The Lawsuit

“So, it can’t be done,” said Radivoj, crumpling and half-breaking his worn black hat.

“It can’t,” replied the man behind the desk, quickly gathering some papers to call out:
“Next!…”

“You were the one I trusted the most, sir, doctor. Everyone says: ‘Go to Auer, he’s a well-known lawyer.’

And I listened. What now? You say there’s no evidence! Would I, old and sick as I am, come all the way to town just to lie?

Would I stand here with you, excuse the expression, making a fool of myself?”

The man sat down again, determined to push through his “justice.” His face was reddish, his eyes inflamed, as if he might burst into tears at any moment.

He wore a long shepherd’s coat lined with lambskin, wooden clogs on his feet. His eyes, whether from the heat or agitation, burned with an unhealthy glow; instead of eyelashes, reddish rims.

“My eyes went bad in that war. I didn’t want to go to the army; I didn’t want to fight for the Swabians. Back then we were under Franz. At home they boiled some kind of herb root for me, said it wasn’t dangerous, just enough to fool that German doctor. I washed my eyes with that tea twice a day—almost went blind.”

The lawyer watched him, as if he himself didn’t know where the beginnings and ends of a peasant’s misery lay, and remained silent for a moment. Radivoj thought that just now, while he was pondering like that, he might persuade him to write that lawsuit—so important for him.

He kept turning the hat in his hands. (What got into me this morning to take it? My old woman told me nicely, “Take the fur cap, it’s cold,” but I said, “I’m going to town…”)

Radivoj kept kneading his “proof of elegance,” and now, fully resolved to get things straight, he addressed the typist:

“You, miss, didn’t hear everything—you were a bit late today. What can you do? Husband, children, I understand. I’ll tell you everything in order, same as I told the doctor. You’re an educated woman. Even if you’re not, say, a lawyer, you work with one—you’ll understand.”

He smiled slyly: “As folks say, ‘If I wasn’t in, I peeked through the fence.’”

“That morning when I set off to the fair in Ruma, I never even dreamed I’d be chasing my own money through the courts. And it wasn’t the first time, either. It happened to me once before.

Five, six years ago. Only then I didn’t go to court—small money, small damage.

So I’m walking along, looking for opanci, when some young rascal, about seventeen, stops me:

‘What are you looking for, old man?’

I tell him I need opanci for myself and the old woman. (My son sends me shoes for more festive occasions—not much good, I can barely squeeze my foot into them—but still, I don’t have to buy.)

He had worked as a gatekeeper in Topola—fine job. Lets in whoever he wants, doesn’t let in whoever he doesn’t. Didn’t even let me in once.

‘This is entrusted to me,’ he says. ‘It’s social property. Idlers are strictly forbidden,’ he says—it’s written so, and I’ve got nothing to complain about.)

Anyway, the rascal says: ‘I’ll take you, old man—I need opanci too.’

Now I don’t even ask what he needs them for. I see he dresses like a townsman, but I don’t suspect anything. He leads me along some side paths, and I follow him like I’d eaten henbane.

He says: ‘Opanci are very expensive.’

‘I’ve got it,’ I say, ‘I’ve taken care of it—for me and the old woman, and I must buy for Stoja too. She milks the cow every morning—I never liked doing that, and the old woman, well, she’s worn out.’

And while I’m thinking how I’ll surprise Stoja, I look around—no opanci, no rascal, and not even my pouch with money.

I swallow it somehow. Fell for it myself.

I come home gloomy.
Right from the door I shout:

‘You want new opanci? Do you know how much they cost? You wander around the house—may you wander forever—and you need opanci? From now on you’ll walk in socks!’

My old woman is soft-hearted, like any woman, and starts crying:

‘I’m going to our son in Topola,’ she says. ‘All my life you’ve tormented me for nothing. I didn’t ask for opanci. I’ll fix the old ones and go. And you, go chat with your late grandfather when you wake up.’

‘Go on, go,’ I say, ‘they’re fighting over you there—excuse the expression—like over a dirty stick.’

She shrieked—never saw her like that—got angry and left.

She stayed there three weeks, knitting socks and gloves for the children, then came back home. I was glad, but I said nothing. We Štrci are stubborn—our father was the same. They call us Štrci out of spite in the village, what they call a ‘nickname.’ I never minded—it never disgraced anyone.

Two years ago I lost Soka’s address. I had to go to Belgrade to the doctor.

Lala Vasa told me: ‘Straight from the station, the street’s wide—you can’t miss it. Second alley left, then third or fourth house, with a “coquette window.” Soka always sits there, watching people.’

I found the house easily, but no Soka.
I started shouting: ‘Soka! Oh, Soka!’

And there she is at the window. Moves the curtains, but can’t believe it’s me.

‘Why are you surprised?’ I say. ‘I knew I’d find you.’

We go to the doctor together, finish that business.

But where am I now? Tell me—there’s no justice for this?

If it were less money, I wouldn’t even look for him. But like this—I can’t forgive it.

My old woman told me, but I didn’t listen: ‘Lala Vasa has a good horse. You’ll strike a deal easily, and it’s close by. You know its temperament. You’re not for a wild horse anymore.’

Well, I’ll show you I am—for a wild one and even wilder! I won’t let the reins out of my hands till I die.

Vidra’s grown old, but I won’t send her to the slaughterhouse—she served honestly for twenty years. I had to sell Asan—he was a fine horse.

So I thought, I’ll buy at the fair in Ruma the best horse. That’ll be my last one—the one that’ll pull me to the grave.

I walk around, looking. A crowd gathers somewhere. I come closer—people poking, checking teeth. The owner boasts.

No need to boast to me—I know a good horse from afar.

But he won’t sell just one—he wants to sell both the horse and the mare.

Now I hesitate—I don’t need two. I’m already feeding Vidra for nothing.

And just then—he appears. ‘Uncle Radivoje,’ he says.

‘The horses are good. It’s a shame to miss the chance. I’d take one, but I don’t have money on me.’

I know the man, and his late father—from a neighboring village. A respectable family.

So I think, why not help him? I’ll pay, and he’ll give it back when he has it. Money just sits anyway. That way we both get a horse.

Friday comes—he and his wife bring the first installment.
Three weeks later—the second. We sit, drink some wine, my old woman cuts ham, we talk nicely.

They get embarrassed and say: ‘You’ll wait another month, Uncle Radivoje, until we pay for the hay.’

I wait one month, two, three. I send word. Nothing.

Yesterday, in this storm, I went. They attacked me with pitchforks: ‘Get out of the yard! What horse, what money, you senile fool!’

I barely escaped.

And now you tell me, sir doctor, there’s no case—no evidence. And if I wanted to lie, I’d have said he didn’t even pay those two installments.

And now you ask why I didn’t take a receipt. Well, what am I—I’m not the National Bank!”

Vera Arsenović