JANKO POLIC KAMOV
109
Thus, due to the most insignificant daily events, I came to wish he
wasn't there. Sometimes I cons idered running off into the world, but he
wou ldn 't even give me the motive for that. Always kind, sil ent and peace–
ful, he indirec tl y suppressed my desires, my passions and instincts. And the
more wanton I became, the more discontented and l11umed I was in front
of him. I kept quiet, with my ta il between my legs. Hi s politeness and
soberness bothered me even more because they gave me no pretext for a
harsh word or a more determined step. My openness and passion would
disperse miserably in his presence. The tension of my rapture, my will, my
blood constr icted ever more aloofly and limpl y. Thus that thought crept;
thus in his presence I was even more subdued; I followed him listlessly, li s–
tened
to
him unresponsively, replied dully.
[n
front of him [ acted
affected ly, artifi cially and formally. And then that thought dug deeper into
my sou l. Calml y and coldly I wou ld wish for him not to exist, to disap–
pear, to be gone forever. And in so thinking, something li ght, wanton and
joyful would smile in side me, around me, far from me. Like a prisoner gaz–
ing at a bright blue sky and thinking of freedom. Hi s gray beard, his deep
wrinkles and tired steps inspired such distant, blue and endless images. My
eyes would fill with sighs, my back with tremors. In the long sil ence inter–
rupted by o ur steps, the squeaking of sand , the rustle of leaves and his
heavy breathing-something thick, lu xurious and dreamy wou ld gather on
the horizon, in m y sou l and in my eyes. When we parted, he would leave
slowly and gloomil y, full of cigar smoke. And I ran to my Anka, squeezed
her hands and listened to the sound of her wrists crackling. The thought
crept no more. Surrounded by women and wine, I would raise my tail
again . And there I felt that the thought was in my blood.
For eighteen years it crept. . ..Already in my childh ood I wou ld some–
times wish for the death of someone to whom my life had inextricably tied
me. I would wish it out of some kind of curiosity, the same curiosity
which drove Ille to watch women take off their clothes or push Illy finger
into my neighbor's hose. l3ut all the curiosities of a powerless child turned
into a young man's powerful passion. Even today, when my father has for
several months been ill with cancer, which is cured by de::J.th, I feel ::J. rush
of blood, tears and bile, and I make love, drink and sing furiously. Inside
me, hatred, pain and pleasure are one: the wounds on my father's throat
which leak soup, the pestilent breath of catarrh, pus and spoiled blood, my
father's anger, ill tempLT and his sobs, my mother's worries, tears and rep–
rimands, my mistress, the orgies and the thoughts- keep me in eternal
ecstasy, passion and heat. When I approach my father, he is angry because
I had left him alone; he is angry if I speak too loudly; he demands that I
read the newspaper
to
him, thcn L1IIs asleep after the third line, but awakes
immediately if I stop. When he ca lls for me, I hide in my rOOl11. There I
