Zvone – Inner Dialogue

Where Did My Laughter Go? The Smile That Stayed Behind  A few weeks ago I found myself sitting at a table with a group of people I have known for years. It was one of those completely ordinary gatherings that seem so unimportant at the time that nobody would think of remembering them later. Someone had made coffee. Someone else had brought a cake. The conversation wandered wherever conversations among familiar people usually wander. A little about work, a little about children and grandchildren, a little about politics, and a little about how things used to be better, although nobody seemed entirely sure in what way. Then somebody made a remark. Today I have no idea what was actually said. The joke itself has long since disappeared from memory. What remained was the reaction. Around the table people burst out laughing. One man almost spilled his coffee. A woman beside him bent forward and wiped tears from her eyes. Even the person who made the joke started laughing at his own co...

We Were Both Right A few friends and I were sitting beneath the shade of a large apple tree, escaping the afternoon heat and discussing a traffic accident that had happened the previous day. One of them mentioned that a motorcyclist had died after crashing head-on into a car driven by an older woman. Apparently she crossed into the opposite lane for reasons nobody understood. Naturally, the discussion immediately transformed into unofficial forensic investigation conducted by men holding coffee cups. My friend shook his head and said: “I’m not saying the woman wasn’t at fault, but these motorcyclists… they drive like lunatics. No wonder there are so many fatal accidents.” And instantly, without even thinking properly, I reacted. “No, wait a minute. Motorcyclists are often hard to notice. Older drivers lose reflexes, attention drops with age, maybe she simply didn’t see him…” At that exact moment a memory flashed through my mind — a motorcyclist who once appeared beside my car ...

Drunk By Obligation Yesterday one of the younger nephews celebrated his eighteenth birthday. The family organized a proper village-style celebration. A maypole was raised, long tables appeared under a canopy, crates of drinks materialized from somewhere mysterious, and relatives operated with the quiet efficiency of people who have organized exactly the same event at least forty-seven times before. Most guests were his generation — classmates, friends from town, loud boys pretending to be men already and girls pretending not to notice them pretending.  The atmosphere started warming up already in the late afternoon. Naturally, the first thing served was whisky. Because apparently in human civilization the transition from “child” to “adult” is traditionally marked by immediately poisoning the liver. The Ritual Begins At first everyone behaved relatively normally. People laughed. Music played. Someone grilled meat. Someone carried chairs around nervously as if chai...