Zbornik Mednarodnega literarnega srečanja Vilenica 2004 - Ljudmila

Vladamir P. Štefanec
does winter supplies for the iciest of days when all other hope is frozen
solid, to keep it in that safe place of unconfirmed things, in the region of
the potential and the possible (a place that expands considerably when
besieged on all sides by a sort of freedom that has its own space beneath
the heavy roof made of wearisome facts that threaten at any moment to
fall upon it with a great infernal noise). Keeping such a possibility in reserve
might seem enticing, but it is also a two-edged sword: especially if
you are a man crossing an icy desert who cannot really afford to entertain
the uncertainty of whether the reservoir in the next camp holds absolutely
crucial salvation or only an empty promise. In addition to all that,
the unicorn was too simply capital of a fact to leave in reserve. It belonged,
without doubt, in the very first league, between the supporting pillars of
my temple and, as such, was utterly precious to me. And more importantly,
it was too tempting to resist, at least as tempting as a specimen of
the missing link would be to a Darwinist, a specimen that would, of course,
one day be found just as it seemed the unicorn had been found and was
now waiting for me somewhere beneath that impressive mass of iron and
glass, somewhere behind those enormously heavy doors that were thrown
open on their hinges, and through which I need only enter. But I, a nervous
and fickle man, would rather sit somewhere around the corner with
my guts twisted up by a tangle of questions and counter-questions. I would
rather defer my desire and create complications beyond all measure. Until
suddenly, I get fed up. I rise decisively from behind the cafe table and
march quickly toward the Paris Museum of Natural History.
I impatiently wait until I am able to obtain an entry tickets and then,
like a devil released from his chains, rush past all the stones and crystals
and fossils, past the collection of foot prints made by ancient walkers,
past the multitude of complete and incomplete skeletons, until finally I
enter the great central hall, under the arched cupola of which are exhibited
the largest and most valuable specimens.
Beside the door stands a security guard, a young woman with an innocent
face. I ask her about the unicorn and an instant afterward I shoot in
the direction of her extended hand. Even before I arrive at the large glass
display case toward which she pointed, I stop as if pinned to the spot and
I must gather all my force to prevent myself from sinking weakly down to
the floor.
Not again! Not again! the words flash through my brain. My body
trembles spasmodically and I feel as if I am in some airless place and don’t
know where to turn. I stand there drowning in despair while, from behind
the glass of the airy aquarium, the small warm eye of a stuffed arctic
unicorn whale stares down at me. A long spiral horn hangs despondently
from its small round head, and the contours of its body emphasize the
good- natured clumsiness of the hapless, harpooned creature.
In that instant, the universe disassembles and reassembles several times
inside of me. Finally I gather sufficient strength to pull myself back past
the astonished security guard, through all the suffocating hallways toward
much-needed air. Then I stumble in a daze back to the little cafe from
393