about our origins and almost all of history on the basis of anecdotes?
Once upon a time, as one version of the story goes, a man with a bundle over his shoulder arrived in a town on the Adriatic known today as Karlobag. The townsfolk, as townsfolk are, were suspicious of the newcomer; they were immediately inclined to call him an intruder and some even wanted to send him packing as soon as they saw an opportunity which deviated from everyday monotony. But the townsfolk are human too, with a degree of residual curiosity, and they first had to ask him:
‘What’s your name?
‘Io sono solo.’
‘Šolo? Hear that, he says he’s called Šolo! I’ve never heard such a name!’ laughed the unofficial representative, a self-appointed but generally accepted and, one must admit, very responsible protector of the town. There were people like that once, natural leaders whose failings it was best to gloss over in view of their much more important abilities. His laugh was a sign for everyone else to obediently laugh.
Even today the Kozmićs are known mainly as part of the Šolos family. Because the Šolos are a broader notion, a whole little tribe in their own right, while the numerous Kozmić family is only one of its branches. It’s hard to say when something happened in places where time stands-still. Like the stone; everything there is stone except the occasional vegetable patch covered with earth brought in from elsewhere. Fish is a divine food, they say, but where bread is not ample people still consider themselves poor. That’s why it’s a great success when someone makes it far, somewhere far away. The further away, the greater the success. Things can only be better in distant parts, or so believed generations and generations of inhabitants of little towns where there wasn’t enough bread, and what there was grew only on foreign soil brought in from other places.
My grandfather, Stipe, ‘made good’ as a clerk in the Customs Service of the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes, also known as Yugoslavia. He acquired not only money and what money can buy, but above all a vocation. Having a Customs official in the family was quite reason enough for all his kin to become conceited, declare themselves important personalities and see themselves as definitely above the other townsfolk; these, in turn, like all townsfolk, were green with envy and in that way upheld the importance of their compatriots. People are complicated. Young Stipe, upright and devoted to his work, and to the family, had neither the time nor the experience to notice that his status was considered a huge success and that the whole town had adopted that success.
Moving, travelling and living wherever his position demanded, he arrived in Thessaloniki. A large number of Yugoslavs, as most of them called themselves, worked in the Free Trade Zone, a large and bustling part of Paralia, which afforded a beautiful view of the heart of the city – ‘Lefkos Pyrgos’ or the ‘White Tower’. Their salary in dinars was paid out in drachmas. We are, of course, in the terrain of history and anecdotes, but it was indicative enough of Yugoslavia that its officials employed in the Free Trade Zone came for their pay every month with suitcase in hand. What was more, the money would hardly fit into these cases, intended for travellers who had to carry everything they needed for at least one month. Travelling was a slow business and there was no knowing what might happen along the way. You had to calculate one month plus or minus, just in case. Trains would come to a halt in the middle of nowhere and cars get bogged in the mud. Unlike the folk tales, it didn’t often happen that a villager would come along just when he’s needed, with a horse and the willingness to sell it. Therefore travellers equipped themselves with large suitcases, which they lugged, lifted and lowered with difficulty. You could see the strain on their faces when they were travelling. At home they tormented themselves so as not to forget anything. He who carries does not beg, they repeated to themselves while they packed, defying the truism that he who travels always forgets something.
* * *
‘Come on, Stipe, liven up a bit! You’re going to end up as dusty and blind as an archive mouse with your nose in the books all the time! What sort of life is that? Look around a bit, relax, let off steam, and enjoy life! Just look how many cafés there are, people out having fun, and so many pretty girls! If any people know how to enjoy themselves – it’s this lot! But instead of living where you are, you just think of work and how to send money home! Let others do the living, and you will too one day if you make it to pension age – is that it? That doesn’t add up – you’ll regret it,’ harped his older colleague and ‘expert on life’, Mr Božović, as he tried to convert ‘straight-laced Stipe’.
‘But… but I’m not like that,’ Stipe stammered in his strong Dalmatian accent. You don’t need to lecture me. I’m a bit of a loner, and I’ve always been that way. I prefer working to going out. Peace and quiet are much better for me.’
Božović would soon go down in the family annals as ‘godfather’, but I still need to tell the anecdote about him coming to visit Ekaterini’s family, the Poriazis. Suffice to say that he was given a most cordial welcome, with the obligatory coffee with water and fruit preserves, and the odd ouzo; Maria’s pies were second to none in Thessaloniki, however much the city was expanding at that time due to domestic and foreign newcomers. Godfather Božović therefore announced that his main visit would be ‘when the time was ripe’, so that during the several ‘preparatory’ ones he could take in the spanakopita, spinach pie, which he liked best, and after that the meat pie, whose seasoning never ceased to perplex him (did he now like it more than the cheese pie?). He did all he could to prolong this dilemma. Yorgos and Maria lent him an attentive ear, while the daughters giggled as they listened to the conversation behind the closed door. Even during the very first visit, hearing their guest talk, wise Afroditi, although the youngest, turned to her sisters and brothers and said: ‘Our Ekaterini is getting married!’
It’s hard to imagine how one’s grandmother looked when she was young. Grandmothers are always old, and in most cases their role is to be a kind of good fairy. But with a bit of fantasy we can imagine that they too must have been flirtatious girls at one time; inquisitive, hungry for life and company, becoming aflutter when they saw a handsome young man. And they too must have asked themselves, ‘Will he be the one for me?’ with every man who caught their eye in the street and prompted this question by stopping and greeting them with a bow and a tilt of his hat. The shape of hats changes, but the questions remain the same, like old recipes. Some girls dreamed of madly passionate love, others of a life of luxury, whereas most young women hope for both. But there are always those whose thoughts are hard to divine, who diverge from all expectations, sometimes even their own. Acquaintance is just with a name, although it also reveals something about the personality. Women change faster than men change their hats and their perceptions of women. As soon as Stipe set eyes on Ekaterini, he fell in love with her forever. Just as if he had a premonition, he started to sigh and fret on the way to the Poriazis’. He felt he had never been on such a long journey in all his career to date.
‘Don’t worry about a thing. Remember, you’re a good match!’ godfather Božović heartened the young man. Stipe had grown into a strapping fellow who perspired all the time; he’d take his custom-made hat off his big head, wipe his face with his handkerchief, and fold it up neatly each time before returning it to his pocket.
From that first day on, Stipe became a favourite at the Poriazis’. And not just because he was well-situated – a good match indeed – but also because his impressive appearance and captivatingly modest manner of speech immediately challenged the long tradition in these parts that feelings taking second place, at best, when it comes to marrying off a daughter. The whole family took a liking to him: a gentle giant, yet capable and down-to-earth, and it was as clear as day that he loved life although he wouldn’t have said so himself, and a family man, obviously. All this was written on Stipe’s face. To be sure, it also said he was in love, perhaps even in big bold capitals. It’s interesting how people overlook that kind of message. But in this case it was for the best that only one person in the room read the words written like a heading
