Song of Kosovo by Chris Gudgeon

Author:Chris Gudgeon [Gudgeon, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Goose Lane Editions, Canadian Fiction, Balkan Wars, Historical Fiction, Crime Fiction, eBook, Serbia
ISBN: 9780864927484
Publisher: Goose Lane Editions
Published: 2012-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

23

AS FATHER'S ANTICS GALVANIZED the nation, Counsellor, my domestic bliss continued. I probably knew, somewhere deep in my animal brain, that it would not last. But not even I, at my most cynical, could have imagined that it was already starting to dissolve.

It had been raining glossy German and American magazines and counterfeit dinars all afternoon. The magazines were full of colourful pictures of famous American movie stars and offered tips on cooking for one and improving one’s sex life. The dinars were very, very convincing and immediately sent black market currency exchange rates into the toilet.

“The Buddha told a story . . .” I was making conversation, Counsellor.

“Did he ever do anything else?” Tristina was only half-listening. She was trying to straighten her hair. She did not like the natural curls and was bent over the kitchen table with her hair splayed across a towel, flattening her curls with a hot iron.

“Quiet please. The Buddha told a story, or maybe it wasn’t the Buddha. In any case, someone told a story. It concerned a priest or more likely a monk. The priest or monk lived in a temple high in the mountains. It was an isolated place, where devotees gathered to meditate, work, and study.”

“Is this a long story?”

“We’ll see. So, one day, a warlord arrived with a vast army. He wanted to take over the temple because its position, with impenetrable stone walls and distant vista, made it strategically important. The warlord assembled all the people who lived and studied in the temple and its surrounding grounds, hundreds of men, all of them, their heads shaved, dressed in saffron robes. The warlord berated the holy men, dismissed them for leading lives of inactivity and self-indulgence. He ordered them to surrender the temple at once or die. The holy men did not move. They all looked to their leader, the head monk or priest or whatever . . .

“I could help you with that, you know.”

That, she heard. “You’ll only burn it. Then I’ll have to cut it all off. Would you like that, making love to some bald and toothless baba?”

I tried, but could not imagine her bald and toothless or even old. I was convinced she would remain young forever.

“Anyways, the warlord summoned the head monk. They dragged the withered old man forward, scraping his knees on the rough stone floor and shredding the hem of his robe in the process. The warlord repeated his demand. Surrender or die.”

“It’s all very dramatic.”

“Indeed. And so, there was silence. The old man seemed detached, unconcerned. Perhaps he was deaf? And so the warlord grabbed the old monk roughly by the beard, forcing their eyes to meet: ‘Surrender or die.’”

“Shit!” Tristina quickly brought a finger to her mouth. She had burnt her little pinkie with the iron.

“You should be more careful. I don’t want you to burn our beautiful table.”

“Shhh. Finish the story.”

“Okay. So faced again with the ultimatum, the old monk still did not respond. Angrily, the warlord drew his sword, pressing it to the old man’s throat.

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