Betcharatz

get by on fish again. Master Milosh became even more drawn into the
dark labyrinths of his powerful but fickle artistic soul. long daily rest-
ing periods were replaced by meditative fishing and passing crackpot
pastimes.
one early summer morning, when most paors had gone to the
fields, he gave a wake-up bang to the metal gate of his house with a
heavy drunken kick of a muddy boot and asked his alarmed family to
saddle the horse, a beautiful red stallion that must have had some li-
pitzaner blood in his tall elongated and perfectly shaped body. Master
Milosh was not the best of horse riders and certainly even less so now
that he had such a load of liquor that he seemed to hvaea cloud of heavy
dizzying gaze around him,. There was no talking him out of any of
his flights of fancy, especially when he was in that drunken state. al-
though his sons were as tall and almost as strong as himself, they had
much trouble in mounting his heavy large soaked body onto the back
of the poor astounded stallion.
The gate was flung open to let a moody rider into an out-of-time ad-
venture. and off they went with a trot along the slippery muddy streets
of the village that were not asphalted at that time and zigzagging as
the speed started to build up towards the Belyanska Bara. The vil-
lage was richly endowed with waters and apart from the canal circum-
venting Turiya along its eastern edges and joining the Danube and the
Tissa rivers, there was that wildlife paradise of Belyanska Bara formed
by yet another watercourse, the Krivaya river that meanders its way
from romania.
There is a saying that god guards drunkards and fools and, truly,
only a miracle was able to hold Master Milosh upright in his saddle.
They chased after the shades of the Master’s whims, half a ton of
warmed-up flesh gone wild. The Master sought to free the powers of
his horse. But even if Master Milosh was in a sober state, would the
fate allow him that privilege of holding mastery over two instruments,
the tamboura and the horse? The hood of inebriation often lends
wings to the slenderest germ of giftedness, pushing one into the most
spectacular endeavours that in a sober state one would not even dare
to dream about. When the gift, however, powerfully beams from the
intricate spaces of one’s soul, it takes an equally virulent strain to hold
back one’s fate under check, no matter how experienced and immersed
in maturity one may be. The talented may be precocious in their field
of interest but often immature in the matters of real life.
Down a mildly sloping path they thundered, the horse now wet and
panting, the rider seemingly more aware of the mad race and slightly
sobered by the frenzy of vibrations. There was a watermill behind the
screen of lush reed growth with a little dam holding the greenish water
in captivity. alas, the wet narrow path could not bear the weight and
speed of the rolling cart and the horse tried to hold down the slide
by kicking and sticking the hind legs into the soil. at that instant our
Master got launched from his saddle and plummeted through the
fresh morning air unloaded into the coldish calm of the pool with a
heavy splash. He instantly dived back to the air and gave his arms a
scurrying catlike waving towards the bank. The horse was standing by
the pool, his foaming head lowered, waiting for the master. a couple of
alarmed fishermen scampered out of the reeds and after recognizing
Master Milosh they stretched their helping hands. Snappish as he was
even without mishaps and humiliating positions such as that, he only
mumbled and groaned something that was closer to the language of
bears than men and refused their assistance.
‘are you cold, Master Milosh?’, one of them inquired with a true
concern.
‘you better mind those rods, huh?’, came a brisk retort in a bass.
The fishermen reasoned that it was probably better to look after
their own business and slowly went back to their catching places.
Milosh looked perfectly sober now and he could have mounted the
horse if he wished so but instead, he chose to walk back home, partly
for self- punishment and partly to warm up and get dry along the way.
The day on the canal was in its playful warm late morning up-
swing when the fish stop biting and paors went back in their squeaky
carts from the fields. Many boats had already left with net full of pre-
cious silvery catch and it was time to take back home. Milosh and his
young companion had vanished someplace behind the large bay-like
curvature formed at the point of confluence of the Belyanska Bara
into it. no music could be heard and the canal inhabitants from frogs
to birds rang in a choir of joy celebrating the gifts of creation. The
day and reed-mantle kept the secret of two players suspended until
dusk with thousands of guesses, hunches and an elaborate work of
hearsay. as everyone knew everyone, news both real and fabricated
promptly travelled from end to end and in numerous recounts often
acquiring almost mythical dimensions. often a petty novelty, such as
a new woman making her appearance in the village, would gain an
overweight importance that overshadowed even a truly significant but
generally known or expected development.
at dusk Master Milosh popped out at his gate, no fish in his hands,
but with his face radiating the never before noticed serenity and calm-
ness. He was even somewhat talkative by measures applied to his char-
acter and talked about his colleague getting married that day.
‘as for my part, I swore to quit the bottle for good.’
Even this short sentence was too much talking for him. He was
determined to keep his promise and the good life might have made its
new beginning then and there. But Milosh did not live long enough
to make this happen. While practicing his zooming arpeggios, when
he and the tamboura were one vibration, in the darkness of his room
below the clock ticking from the wall, he met the final syncope that
plucked his soul from the chest and carried it back to the wellspring
of eternal music.

Edited by Nikol Markovic,
Anastassia Pronsky-Stojanovic and Tatjana Cerovina