Panika u intersitiju proza, / Panik im Intercity, Panika w pociągu intercity, Паника в експрессе, Panic in the Intercity / odlomak romana objavljen na pet jezika, prevodi: Slobodanka Ljujić Baeter, Teresa Sikorska, Anastasija Timinska i Ljiljana Krstić... Copyright: J. Vujinović & Tygiel Kultury, Łódż, 2003. str. 1-72. excerpt from the book - english Panic in the Intercity The Intercity (IC) train is smoothly gliding along the rails. It is a speeding miracle of technology for the old, wise, still cattle-breeding and farming, to the modern age unadjusted and hence disappearing peoples. Strange things can happen in trains to individual members of such ethnicities. Nevertheless, technical discoveries improve daily, inventors construct more and more complex machines, peoples get extinct, but the train keeps running on. You are returning, if that is of importance for the story, from Munich to Frankfurt. Tired, dried out, depressed. If you must write, all right, but why read it to literature lovers? What for? Because it is the Literary Youth? Why, they should be particularly avoided: let them find out their own ways! You should not have gone in the first place. What were you looking for in Munich, anyway? And the nearer you get to the city, whose name is computer-printed on your train ticket, the more often you keep wondering: what are you looking for in Frankfurt, too? Among several various, early Christian Orthodox monastic orders, you prefer the monks who prayed in silence. Let’s ignore the adjective Orthodox in the previous sentence at once – there were no Orthodox or Catholics in those days, just Christians – so that the story may go on, since the noun which has started it, that is the train, keeps rushing and speeding through space and time. With you in it, thinking about silence. Don’t cast pearls before swine, Matthew preached. Let’s exchange too strict Matthew for Evangelist Luke, the patron saint of painters and writers: And give to anyone who asks, and do not ask from them who take anything yours (Gospel by Luke, 6, 30). Tormented between the brusque Matthew and the gentle Luke, you deepen your discontent with the literary affair. Preached books are more famous than the written ones, by fire turned to ashes ones than the saved ones. Nikolai Gogol burnt part two of his Dead Souls. What about Kafka, Mann, Nietzsche? And Fyodor Dostoyevsky? Vladimir Mayakovsky kept asking himself: How to insert gentle word into the fat ear? The poet didn’t find the answer, so, they say, he killed himself. From preachers, through Ovid, to Bulgakov and on. Stakes, exiles, dungeons, madness, concentration camps, manuscripts... And you went to Munich. The Literary Youth invited you, and you rushed there. Fortunately or not, cautious people have bought you a return ticket, so now you are unwillingly returning to Frankfurt, though when you stop to think, it could have been any other city. Düsseldorf, for example. What’s wrong with the capital of North Rhine-Westphalia? A lot – and nothing! Not to mention Köln, Berlin, or Petersburg. That’s the way it goes! We cannot escape our destiny, as heroes in the Realistic writers’ works would say, sub-consciously repeating the vague thought, though in some countries i.e. in some ethnicities still alive remains of our mutual ancestors’ pre-Christian belief in destiny. Right, things are as they are, you conclude. You shouldn’t blame yourself. On the contrary, you have every reason to be satisfied: you went at their invitation, and they even paid you travelling expenses and a decent fee. You met a few interesting people. Even a prince was there, a descendant of the Serbian dynasty in exile, the Karadjordjevics. And now you are returning. You are in a good, fast, modern train. It is warm, safe... And yet, a question is bothering you: What were you doing in Munich? And what are you doing in Frankfurt, as well? Is the capital Hesse on Main your transit station only? Indeed, all your destinations are transitory and temporary. You are watching landscape along the railroad, if this train is on rails at all. Fields, villages, orchards are passing by, as well as big storehouses in valleys, preserved, restored and protected castles on hills, idyllic small towns, factory halls and chimneys. Here comes a field covered with thin snow fallen at dawn. There is a small forest behind the field. In the middle of the snow-covered plain, all of the sudden you see a wolf. Is it a dog or a wolf?  So lonely in the snow, on a rather small plateau between the tracks, a small settlement just passing by, and a fast approaching enclosed field. However, the facts are reversed: carried by the inaudible train flying on invisible wings, you are flying away, while the whole scenery, together with him, a lonely wolf-dog standing on the plateau, is immovable. On the ground. Firmly tied to the ground from time immemorial, from the ancient Hellenic, by the familiar gravitational force. That’s how it is in reality. Though what reality is, and does it exist at all, you’re wondering, considering the revolving of the celestial bodies, and the assertion that the Earth revolves, too, however uneasy this scientific thought makes you feel. Then, who is flying, and who is standing? You or him? Who is leaving, and who is staying? Who is there, and who is here? What is revolving around what?... You shiver when you think it is you out there, and him, a dog or a wolf, inside here. This, only at first surprising thought, disturbed and startled the steppe wolf in the Intercity. Now, it is him watching you in the empty field. He feels sorry for you; tears are almost running down his angular, beautiful wolfish face. Bemoan – there is no sight of a wolf pack all around you! You are all alone! At least a she-wolf could be by your side. Is there, in all that cultivated land, a den where you can hide from the chase? To hide away, while the hunters pass by? To warm up against the December frost. It was St. Nicholas Day yesterday. Help him, St. Nicholas! Hide the hunted from the hunters! Protect the traveller on his journey, you Traveller Saint! He prayed and crossed himself almost in silence, while the blade of the familiar pain cut inside his chest. He is sad, heartbroken – where are now those clear, cold, star-studded skies, and wide steppe prairie under the deep snow, as described in the book Machines and Wolves? The Intercity passenger-wolf is sad because of the low, by chemical vapours polluted sky above your head, covered with long distance power-lines, and a small snow-covered plateau in front of you. And a small grove, by which they have visually and acoustically so-so protected and separated the settlement from a six-lane highway (three on each side, plus a breakdown lane). Cars and jeeps keep purring, vans and buses rumbling, cisterns and trucks roaring on it, day and night, going from the North-West or to the South-East. Noise and vapours rise toward the sky. They rearrange themselves over the clouds, and then again, condensed and heavy, usually in tiny raindrops of frequent, boring rains, they fall to the ground, poisoning grass, crops and trees, animals and humans. The steppe wolf is fidgeting on a seat in a smoker compartment, comfortable until a moment ago. He nervously squeezes a plastic cup in his hand, from which he has just drunk the insipid coffee; he tries to avoid the impression that, together with an uncertain percent of coffee in the liquid, he has also taken in a certain percent of plastic, skilfully mixed with some washing liquid. He puts out his cigarette, feeling bitter taste in his mouth – no wonder, all that chain-smoking after the reading session. And there were drinks, of course, to stand easier the so-called literary meeting. How to purify and cool oneself? By breathing in fresh air? Maybe by pressing your palms on the train windowpanes? Strong, fresh breath of steppe prairie surprises passengers around him. What was that, they wonder. A momentary failure of the composition heating system or air conditioning, they are consoling themselves, folding up their newspapers, closing their books, throwing shawls and jackets over their shoulders. That is how passengers behave. Good, ordinary people. What about him? He, a wolf-passenger, realizes it is you outside, in a hopeless situation. A bored stroller will see you while jogging, a tranquil farmer, or a hunter. Whoever sees you, will inform whomever he should. And then what, my dear bachushka? A chase will be organized, both people and dogs. When you see the crowd, you’ll start running. Just don’t jump over the autobahn safety barrier, and fall under a speedy vehicle. If fast beaters do not catch you, or, alas, trained and doped police dogs, they will chase you by helicopter, or throw nets and drive you inside. Put you to sleep by a gunshot. However they capture you, the end is the same: they will research, investigate your mind and body. Look through the convolutions of your brain for the thought which has brought you there, into the settlement, among people. While they cut your body, especially the limbs, they will try to find out how, and in what time you have covered almost five thousand kilometres distance, or to be more precise, four thousand and seven hundred versts. Hey, look where are the endless steppe beyond Volgograd, and where is a small town N. before Frankfurt? You need nine weeks to run optimal seventy versts a day, or better say a night, since you move only from dusk to daybreak. Now you are somewhere beyond Volga, now you appear here, near Main. Or maybe you’d been here long time ago: packs of Siberian and steppe wolves, following the conquered Napoleon’s army in the winter of 1812-13, have arrived to the area between Main and Rhine. Were you, maybe, one of them? Arrived here then, eighteen decades ago, and resurrected this early evening. You had better stayed concealed. For you neither know, nor suspect what can happen to you here, my dear, tame brother. Are you a descendant of one of those wolves? Wolves-warriors. Realizing all your helplessness and misplacement among perilous people, the wolf in the Intercity Berchtesgadener starts sweating. Pungent odour of a wild beast has disturbed the passengers. They jump on their feet, brave ones protesting, weaker ones screaming. The transformation is complete. The animal imprisoned in the train wants to warn you with shouts. Using its claws and paws, it is trying to open the window. In vain. Its paws and fingers are bleeding. Nails and claws are broken. Clever constructors have made this train. The composition has been supplied with fresh, sufficiently humid, even perfumed air. Silence has long ago calculated how mush air a man needs for normal breathing. As much air as there are souls. Such experience was, naturally, used during the construction of this modern German train. All the passengers travel breathing normally. There is plentiful of air. Though engineers know everything about trains, they do not know when within a passenger – for a man is just a man of flesh and blood, and thus unpredictable! – a risky thought will flash to open a window or a door, and jump out of train in full speed. Due to such sudden, rather occasional but possible urges, train constructors have secured passengers. The train is almost hermetically sealed. Windows may not be opened at all, while the door opening is controlled from a computer centre, and only when the train stops completely. In short, everything is under control. And now? Panic in the Intercity. If the word panic is not mild enough to describe the feelings of people around him. A young German gets premature labour pains and bears a child. A fatherless newborn baby is crying in the almost sterile train. Seeing a steppe wolf, a Russian who has entered Germany on cachucha in 1945 starts crying. He came and stayed. And now the Russian is thinking: the Germany has united, the Russia fallen apart, there is a steppe wolf in the train, so there’ll be war again! God forbid! – he crosses himself in a broad movement, with three fingers, but keeps thinking: the Turks will come to Balkan, satiated Germans to the East, and hungry Slavs to the West. In all fairness, though, there’s been enough peaceful life. Even peace can be boring. And people here have really become insolent! Just don’t let the Devil make them think again of going east, to attack dear mother Russia! With a bit of luck, they will, as ever, get stuck there. Attention! – commands the old Russian warrior, bored with peace. An Arab is unrolling his prayer rug, it’s five o’clock, time for ikindi. Allah Bismillah! – he’s bowing, turned to Mecca and Medina, praying to Allah to preserve the Mohammedan faith here, in the midst of Europe, surrounded by Christians among whom, as in every impure faith, strange things are happening, like this dangerous beast in the train. A German from the Volga Basin, arrived among his own people only three years ago, recognizing a steppe wild animal is running through the train, looking for the German Railway official, in order to report it! A businessman from the Far East is pressing buttons of his laptop, asking it what is going on. But the monitor, is displaying either stock-market reports, or the same scene which the slant-eyed sees: a wild animal among the passengers. Another Yellow-coloured man from the East solved the problem by sniffing in some cocaine. A famous ethnologist from the Köln University is watching this strange occurrence and noting it down quickly. A Turkish woman gathers three of her children around her, thinking it fortunate that three others have stayed home, safe for the time being. A beautiful young woman of mixed Eastern and Western blood, from a central Danubian country, is cuddling up closely to a Latin American, who is holding her with one hand, trying to control her fear so it won’t turn into excitement, and then into passion, while with his other hand he is writing the word Holotl in the air, a sign of the dog-headed God who took Maya and Aztec people into the underworld. He took them there, hiding them from the invasion of wild, blood-thirsty white men, Christians from the European continent. And a black man is – what? Nothing. He’s dreaming about the light in August, and then wakes up. Seeing panic all around him, he closes his eyelids again, and besides the quiet howling of the wolf, the Intercity reverberates with a central African tribe lament, the last song dedicated to a sacrificial victim before it is put to a blazing stake. Watching the steppe animal trapped here among people, the fourth German, though the third one has not been mentioned, who was in the war somewhere between Kiev and Odessa, returned fortunately from the war with one leg, remembers: he’s been hiding in a lair for three months, wolves licked his wounds, and he thus managed to survive, among the wolves. A rejuvenated German, an old woman with her face unwrinkled, is thinking about the strong arms of the men from the South sea shores, and watching an old, weak man sitting across her, her husband. Oh, when is he going to leave for good? This furry being in the train could finish him, causing him brain-stroke. A political emigrant from a recently broken up Eastern Block country recognizes a secret police agent. It is well known they are the most horrible and the most effective service in the whole world. Masters of disguise. Even if he’d turned into a lamb, he’d have recognized this pursuer, following him even in the train, in the midst of Europe. Treading upon his heels. Has even turned into a wolf! If you were inside the train, and not outside on a snow-covered meadow, while citing Tables of Peoples: A Serb is a Wolf, you’d see an ancient Serbian wolfish deity in the Intercity. Everyone is moving away, shivering! Looking at the beast. Who is looking at you through the windowpane. He would like, you outside can feel it, to help you. If nothing else, to join you. But how? Who can open a window or a door of a running train? Who can stop the composition? Or leave the train? He has tried, and what happened? Broken claws, bloody paws. A howl. The passengers are running to another compartment. The wolf hits his head against the strong Intercity windowpane. Skin covering the forehead bone splits. The full moon comes out from behind the clouds. Putting your right foot first and crossing yourself, almost free of gravitation force, you jump as a beast from a running start over the tall concrete autobahn wall. From the other direction, coming from the West, a huge double-trailer is approaching. PostScript. Plates are being printed at full blast, rotational machines revolving – morning papers are being prepared. In their usual traffic reports, radio-stations have broadcasted the news on a serial accident after a dozen of cars have run into a road-cruiser. They didn’t mention the run-over body, and, naturally, the ten second power break in the Intercity. It was all, they said, a consequence of the usual Sunday traffic jam. Big, influential German dailies – not a word! True, nine months after the described event, the Rheinische Post published an article by Wolfgang K. on Precarious Myths from the Balkan Gorges. It describes an ancient Serbian wolfish deity as the main agitator of the current war in Balkans. Simultaneous publishing of that article and the final version of this post scripted story is a mere coincidence. As soon as the few minutes’ late train has stopped at the Frankfurt station, relaxed passengers whose destination was there started pouring out of it, pleased with the German Railway (DB-Deutsche Bann) services. Among them, there was a bearded, middle-aged man with a visible scar on his forehead, and the invisible one within his chest. The one whose signature is unwillingly written at the beginning of this story, though it could be a name of any of its readers. Maybe just yours. Translation by Ljiljana Krstić index I bibliografija I recenzije I cv srpski I cv english I kontaktindex.htmlbibliografija.htmlrecenzije.htmlCV%20srpski.htmlCV%20english.htmlkontakt.htmlshapeimage_1_link_0shapeimage_1_link_1shapeimage_1_link_2shapeimage_1_link_3shapeimage_1_link_4shapeimage_1_link_5
Janko Vujinović
Bibliografija izbor Panika u intersitiju proza, prvo izdanje: Grafički atelje DERETA, Beograd, januar, 2000., str. 1-380.; drugo, dopunjeno izdanje: Grafički atelje DERETA, Beograd, oktobar, 2000., str. 1-347.   Vučji nakot roman, Prosveta, Beograd, 1986, strana 1-295.; drugo izdanje, INP Književne novine-Komerc, Beograd, 1996. strana 1-310.  Knjiga o radovanju zbirka priča, Slovo ljubve, Beograd, 1979. strana 1-112. Drugo izdanje Kulturni Centar Vuk Karadžić, Loznica, 2003. st. 1-150. Kosovo je grdno sudilište dokumentarna proza, Prosveta, Književne novine, Beograd i Jedinstvo, Priština, 1989. strana 1-374.;drugo, dopunjeno i prerađeno izdanje, Dositej, Književne novine, Beograd i Jedinstvo, Priština, 1991., strana 1-412.  Press materijal izbor Recenzije izbor Panika u intersitiju Knjiga o radovanju Vučji nakot Kosovo je grdno sudilište Panika u intersitiju
odlomak iz romana Panika u intersitiju - srpski Panika w pociągu intercity - polski Panic in the Intercity - english Panik im intercity - deutsche Паника в экспрессе - pусский  Biografija Biografija - srpski Biography - english Biografia - polski Linkovi Katerda za južnu slavistiku Univerziteta u Lodzu Izdavač "Tygiel Kultury", Lodz ProjektOR, web arhiv južnoslovenske književnosti Lođka slavistika / Slawistyka Łódzka Udruženje književnika Srbije Projekat Rastko - Antologija srpske poezije XX veka Projekat Rastko - Poljska Narodna biblioteka Srbije Kontakt janvujin@wp.plpanika.htmlpanika.htmlvucji.htmlvucji.htmlknjigaO.htmlknjigaO.htmlkosovo.htmlkosovo.htmlpress.htmlpanika.htmlknjigaO.htmlvucji.htmlkosovo.htmlpanika-odlomak.htmlpanika-od-polski.htmlpanika-od-german.htmlpanika-od-ruski.htmlpanika-story.htmlCV%20srpski.htmlCV%20english.htmlCV%20polski.htmlhttp://www.slavica.uni.lodz.pl/start.htmlhttp://tygiel.free.ngo.plhttp://www.plama.art.pl/OR/public_html/YU/Inne/sylwetki/vujinovic.htmlhttp://slawistykalodzka.sns.pl/http://www.uksrbije.org.yu/index.htmlhttp://www.rastko.org.yu/rastko/delo/11084http://www.rastko.org.yu/rastko-pl/bibliografija/bstojanovic-serbica.phphttp://www.nbs.bg.ac.yu/mailto:janvujin@wp.plshapeimage_3_link_1shapeimage_3_link_3shapeimage_3_link_5shapeimage_3_link_7shapeimage_3_link_8shapeimage_3_link_9shapeimage_3_link_10shapeimage_3_link_11shapeimage_3_link_12shapeimage_3_link_13shapeimage_3_link_14shapeimage_3_link_15shapeimage_3_link_16shapeimage_3_link_17shapeimage_3_link_19shapeimage_3_link_20shapeimage_3_link_21shapeimage_3_link_22shapeimage_3_link_23shapeimage_3_link_24shapeimage_3_link_25shapeimage_3_link_26shapeimage_3_link_27shapeimage_3_link_28shapeimage_3_link_29shapeimage_3_link_30
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