God forgives ordinary people but severely punishes the high and the mighty.
– Wisdom of Solomon 6:6
Dear Reader This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Only Maribor is real.
Dramatis Personæ
(In order of appearance)
Adam Bely, a former dramatist and a Scientology leader
Rosa Portero, Bely’s ally and a radio journalist
Samo Gram, also known as Mister G., an innkeeper, a former customs officer and a secret service collaborator
Peter, a waiter
Tine Butcher, an administrative director of Butch, Inc.
Tine Butcher’s secretary
An old beggar with death in her mouth
Ivan Dorfler, manager of Off and dean of Maribor University
Laszlo Farkas, a state prosecutor and a member of the Twin Cult
Pavel Don Kovač, Director of the European Capital of Culture (ECoC) and a former theatre director
Miran Voda, mayor of Maribor
The Hungarian, member of the Twin Cult and Rosa’s lover and abductor
Aleš Šteger, head of the ECoC Terminal 12
Anastasia Green, a theatre director and Bely’s former girlfriend
Maister, a renowned Maribor attorney
Lady with the brooch, a typical Maribor citizen
Magda Ornik, a funeral home director
Maus, a police inspector, Miran Voda’s former schoolmate and his greatest opponent
Gros, an assistant to Maus, the police inspector
Electrician in the Blue Night strip club
Sister Magda, a nun in the Archdiocese of Maribor
Nameless poet, a former broker at the Trieste stock market
Father Metod Kirilov, the chief financial officer of the Maribor Archdiocese
Disinfectors and specialists in city pigeon removal
Three drunken clowns
Franci and Lojs, workers at Maribor’s public service department
Dolores, secretary to the Director of the Maribor National Theatre
Gubec, an investigative journalist and owner of a news agency
Hostesses in the Maribor Theatre
American and British military attachés Waiter in the theatre bar
Janez Maher, a Maribor businessman
Nana Numen, a fortune-teller
Chirping black swine
All quotations from the play War and Peace originate from its theatrical adaptation by Darko Lukić.
The New World of Mister G.
Some people, strangers to us, forgive in order to help others. Most of us forgive in order to help ourselves. Others forgive solely out of a belief that they will save the world by doing so. But what inspires their belief? Who assigns them their unique role? Who whispers those thoughts into their ears? Dangerous thoughts that always strike at a specific place and time? We don’t know, but does it matter? Would knowing change anything at all? Isn’t it just the thickly woven, brocaded stage curtains, the weight of the fog that falls through the dusk, the moisture, the cold that matters? Silence. Darkness. The stage curtains open, and all we see is a man. He hunches behind the high collar of his winter coat, hands buried in its pockets, black briefcase dangling off his right wrist. He sways a little. The pavement has not been shovelled. The man tries to balance his way along a narrow, already beaten track. He nearly falls. Behind him stretch unkempt art nouveau façades, and in the pallor of the streetlights drizzling rain turns into snow. The few passers-by are quietly spat out by the dusk, only to be swallowed again a moment later, just as quietly. The whole time the silhouette of a woman has been at the man’s heels. A figure draws near them, and it looks much like the Devil. And so it is. He staggers a metre in front of the man. The ice, the narrow snowy path and the bottle, emptied of its contents and held in his claw-like hand, did the trick. His feet sail high into the fog. For a moment the wet cuffs of the jeans the Devil is wearing under his costume slip out. A chain jingles against the curb; the bottle rolls away across the dirty snow. The Devil tumbles over. Cursing.
A church bell strikes ten. The man hears the woman, still close behind him, say, ‘Der arme Teufel.’ A sign burns faintly through the frozen fog: NEW WORLD. Strange how surprising a small neon sign can be on such a night. It feels like an epochal discovery, even though the restaurant has been tucked into the same street corner for over thirty years. The man turns around and gestures to the woman behind him. They have arrived.
The automatic door closes slowly behind them.
‘After all these years nothing has changed,’ the man says quietly in German.
The silhouette behind him takes off the hood of her coat. Instantly, the room submits to the sway of her long, black, curly hair.
‘Das ist gut,’ says the woman in coarse voice, looking around the inn.
Wooden pillars, fishing-nets entangled with corals and shells, anchorshaped chandeliers, dusty wicker fish traps, a wall clock with a mermaid on the pendulum, a pastel-coloured marine sunset on the wall. The restaurant is empty. The sound of frying from the kitchen, the air heavy with fish and oil. Pasted on the wooden bar is a poster of a red cross against a black background from under which the words AND PEACE peak out. It is partly covered by another poster of four happily smiling sailors announcing a Dalmatian a cappella musical performance.
‘The kitchen is closed!’ echoes through the sultry air. The waiter vanishes through the swinging doors. Held out before him, two crystal goblets of ice-cream and sweet cream on two flying plates pull him across the room. The restaurant is empty except for an elderly couple seated in the back corner. The crystal goblets land on the table in front of them. The woman raises her spoon and buries it deep in the cream; the man counts his money and places it on the table.
‘We’re closing for the night, I’m sorry,’ the waiter says again without looking back.
‘We’re looking for your boss, Mr Gram,’ says the man in the winter coat. The waiter points to three shallow wooden stairs leading up to a booth. The black-haired woman looks in that direction and follows the man with his black briefcase. The creaking of stairs.
‘Good evening,’ says the man.
Samo Gram, also known as Mister G., the owner of the New World restaurant, sits alone behind a big table, hunched over a newspaper. Lush white brows rise over a pair of grey spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. Drops of sweat bead up on his forehead. Gram is evidently the sort of person who is always too warm, and the overhead light hanging low over the table only reinforces this. His presence permeates the surroundings with an unusual obtrusiveness. Despite the years he’s spent in a fish restaurant, Mr G. doesn’t smell like fish; instead he gives off the unmistakeable odour of pig – and the more he sweats, the more he stinks.
‘Good evening,’ says Gram, visibly tired, and sizes up the two newcomers. ‘May I help you?’
‘You probably don’t remember me,’ replies the man. ‘My name is Adam Bely, and this is my colleague Rosa Portero.’
Gram gets up and shakes their hands. They all sit down behind the newspaper-covered table.
I’m from