02-IX-1974.
The exam for the Academy, in downtown Beograd, Knez Mihajlova (prince Michael's street), beatifuly early autumn morning, all fresh... Bosa was trying to pass into acting, I into direction (fuck English - not into directorship, directorate, writing directions or taking them or anything such, I wanted to make movies, to be a režiser). Saw, IIRC, Sonja Knežević who played Ophelia that summer at Dubrovnik Summer Games, at the proper age of sixteen. As Bosa told me, someone asked her about which monologue did she prepare, "well Ofika, of course".
I failed. The task was to cook up a scenario on a ferry crossing the river, with a few cars and a tractor just being loaded on it, with an appropriate number of colorful passengers, with all sorts of dramatic potential ready to spark between them. I defused it in my writing, turned it into a cheap comedy, and understood that I'm not an artist of dramatic proportions. I avoid drama, most of the time. Theatrical and dramatic are exaggerations, in my mind, and, besides, I liked the technology and all it could do, not as much what was being done with it. So I didn't mind much that I failed - I had a ready seat at maths on PMF in Novi. And this also solved the hanging dilemma - what would we do if we don't study in the same town?
I hitched M.T., whom I knew from all these young technicians' competitions and amateur moviemakers' festivals, but too late I realized that they'd be visiting an aunt halfway to Novi. Sat with them for a while (interesting, the Slovaks), then caught a bus.
This was the end of my moviemaking career. I'll attempt it once more, but halfheartedly, because by then I'd already realize that mathematics is much crazier than this, and to make something in it you don't have to drink wrong drinks in wrong places with wrong people just because they can get you money to make your movie. Which then turns out all wrong, not how you wanted it.
These days the Dom was extinguished, literally, after the big fire. And instead of one decent reconstruction, it was a venerable building, about 80 years old, they tore it down and started building a new one. Sleš moved his show to the amphitheatre of the museum for the rest of the summer. The bartender was the same guy as before. She appeared with miniwave, all curly, and he just said "I'll tell that [girl of] yours that I saw you with another chick". He didn't recognize her or made a joke, who'd know.
That evening the big era of rockenroll was over. We heard "Una paloma blanca" by George Baker Selection several times, which is a stupid little ditty with fake spanish refrain, and the gates were now open. Rapidly the rockenroll was shoved out and disco music in - one, another, third, some hustle, kung fu and whatever. We came a few more times while Sleš held evenings in some hall near the church, but it simply wasn't it anymore. We became tavern folks, without any other good place to go. We pick, of course, taverns without music.
Around this time I had a spare few meters of 8mm color tape from DC-99, I'd say it was Agfa (yeah, the Agfa), and I made it into a simple short film of perhaps 30 seconds. It was called „sedam puta meri“ (measure seven times - the other half of the proverb is „cut once“). It features a section of a paper sheet, where it says “direktor“ and there's a dotted line where the guy is to sign. And there comes a pencil in hand, which takes aim, practices the moves, takes position, prepares several times before actually committing ink to paper. And then there it draws a cross.
It was shown once on some amateur festival (year unknown, could have well been the one before) as „Sedam puta Meri“ - seven times Mary. Yeah, they only retype what they see, without much thinking. Sometimes they'd include the author's name as part of the title. Various ingenious clerical errors were a regular occurrence.
These days she began disagreeing with my growing a beard, said there's nowhere to kiss. Um... seeing this won't go away by itself, it promises to grow into a trieste crisis unless I solve it somehow. And on the weekend (now sixth or thirteenth, screw me, stopped writing diary... ah, there's a train ticket to Novi on sixth), tetka, uncle Staja and the girls come visiting. Two short poles were pitched behind the house, a piglet on the spit was above the fire, uncle and dad hit the brandy, from some wee flat bottles, probably reused vinjak from a kiosk, and I took the škodilak keys and went to pick her. We joined the dežurni by the spit, the chat... and there I had an idea. Telling nobody nothing, I went to the bathroom, took the shaver and... let's see, if it's a trieste crisis, that one was solved by inventing zone aye and zone bee, so lemme shave it above the jawline, between the sideburns and moustache, both sides. That's the bee. Now for aye, that'd be below the lips... how far down? All the way. Wiping the beard with a towel I came among them, stood in front of her, said „life is beautiful and full of surprises“, and pulled down the towel. And nothing. I repeated. Nothing. Nobody notices.
Last shot with whole beard
Years later I understood that people rarely, if ever, notice anything about a beer. Have one, have none, that's it. Everything else, which parts you shave and which you gro, is it just the beard or moustache too, it all flies by unnoticed.
Eventually ten long minutes later uncle Staja noticed and went „what's you done of yourself?“. Then everyone looked at me, and also did she. And she liked it the way it was now, the trieste crisis averted. I wore thus split beard for years more.
Mentions: A word from the author, Agfa, Bosiljka Šain (Bosa), DC-99, dežurni, Dom omladine, Mika Zelenić (Sleš), Novi Sad, škodilak, tetka Mima, uncle Staja, vinjak, in serbian
9-VIII-2009 - 16-VII-2026