Guildenstern

I was out walking this morning in Ohrid, in the old part of the city by the lake. And when I say old I mean old – people have been living around there since about 300 BC.  Walking in the oldest parts of the city can be tiring – countless centuries ago, Macedonians fearing attack had fortified the hilltop and gradually built downwards,  so central Ohrid is a maze of steep, twisting streets and stairways, not built for cars, but they go there anyway, whizzing by and forcing you to press yourself against the wall untill they pass.  It was quite exhausting, and, to fortify myself, I had aquired a bottle of the ineptly named Jaffa Nice Tea.

Anyway, I passed an old house. It was built of sun-baked mud, stone, and timber, which puts it at about 100 years of age. What caught my eye was a white sign posted on the door.   Zalna vest, it said – sorrowful news.  Spaca Makedonka pocina na 21 Avgust, 2002 godina, i ne ostavi zasegogas da zalime. Spasa Makedonka died on August 21st, 2002, and left us to mourn forever.

I looked through a small window set above the door – the glass pane was broken, and iron bars had been set in it.  All I could see was a brown curtain with white flowers printed on it; darkness, and a suggestion of dust.  It was easy to imaginethat no one had come to Spasa’s funeral; that no one mourned her; that no one noted her passing, save for the government official that had filled out the form letter and posted it on her door.  It was easy to imagine that she had died  alone, in this old, rotting house; that she had died knowing that she was alone.

This house, this crumbling mud and rotting wood, seemed to me to contain a melancholy so intense that it was inexpressible; to describe it would be to demean it.  I sat on the steps in front of the house for a good half hour, and then walked away, feeling a bit silly.  After all, I hadn’t even known her.

I couldn’t find trash can for the empty bottle, so, being the conscientious person I am, I had to carry it around for almost an hour.