He walked even though someone’s olive orchard, watching the neat, brown circles of soil distributed lightly around eacholive trunk. someone had been right here, now not lengthy ago, plucked the weeds, and organized the rocks in circles across the bushes. the entirety changed into unnaturally tidy: the olives, white stones, blue skies, as though in a postcard. Greetings from Dalmatia – a signal above his head. in which is that overly tidy olive farmer now? everybody may want tosave him now, any human soul, because human beings always have water, that’s a sign of a civilization. To have water. And he wandered round that postcard, Dalmatian karst, macchia, olives anywhere, holm all right and prickly cedars, the entirety photo best, each element in its location, besides that he became demise of thirst.
He watched hundreds of intense survival documentaries. He’d control within the wilderness, from wherein he becomenow the Sahara appeared like a salvation. He knew a way to cut into a cactus and drain the juice out of it, he knew you had to pores and skin the snake and pee in it and then drink it all to rehydrate as a minimum a bit, however the desolate tractturned into nowhere in sight, nor have been there any cactuses or snakes, and he didn’t should pee. Why aren’t there any shows on a way to live to tell the tale in some god-awful region above Primošten? extra sand in his kidneys than anywhere on this fucking petrified land thru which he had been crawling for hours.
As each Dalmatian knows, you could employ stone in many different methods. you could construct a house, you canfence in a modest piece of your fertile land, usually a lack on this parts, and construct a wall to evidently separate your plot out of your neighbor’s. And you could use the stone to destroy your neighbor’s head when he trespasses onto your piece of land. The blood then drops on the stone, and the critical difference among the blood and the stone is that you may drink blood, and the stone you can not.
At a second of despair he tried to chew on some leaves. Olives, holm o.k. or prickly cedars, that’s what’s on today’s menu. The prickly cedar appears juicier, however how do you go past the needles? He filled a handful of olives into his mouth and crushed them with his tooth. if they let even a drop of fluid, he could be saved. The nectar of olive oil flows via the tree’s veins, right? He’d drink a liter of that horror in a gulp best if someone placed it earlier than him, but chewing the leaves made him even thirstier. Agave, he remembered, agave is some sort of a cactus. but there had been no agaves in sight. Fuck Dalmatia, fuck such land, all neat and no agaves.
He hated Dalmatia, he hated the olives and their oil, the lavender, the stone and the salt and the klapa making a songapproximately it all. For him, the sea was always only a massive obvious wall, a prison, a path one could not take. He craved the opportunity of break out to all 4 sides. He couldn’t breathe between the sea and the mountain. The smog changed into his Bura. He desired spotlights above his head, no longer stars. There’s a celebration, they instructed him. some men from Zagreb, a view of Žirje, quality youngsters, all sons of docs and designers. guy, that’s our danger. let’s move, changed into his reply.
by the sun’s position it could were round midday, it scorched his vertex and burned concept procedures below his hair. each step thudded in his head as if his brain bumped towards the edges of his cranium, a dry vessel chronically deprivedof fluid. He’d been on foot considering that two, maybe three within the morning. till sunrise, he’d crossed as a minimumten kilometers through the darkness, in what course, first closer to the ocean, down south, he thought that he washeading closer to the primary avenue, that someone might pick out him up there, but then he got scared, what if he ran into a younger guy in a grey healthy? So he went within the contrary route, as a long way far from the sea as possible, he didn’t stop till dawn, after which he did stop and didn’t realize wherein he become. He tried to get his bearing, to find outif there was a village someplace, a telephone, however there were handiest hills after hills, all green and rocky and barren and there has been no church nor a man nor a cellphone on any of them.
What might he tell them if he managed to make the call? He’d inform them that there has been a young guy in a greymatch. In his 1920s, perhaps Nineteen Thirties, how might he know? A white blouse and a grey suit, was he imagined torecognise the logo, Armani, Gucci, who the fuck cares? What if they requested him to sit down for a facial composite? graysuit, that’s for positive, however what else? A face, what face? What shape? He can’t inform the shape of his own face and he and his face examine each other on a daily foundation. Don’t all faces have the equal form? all of us have the equaleyes and ears, each person are fucking same. besides that a few have cash, a few don’t. some deliver guns, some don’t. He didn’t look, he just ran, Mr. Inspector, sir, only fools live and watch. Others run for their lives.
Did you take something? drugs, alcohol? the inspector would ask. That’s the problem with our police, you’re constantlyfucking guilty of some thing. You’re in no way legal, constantly suspicious, continually on the other of what’s allowed. both you’re stealing a ride on a tram, otherwise you’re a student who hasn’t registered a place of residence, otherwise youtook some thing at a celebration. It’s now not crucial what others do, it’s no longer crucial that the gray match took out a gun, it’s not vital who he aimed it at, it’s not essential that he heard, with his own ears, that girl’s screams. He noticed their freaked out faces, he noticed the gun go off. but none of this is critical because he (!) took something. What have beenyou, sir, doing in Primošten? that’s what our inspectors ask. you have got unpaid parking tickets, sir, you watched we’re silly, you observed we don’t recognize you drove your father’s vehicle, who else could get in that ‘91 heap?
How a ways from Primošten is he? How a long way has he walked? If he can walk 5 kilometers an hour, and he’s been on foot for half a night time, at least ten hours, that’s fifty kilometers. it could’t be fifty. He could’ve run into a village or a street, he could’ve visible them within the distance, unless he is on foot in circles, until he is hallucinating. usually in that fucking postcard. regardless of how lengthy he walked he is constantly some of the olives. The headache wouldn’t allowup, his throat grew tighter, has all people ever died of thirst here? He’d say sure to a puddle infested with worms and mosquitoes, brown and smelly, that’s excellent. simply carry it. Pour it.
Like closing night. just bring it. Pour it. First, 2d, 7th. Fifty-euros cocktails, fifty-thousand-euros pussies, 5-hundred-thousand-euros cars. A firework of numbers. A gilded villa overlooking Žirje. A swimming pool with a diving board. A youngman in a white blouse giving a speech above water. Others cheer him, taking turns in delivering phrases and significance. Then they dance. Then they laugh. women throughout them. That’s another international. He felt the rate of electricitywithin the air. He turned into blinded through their haughtiness, their ironed fits and easy hair. How conceited were they when they spat from the terrace at the same time as the Moon rose above Zlarin. The golden kids, the seed of Croatian entrepreneurs and judges, and he, a gold digger, a touch sucker. however the little sucker didn’t understand that the golden got uninterested in all that bling, after sufficient money and cocaine, simplest blood can quench the thirst.
He fell, tripped over a rock and fell. The bushes stored spinning around him, the sky stretched right into a spiral, and he melted with the rock, with the strong and white Dalmatian pride. He banged his knee, smashed his elbow, he felt a stab in his hip and a burn in his throat. He couldn’t get up. The flesh on his elbow opened, and a flow of blood gushed from the crevice and dripped on the stone. A small purple puddle shaped in the groove of the rock. He would’ve cry, however he turned into out of tears, out of spit; there was no longer a drop of fluid in him, his tongue turned into as fat as a potato, he needed to swallow air like capsules, and the blood flowed, like a waterfall smashing against that rock. Olives, holm okayand prickly cedars span around him. the brink of the postcard became on hearth. His ears whistled. are you able tovirtually die in some godforsaken shithole? wherein are the fucking cactuses?
He rolled to his belly in pain, drew himself to the pink rock and buried his face within the puddle of his personal blood. Thirstily he licked the sweet liquid. The synapses in his brain crackled with satisfaction because after a lot time eventuallythey felt moisture. He laughed. while you’ve were given nothing, you need little or no to be satisfied. while you’re loss of life of thirst, all you need is just a few drops. whilst you consider it, you understand that in the end you're just enough for yourself.
He rolled to his back and directed his bloody grin to the sky. The sun blinded him and the shine avoided him from beginning his eyes, nonetheless he controlled to study the ornate letters above him: “Greetings from Dalmatia.”
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