Goran Simic
Susan and the door frame
At the time when all of us emaciated prisoners of war looked more like the ghosts of those we had already buried during the war,
Susan Sontag appeared at my door. As she was standing in the doorframe, that little photograph from the cover of my book grew and became as big as my door. After that, muddy and wet from the rain, she fell asleep on my sofa and only then did I understand she wasn’t a ghost.
When she woke up, she told me how once she visited her son’s friend’s mother and after she rang the bell, Lauren Bacall opened the door. She told me that at that moment the big movie screen with Lauren’s face became as little as the doorframe. When she left, she borrowed my bag to take with her. When she came back next year, the bag had on it the labels from the biggest airports from all over the world. It looked like the whole world had signed my little travelling bag.
In the meantime, I had learned how one sniper bullet can penetrate two heads. I had also learned how, judging by the shoes scattered through-out Sarajevo, the feet of dying men get to be two sizes smaller.
But I still haven’t learned anything about the meaning of the difference between a big and a small picture. We stand in the doorframe and at that moment we are big. And then we comprehend how our whole life can fit into one small travelling bag.
Susan Sontag appeared at my door. As she was standing in the doorframe, that little photograph from the cover of my book grew and became as big as my door. After that, muddy and wet from the rain, she fell asleep on my sofa and only then did I understand she wasn’t a ghost.
When she woke up, she told me how once she visited her son’s friend’s mother and after she rang the bell, Lauren Bacall opened the door. She told me that at that moment the big movie screen with Lauren’s face became as little as the doorframe. When she left, she borrowed my bag to take with her. When she came back next year, the bag had on it the labels from the biggest airports from all over the world. It looked like the whole world had signed my little travelling bag.
In the meantime, I had learned how one sniper bullet can penetrate two heads. I had also learned how, judging by the shoes scattered through-out Sarajevo, the feet of dying men get to be two sizes smaller.
But I still haven’t learned anything about the meaning of the difference between a big and a small picture. We stand in the doorframe and at that moment we are big. And then we comprehend how our whole life can fit into one small travelling bag.
Page(s) 21
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