The Devil's Workshop God's Workshop
The last encounter with Djoka Djokić
For the last couple of nights I was going to sleep earlier, before midnight. My dreams were fuzzy. Three nights ago, around two o'clock in the morning, my phone rang beside my bed. I woke up- thinking it was my wakeup call, but then I remember I didn't ordered any wakeup call! I waited someone to say something , but he rapidly hung up. Maybe it was a mistake? I laid down but I couldn't fall asleep. During the ninties they were calling me like last night when I stopped seeing Partridge. Still, I fell asleep. And forgot.
The telephone rang again, but around three o'clock in the morning. The same thing again. I asked the household if someone of them ordered a wakeup call; no.
The third night the telephone rang, around four o'clock. I waited that someone to say something...nothing.
I realized that those who call had no message for me. They woke me up from the devil's workshop. Of course, she was there, where there was no faith in Lord Jesus, or the revival in the Lord. She grinded in the soul where there was a lot of space for sin. I plucked who could precisely be that. The Partridge's friends? Any of her lovers? Or any of those people I hurt unintentionally? At daysping I made coffee because I couldn't sleep any longer that night. And while smoking until the sunrise, I analyzed hundreds of people I knew, saw and talked to. Everyone was suspicious, even my relatives. And friends of my friends. Who did among them, with all his heart, soul, mind and strenght grasp Jesus's truth, surround himself, fortify in it and become one with hi soul and will? Among those whom I saw and knew, no one was like that. So, many people were suspicious. Many of them hadn't been able to overpower their own evil.
Many of them strived to get into God's workshop, to become the warriors of life, but...
I didn't know any one, amongst my aquaintances,who became one wih the Lord as a branch with the grapevine. Just as how the vine couldn't bring forth the crop, if it was not on the grapevine, the man also couldn't enrich himself if he didn't embrace the Lord.
For those I knew and whom I believed I was doing good. They didn't know to reciprocate, but I wasn't expecting it. I was used to that. Some writers were bringing their handwritings, I would work it up, suggest and correct it; they were smaller than the poppy grains while I was correcting their handwritings. But when their books would be published they would avoid me on a daily basis , sometimes even overtly. For some time I hadn't been able to understand it. But, that was expected. How could a poet make something if he didn't embrace Christ as branch did grapevine?
It was taking me some time to recognize guys like them because I was rarely meeting them. I didn't know them enough. And then I started to learn and recognize them. The biggest number of them is among the ambitious people. They are showing off and putting on the roles of angels and warriors of life, but when no one sees them they lead a diffent life. They swear by humanism, defend it, they are born as patriots, and hardly recognized by what they say or write. Their soul is gradually pinning away, desiccating and finally dried, her thoughts are abbreviating, the feelings shirveling, wishes become more sinful, and she looks less for what is God's, good and veritably, justly, imperishable, and eternal, until she finally doesn't hate all that belongs to God.You should support the ones whose souls rise, but only those who rise towards all immortal and eternal and God, when it's faith engrafts to the Tree of Life, The Lord. But who did, even from the writers, especially those more ambitiuos, engraft to the Tree of Life. For who of them whom I know, is completely natural to stay away from the sins and vice, and nestle to all eternal and divinely true, just and good?
The first Saturday I went to the flea market to buy some things. I saw all kinds of junk, it was a lot, and all of them had their price. I bought and old clock, a pound of nails, an old gramophone... I heard a good joke about it: why is the milk cheaper than sparkling water in this country? There was a huge crowd of people at the tram station. I thought it would be better to go on foot to the first station in front of the flea market because there might be some chance for me to enter the tram. A mist, some sprinkle. I somehow pensive went slowly while the cars were rushing; I didn't pay attention.
I didn't even notice when a van pulled over; I was minding my own buisness. - Pal, a second! - the unknown man accosted me and a few of them grabbed me, obviously proficient in this buisness. They pulled a stocking over my head and carried in a van; the same moment the van went ahead. It was dark inside; the strangers weren't nice. - Give us that sack! - I heard. The two of them were holding me while the third man was pulling over my head the sack big as pallet, but still smaller than it. When they pushed me into the sack, one of them shouted: - The rope! - When they tided the sack, they walked me to the seat and suddenly the one of them kicked me, with all his might so I colapsed to the floor of the van, and started to chuckle. The van simply flitted, the ride took some time, not more than ten minutes. I didn't have time to shout and even if I tried I would probably be hit with the boot. All sorts of stuff was coming to my mind for those ten minutes, the statement of prime minister Djindjic which I had read a few days ago in the News: The mafia has its own private army. The technique and network for surveillance more powerful than the police! But what did I do to them? I never in my life saw or sniffed drugs. Not even knew any mafioso? Was it a mistake, or a mix-up?
There is a lot of tragedy in this and such Serbia. To be a man is tragical, more tragical than being a mosquito, fly, spider, a rogue dog or a tomcat. As soon as someone is born here he becomes a candidate for death; and not only that, but as soon he is born he is already condemned to death. We come from the womb who is the sister of the tomb, and by leaving her we are already on our way to the tomb. Our birth brings the angriest and biggest enemy, the death. We are born as mortals and the first gift we get as a newborn child is – death. Even in the most healthiest body exists something that is more powerful and permanent than health - death. Man finally goes to tomb no matter what was his path through this terrestrial island of death. There is so many piled up deaths in Serbia, on a long and tragic journey through history, not just history of the last years, thatdeath becomes the most important category where the whole human life spins and twists, begins, exists and maybe ends.Absurd and tragedy build up the habit and conviction in this world that the death is necessary; it becomes the dogma of every historical period, even the period of Hocus-pocus. That ugly dogma is passed on from father to son, man to a man, generation to a generation communists to neo-communists, thinkers to proponents of multi-party system democracy.
This is where the so laudatory progress and humanism reach, they enable the work of devil's water mill, the water mill of death which without break grinds the immense procession of people.
Thousand thoughts were going through my head; if there was a chance, I could write a book. But, I was in a sack, tied up in it, and the unknown kidnappers were taking me God knows where?
They would probably damp me into the river, there were convinient locations on Danube and Sava. But why? What did I do to those people- harm? I didn't know them; I couldn't hurt them, insult them, even in theory. They didn't take me to the scaffold for that, it was under someone's order. Maybe by the behest of the Doctor of Death? Yes, I thought about him, criticized him inside myself, for myself. And then it became clear to me, concerning the very problem of death. I should look for the real value of every science, each philosophy, religion, culture by reading it in the context with death. I was doing that but clumsily.
The Faustian bastard, the Doctor of Death, finally grabbed me.
He was the scientist practitioner convinced that the answer to the scary problem of death was necessity. If that was so, human life had no sense and the whole progress was imposible.
The van finally stopped; I wasn't able to see anything through the sack; the two of them carried me out. And they started to untie the sack very quickly. That was some kind of a basement, labyrinth, like the stall of Hell. When they pulled me out of the sack and clutched my neck, I couldn't see their faces. They had socks over their heads and slits for their eyes, mouths and noses. They led me towards some channel, full of water; of course I resisted, defended; but they were much stronger and apparently very prepared for this kind of execution.
At some point they pushed me and I flumped screaming into some awful water. It was a total dark, water was nasty and freezing. I sank and emerged from the water... And I heard voices few miles above me. - Mister Colonel, it's over! - Are you sure? - I heard. The beam of spotlights lightened up the leaden surface of the stinking slough where I was swimming as a frog.
· What is the difference betwen milk and sparkling water, guys?
There was no response.
· All right, and do you know why sparkling water is more expensive than milk?
Again- there was no reply.
I shouted from down under: - It is easier to milk a goat, than Prince Milos!
I heard that joke by chance half an hour ago at the flea market.
And colonel laughed.
˗ Save him,he's not the one we are looking for!
Do you know who is Mister colonel?
Of course you don't. My old aquaintance Djoka Djokic!
˗ Take the man to the part where he lives... And you, watch out what you're doing in the future, with whom you hang out.... And write, my friend, severer than Mister Djoka! Do not disapoint us again...
About the author
The works of this tetralogy- The Journal For Senković, Moon's Nuptials, Great Sorrow and The Doctor of Death- are written during a long period of time, since 1980-2003. The last book is published under the pseudonym. All the works are pretty much related and form a unique whole. Preliminary, the author has carefully looked through the published versions, corrected something, and gives them as the finaly versions to the readers. This tetralogy will be published in the future as two or one book.
In Belgrade, 14th October, 2006
ЂАВОЛОВА РАДИОНИЦА БОЖЈА РАДИОНИЦА .Последњи сусрет са Ђоком Ђокићем
Последњих неколико ноћи легао сам раније, пре дванаест.
Белешка писца уз ово издање
Дела ове тетралогије - Дневник за Сенковића, Месечева свадба, Туга голема и Доктор Смрт - писана су и објављивана у дужем временском распону, од 1980. - 2003. Последња књига је објављена под псеудонимом 2003. године. Та четири дела су повезанамного чиме, и чине једну посебну целину. Писац јепрелиминарно објављене верзије пажљиво прегледао, понешто исправио, и предаје их читаоцима, у овомиздању, као коначне. Убудуће, дакле, ова тетралогија ће се штампати у две или у једној књизи, овако, како је припремљена сада.
У Београду, 14. октобра 2006.
________ Бела ТУКАДРУЗ
ДОКТОР СМРТ I-II