Periscope:

29 april 2013 I once saw an ad that fascinated me: “I am looking for a stout woman for a serious relationship (priority Kvatrić).” I often told stories about this classified ad to my friends, to amuse them and so that we would guess what sort of man this is; every time I did that I had a better picture in my head. Soon, I could see him quite clearly: pretty lazy, but also very rational when it comes to saving energy, of course also fat, I mean stout, not interested in long walks, because he gets tired quickly and especially into having his relationship here, somewhere close to Kvatrić Square. It also became clear to me that this ad probably has a romantic effect, even though it may not seem so at first. Let us just imagine for a moment that a stout lady, living somewhere near Kvatrić, stumbles upon this ad. She has to respond! He is looking for her! He is not looking just for any woman, to him not all of them are the same (as others seem to think), the hand of romance is pointing directly at her: stout, Kvatrić! Congratulations master! This is how it works in life: you have to know exactly what you want.

A simple and modest ad sometime uncovers an entire story. There is another type of personal ads that is much less cheerful, but can still be interesting. A story can be hidden also in an obituary. Actually, it is always trying to tell a story about a tragic loss, but this genre rarely seems real; all obituaries seem alike, and that is why the individuality of pain is hidden in the generality. When I was in Sarajevo last year, an acquaintance of mine showed me an obituary, a so-called sad memory, with a completely individual tone. This acquaintance was carrying this obituary, together with some other newspaper clippings, in his wallet he stated they couldn’t be printed anywhere else than in Bosnia. I took a picture of this obituary with my phone, so I can now always read the text written below a picture of a man called Boro (I am leaving out the last name), who died two years ago. The text says: “My dear friend Boro. I am now experiencing the biggest disappointments of my entire life, so please let me address you and tell you: you have nothing to regret. We have experienced everything, you lived, you drank. I thought you how to spend money and now our miserable wives suffer next to all this money. I am trying to convince God to arrange for us to meet as soon as possible, but he is answering me: get in line and wait, you’re not the only one! Yours truly, Dževad-Panta.”

This sort of remembrance may seem funny at first sight. I actually laughed when I read it for the first time. But after you stop laughing, you must admit: it is clear that they were a team. And that he is missing his buddy.

So what makes it so funny? In the genre of journalistic necrologies the living are often speaking to the dead as though they could hear us, but that’s not the point. The funny thing is that Dževad-Panta is actually talking to his buddy, not just metaphorically, but it seems as though Dževad-Panta is actually talking to his friend Bora while having drinks and complaining about their cheap wives. And of course it would be completely possible that Dževad-Panta had something to drink while putting together this text – nothing is more normal that having a drink or two on the anniversary of your old friend’s death. This remembrance is so funny because it is so alive – unlike most obituaries, it tells a story of a true relationship and friendship and also of the loneliness of the one who was left behind is experiencing. It’s not The Bridges of Madison County and it’s not Brokeback Mountain, but it is a story nevertheless.
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