Scene: Vuk Karadžić Street and Antikvarnica Café, Belgrade
In the middle of the street, a tall daughter and a thin old woman. They try to enter Antikvarnica Café. Light people pass by, their jaws relaxed, dogs dragging them along. Between the space of the cafe and the street, the old woman senses a border. A step, insignificant in height, that a greasy-haired gentleman who entered with a poodle didn’t even notice. The old woman detects the transition from external to internal space, scratching at the coarse air with her ankles. She abandons the street and its elaborately branched trees, paved in cold tiles.
Before her eyes now, the golden wallpaper echoes with mirrors, a waitress moves tables of solid wood. The daughter and mother sit at a little table, their backs turned to the street; they exist in silence. Behind them, two by two, a loud conglomeration of schoolboys passes by.
After they finish their coffee, they stand slowly. The step, this time in the opposite direction. The old woman stands for a while, as if on a pedestal. Her daughter helps her swing her leg over – when we age, we don’t get over things. The old woman sees with her body.
Her foot slowly moves downward, her body passing into the space of the street, which the greasy-haired gentleman didn’t even notice as he was leaving. Nor did his poodle.
I want to tell a dancer—you’ll only truly dance in your old age.
Translated by: Jeremy White