An Anthology of Croatian Literature

Petar Segedin (1909-98)

Petar Šegedin (1909–98) A novelist and especially a short-story writer, Šegedin focused primarily on the lonely and the misfits of society. Whether on the Dalmatian island where he was born or in an urban setting, he examined the human condition in often atypical circumstances: poverty, mental instability, social isolation. He was active in the literary establishment of Yugoslavia and helped to promote greater literary freedom for the country’s writers. He also served briefly as a Yugoslav diplomat. The following story, entitled in the original “Hranilac golubova” (1991), is from Mario Suško and Edward J. Czerwinski, trans., Slavic and East European Arts 2, ii (1984): 11–14. An Anthology of Croatian Literature 182 A Feeder of Pigeons Sometimes I catch myself as if I’m practically flowing, as if I’m living from moment to moment. And then I almost cannot recognize myself. It’s like this: I go into my room, close the door, and rummage through my things. What a small world! I strike up a conversation with a man nearby whom I meet by accident. And again: what a lugubrious game of ping-pong! And a woman, a woman can expose me to myself more than anyone else. And that’s when I become a caricature of myself! Tranquil, I think about this occasionally. Then I thumb through myself like pages of a book. A curious, ridiculous document. And I come to the conclusion : a man lives conscious of himself only in some sort of contemplative “circles,” and it is as if this consciousness, narrow and thin, comes alive like an illusion, an illusion how he thinks, he wants, he lives. An illusion, I say, because, in a moment, there, behind some dark corner, a reflective mask will grin at me, whispering: “Ah, don’t be ludicrous, events, situations, and still something unclear, have you completely in their mighty paws.” Thus I found myself on that day in a streetcar as I ordinarily pushed my way through, cunningly avoiding the looks of some acquaintance, an already older woman, in order that I shouldn’t have to get up and give up my seat to her, as if my thoughts were creeping along my clothes, along all my pockets, making sure that I had not forgotten anything when I left the house: a watch, a wallet, a handkerchief, keys, some kind of notes… All kinds of little things, little thoughts, thickly strung together, one after another, annexed, nevertheless , purposefully, thoughtfully, although just before getting on the streetcar, I was completely filled with my great thoughts, with my great public “gesture,” which, during the past few days, I had directly set in motion. In public I appeared like a moving force and a protector… In truth: I sat there on a pedestal, took something of value to defend, something that appeared to be in peril, and thus I unintentionally became important and something short of great. And so jostling along the streetcar, I jumped out of my petty, practical thoughts and abandoned myself momentarily to the drunkenness of my great “gesture.” A man is a man only then when he is occupied with great ideas, I thought. Otherwise , he’s an insect. And when we arrived at our main square, I was surprised at the fact how properly I was getting off the streetcar, although there, at that very place, I was consumed by my great work for which I, after all, had come here to this very square. How many faces does a man have, and each one working as if by itself! And our square was an ordinary square, that is, it lived its own everyday life: strollers, people on business, housewives returning from shopping, auto- Petar Šegedin 183 mobiles parked in rows, and taciturn buildings in melancholy grey. A rainy, humid day. And just as always, in order to get to the office where I had to meet with some important client, I cut across the area where pigeons usually promenaded, frozen and rather ugly birds. being fed by some old woman and by mothers and fathers with children. But for some time now, there was a certain tall man there, well on in years; quite alone—like a feeder of pigeons. Passing by this way I noticed him several times, but I paid no attention to his work, as a matter of fact, nor did I to the other people...