150
Arguing with her is futile. She would smile and declare, “No matter what you write, no matter you do, in the end you will be buried in a tiny grave.” She would extend her right arm, slowly walk towards me, and put her hand on my forehead, asking mockingly, “And you write in Slovenian. Who is going to take you seriously?” She would then turn me around, cover my mouth and eyes, and say, “So much pain for a small grave among small roturier graves.”
As you can see, sometimes she can be unbearably pretentious.
151
I will tell you a secret now – a secret that has left a great impression on Julija: on her mother’s side, she is descended from a noble Italian house, hence her obsession with aristocracy, even though she enjoys no practical benefits from this fact. I try not to think about this subject because it only amplifies the melancholy.
Yes, Julija really does think that even though she is not fully descended from nobility, she has inherited that family’s ‘type’ – its mental and outward traits, and yes, she believes nobility requires a biological basis, opining we are predominately descended from that stock. But I don’t want to think about these things, as they could be misunderstood as race-related. Besides, that ‘glorious’ origin is too fairy-tale-like for my taste, and I don’t want to put much attention to it accordingly.
152
I don’t think Julija wants me to be forty. She would not forgive me if I reached that age. Would she turn into a beast and try to deprive me of her love? Probably. Her visits would become excessively violent and unbearably chaotic. And before that, when I turned thirty-nine, she would scream, “Have you gone mad? Let me out, you repulsive hag!”
It’s amusing because she didn’t want us to be thirty as well. Heh, these words made the Keeper smile a bit.
153
Sometimes, something sends my inner eyes back in time to re-experience a moment or event. During that process, Julija is standing in the background, silently, as if judging me. Just to be clear: when I said she is standing behind me – that’s her spirit. The sun does not radiate from beneath her skin in that form. The summoned Julija is different.
154
“It’s September already,” she uttered, lowering her arms, hugging my neck tightly. Yes, in January she was promised I would set her free – either in July or August.
…
She wasn’t exactly tender when she was caressing my neck. She wanted to communicate something.
155
The sealed tomb of the aforementioned noble family, which was quite notorious during the nineteenth and twentieth century in these parts, comes into view, and her expression darkens.
“Aw, Julija, stop being so childish. You’re so silly.” I try not to think about them as their memory brought me nothing but frustration. “Listen to me. I want to live where they lived as well: in an actual castle surrounded by water, but we can’t, okay? Let go of these thoughts! … Don’t worry; I don’t think I’ll reach thirty-nine.” I grab her by the shoulders, shaking her lightly, and after having moved my head closer to hers, I make a cheerful face, as if trying to amuse a little child, saying, “Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow … !”
156
I am sure that a long time ago existed a man or a woman, a relative, with a similar state of mind. And I am certain that this mental configuration was not only compatible but also useful to the people in contact with that person. Therefore I refuse to be changed, knowing that he or she lived a fulfilling life. I was born in the wrong place at the wrong time. That is all.
…
It is also possible that I received this ‘mental illness’ from a long line of outwardly cold, morbid, tormented women. They were forced to bear children, and because of that the ‘mental illness’ was perpetuated.
157
Leaving the cemetery, we turn our eyes to the sky and see a procession of white clouds, with a tall grey-white one at the head of it, marching towards us. That cloud is imposing and unusually near the ground; it’s almost directly above us. It feels as if it is trying to talk to us.
The thought of living among them is intoxicating, but I say nothing.
158
Is the umbrella I’m carrying big enough for both of us? … We don’t have to find out. There is no rain. It rained in the morning.
159
Julija doesn’t hate me; she feels sorry for me. She would probably hate me, though, if I reached thirty-nine, as we would drift too far apart. I’m thirty-five while she is stuck at twenty-three. Once upon a time, both Julija and I possessed the ability to steer the Keeper. But because Julija had refused to mature, she wasn’t able to renew the knowledge required for control. In her spiritual form, Julija is unable to bypass the Keeper’s defences and synchronize her with my emotional states.
160
A hostile thought: extending my right arm, I open and offer my hand to Julija – but she suddenly pulls out her sword from nowhere and, before I realize what is happening, cuts it off. Trying to hold back the pain, I cry timidly, “Ahhh-ahhh-ahhh … !” I know that she would never do something like that. The thought probably occured because we are slowly drifting apart: she’s young, while I’m getting older and older. It’s as if I were punished for re-reading her dusty old diary entries and deeming them atrocious and unworthy of entering the record.
It’s for her own good. That diary of ours must stay locked.
…
She would never do it. And besides, it would be hard to prepare the device with only one hand.
161
What would happen in the courtroom if I admited that, after all, not only was Julija right, but also I was always aware of it? Would I be dragged to the execution spot while screaming, “Julija is just a one-trick pony; all she knows is how to lead a cavalry charge! Flaps is the de facto commander, not she! Help me, anyone!”
Julija suddenly pulls the umbrella from my hand, and throws it on the ground so violently that its deformation suggests no further usability. She then presses a long, thin, dull needle against the beating of my heart.