Dante. It's Not His Real Name.

written by Tomislav Zajec


A girl with orange hair in whose yard a car exploded; to Poldi this sounded like an opening of a spy novel. The kind we read on the beach. In the shade. The end is well-known: an airport goodbye. Yet, Poldi is not one to ask questions. Instead, he gives the ceiling two weeks. The one in his mom Gabriela’s kitchen. Two weeks, and then the painting will come off with plaster shattering loudly in debris and dust. Things are never what they seem early on. Life is too long not to have room for a surprise or two. Poldi knows a lot of stuff. I sit on the kitchen floor, but I’m not cold; instead of regular parquet there are thick floorboards. I hold a bottle of sherry which we found in That Woman’s larder. This small room by the kitchen smells of dust and dried figs, lying on a large porcelain plate covered by a napkin.