How tellingly she had used the phrase. You can describe it like that now; back then it was just another example of her other-worldly rattle, that bizarre, mystifying flow of hers that erupted in talk with her compatriots. Čovječe božji! Creature of god. Male; man of god. Within a conversation or tale of some kind being related it concerned a person who ought to have known better, one who had said or done something beyond bounds, transgressed the code and needed to be pulled up. A strong caution. Of course there was none better than herself for that kind of task; she knew all the ways about it. The indiv concerned had pretty much demeaned himself, plainly. It was invariably a man in question. Women were not prone to suchlike; they had learned to be much more circumspect. (Although in her own case she herself was a blabberer; lajava, as she confessed, used usually for a dog. “Barking mad” had entered the Oz vernacular in recent years.) A man of the right sort, enlightened and knowing, could never have slipped like that; there was always a standard implied. Bog stobom! God be with you! Following some other like faux pas or error that ought to have been abundantly clear. Reading Annie Ernaux on her parents and anticipating further jousting with Zdravun, the lexicographer for our old tongue up in the village, the phrase came back late in the night, bringing her energetic person back close. It could be deployed against Z; the little blast would ring for him nicely; his head too was full of those voices from the past. And it was marvellous to throw him some curved balls from way out in the field. Made in god’s image was implied too. Even rude mountain people could be included in that cohort, finally.
2.
In this case an expression that was never heard uttered by anyone other than herself. Most certainly. It was not a deeply condemnatory charge; some level of jest was involved. Will-less, literally. Nevoljo. Volja was will or desire. (The root of volition was impossible to believe connected to those times and in that alpine locale.) Nevoljo jedna. Will-less one. Used of the faint-hearted and hesitant. Of course the one making the accusation stood far outside anything like that; nothing of the sort. Bab’s father was a force; firm, manly, judicious. Before his father died he had had a year or two preparing for the priesthood. Three of his daughters at least amply partook of bold volja; will. Strength of character in effect. (In the case of the son George, something perhaps a tad lesser applied.) Bab didn't seriously berate victims with willessness; rounded on them rather, encouraging something better. A father like that in a handful of photos that came down meant the husbands of his girls would need very much to be on their mettle. Even standing before the new apparatus, the man holds himself perfectly steady; poised and calm. Nevoljo jedna; fem, but fitting either gender. Some little pride obtained in the lineage, especially when there was no harshness, no caustic abrasiveness. Those Savici could be sharp and acerbic, but they were always understanding and sympathetic. One did however need to bestir oneself; there was no two ways about that.
*
Annie Ernaux suggests the telling phrases repeated by the elders, the sharp, biting ones, stuck more strongly in memory than their faces.
3.
Jadi te ne nasli ko sto su te nasli. Commonly, routinely deployed. But again local argot almost certainly (from the far side of the world it was impossible to know whether it had any currency further a field across the hill villages). Hardship not find you as it has (indeed) found you. Berating. Berating itself was common in many various forms, a daily occurrence; with her high standards one never came up to the mark. And of course transplanted as the speech was from far different ground, it was a poor fit on the other shore. Again, no doubt because of the separation from the village community, which had essentially disintegrated back there by that point in time, the words were never heard from anyone other than herself, that unique, bizarre creature so long in her black scarf and widow’s weeds. (Occasionally Russian or Polish crones a few streets away matched the garb.) Hardship and grief was everywhere waiting, hovering and ready to strike. One was inescapably in the midst; we ourselves had been notable victims of its savagery. You better know it, better watch out for your head. Nemoj da te jadi nebi nasli; Don’t lest ill finds you out (as it has found). So easy to fall victim. Ultimately it was inevitable.
4.
This now was certainly not ever uttered by herself. In her time up in the karst it could not have been thought, much less spoken. (Felt of course was another matter; our people went in deep like all others, perhaps a tad deeper.) We had a house guest recommended to us, a friend of a friend. German young woman from Stuttgart, with a Montenegrin boyfriend back home. Later it emerged the pair had fallen into the drug net and A was keen to distance herself from the fellow. Australia was an opportunity. In time the local Greek pharmacist would take a fancy and A married and became a mother. Oz residency, financial security, never looked back. Back in Stuttgart the boyfriend called the house phone regularly. This was over thirty years ago, well before mobiles. Bab took a number of his calls as more and more A was not around to do so. After one such call Bab had reported something the chap had said. (Memorably, of the young woman), Volim je vise nego sve sto ocima vidim. Gone in particularly deep this fellow, head over heels. I love her more than all my eyes see. Words dispassionately quoted by Bab. Delivering such a direct expression of feeling was highly striking; then her cool levelness added. No comment was passed on the speech. But there was sufficient need to repeat what the man had spoken, quite unasked. Of course Bab breathed not a word about young A’s absences. Likely she gave some reassurance, or at least conveyed nothing of concern. She knew her way around that too. It later emerged —a great surprise—that Bab had been a former beauty. Something that had been impossible to guess. It took some time to fully accept. A beauty who from mid-teens had had numerous suitors; who had a song penned about her; one who had broken an engagement before finding her ultimate match. The fiancé had been a gendarme hailing from over the border in Herzegovina, a fair kind of catch. When she gave the fellow the bad news he rounded on her, Ovo ce tebi sudit. This will pass judgement on you. The shooter in his holster. Many of the men and women up in the hills were famously fearless, courageous and reckless. Bab was one prime example. None up on Village Uble, or very likely any of the higher hill settlements—refuge locales from the Ottoman Turks in fact—would have used such language as the Stuttgart guy. The Stuttgart guy was of course the younger generation, living a radically different life influenced by the love songs on the radio and cassettes. How easily the old woman, already beyond her mid-70s, the heart attack she would survive shortly ahead, how simply she had fielded the young man’s ardour. Bab had never used the verb volim in her life. Love or like both in one it was, depending on context. Bab had never uttered the name of her son, always calling him by some odd reference of her own, a practice perhaps adopted from her superstitious mother. Ernaux again, quoting Proust, — Never say anything, never show too much love. Bab had not been in need of that tuition from books; that elementary knowledge arrived of itself up at those thunderous stony heights.
