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Informationen zum Autor Dejan Trajkoski is a writer, founder and director of the International Literary Festival ¿PRO-ZA Balkan¿ and owner of the publishing house Prozart Media. He has worked as a journalist, film festival selector, editor, and publisher. Klappentext "Originally published as Neverstvo in 2014"--T.p. verso. Leseprobe A silent lunar dust descended over the earth that night withnoble intent; like a gentle spray from a waterfall, the sparklingmotes caressed the belly of the sweat-soaked woman, and theseed slid propitiously from her womb. Sunny came into being.His voice struck the air, his eyes perceived the radiance, his bodysensed the closeness of another human being. Sunny, the childwhose name was borrowed from the sun, began the eternal cycleof parting and reunion. That night the Fates, from whose decreesthere is no escape, said: May this child’s eyes radiate tenderness and firmness likethose of a holy icon. The second one said: may both calm andturbulent winds be his companions; may he sport with themas though with brothers. The third one said: may he discoverall the colors of the spectrum, may he combine them, may hehave the power to see even the tear of the queen bee; and mayhe search farther and deeper, in the shadow of a dream, and inthe dirty rains. And so it came to pass. In summer he was visited by snow,and in winter sweltering heat. Like all travelers. * Sunny had many journeys in life. The first and most importantfor him began when his young eyes, which had yet to sense adifferent kind of gaze, fluttered and trembled from the closenessof Luna, the girl whose name was borrowed from the moon.Another began when he boarded a ship. The heavy anchor delivered a parting kiss to the seabed, andwe set sail. How we all managed to get on board the ship evenI don’t know. One way or another, we were shoved head overheels down below, down to the very bottom, into the darkness,piled up against one another as if we were a stack of kindling,freshly cut from the woods, loaded onto a donkey, and tightenedsecurely with a rope so we couldn’t move, so we wouldn’t makeany trouble. That night somehow we managed to lie down. But I neitherslept nor dreamed. I just lay there, and in the muffled chorusof sleepy voices, I sifted through flashes of my departurefrom Macedonia for America. I didn’t understand those firstdreamlike visions in the belly of that giant sea monster. All Iknow is that the ship transformed into something else, somethingequally huge, but above all impalpable—like my father’sshoes, one size too big, which often carried him home muchlater than they should, when all the knobbly logs in the fireplacehad burned out and the house had become as cold as a tomb; orhis hunting rifle, which he paid more attention to than to mymother, who lay awake waiting for him to come home, strokingus gently as we slept. Those gentle strokes often woke me. Butwhen I grew up a bit, around the age of eight or nine, I didn’tpush her hand away. Instead, I let her stroke me, because we allhave a need to be human and to feel something human; and mymother was human, deeply human. Naturally, every night while traveling on the ship, Ireawakened Luna in my heart, the girl with the liveliest eyes,with the most remarkable name, whose hands were covered inneedle pricks from threading tobacco, and were blackened bythe muddy leaves, a mud that can’t be washed or scraped off,and that remains on the person the whole summer long as theobligatory mark of poverty bestowed on the people who live inmy parts. I first saw her when her family moved to our town fromtheir village. In a dress reaching to the ground, the bottom ofwhich was lined with mud, and wearing two different sandals.She was staring at my piece of baked bread smeared with pork...
