The Aftermath of a Perfect Day

Mirko Božić
7 min readOct 20, 2023
Neum (photo by author)

We were on the way to a town on the Adriatic coast with a wild intention to have a dip. It was the last day of the 2023 Poligon literary festival and the sun was shining so strongly as if were taking its last breath. The three of us had met last summer in Istria and spend an unforgettable weekend together, full of great food, wine and exploring the endless sequence of pictoresque, semi-abandoned hilltop towns. There was a warm breeze in the air but the sea was cold. I could feel the sting of salt on my legs and saw a swarm of medusa-like creatures swim around it. It might as well be a swarm of used condoms. Then again I didn’t get any for ages now so it must be my subconscious going all Freud on my ass. I’m not really that desperate.

There were a couple of old ladies sunbathing behind us, in the middle of almost empty beach covered in pebbles. October was very kind to us this year: the lure of the coast, smelling of pomegranates and mandarines, infused our heads with a sense of anticipation and optimism. On the roadside in the middle of nowhere locals were selling fresh produce. It looked like a parallel universe where everything was trouble-free because it was too far from civilization. But this was a different scenery, with hotels everywhere and houses spilling down the hillsides towards the crystal blue sea. This is where I learned to swim a long time ago, during a vacation with my family.

In a sort of a poetic misunderstanding, it was either the city reaching out to the water or the other way around. Jana was an architect and Jelena was a playwright. Their passion and experience protruded from every single line: Jana’s book of lyrical prose was an endless reflection on plants and her relationship to them, while Jelena’s writing was all about motherhood and children confronted by the banalities of everyday life. Her own book was shaped like a rather loose screenplay. Having met her Russian husband, it doesn’t surprise me they threw almost a shotgun wedding. The reading was a success and they intrigued the audience in a way I wasn’t expecting.

You could feel passion in their voices and it was also on full display during our day trip, which started on a note promising something memorable. It turned out to be more than I bargained for, though I wouln’t find it out till later in the night. Follow the sun and it will take you where you need to go, which is exactly what we did and soon found us descending down the road in search of a parking lot before pulling out our beach gear. My trunks had a slightly tighter grip around my hips than I’d like to admit. The belief I still fit into this size is the wall between me and midlife crisis. On the other hand, ditching the skinny fit is the first step into becoming a bitter adult with a preemptive grudge against everyone within eyesight.

Davor Šišović (far left)

There’s a bar where we were one of the few remaining guests. This would be the first time ever I did this in October. Global warming in its full glory. There were no changing rooms so the restroom of the bar would have to do. The toilet bowl was equipped with a tube to wash your ass if your religion prohibits you from using paper. It’s supposed to be healthier for your backdoor but there’s no way in hell I’d do it outside my home. I’ve never been very good at shooting in the right direction anyway. You can ask my toilet bowl. The poor thing would sue my ass if it could, it’s the only part of me it’s familiar with after all. To be honest, I do feel like an asshole about it but someone’s got to do all that dirty work for you. My bowels are tuned as fine as a violin. The difference is when they sing, they stink too.

There was a faint scent of mandarines you could buy on the roadside. We had taken the wrong turn and skipped on a few places where you could get those, until in the end, there was one in a semi-abandoned area, near a house that might as well be standing on the moon as everything around it suggested a slow but persistent decay. It had an undeniable charm to it. The Mediterranean as it once was. Not that modern illusion with a swimming pool surrounded by olive trees, pomegranate juice on ice and salad with organic produce. Rather the real deal: an unfinished house with a full laundry line dangling from the first floor terrace, a little chapel next to the gate and a derelict car rusting away into the ground underneath.

Roadside mandarines (photo by author)

With a plastic bag full of sun, we were about to pack our stuff and go back, because there’s one more night and a reading waiting for us in my favourite bookshop. Igor Borozan is a poet from Stolac whose simple poetic conveys comfort feeling like a lyrical blanket to wrap yourself in when your toes start to freeze through your socks. After we picked him up in the beautiful historical town of Stolac, a wonderland full or valuable archaeology and architecture, he took us to see a curious little building next door to a medieval necropolis. It was a studio designed by his uncle and architect Emir Buzaljko. He was a devoted painter and the favourite student of one of our country’s most famous architects, Zlatko Ugljen. One of those rare torchbearers that fight to preserve authentic beauty through new forms that don’t disrespect it, though those battles inevitably turn futile.

His uncle died very young, at 40 years old. In that short timespan, he managed to achieve much more than people who are granted at least forty years more, and we should be grateful for his reamarkable legacy. Primarily because these examples are few and far between in small towns like this one, especially when they’re plagued by political turmoil bordering on apartheid that holds a firm grip on every attempt of healing. Yet beauty never completely disappears: it’s resistant to politics and its tiresome turmoils. There’s solace in this knowledge. Someone else had died too early that same day, but I had no idea. Or at least not before we finished with the program. Davor Šišović, a friend and journalist who immensely contributed to the literary scene and gastronomy in and around the city of Pazin where I was staying in a literary retreat, was killed in an accident.

Jana and Jelena at the Radimlja necropolis (photo by author)

It just isn’t fair and it felt like a foreboding. That very same day on the coast, Jana and me talked about the good times we had with him. I was excited, because every time with him would turn into a memorable occasion that leaves an irresistible new taste on your palate. Proust had madeleines, and I have something that will forever remind me of him and all the good stuff we shared: a chocolate cake topped with honey, olive oil and white truffles. Davor was an expert on the topic: he’d explain in detail similarities and differences, how to choose the best bottle of wine and where to go for the best cured ham and cheese in the region. A true homo universalis of life’s small pleasures, he will be missed by many. What hurts is the fact that his clash with the train in a local tunnel suggests a suicide, and you’d never assume he was the type. It might remain a mystery.

What is a type anyway? What kind of type is suicidal? Isn’t that a universal issue? I never understood the label. If there’s anything typical, it’s that people who choose to check out that way hardly ever suggest they’d be inclined to such a desperate move. A celebration of yet another successful year with my friends turned into tears dripping down into my wine glass, floating in it like clouds in a violent rainstorm. I couldn’t think, there were no words left. Jana was supposed to start early to get home on time, yet she couldn’t sleep, and walked around town like a ghost. This must be a dream and when I wake up everything will be alright again, I kept telling myself.

In the morning, I grabbed my phone and hoping it was indeed some sort of a sick joke, checked his Facebook profile. It looked like a book of condolences, with dozens of messages and right underneath, a photo from his last assignment: a folklore competition where he was undoubtedly in the jury. He was known for it and a regular visitor to any sort of events involving art, literature and food. News of his death spread out like wildfire. I shall miss him. But we lost so much more than a friend. Just like the architect in Stolac, Davor was one of the driving spirits behind things that attract writers to add their own stardust to this small galaxy that would hardly reach as far as it does without him. Shocked and surprised, I did the only appropriate thing: opened a bottle of the best wine I had, poured myself a glass and raised it to the skies. Here’s to you, buddy. Sometimes I wish I believed in an afterlife. It’s a long way to the bottom of the bottle, and this one is too good to waste. I’m sure that’s what he would say.

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Mirko Božić
Mirko Božić

Written by Mirko Božić

Author, critic and founder of the Poligon Literary Festival. If you enjoy my work support it through Buy Me A Coffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/mirkobozic1

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