Today, we’re thrilled to debut in English the runner-up of the 2017 Festival of the European Short Story, “I, The Executioner” by Serbian writer Srdjan Miljevic. Distilled in nine bracing vignettes, the flash fiction centers on former prostitute Jasna who, on the brink of literary success, meets a gushing reporter—except, her mind elsewhere, she finds herself unable to concentrate. Through the stilted interview questions, which recall the stilted essay assignments she was given in a childhood disrupted by refugeedom, we are given to understand that Jasna’s life from the margins is one that does not fit the neat checkboxes that society has imposed.
*
In Sarajevo, in her second year of primary school, she got a D on her essay on the topic: “When I grow up, I want to be . . .”
She never found out why a D, because the very next day she became a refugee.
*
A man in a worn-out McCloud jacket stopped in front of her. He bent down, trying to pick up a coin that fell out of his pocket from the pavement. He made it on his second attempt. Two dinars. She did not think of how people, even the richest, humiliated themselves by picking up their own small coins off the street. She thought how good it would be to try not to smoke more than one pack of cigarettes today. Up to two drinks. And one joint max.
She had been smoking for nineteen years. More than half her life. On a daily basis. She could burn through up to three packs. Theories about what a cigarette was a substitute for and what processes occurred in your brain were comprehensible to her, but she could not think about that now. She would quit one day. And she would take more care today. It was different with alcohol. She had no craving for it, but she did not refuse it either. She did not like to lose control. The same went for ganja.
*
In Đakovica, in her second year at a grammar school she got a C taking an in-class essay exam on the topic:
“Love is . . .”
*
And she loved, after getting up, to roll a good joint with her first, strong, Turkish coffee. Then she would continue her story. In her head first. And then, after her thoughts had been lined up, in a yellow notebook, too. She had smoked pot for years. And had written for years. The yellow notebook, actually its content, was typed out last May on the day when a radio voice reminded her the deadline for submitting a manuscript for the highest literary award was the next day. Even though she did not want all her effort to be ascribed to fortune, she was proud to have won it first time round.
Her body was fragile. But not weak, though. More on the weak side. Every morning, having gotten out of the bath, she would watch herself in the mirror. Her skin was not translucent. And there was hair everywhere. She would imagine herself in those moments draping herself in a new layer of skin—immaculately groomed, hairless, with curves in the right places. And she would proceed with affirmations. She would watch her eyes, somewhere deep down, convincing herself that she was the most beautiful being, that she was grateful for every pore on her skin. She would send love to the coming day and hope for the best.
*
In Belgrade she did not want any grades. She did not see the point of being assessed by others.
*
The Somewhere over the Rainbow melody ringtone was coming from her handbag. She was convinced that she had turned off her business phone, but it was clear now that she hadn’t.
“Hi, Moamer. Yeah, I am, but I have some obligations today . . . Right, right . . . You said you were coming tomorrow. Yeah. I’ve already told you. No, no chance. Let’s call each other tomorrow. No. You must wait. Ok, ok, I’ll give you a call. Bye.”
She neither loved nor hated her job. She did it and didn’t think much. She would write down in her yellow notebook the moments she found beautiful in some way. It was with Moamer that she’d had a few moments like that. They talked a lot. And when she gave in and started talking about the sky, he’d say: “I’m gonna cum now, we’ll talk about the sky later.”
*
Corner girl. Pro. Whore. Streetwalker. Skank. Cock eater. Floozy. Tart. Slut. Hoe. Hussy. Hooker. Dick bender.
*
The female journalist that she was to meet for coffee was granted an exclusive interview on the occasion of the publication of the novel and the award. Although it was a real drag to Jasna to recount the plot of the novel, it was also her obligation.
“Dear Jasna, first of all, I’d like to congratulate you on your success. Do you know that you’re the first female author whose debut novel won the competition? How are you feeling now that you’re rubbing shoulders with our literary giants?’’
Agh, she should have finished that half a joint.
“Tell me, what are you doing? Are you working on something new?
She definitely should have.
During the stupid interrogation session she recalled Moamer. Although she shunned that, she was fond of him. They had seen each other a month before last and he said to her then: “You know, you’re the most beautiful person whose boob I’ve ever grabbed.”
“And, Jasna, tell me, but don’t get me wrong, please. You’ve been a volunteer with the Deaf and Hard of Hearing Centre for years . . .”
“I don’t see why that should be an important piece of information.”
“Is there something symbolic about that? You’re surrounded by people who cannot hear you.”
“Yes, that’s right”, she said and apologised to the journalist, asking her to send her questions by email after all. She had far more pressing things to do . . .
*
She was aware of one thing. In all these mahalas [1] you had to wait to meet—death.
[1] Mahala—the word originates from the Arabic root meaning “to settle,” “to occupy.” It was brought to the Balkans through the Ottoman Turkish variant mahalle. It refers to a small community within any city in Bosnia mainly used by the Muslim population.
translated from the Serbian by Svetlana Milivojević-Petrović
Srdjan Miljevic (b. 1986, Belgrade, Serbia) writes short stories and poems. He holds a BA degree from the Faculty of Philology / Department for the General Literature and Theory of Literature, as well as an MA degree in cultural policy and management from the Unesco Chair at the University of Arts in Belgrade. His first collection of short stories, It is the first time for all of us (Svima nam je prvi put), was published in 2019 by Zenitbooks, Serbia. His stories have won several competitions in the Western Balkans region (Zagreb, Niš, Banja Luka, Široki brijeg, etc.). Srdjan is also active in the field of human rights and past projects in the Balkan region.
Svetlana Milivojević-Petrović holds a degree in English language and literature. She teaches translation from English into Serbian and Serbian into English at the Faculty of Philology of the University of Belgrade. Apart from doing practical translation work, she is very much interested in the theory of translation and in particular the translation of culture-specific words and phrases, as well as assessing other translators’ work objectively. As a lecturer, she strives to convey to her students the idea of pluralism and tolerance as regards all the correct versions of a translated text and always emphasizes the importance of making a distinction between the correct and the incorrect, on the one hand, and personal preferences on the other. She holds the view that the translator’s job is to convey the meaning of the original so that it is the best possible version of it, never disregarding all the challenges it may entail.
*****
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