Tuesday, April 26th, 1999.

Caviar and stained history

* Author of this article "Jone" is well known Belgrade satiric writer and has been fighting against censorship of state-controlled media.

    How do the celebration banquets for the chosen ones on the NATO summit look like? After all, that's the sole reason for, as they say, calling this gathering - so how does it look when the spotlights fade out and the cameras, microphones and other bright weapons of the public go away, and the atmosphere grows more relaxed, intimate, informal?

    I'm imagining how, after the company does a decent job of stuffing themselves with food and drink, it comes to witty, shaky and babbling dealing with a luxurious and precisely made map of Yugoslavia. They're pushing each other around, pulling each other's sleeves: the organizers have made it acknowledged that, for technical reasons, the number of targets which are, to aid good atmosphere and courtesy, set to the disposition of the invited guests every evening, somewhat limited. And the wishes are many - who could resist the temptation to try his wits strategy and general warfare, instead of just taking part in the boring internal betting?

    In the deafening meleé of yelling and hiccuping, dozens of stained fingers gets wiped in dozens of soft handkerchiefs or simply licked in dozens of stained mouths, before they land on some of those funny, and hard to pronounce, names. Though, it  appears to be impossible to remove the heavy smells and  piquant  tastes of food from the pores widened with excitement, all the bouquet of the drinks of choice. Only we down under, from the map, can understand that.

    When I look through the window, I see Belgrade covered with a layer of fat, which, one would say, originates from a somewhat too strong a chateaubriand, bravely and ingeniously rounded up with cloves sauce. All over  Krusevac there's a blot of some enchanting Rhine wine, silhouette of Pancevo can be only dimly grasped through an aggressive smell of sensual feminine perfume, woven into a carrying, damped, tectonic smell of salmon filets, thin as a razorblade and perfectly lined up on a silver platter.

    Nis is squealing beneath a sample of chocolate coating from some tart, Uzice has vanished beneath a drop of  sauce to go with oysters. Someone (obviously busy shouting into his neighbor's ears) rubs, absentmindedly, circle after circle, a caviar crumb over Novi Sad. Ashes from someone's havana are falling all over Kosovo, Kragujevac is getting soaked in cognac. One finger, used to fix the lipstick line on some lips just a minute ago, excitedly and rhythmically drums all around  - coming down from unimaginab le heights to the cities and villages, which remain with lipstick prints, like after a kiss.

    And everywhere, each untouched point, permanently, gets covered with dust of words and complete torn-off boulders of conversation, joviality and coquette, politeness and gentleness spoken along.

    If there could only be someone, if something could be found, if through something, if there was a way to, if somehow it could, this way or other... if a thought could be installed into their minds that it's closing time - lest they all go to sleep before they start puking over us.

Jone
Belgrade