I am the one to be declared
(The story about Jagoda)
That was Jagoda1 , with translucent eyes. She saw everything around us, everything between the threads. The emotion was clear, oddly enduring, rarely present. What was that story in her eyes? They didn’t look at her. They turned their eyes away from the eyes; away from the hand. Face from face. But her story remained clear. They didn’t listen to her. They didn’t see her.
She was alone that day at the station. She and the frame. She and the colors. ‘’Is she going with us?’’ we all wondered. All of us with a crumpled canvas, without colors or frames. We who saw her but didn’t look. She was speaking. Her canvas was white, small, and flecked with golden pigments. She was speaking, but they didn’t hear her.
Jagoda was a woman with a smile. She spoke with blazing intensity, and reacted quietly. That day she was standing at the station, and so was I. She was holding the frame around her, colored in gold. She was waiting with us. With her eyes, she told stories about love and passion, about life. She walked decisively, with reflective eyes. With fixed pupils. That was my goal, too. She was going there. Her dream was clear. Her desire and goal were one. She dreamed of freedom, and that’s how she lived. She dreamed of traveling, so she went. She took the paints and the frame and entered the bus. She had a ticket and a passport. She had her frame and her paints. She had her white canvas, flecked. She was ready. She knew only one thing – where she was going.
Our journey was long, and her voice put me to sleep. Her voice spoke of adventures, of life, of the beauty of suffering. Various people talked to her, trying to muddle her color. Jagoda smiled, took a breath, and continued. She didn’t hear that. Her paints were enough for her.
Jagoda was a woman with brown hair, the color of hazelnut shell, with a reddish glow. Her story was unknown. Her past was hidden. But she spoke loudly. We all heard her words. The drive was long and we slept with her song in the background. We pretended not to hear. ‘’And what is that frame she’s wearing around her neck? It’s even broken now!’’ She didn’t care. She put her shirt on over the frame and stepped off the bus during a break in this long journey and midnight song we all slightly ignored, but also… We were also waiting – waiting for her to stop, to quiet down.
‘’Oh, enough with the words and songs! We want to sleep!’’ The sleepy voice shouted. Jagoda quieted down, and then started singing again. This time even louder!
She reacted quietly. And her moves were determined and strong. She knew where she was going. But did we?
’’I have to let her in! She has the ticket. She has the passport.’’ The driver defended himself, while waiting for the next break. He didn’t look at her. He turned his head to the next passenger. In his eyes was his own time, his peace away from all of us. We passed before his eyes. He didn’t even look. There was the ticket. There was the passport. ’’Yes, you can get on.’’ Significant and insignificant became one. He sat down and continued driving. The break had long been over.
Jagoda sang about mountains and beauty. She spoke of love and passion. She didn’t wait. Her dream was alive. Her dream lived at the same time as she did. She was alive the same way her desire was. She wasn’t hoping, she felt no longing for the next day. She knew. She was certainly there. She was there, for sure.
Jagoda was a taller woman. She had an athletic body, an icon on her belly, and wounded wrists. Her smile talked about pain and suffering – about heavy days we didn’t know, which we hadn’t heard much about that night she was singing; when she talked about Switzerland, the pilot and the money. About Nedeljko, who was about to pick her up at the station in Belgrade. We all knew who Nedeljko was, and we laughed mockingly. ‘’Yea, right… It must be him at the station.’’ I thought, ironically.
She was so funny. She and her songs. I giggled while looking through the foggy window. Darkness covered the mountain ranges. The driver was rushing, and everything was murky. The fall leaves holding the branches and the gloomy sky. Everything was murky except her canvas – white and flecked. The golden paint was soon all over the place. It spilled! How hilarious that was! ‘’Be quiet, Marija,’’ my mum whispered. ‘’Stop it!’’ And that’s when I laughed even more, and kept sailing in my thoughts. Searching for Jagoda and her boat, I gazed dreamily.
Who was that woman with a frame on her shoulders? We even took a picture together! Yes! At that station. She, her frame and I. With her, I become a canvas for a moment, me too. That murky photo, murky from laughter and fear. Murky and lost – the one that talks and sings. The one that is clear and knows where to go.
Her name was Jagoda, with a frozen smile. She sat restlessly in the back seat. She defended and protected us. There were smugglers, a big TV, and some hidden goods. Both the TV and the face of the new owner were hiding behind the seat. The thoughts kept multiplying and turning to ice. The moment was coming. And the heart grew restless. The whole bus was waiting, nervous and filled with thoughts. Jagoda sang softly. She defended and protected us. Her voice rose before all and answered loudly: ‘’I am the one to be declared!’’
This story belongs to Jagoda, the woman with the golden frame, who traveled from Innsbruck to Ostrog in 2011, through Belgrade.
1. ’’Jagoda’’ is a female name in Serbian. The word also means “strawberry.”.