The Way the Wind Blows Aug25 (Herceg N.)

 

 

Dje–si–brate – moj?!

Where you be, brother mine?!… Spaced & heavily accented.

Risen to the feet to receive the chap, a middle-aged priest or monk, fine black beard likely undyed.

A café on the narrow, lower road at Novi, indoors screened from the passing traffic.

Within a couple minutes of being seated, the other, the tall chap who had awaited the Divine, began in the time honoured way.

Jebem ti… Jebem mu majku…

No joke; bitten off with plenty venom, reporting on an outrage perpetrated by some fellow.

Fuck your… Fuck his mother…

Oh yeah. Not good. Some ugly something had badly annoyed the man.

Didn’t appear any batting of eyelid at all from the Cassock, not in the slightest; though peering too closely from 3.0m away on the other side of the room was not really possible.

But we have leapt ahead. Re-wind to the first part of the greeting; from the get-go.

Briskly up the steps and across the narrow balcony, in the beard had bounded. 

The tall had not been kept waiting long, under five minutes. 

Greeting of the Cherished before the entryway, two paces from the table they will assume.

The clasp here was of the contemporary, masculine form, where the hands meet vertically and at shoulder level. 

Brief shake. Following which the Tall draws up their hands to his chin, where a short, smacking kiss was given.

Phwuuh!

In a church and ordinarily there was no shake of hand of any kind with a priest; rather the hand of the said was clasped low and a bow necessary toward the latter’s waist, before the honour was completed.

Strange only forty short years later. Even sixteen years ago on the last visit the priests were much less prominent anywhere along the coast in Boka Kotorska.

The main road and the square at Novi still bore the name of the local head of the Communist Party during the war. There was a bust and possibly head too somewhere along the road there.

Executed by the Italians from memory, Nikola Djurkovic, a lawyer from Pode, a settlement not in fact of the town itself, but above on the hill. (The hill people higher up had always claimed as more properly one of theirs.)

Narodi hero once and not straightforward to remove from the plinth now.

 

 

                                          Herceg Novi, Montenegro

 

 

 

Publication news: Class Komala V

 Hello all

A short vignette of mine from a few years ago has just been published in the South of India. In Singapore many people's fave Indian eatery is Komala Vilas, here presented in one of the original founder's outlets that has since closed and relocated elsewhere.

Freely available (400 words), — 

https://literaryyard.com/2025/05/20/class-komala-vilas/

Best to all, 

Pavle

 

Patted Down - published by Action, Spectacle Winter 2026

 

At the lifts leaving for the airport a stout, unshaven guy in black with sunnies.

Greetings as usual.

Where you from?… Oh. You speak so well. Very well… And where you going?… Oh. Oh… 

The heart beating at the mere mention of Montenegro. Monte–negro!

Touch at the breast. Bowing head. Reaching out to pat the stranger. 

Yes, yes. Shared. Shared; same. Fifteen years last visit; going down to see remnant family. Melbourne sooo far away. 

Oh! Oh! More pats and feeling touches. Feeling strokes.

Zenica himself. Yes.

At one time the Petrović clan of the poet had lived there; originated, man might have meant. Something else about one of the Royals... Always overcome when he found a connection. 

Yes, I know a little. Of the poet, at least… Our P. P. (Njegoš).

… Speak so well… Kids in the hotel, large school group, hogging the lifts, having fun... It’ll come. It’ll come. Don’t worry... You know, it’ll be cold outside. You want me to get you some socks?

Oh my! Gasp… Man was staying on the 4th floor too, seemingly.

Oh, gosh. Many thanks. No need. The surgical stocking just for the veins. Puno hvala. Many thanks. It’ll be fine. Many thanks… Pavle. 

Oh. Fine name. Nesho… Pavle Djurišić… Yes. Fine name.

(A Chetnik Royalist leader who the Commies might have hung at the end of the war as a collaborator, whatnot. If that was correct. Revisionism big, big time now in Serbia; complete turnaround. Banners and street signs throughout the city. Return to Kosovo. Army to Kosovo. Kosovo is Serbia. Saints had replaced Partizan heroes. Streets renamed, public buildings, squares. Bronze statues.)  

Zenica was recalled from one of the theatres of war; must have been Bosnia. Doubtless atrocities of one kind or another; they could not have escaped. There had been mentions of Zenica in those years.

And where are you going from here yourself, Nesho? (Short for Nenad, like Slavo’s nephew in Niš; or alternatively Nebjoša. Fearless.) 

Oh. No, no. I live here... In the hotel.

Ah. (What? Really?… €65 per night regular standard room. US$75. Rundown, but still plenty rich. And location, location. Heart of the city.) 

Here? In the hotel?… Gee. Hmm. 

Hardly fitted the bill. Not likely. The new class had become familiar in ten days in fashionable Vračar. Nesh wasn’t going to fit at any of those fine ala carte resto tables, the boutiques, galleries. Lottsa florists, nail joints.

Specialac. Vojska; army… 

Oh. Oh. Gee. Ah… 

Da. Yes. Bilo je svašta. Lots happened… 

(Particular arrangements at the hotel had been made for Nesho. Plenty pull for a Specialac, guaranteed. They were something else; a category of their own. In all wars. The current included of course.)

Immediately on the 3rd a couple with cases were undecided about entering. It was a small, tight lift, from another era. Nesh in his bulk too not a particularly pretty sight for regular guests.

Welcome. Welcome. We’ll squeeze... (Common expression added too fast to catch.) Sorry, I’m a bit of a fattie... 

You like your čevapi, hey, Nesho? Your pleskavice… 

‘Tis true. I do. I do. 

Vegetarian myself. 

Oh, we’d never get on. 

No, but we would, Nesh. How not?

           Vracar, Belgrade

 

 

NB. Return the Army To Kosovo, the banner in the photo reads, with the Ministry of Defence & Army Building adjacent from the NATO bombing of 1999. Interestingly, the site has now been sold to a consortium headed by Donald Trump Junior, slated for luxury apartments. (And in later news, the sale overturned following prolonged public protest.)

 

 https://www.action-spectacle.com/winter-2026-part-ii/radonic

 

 

 

Hummin’

 

 

Hipster dude in the Serb form still gettin' acclimatised. Nothing there whatever objectionable: white collared shirt untucked, stubble, piercings & pictures unapparent. Granola was good, tasty, the Greek yoghurt possibly free range moos, sheep & goats; maybe not on a hillock overlooking the waters of the Aegean opp Santorini. No fuss. Yes sir, No sir. You cannot avoid the straw in the latte anywhere in these parts. After Singapore the messy little garden in front was a treat. But the dribble. Wasn't booming exactly; moderate. Golden oldie classic rock baby love need you honey yeah. 3-4-5 with the crunchy gran and fangs in desperate need of attention. Baby love me sweet… Lightest drops en route meant the free table just on the edge of the awning, prints, pots, parley outta harm’s way. For the latte following though, we'll take it at the garden table, ta. When you don't have gusle, I'll mosey off there... The stubbled chin pointed one way. Reflexively pointed the other. Upraised & down. Fixed upon it the eyes escaped.

 

For those of you unacquainted:

https://youtu.be/oqTFNytdGFk?feature=shared

 

Rough transl of the title here without resorting to G —

Don't honey give to another

That which my hand has... smothered

 

 

NB. The older epic heroic cycles ala blind Homer were definitely a mark above.

 

 

Forest Bathing (Skopje) Oct25

 

 

Once entered and within the little thicket in the park opposite the parliament surprised. Toward the low-rise mall on one side numerous trees standing eight or more metres high had been planted close, their thin canopies up high. The simple stone monument by the path with its discontinued fountain had its signage worn away. Numerous peopled benches, also worn & weathered. During the sit voices behind led to a couple of turns round. A girl with her mother it sounded like. Nothing. On a third spurt of the same, close behind again, it was up, out of the seat and a couple paces... Oh! Oh! Within the branches of the large leafy tree white trainers perched three meters from the ground. Two prepubescents sitting close opposite each other on a branch. Beautiful light in the late afternoon; mornings were cold in the early Spring here. Smokers not visible; those restless ones  sat along the riverbank. The birds, pigeons, sparrows & others, darted through the tree trunks and searched below, rather than around the benches. Fancier flowering gardens with lawn drew another class of person. Around the mall there stretched long concrete horizontals of shrubs, not as far as one could see any flowers. Even by the plaster ruin of columns what was mistaken as a rose bed were again young shrubs. The five-branched lamppost directly in front was a small price to pay. Half an hour later the young girls continued, perfectly comfortable on their perch. They could not be disturbed with questions.