Free THE LUTE AND THE SCARS by Adam Thirlwell and John K. Cox Page A

another round. This is homemade kirsch . Some friends brought it to me. A writer, ” he went on, “ is supposed to observe life in its totality. The writer has to point out the great theme, dying — so that humans might be less proud, less selfish, less evil — and, on the other hand, he or she must imbue life with some kind of meaning. Art is the balance between those two contradictory concepts. And a person ’ s duty, especially for a writer — and now you ’ ll say I ’ m talking like an old man — involves leaving behind in this world not work (everything is work) but rather some goodness, some knowledge. Every written word is a piece of creation. ” He paused. “ Listen to that: the birds are singing already. Let ’ s turn in. Marija Nikolajevna will be angry if we go on like this till morning. She ’ s had a difficult life. Very difficult. ”
    I never had the nerve to ask him what kind of conflagration left its terrible tracks on her body. Just as I also never came to learn anything about his own life. From my “ acquaintance, ” the woman who had called my attention to this apartment and recommended me to the couple, I knew only that Marija Nikolajevna “ had suffered burns while escaping from Russia ” and that Nikolaj Aleksinski had come to Belgrade by way of Constantinople and was a specialist in forestry (a profession that I later assigned to the fictitious protagonist of one of my stories, in memory of Nikolaj Aleksinski, who already struck me as fictive, even back then). Although I spent many nights in conversation with this lively, good-hearted old man, I never heard so much as a single sentence from him spoken in confidence. I figured that my own shared confidences would make him my debtor, that he would one day grow communicative. But despite my confessions he never revealed anything about his earlier life.
    I say to him: “ What . . . should . . . I . . . do? I . . . am . . . in . . . love . . . with . . . two . . . women. ”
    At once his face assumes an expression of sincere concern. His eyes, twinkling with encouragement, betray the fact that my romantic woes have touched his heart.
    “ Love is a frightfully tricky thing. Don ’ t hurt either one of them. And don ’ t rush into anything. For your sake, and theirs. ”
    I say: “ You ’ ve met one of them . . . I introduced her to you a month ago. ”
    “ Clytemnaestra, ” he comments. “ A real Clytemnaestra. She ’ s capable of doing serious harm. Harm to herself or to you. Love is a terrible thing. What can I tell you? One can ’ t learn anything from the romantic experiences of other people. Every encounter between a man and a woman starts off as if it were the first such meeting on earth. As if there haven ’ t already been billions of such encounters since the time of Adam and Eve. You see, experience in love is nontransferable. This is a great misfortune. And a great piece of luck. God set things up this way. Just one more, and then I ’ ll put the bottle away. Marija Nikolajevna would be upset. Be careful. Don ’ t hurt anyone. Our souls carry the wounds of love longer than anything. And take care that literature doesn ’ t come to be a substitute for love for you. Literature is dangerous that way too. Life can ’ t be replaced by anything. ”
    Sometimes I asked him to play on his lute for me. When he was in a good mood, he ’ d say, “ Tune it for me. I know you know how to do it. ”
    I would tune the lute and he ’ d start to play. He knew a few lieder and some Gypsy romances by heart. His ears had gone deaf but a few melodies still tingled in them, like distant memories; and he would make these remarkable sounds as he played, as though humming to himself.
    “ I think it sounds good today, ” he ’ d say.
    I would nod in agreement.
    “ That ’ s because it ’ s cloudy outside, ” he stated. “ The lute has been drying out. But weather like this suits it. Is it in tune? ”
    Leaning over the instrument