Club

By Red Umbrell

     This narrative is a testament to the multifaceted nature of human existence, where the search for meaning, belonging, and fulfillment takes unexpected detours. Our protagonist embarks on a quest for spiritual enlightenment, seeking solace and understanding within the hallowed walls of a monastery. Yet, fate has other plans, leading him down a path fraught with temptation, indulgence, and the enigmatic allure of the nightclub.

    As the pages unfold, we are invited to traverse the landscapes of the soul, grappling with the complexities of desire, identity, and the pursuit of inner peace amidst the chaos of contemporary society. Through the lens of this singular journey, we confront timeless questions about the nature of self-discovery, the boundaries of morality, and the eternal dance between light and shadow that defines the human condition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Umbrell
• Release date: Mar 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224049684

Book preview

Preface

In the vast expanse of human experience, there exists a spectrum of lives lived, each with its unique journey, its twists, turns, and revelations. Club delves into the captivating odyssey of one individual straddling two seemingly divergent worlds - the ascetic tranquility of monastic life and the electrifying allure of the modern-day club scene.

This narrative is a testament to the multifaceted nature of human existence, where the search for meaning, belonging, and fulfillment takes unexpected detours. Our protagonist embarks on a quest for spiritual enlightenment, seeking solace and understanding within the hallowed walls of a monastery. Yet, fate has other plans, leading him down a path fraught with temptation, indulgence, and the enigmatic allure of the nightclub.

As the pages unfold, we are invited to traverse the landscapes of the soul, grappling with the complexities of desire, identity, and the pursuit of inner peace amidst the chaos of contemporary society. Through the lens of this singular journey, we confront timeless questions about the nature of self-discovery, the boundaries of morality, and the eternal dance between light and shadow that defines the human condition.

Club is a poignant exploration of the intersections between spirituality and sensuality, tradition and modernity, duty and desire. It challenges us to reevaluate our preconceptions, to embrace the contradictions that shape our lives, and to celebrate the richness of experience that arises from embracing the unexpected.

Join us on this extraordinary voyage, where the boundaries between sacred and profane blur, and the echoes of our deepest longings reverberate through the corridors of the heart.

Red Umbrell

Part 1

One evening in the summer of '74, when I was a boy of thirteen, my father took me on a trip to French Polynesia. I only remember two things. The first is that my father and I were together again after a long series of years of separation. The second is that I was glad that, after only a couple of years of intensive study of the French language,

I discovered that I could understand the fragments of conversations that reached my ears. As for the young islanders who were half-naked, dancing on the white sand in front of me, I remember the first serious, I would even say very painful erection caused by images of colorful dresses and beautiful, darkened, naked, bodies.

In any case, I could not even dream that in such a distant time, as fifty years later, the island of Bora-Bora, in French Polynesia, would become the meeting place of my CLUB.

I am now old and seriously ill. I have a few days left to live. My son Ivan come to visit me and we are sitting in a quiet room overlooking the Four Seasons beach.

The perfectly white sandy beach is lapped by emerald blue water. The castle-like Mount Otemanu breaks the sky, and the seductive tropical slopes and valleys are covered with hibiscus flowers.

Motu bungalows covered with palm fronds surround the sparkling lagoon like a gentle necklace. While the Red Sun is setting, we sip black, Gunis, beer from high glasses.

I was telling my son Ivan about what happened many years ago.:

In our small fishing village, I lived in a stone house. It stood near the steep, rocky shore where the strong wind from the Adriatic Sea always blew.

With so much water, it probably would have collapsed if my father hadn't cut planks from some broken fishing boat and used them to reinforce the stone walls, making the house look like an old, disabled man leaning on a crutch.

When I was very young, a gypsy came to our house to tell fortunes. She told my mother that she saw me on a distant island, with a volcano, surrounded by a beach of white sand and turquoise blue sea. My mother laughed and looked out the window, where she could see the crystal blue expanse of the Adriatic Sea and in the distance, the outlines of the Italian coast. She gave her one dinar and thanked her.

My father was a fisherman. Sometimes he also worked as a dockworker in the port of Bar. Occasionally, he would join the crew of a ship and sail far away.

When I was six or seven years old, I learned something about my father that I didn't know before. One day, I asked him, Dad, why are you so old? He raised his eyebrows, then let out a long sigh, shook his head, and said, I don't know. When I turned to my mother, she gave me a look that meant she would answer that question some other time.

The next day, she silently took me uphill, towards the cemetery, and turned onto a path that led to the stone graves. She led me to three graves in the corner, with three stone crosses that were much taller than me. There were some letters and numbers written on them, but I hadn't started school yet, so I couldn't read or write

. My mother pointed to them and said, Ljubica Bozovic, wife of Pero. Pero Bozovic was my father's name. Died at the age of twenty-six. Then she pointed to the next marker: Mita, son of Pero Bozovic, died at the age of six, and the next one, which had an identical inscription except for the name: Vidoje and the age: three years.

It took me some time to understand that my father had been married before, many years ago, and that his whole family had died. Later, when I grew up, I returned to those graves, and as I stood there, I discovered that sorrow is something very heavy.

Our parents could have had more children besides the three of us, but when I was seven years old, my mother fell terribly ill with something that was probably bone cancer, although at that time, I had no idea what was wrong with her.

She could only escape the pain when she slept, and she began to do it like cats do, more or less constantly. As months passed, she slept most of the time and would start groaning every time she woke up. I knew something was changing rapidly within her. Sometimes, in just a few months, she would lose a lot of weight, but then quickly regain it. When I was nine years old, life began to leave her; she turned into a skeleton and never gained weight again. I didn't realize that life was slipping away from her due to illness.

Then one afternoon, I was sitting on the uneven floor of our terrace, singing a song to the sea, when a voice was heard at the door. Open up! Dr. Priestovic has come!

Dr. Priestovic came to our village once a week, and since my mother got sick, he never missed coming down the hill to check on her. My father was home that day because a terrible storm was brewing. He sat in his usual spot on the floor with both big hands intertwined like spiders in a fishing net. But he paused for a moment, looked at me, and raised one finger. That meant he wanted me to go and open the door.

Dr. Priestovic worked at the health center in Bar, and he conducted field service with great love. He was a very important person to us, or at least we thought so in our small village. He had studied in Belgrade and supposedly knew more than anyone else.

He was too proud to notice a creature like me. When I opened the door for him, he took off his coat and hat and walked right past me into the house. So, Pero, my hero, he said to my father, I would love to live like you, to be at sea all day and catch fish. What bliss! And then, when the weather is bad, you just take a day off. I see your wife is still sleeping, he continued. "Such a pity.

I thought I could examine her, I said. Oh? Father replied. You know, I won't be here next week. Maybe you could wake her up?

It took my father a while to untangle his hands from the net, but he finally got up. Dragica, he said to my sister, bring something to drink, and you, Blazo, hurry to the cellar for the prosciutto.

At that time, my name was Blazo. It was only many years later that people would know me by the name Alexander, which I received when I became a gigolo.

Father went with the doctor to the other room where my mother lay sleeping. I tried to eavesdrop at the door, but all I could hear was my mother groaning, and nothing of what the two of them were saying. I busied myself with slicing the prosciutto, and soon the doctor came out of my mother's room, rubbing his hands and looking very stern. Father followed him, and they both sat at the table in the middle of the room.

It's time for me to tell you something, Pero Bozovic, Dr. Priestovic began. You should talk to Father Dragoje, have him come and hold a service.

I don't have money, doctor, my father said.

We've all become poor lately. I understand what you're saying. But you owe it to your wife. She shouldn't die without God's blessing.

So, she's going to die soon? In a few weeks, maybe. She's in terrible pain. Death will be a relief for her.

After that, I couldn't hear their voices anymore because my ears were filled with a noise like the flapping of bird wings in panicked fear. Maybe it was my heart, I don't know. But if you've ever seen a bird fly into a room and try to find a way out, well, that's how my brain reacted. It never occurred to me that my mother could get sick and die.

I won't say I never wondered what might happen if she died; I thought about it, much like I pondered what would happen if our house was swallowed by the earth in an earthquake.

I thought I'd be the first to die, my father would say. You're old, Pero Bozovic. But in good health. You could live another four or five years. I'll leave you some of those pills for your wife. You can give her two at once if necessary.

They talked a little more about the pills, and then Dr. Priestovic left. My father sat there for a long time, his back turned to me. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just his sagging skin. His arms were like sticks wrapped in old leather, hanging on two protrusions. If mother dies, how could I continue life with him, in this house? I didn't want to leave him, but when mother goes, the house will be empty, whether he's there or not.

Finally, my father whispered my name. I went and stood beside him. Something very important, he said.

His face was even more somber than usual, with eyes rolling almost as if he had lost control of them. I thought he was struggling to tell me that mother would soon die, but he just said, Go to the church. Find Father and bring him.

But father... you didn't want to tell me anything else?

I hoped he would respond, but he just gestured for me to go with his hand.

The path from our house first went uphill to the road, where buses went from Bar to Ulcinj and back. When I crossed the road, I continued deep into the hill to the church of St. Nicholas, a small church carved into the rock. It wasn't easy to walk to it, but I remember being glad that the fierce wind distracted me from what troubled me. The sea was raging, waves were like stone blades, sharp enough to cut like knives. It seemed to me that the whole world felt the way I did.

Isn't life nothing more than a storm constantly taking away what was there just a moment ago and leaving behind only something bare and unrecognizable? Such a thought had never occurred to me before. Fleeing from it, I ran along the path until I saw the church ahead of me.

The storm was now seriously approaching; I heard its roar. The fishermen in the bay began to disappear from view behind a curtain of rain, and then they completely vanished. I could see the rain climbing up the slope towards me. The first drops hit me like a seagull's cry, and after a few seconds, I was as wet as if I had fallen into the sea.

The Church of St. Nicholas had only one path, carved into the stone, leading straight to the entrance doors. I ran up the stone steps towards the church, but then something happened to me: one of those insignificant things with huge consequences, like when you stumble and fall under a train. The stone steps were slippery from the rain, and I slipped. I fell forward, onto one side of my face. I suppose I was dazed from the impact, because I only remember a feeling of numbness and something in my mouth that I wanted to spit out.

I felt someone's hands turn me onto my back, then lift me up and carry me. I sensed the smell of incense surrounding me. I heard the metallic sound as a pile of metal pots fell from a stone table to the floor, and then strong hands laid me on its stone surface. I knew I was wet from the rain and bloody, barefoot and muddy, dressed in peasant clothes. But there was something I didn't know: that this was the moment that would change everything. Because in that state, I found myself looking up into the face of Father Dragoje.

I had seen Priest Dragoje many times before. He lived in the church but came to Kruce every day because he enjoyed fishing with the fishermen, and along the way, the women would give him a bit of bread, salt, and a few figs. He didn't wear church garments like priests; instead, he wore ordinary work clothes, rough canvas trousers and a cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Only on days when he served the service did he put on his cassock and the insignia of God's servant.

His skin was smooth and taut like a drum; his cheekbones were shiny mounds, like the crispy skin of fish grilled over charcoal. He always fascinated me. When I played on the street with other children and Father Dragoje happened to pass by, I would always stop playing and watch him.

I lay on that stone table as Father Dragoje felt my lips, pulling them down with his fingers and turning my head this way and that. Suddenly, he saw my eyes, which were staring at him in fascination. I couldn't pretend not to look at him. We stared at each other for a long moment. I know you, he finally said. You're the son of old Pero Bozovic.

Although I was a child, I knew that Priest Dragoje saw the world around him as it was. On his face, I never saw the confusion like my father's. It seemed to me that he saw the juice dripping from the pine tree trunk and the circle of light in the sky where the clouds dimmed the sun. He lived in a divine world. I knew he noticed the trees and mud and children on the street, but I had no reason to think he ever noticed me.

Perhaps that's why tears stung my eyes when he addressed me.

Priest Dragoje lifted me into a sitting position. I thought he would tell me to leave, but instead, he said, Don't swallow that blood, boy. If you don't want it to turn into a stone in your stomach.

I sat there on that stone table, not knowing what to do. I almost forgot why I went there in the first place. My dad needs you, I said quickly, as if I were afraid. He stroked my hair. What trouble has befallen you?

Mother, I replied quietly.

I told Priest Dragoje that the doctor had been to our house a few minutes ago. Where is your house? Priest Dragoje asked me. It's that small weeping house down on the ridge. What do you mean by a weeping house? It's that house that leans to one side and is always wet, as if it's crying.

Priest Dragoje seemed puzzled by my explanation. Well, boy, go to your weeping house, I'll be there soon.

I thought Priest Dragoje would get ready quickly, but he stood by the table for a long time, looking at me. I felt my face burning. Finally, he said something that seemed very wise to me. You have a donut on your face, lad.

He went to a shelf and brought me a small mirror to look at myself. My lip was swollen and blue, just as he had said. But what I really want to know, he continued, is where did you get those unusual eyes? My eyes are like my mother's, I told him. But as for my father, he's so wrinkled that I don't even know what he really looks like. And you'll be wrinkled one day. But some of his wrinkles have been there since he existed, I said. The back of his head is as old as the front, and there it's as smooth as an egg. You should speak more respectfully of your father, Priest Dragoje told me. But I suppose that's true.

Then he said something that made my face turn terribly red. So how did a wrinkled, egg-headed old man like him get such a handsome son like you?

Over the years, I've been told many times that I'm handsome, more times than I can remember. Although, of course, they always say that to gigolos, even to those who aren't. But when Priest Dragoje said that to me, before I had ever even heard of gigolos, I almost could believe it was true.

Finally, we set off. I headed home extremely excited. I don't think there could have been greater turmoil inside me even if I were an anthill. Somewhere amidst various thoughts about my mother, somewhere behind the pain in my mouth, a pleasant thought had nestled itself, one that I kept trying to sharpen. It concerned Priest Dragoje.

I stopped on the ridge and gazed out towards the sea, where the waves still looked like stone blades after the storm, and the sky had taken on a brownish hue of mud. I checked if anyone was watching me, and then, clasping my hands to my chest in prayer, I whispered Priest Dragoje's name into the wind, over and over again, until it seemed like God had heard my call, and that He would give strength to Priest Dragoje to save my mother from death. I know it sounds foolish, and it truly was foolish. But I was just a small, bewildered boy.

After we finished dinner and Dad went down to the tavern to watch other fishermen play cards and chess, Dragica, Ratko, and I quietly tidied up the kitchen. I tried to recall the feeling that Priest Dragoje had stirred in me, but in the cold silence of the house, that feeling was lost. Instead, I felt a lasting, icy fear at the thought of my mother's illness. I found myself wondering how much time was left until the moment when she would be buried there in the village cemetery, alongside other members of my father's family. What would happen to me after that?

When my mother dies, I assumed Dragica would take on the role of mother. I watched my sister scrubbing the aluminum pot in which the soup had been cooked, but even though the pot was in front of her, even though her eyes were fixed on it, it was clear to me that she did not see it. She continued to scrub it long after it was already clean.

The next morning, to rid myself of dark thoughts, I went to bathe in the sea on the beach, surrounded by pine forest, not far from our house. Village children would come to that beach almost every morning when the weather was nice. Dragica and Ratko would sometimes come too, dressed in old, worn-out swimsuits borrowed and worn long ago.

AROUND NOON, I DECIDED to head home for something to eat. Dragica had left much earlier with little Ratko. He behaved with her like a puppy. Whenever Dragica went somewhere, she would glance over her shoulder, signaling for him to follow her, and he always obeyed.

I didn't expect to see them again until dinner, but as I approached the house, I spotted them on the cliff overlooking the sea, standing in front of it, praying to God for our mother's life. Leaning against a tree, I also clasped my hands and whispered to God. Then suddenly, I heard a male voice behind me saying, Blazo Bozovicu, why are you crouching there behind that tree?

When I turned around, still crouching next to the tree, Priest Dragoje stood before me. I thought that God had sent him himself. Go to your weeping house, he said. And those two over there on the cliff, are they yours? Yes, Father, they're my siblings.

Priest Dragoje gestured with his hands and shouted, Children, come here! My sister was the first to run over and throw herself at Priest Dragoje's feet, then little Ratko rushed over too, also hugging the priest's leg. I joined them, and we stood embraced like that for a long time. When we arrived home, Priest Dragoje took out a small package from his pocket. When you see your father, he said to me, I want you to give him this.

He handed me the package wrapped in newspaper, about the size of a fish head. These are some medicinal herbs, blessed by God, he told me. Don't listen to Dr. Priestovic if he tells you these herbs are worthless. Let your father make tea from them and give it to your mother; it will ease her pain. These are very precious herbs. Take care of every bit. "If that's the case, sir, it's better if my sister does it.

My father never does anything in the kitchen; he's not very skilled at making tea. Dr. Priestovic told me your mother is ill, said Priest Dragoje. Now you're telling me your father doesn't even know how to make tea! Anyway, he's old, what will become of you, Blazo Bozovicu? Who takes care of you now? Well, to tell you the truth, these days I'm taking care of myself. I know a man. He's older now, but when he was a boy, about your age, his father died. The next year, his mother died too, and then his older brother ran away to Slovenia and left him alone. Sounds a bit like you, doesn't it?"

PRIEST DRAGOJE LOOKED at me. Well, that man's name is Priest Dragoje, he continued. Yes, that's me... although back then, I was called Vukasin Crnojevic. When I was twelve, the monks of Moraca Monastery took me in. And when I grew up a little, I became a monk. Now I lead the Dobrovod parish. And so, you see, everything turned out well for me in the end. Perhaps something similar will happen to you.

I gazed for a moment at the hair tied in a bun, Priest Dragoje, and the long beard on his face. He seemed to me the wisest and most learned man in the world. I believed that he knew things I would never know. I stood before him naked in the dust, with tousled hair and a dirty face, with the scent of seawater on my skin.

I don't think anyone would ever want to adopt me, I said. Do you think so? You're a smart boy, aren't you? You called your house the 'weeping house.' You said your father's head looks like an egg! But it really does look like an egg. It would be silly to say it doesn't. And now, I must go, Blazo Bozovicu, he said. You must be hungry, aren't you?

From that moment on, I began to dream that the Monastery and Priest Dragoje would adopt me. Sometimes, I forget how much I suffered during that time. I suppose I would grasp at anything that would offer me comfort. When I was sad, I often remembered the same image of my mother, from the time when she was healthy. I was four years old then, and it was Christmas time, the time of year when we celebrate the birth of Christ.

After spending the evening at home performing rituals, feasting, and decorating the house with grain and straw, we headed to the church to gather for the final nocturnal celebration in our Orthodox temple on the cliff above the sea. Right in front of the church entrance was a clearing, decorated that evening with colorful market stalls selling icons, sugared fruit, and more. For a while, my mother and I walked with the other villagers accompanied by the singing of the church choir, but I eventually grew tired, so she took me to the edge of the clearing and held me in her lap. In the middle of the clearing, a huge fire was lit. Suddenly, a wind rose from the shore and began to carry sparks of fire. We watched as the flames danced.

The sparks, floating, began to fall to the ground until the wind caught them again, and they sailed through the air straight toward us, leaving behind a trail of golden dust rising toward the sky. The fiery sparks seemed to settle on the ground, but then my mother and I saw them rise again on the air current and float straight toward us.

I felt my mother releasing me, and then she suddenly threw her hands into the fire to scatter it. For a moment, we were both enveloped in a cloud of sparks and embers, but then the bits of fire flew among the trees and there they slept, and no one was harmed, not even my mother.

About a week later, when my fantasies of adoption had had more than enough time to flourish, I came home one afternoon to find Priest Dragoje sitting across from my father at the small table in our house. I knew they were discussing something serious because they didn't notice me when I entered the house. I froze in place to hear what they were saying. So, Pero Bozovicu, what do you think of my proposal? I don't know, Prieste, my father replied. I can't imagine Blazo living anywhere else. I understand you, but it will be much better for him, and for you too. Just make sure he comes to the church tomorrow afternoon.

With that, Priest Dragoje got up, preparing to leave. I pretended I had just arrived, so we would meet at the door. I talked to your father, Blazo, he said to me. I am leaving the day after tomorrow for the Moraca Monastery, for a short visit to the brothers I lived with for many years. The Moraca Monastery is one of the most beautiful places in Montenegro. I think you would like it. Why don't you come with me there? Maybe we could stay overnight? Just for one night, you know, and then I'll bring you back home. What do you think about that?

I said it would be very nice. And I pretended as best I could that this proposal was nothing unusual. However, in my head, it was as if an explosion had occurred. My thoughts were fragmented, and I could barely connect them. The truth was that a part of me desperately hoped that Priest Dragoje would adopt me after my mother's death, but another part of me was very afraid. I was terribly ashamed that I had ever imagined living anywhere other than in our house.

Priest Dragoje left, and I don't know how much time passed. I heard my father sniffling, which I interpreted as a sign that he was crying, making my face burn with shame. When I finally mustered the courage to look at him, I saw him standing in the doorway leading to the bedroom where my mother lay, bathed in sunlight under the blanket that clung to her like a second skin.

The next day, preparing for the journey with Priest Dragoje, I scrubbed my dirty feet and bathed for a while in our bathtub, which used to be an olive oil barrel. Half of it was cut off, and wooden legs were added. I sat in that tub for a long time, gazing out at the sea, feeling very independent because tomorrow I would see something of the world outside our small village for the first time.

The bus to Bar