ENGLISH
that offers a reflection on the question of courage in today’s world through reduced narration and condensed metaphorical expression.
The Backbone translated by Tina Anterić
In China. The connoisseurs say that the real backbones can nowadays only be found in China, in the winter, under the thick layer of ice. After the secret baptisms in the night, on the River Yun. The backbones smell of the budding Israeli figs there. And they warm up the hearts, the entire drained earth. As if they are not the backbones, but the burning torches in the night. Of the silent vertebrae, slightly curved. Of the slim, holy structure, shiny white for the grown-ups and for the children. They don’t crack, not even when the hot black wind blows into them. And still, it’s been noted that even such backbones sometimes melt. Here, our backbones have the intoxicating aroma of construction sites, of iron welding and of bricks. In the summer, as they go along, some of them shed fine red cinnamon-like dust off their vertebrae. In the Vatican, the backbone is a stick for the guests in the showcase. In Moscow, it’s a sport’s cello. In a desert, a swallowed umbrella. In me as well. Sometimes its big handle in my mouth annoys me before I fall asleep. But all the backbones, both here and there, are always just thick boney canes with the immortal shrimp which sees everything inside. I only know that everyone needs to carry its own backbone. Especially recently, one backbone to have at home and in town. In the marketplace, on a tram, in the town hall. A stainless, black, boiled backbone. One that shines in the moonlight. A backbone aware of everything. Wise. Sprouted from the concrete, untouched by the snail slime. Sharp, tall. Hard, snowy, beaten by the wind. Serrated. Scowling, yet vulnerable, weepy around the feathers and the untouched skin. 41
