I understand nothing,’ then turns over and falls asleep.

She opened her eyes wide and pierced me with her glance: How could you do that? You told him? You confessed to your husband that you had a lover!

I stared at her in silence and started shaking and trembling again.

Her voice calmed down but remained firm: You don’t talk about such things. You don’t tell your husband. Never! Except… all right, if you’re thinking of getting a divorce.

She fell quiet. Took a drag on her cigarette: Do you want a divorce?

I shrugged my shoulders and whispered: I don’t know. Maybe…

She asked again: And he, your lover, would he go along with you?

I shook my head: He’s of no importance in this case.

She kept after me: And what about the children?

My voice strengthened: Well, that’s it. They’re most important. I care about them. And about myself. Perhaps even about him. I don’t know what he thinks, nor 0what he feels, nor what he does.

And he also knows nothing about me. We both sense foggy half-truths and pretend that we don’t notice anything. We play a game full of lies, fenced in, we live estranged from each other. In a diseased relationship, from which we have become sick. I decided to create a draft and cleanse the plagued atmosphere, which slowly and almost invisibly is killing us. But I want to be healthy. I want to live in a healthy environment. And I want to create such an environment for both him and the children.

I fell quiet, as she started shaking her head. I saw suspicion in her eyes: Don’t you think you’re exaggerating? You have a nice life. One might say above average. He respects you a lot, and, look, he puts up with me only because of you. He’s a fair man, well mannered, kind. Actually, you have a civilized husband. You can’t even imagine what other kinds there are. Do you think I know what my husband feels and does? Do you think he knows what I feel and do? Despite that, we’re still riding in the same car and have been for over twenty-five years.

There are a million such marriages. Perhaps some even worse. Most people never learn how to communicate in a civilized way, a basic condition for the survival of a marriage.

I nodded enthusiastically: Let there be a billion, but my marriage will not be one of them. Never!

Her voice became hesitant: What if he leaves you? Have you thought about the risk you’re taking?

I looked straight into her eyes: You mean if he kills me, beats me up, starts hating me? Last night it seemed to me for a moment, when I caught his glazed expression, that he was capable of anything.

My friend: Why did you tell him? Did you have a good reason? What did you think you would accomplish? And how did you intend to do it, for Christ’s sake?

Me: I thought, I thought he stopped loving me. I even believed that he was having a steady affair. Perhaps even a child with another woman. Somewhere… I don’t know, because I know nothing, I have nothing, I take nothing, I give nothing, it seemed to me honest to talk. It’s most important to talk. That’s what I believed at that moment. That’s why I opened my mouth.

She took over: And you’re not so sure anymore?

I shook my head: No… yes… I don’t know. His reaction puzzled me and sowed a strange fear in my bones, my soul, my brain. I thought we could talk like adults, openly, honestly, amicably. Perhaps even in a business-like manner. Like two reasonable people. But there was no conversation, because I did the talking, and he the listening.

My friend smiled at me for the first time: And he, what did he tell you about himself? What was his secret?

I sighed: Everything ended and began at that point. He had no secrets. He said, ‘I never had other women, I’ve been faithful to you the whole time, I’ve loved you and only you.’ That was all. And that was his truth. And exactly that filled me with dark thoughts and suspicion.

She, surprised: What do you think? Is it true?

Me, firmly: He’s a liar, he lied to me!

She, whispering: Sh, sh… you’ll wake him up! Speak quietly, and don’t get upset. What’s his motive? What makes you think he’s lying to you? Maybe he told you the truth? Why don’t you believe him?

I whispered, excitedly: "Because he didn’t expect me to fall in love with somebody else. In my husband’s eyes I’m still a naive, little girl who adores him, who looks after him, his home, and his children, a boring wife whom he’s had enough of, and he now lives a life of his own and believes that I have given him the right only because I’m naive, that I’ve noticed nothing… But last night he suddenly realized that I knew everything, that I have the ability to see, and that I too, not just him, have my own life; and now he knows that a war has started, in which the advantage goes to the one who has more aces up his sleeve. The one who is honest has the right to stomp upon the traitor. I set out upon a dangerous game. Dangerous because I hate unfair games. That’s why I’m scared. Scared of myself. And of him too."

She, persistently: And what if he’s really being honest?

I, getting up: Then it’s even more just and fair to speak openly. After all, I’ve had a lover. I’m the one who’s walking on the edge. I’m the one who doesn’t feel normal. You get it?

She: I only get that you’re the most obstinate human being I’ve ever known. You still love him, don’t you? You love him so much that you’ve started cleaning up a mess, in spite of the risk. Do you think it’s worth it?

Me, going to the window: That’s what I’d like to know too. I’m ready for anything, but I just don’t want to live with lies and in lies.

The day after

A dream of a new beginning

My friend was in the kitchen. She said she would make dinner. She said I needed a rest… Tired, I dozed on the couch.

Everything, everything is starting to unravel, and I’m unprepared for it. It’s a mess, and I will never understand anything if I don’t straighten out this chaos. The simplest way is to start from the very beginning.

August 1990, Ljubljana

Saturday, at ten

I’m sitting on the back seat of a friend’s car, someone taking me to the Brnik airport. I gently press the hands of my two children, my two daughters, who sit to either side of me and joyfully chatter with my friend’s son. I look out the window. Straight onto the highway. I avoid looking at the city. I pretend that I’m not interested in the lights, the traffic, and with all my power I try to convince myself that I’m not departing, not leaving Ljubljana, the city that today is bathed in sunlight, my city, which gave me everything, everything I ever wanted, the city in which all my wishes were conceived and fulfilled.

So, we’re moving to Holland.

My husband went there two weeks ago. My children and I fly there in two hours. All our possessions are already there. I have only a single bag with me. Nevertheless, I feel as if carrying a ton of lead that presses upon the membrane of my soul, hurting and stifling me. I sigh unconsciously. Sonja, my friend’s wife, turns towards me and offers me her hand: It hurts, I know. Then she smiles, to cheer me up: In a week I travel to Paris. For the first time we’ll treat ourselves to a trip around Europe. And you’ll have it all in your hands. Think about that and draw courage from it. Ljubljana will remain where it is, and you’ll lose nothing.

We’re several thousand meters above ground. I don’t know exactly how many. I never heed measurements, especially those expressed in numbers. The children sit next to each other, looking out the window. It’s their first flight. Excited, they exclaim and laugh. I am holding a pen and several sheets of blank paper. Inspired, I start writing about things that happened during our seaside holiday, overwhelmed by the gentleness and warmth of the beautiful people I met during the summer, who made the summer behind me one of the most memorable in my life.

I spent my summer holiday, like all the ones before, on the Adriatic coast. There is almost no place or island on the shore I have not been, but the past few summers I have spent on the island of Loshinj. Loshinj. My Loshinj! I sigh, lean against the back of the seat, and squint. Suddenly, a vague thought about broadening the borders of my life wells up within me. And I don’t ask myself what it might mean.

I hear my children saying: Mom, the stewardess is coming with the cart, will you buy us something?

They look at me in expectation.

They smile at me: We thought maybe some souvenir, something for our new beginning. And in memory of our first flight.

We choose a teddy bear dressed in a pilot’s uniform. A teddy bear brings luck, I say to them jokingly. Then I suddenly decide: Let’s buy something for Dad. It’s been a thousand years since I’ve bought him a gift. In fact, in the last few years we have hardly seen each other, our lives have become frenetic. But we have not been exceptions, that’s what life has been like in our country, where most of the women have jobs. Anxiety and frustration have been the two dominant features of working people, a major component of modern socialism. Children have been exposed to the same atmosphere in the schools. When they come home, they are angry, disappointed, aggressive: there is always somebody to quarrel with, somebody to exchange insults with, somebody to fight with… They go to school in pain, resisting. The news about our moving to another country gave cheer to my children. Now they sit on the plane, playing with the teddy bear, impatiently waiting to arrive in Amsterdam.

We all saw it at the same time. It lay below the window, calm and somehow out of place. Almost invisibly, it nodded to my children, but when our eyes met for a moment, we glanced away—some strangeness lay between us. The girls jumped cheerfully and started waving with glee: Daddy, Daddy! They ran into his embrace. In the car they excitedly told him about the flight. He drove calmly, holding me by the hand. For years he has held my hand while driving. When the girls asked him about the house, he said: It’s in a nice neighborhood, and it’s very big. It has a big yard, which you’ll like a lot. The garden is full of unusual plants and trees that I’ve never seen before. I think you’ll like it.

Silence.

Curious yet indifferent, I watched. A kilometer before the house, my husband spoke: The hot weather we’re having is not typical for around here. I mean, because of the heat and the river nearby, there are a lot of mosquitoes. Otherwise… Anyway, you’ll see for yourself. A hundred meters before the entrance he went on: There are two workers inside from a Slovenian firm, they helped me with the garden and the taking care of the furniture. They sleep and eat in some hotel near the city, but I invited them for dinner today. I cooked it myself, to welcome you. I kept silent. I didn’t know what to ask or say. I was in a stupor.

The car veered toward a house with a spacious garden.

We went inside, through a long hallway, came out into the garden. The workers smiled at us: Welcome home, it’s really nice now, but before, a couple of weeks ago, the garden was a real jungle, covered in trees and weeds. And we put the furniture together. A lot of work, but thank God we had something to do, otherwise we would have gone mad. It’s the homesickness, ma’am, the homesickness that hurts the most. The table, set for dinner, innocently invited us to the chairs under the fir trees. I sat down and looked at them: Homesickness? You’ve been here for only two months. You two will return to your green village, but us… let’s have a toast first. I hope you have something special for this moment. The men smiled: Beautiful, homemade brandy. We brought it with us.

After dinner, I walked around the house. It was full of light and air, which I like. But it was too hot upstairs. My husband explained that the roof was badly insulated. In Holland there is no custom of insulating houses, as is the case in our country only by the sea.

In the garage, I found a pile of cardboard boxes full of clothes and things, which I had to put away in drawers.

I finished that by ten o’clock in the evening.

Although it was eleven my bedroom was as hot as hell. I sweated, feeling as though I were melting and flowing away in streams. But I lay like a corpse, my head covered with a sheet as the air around me swarmed with mosquitoes. They were so big that in my anger and despair they looked like birds. The window, of course, was open, because the smell of the new furniture filled the air and made me cough. I swore that it would be the last time in my life I would buy new furniture.

The following day and the seven days after

All alone, no one visiting

Utterly exhausted, I managed to fall asleep at the break of morning. But I got up after only a couple of hours. Instantly I painfully understood I am in a foreign country.

I rose slowly. Made some coffee. I drank it in the garden. The children were still in bed. School would start in a week. My husband had already gone to work. I was all alone. There was only the singing of birds. They perched comfortably on the branches and watched me slowly drinking the bitter liquid as I lazily stretched across two chairs.

Several times I felt my body shudder, as if it wanted to stand. Then I realized that I was actually expecting the phone to ring. In Ljubljana it used to ring at least ten times a day, and at least eight of these calls were his my Lover’s.

I again stared at the telephone. It was mute. I felt a painful confrontation with emptiness and dullness, which ruled inside these walls. I was scared. I turned around. I stopped. So, no one would call, no one would come, no one would visit, not a single soul, nobody. Except for my two children and my husband.

Once the girls got up, I was ready, immediately after breakfast, to go downtown. And then we bought