(Excerpt from the catalogue: The Knights of Worthlessness)

The basic presumption of this catalogue or, if you prefer, this fair of human incompleteness is the assertion that in the existing world man is dead and cannot possibly be resurrected. After the successfully committed murder of God, as well as after the systematic destruction of any rational proof of our own existence, this is quite an understandable end, and to be honest - the fate that homo humanus deserved long ago. What is left, reliquiae reliquiarum, are mere phenomena of a different and undefined ontological status, beings without foundation whose existence may be identified within the range from Frights to Freaks, to name but the basic divisions within the catalogue.
Kind readers, I believe, will find a few sympathetic words for man, and tender-hearted as they are, will disapprove of the author's intent to misrepresent all there is and depict it from its hideous aspect. The world is not a secularized hell, they will say, and the fruits of this applied demagogy do not fit a sublime being such as the human. They will assume that the author has obviously succumbed to the adverse impacts of the time he lives in, that the transitional Disneyland has set its detrimental seal on his soul, too. Could it have been different, the author will ask resignedly, and these will be the only words he will allow himself to utter in his defence. He realized long ago that it was not worth arguing with the so-called optimists, particularly those acting in the line of duty, who are the most numerous today. The writer maintains that after all the tasks that were accomplished and all the roles that were played in the past, the last dignified standpoint to take for the one who still perceives himself as a thinking being is to infect people with scepticism and pessimism. About which I shall say no more!
There is no text without a subtext, avers an ancient principle in literary theory. Therefore, not even the text which opens up freely before the reader is a uniform, shadowless orphan. Among the reading material that was accessible and of use to him, the author singles out merely two examples as ones that have had a more significant influence on the formation of his world-view: Theophrastus's 'Characters' and the television crime series 'Profiler'.
PS The difference between Frights and Freaks lies in the following: Frights still have recollections of their lost soul, whereas Freaks are firmly convinced that they have never ever had one.


The Journalist

A miserable creature, essentially, whether he works for the Government or the opposition. When his mobile phone rings, he rises from the table, ceases the ongoing conversation without a word of apology and walks a few meters away to talk, undisturbed, to his "trustworthy source". He avoids gesticulation during the conversation and, in order to prevent possible eavesdropping, puts his free hand to his mouth, his head slightly inclined to one side. Upon finishing the conversation, he complacently reveals to the group at the table the name of his collocutor, usually some influential person from the world of politics or business, someone inaccessible to mere mortals. He knows all the important people from the public administration personally; he regularly drinks his morning coffee and whiskey with them, and he has known them for quite some time, since the time when they were still nobodies 'with no pants on their bums,' as he says metaphorically, almost affectionately. It is beyond dispute that he is a person of importance, which he never fails to point out. His opinion is significant and he does not hesitate to express it; he has heard or read (though he has less and less time for reading) that, being a journalist, he represents the voice of the public and that his role is significant to the development of democracy-a fact that makes him happy and that he regularly emphasizes. It does not make any difference who he is talking to; he does not fear possible investigation, for he long ago became accustomed to the elusive life of lies.
Although he can be bribed with a paltry sum of money, his favourite story is one of honour and respect for journalistic ethics. He is keen on quoting the thoughts of Marko Miljanov but, just like any Montenegrin, does so selectively, avoiding anything that could be applied critically to himself. Which by no means is seen as a contradiction, for he somehow fails to perceive himself. His eyes are always turned in the right direction; only it is not he who determines the right direction. He is happy about this, since it frees him from the need to think.
His texts are written with the intent to "let them know," and the greatest praise he can get from his readers (people like him, of course) is, "well done, mate, nobody has ever blackened them like that." He does not bother to research data, for he knows that there are certain offices that will do that exhausting job for him and he trusts them. His is only the slanderous form of the healthy, widely understood "folk" language of his village. He is delighted to see a decasyllabic line sparkle in his text; he enjoys writing verses and rhymes, regarding them as special features of his journalistic style. These are actually what he is known by in the Montenegrin media, he claims, only to add, not without pride in his voice, that his cutting edge is well-known out of the country, "in Belgrade even."
He has been sued for libel and defamation in a court of law several times in his career, but has usually escaped conviction-he has always managed to ensure that he is well protected. After all, he has always inveighed against only those who cannot retaliate; that is the measure of his courage. Lawsuits brought by injured parties are regularly dismissed by him as an organized attack on freedom of thought and speech, whereas what he sees lying behind them are low, exclusively political motives.
He kept close track of events when 'people happened' and participated in the happenings behind the scenes (even today, at a table in a coffee bar, he indulges in political piquancies of the times); but it was only in the "war for peace" that he made a name for himself. However, unlike his retarded colleagues who, irrespective of all military defeats, continued to blow the war-mongering horn, he realigned himself in time and became a leading advocate of the democratic process. With zeal similar to that of a former Nazi, he now writes eulogies to respect for human rights and freedom of media, as well as to the need to decontaminate society's public discourse. For "Europe strongly demands that from us," as this self-assured interpreter of European interests in the region frequently writes in his articles. He is adaptable and that is his best asset.
He is a member of a few journalistic and literary associations and holder of several war and peacetime commendations and decorations, but since many of these have been recently devalued, he adroitly fails to include them in his curriculum vitae, for it is no longer advisable to do so. He is a master of auto-design and he invests a lot of energy in maintaining a false picture of himself. But since he lives on it, he does not consider the price. In his early days he published two books of poetry and spent a certain period of his life carried away with the thought that he would somehow manage to make a poet of himself. Fortunately, he soon realized that this was not going to happen, that his poetic potential had been drained in the two little books. Accordingly, he abandoned poetry for good and tumbled into journalism. When asked by inquisitive people why he stopped writing poetry, he replies haughtily, 'I've realized that there is more to life than that.' And, indeed, the dissolution of the state, moral and social collapse, defence of the nation's imperilled interests all demanded his engagement, and he made a recognizable contribution to them all. He abandoned literature, but not the writers' association. For when he happens to misjudge who is going to gain political power and temporarily loses his editorial job, he starts flourishing his two little poetry books and, as a full member of the literary set, runs about in an attempt to make the new government provide a new job for him, one which would correspond to his social importance, of course. A favourable circumstance is that he is not left without a job for long, a month or two at most, until the power ratios fall into place, that is until he becomes usable and helpful again.
He lives with his family in his father's house, dreaming of getting a flat in one of the elite buildings in the city centre; he deserved it, he says, long ago. His hysterical wife harasses and insults him incessantly, whereas his two smudged, aging children-loafers and failed students-pay hardly any attention to him or her, instead 'just asking for money, money, money...' But he hasn't the slightest idea how to do this; it seems to him that he has tried everything, but it was all in vain. In the beginning he wrote on request, scribbled to order and for decent money. However, he soon realized that he could even get money for an unwritten article, but only if he is smart enough. When he smells a fraud, and thank God there is no shortage of tenders and privatization, he addresses the manager of the company with a request for a grant, with the explanation (verbal, of course) that they would be better-off paying him one or two thousand Euros than having a series of 'destructive articles' published. And the managers pay, it is nothing to them, just to get rid of the wretched man and not to have their name mentioned in the press in a negative context. But when he gets deep into debt, when he is painfully in need of money (with, unfortunately, no political scandal in sight to take advantage of), he goes from firm to firm soliciting money for a projected book. The fact that he has no intention of publishing any book does not bother him at all: he needs money and, as he learnt long ago, the aim justifies the means.
In rare moments when he admits to himself his vaunting ambition, he imagines being a high official, a minister or at least the director of state television, and some inner joy overwhelms him as he gets carried away by daydreaming, and all his sorrows vanish without trace. "Goodbye pubs and cheap booze, goodbye small change and the company of losers, now it's time for big business," he says to himself quietly, in an undertone. He whispers, already seating himself in an official limousine, the soft leather of the back seat soothing his worn body. He selects a bottle of expensive cognac from the car fridge and takes a sip... Unfortunately, his daydreams are interrupted by grim reality, some utterly insignificant person rings on the mobile; he is peevish and very shortly terminates the call. Then he tries to recapture the shattered dream, to relapse into it, but he cannot. He curses, desperately curses his fate and all those positions which have escaped him by a hair's breadth. At least he is convinced that was the case: by a thin hair's breadth, the thinnest of all tiny hairs in the world.
He belongs to the Freaks' set and cannot be helped.


The Apprentice Journalist

Very much like his spiritual father-although he would not admit that on your life-he is still young and thinks he is a better player, indeed a player not seen before, at least not in the region. But he will grow out of it. The first political fuck-up in the editorial office will turn him toward soft drugs; he is prone to them anyway, being made of low-grade material.
He has not had much education, only high school (unlike his senior colleague, he has not attempted university studies), but he has completed an intensive course on "How to Become a Journalist" sponsored by a foreign organization commissioned by the UN to enhance and upgrade the quality of local journalists. And he is satisfied with what he has achieved. Someone from the editorial office once drew his attention to the fact that journalists must constantly educate themselves and develop their own style-thus making a sworn enemy of himself. In his free time he plays computer games, listens to music and fantasizes about one day founding an NGO that would be responsible for media monitoring. In the meantime, he moonlights for paltry sums of money and, as part of an assignment, visits greengrocers in order to compare prices. This does not bother him. He is cool. He still cherishes hope, which is praiseworthy indeed.
As writing tires him very quickly, he avoids that part of the journalist's craft whenever possible. His hand is ideally suited to a microphone and a camera that carefully records even the slightest twitch of his subject's face. He has a natural gift for babbling and is convinced that this is enough. And he may well be right.
Although not seriously immersed in journalism yet, he is already thinking of quitting it. Prior to founding his own NGO, he would eagerly try his hand as a PR manager of an existing NGO. His stammer when speaking with serious people does not really matter, nor does the fact that his sentences are feeble and disorderly, that he is not quite in harmony with language cases and does not know Montenegrin jekavian dialect.... These do not matter; indeed, he is really talented and should be encouraged in his desire to abandon journalism as soon as possible.
Though he has all the necessary preconditions to be called a Freak, he is only a Fright. Which is an extenuating circumstance only at first sight.


The Teacher

Now, this is an odd fellow, a crazed victim of the Ministry's experiment to see how long a conscious being can endure unstable life circumstances. He has heard from someone, or read in the papers, that this experiment is being conducted under the auspices of the EU and with their money. This clearly gives him a sign of the devil's presence and enough reasons for any man to become a paranoiac, if he has not become one before. He fears computers and cannot afford one, but he would not use one even if he could for he is determined to maintain his integrity and metaphysical originality. He is absolutely positive that the Internet is but a secret weapon of the New World Order by which the "shadow leaders" intend to poison his mind. And he takes great care not to have his mind contaminated, watering it at the pure springs of folk spirit and grazing it at the green meadows of his native soil. Occasionally, in rare moments of merciless self-criticism, he comforts himself with the thought that things would be different if his salary were at least 100 Euros higher. But this thought lasts only for a short time since he is well aware that nothing would be different, that every change is beyond his capacity to be other than he is. This is why there is no need for surprise, for it is only he who knows how many school system reforms he has outlived in his career, all of which, without exception, were grandiosely conceived only to eventually go into monstrous reverse. Convinced that even the Lord in heaven-the one having no favorite on Earth-knows that, and with the pathos of an Old Testament prophet, the teacher brings about a complete collapse of the educational system.
Disillusioned with life and not trusting anybody, he often lapses into a state of profound depression that he tries to alleviate with alcohol. He is on the verge of suicide but does not cross that line: at the very last moment he finds sufficient excuse to go on living. He tells himself that there is still some sense to the job he does, that there is probably a future scientist lurking among his pupils, a future painter, a successful businessman, to sum up, a human being eager for knowledge. And for the sake of such a single soul he continues to teach, extracting the last sparks of energy from the already exhausted self and wondering where he gets them from. He is keen on explaining, on pointing to the elegance of scientific proof, on making an inspired and clever analysis of a complex philosophical theory; he never stops writing on the board, drawing, calculating and working out formulas, so that at the end of a lesson he no longer seems human. All smudged, he looks a mess. He has swallowed chalk dust, he coughs and asks in a hoarse voice if there are any questions. He never gives up hope that one day one of the pupils will ask a real question on the subject being discussed, that a trace of understanding and, most importantly, curiosity will be detected in the question. Though not recalling when this last happened to him or whether it happened at all, he does not abandon hope. While smoking and drinking coffee in the staff room after a well-conducted lesson, for a few minutes he is overcome by a vague feeling of content, but that is all that ever happens. In the next class he is exhausted, dragging on with his lecture and every now and then casting a glance at his watch. He does not wonder for whom the bell tolls; he knew that a long time ago.
Though he may well be the most adaptable creature in the transitional Disneyland, the teacher has not fathomed yet why he has no status in society. He is humiliated by the knowledge that every street criminal has more authority and dignity as a citizen than he himself can aspire to. He realizes that knowledge has lost its value compared to drugs and weapons and may be the only one who sincerely regrets it. He is well-aware that he is in no position to advise students to "study hard, for you'll be better off for it" since he risks having one of the more outspoken among them reply, "Right, and end up like you, working for 200 Euros a month." Having no answer to such a reply, he is reluctant to advocate study. Towards the end of his students' final year of high school, he inquires about their plans for the future, whether they have decided what to do or where to go next, university or work. He is curious to know. In recent years he has heard more and more often that the vocation of crime is quite attractive to his students. He merely laughs at this answer, trying to explain that this career does not welcome late beginners and that, at eighteen, they are already much too old. "The best jobs, ladies and gentlemen," he explains, "have already been taken. While you were wasting your precious energy on getting an education, others were learning the basic principles of the craft or cultivating acquaintances in a correctional institution whom they will find helpful later on. After all, people serve their time for crime." Thus, he presents them with his strongest argument. The students do not believe him, and they may be right-for he no longer quite believes himself.
He shrinks from revealing his political views because they are so conservative, many being on the very verge of racism. This makes it unwise for him to express such views publicly unless he wants to be condemned even by the like-minded. Although he will not hesitate to speak evil of the authorities, he does so superficially and with no precise arguments, in the tabloids manner, picking words that do not commit him and which, if necessary, could easily be denied. Recalling his Marxist youth, he calls this "criticism of all there is." He dares not give any more serious thought to social reality, avoiding looking into the pit he is in, fearing that he may discern even his own face among a multitude of culprits. In his heart, he still looks up to the most renowned citizen of Scheveningen, admiring him even more now that legal action has been taken against him. He is fascinated by the citizen's heroic defence before the international court of law, but he mentions this to nobody. "Forget it," he says to himself, waving his thoughts away. He adroitly evades all efforts by the inquisitive to discover his "honest opinion," even though the subject may be tomorrow's weather forecast, for it is not his duty to express an opinion; he is a teacher, for God's sake. He gives a self-pleasing reply, but this, in fact, simply veils the fact that it has been a long time since he had any opinion at all about even the simple weather forecast, let alone something important. He used to have one, he comforts himself, but he cannot say when; he no longer remembers. Making ends meet is what he worries most about, eschewing trade union activities and shunning the mere thought of temptation to strike, his motto being: "Do as your boss tells you."
Back home In the evening after an exhausting day, he switches on the TV and watches the news. Then he has something to eat and, crumpled as he is, remains silent, grudgingly answering his wife's vague questions about his day by mumbling and muttering. It has become awkward for him to use words. Though he promised himself firmly on the way home that he would not think about the day just finished, he makes a thorough search of its remains in his memory, disgusted with himself. Before falling asleep, in the limp moments of dream expectation, it seems to him that he can discern the grisly moment in his life when everything started to go wrong. He has somehow convinced himself that only by precisely identifying and accepting that moment of inner split can something change in his life. However, when he reaches towards it in the hopes of catching it, the moment of yearning dissolves in the darkness, and the teacher starts roaming through a fog of disillusionment until lapsing into the deserved dream. Night after night, with no apparent exceptions, he awaits in vain the moment of mystic revelation that would give his frustrated life some sense and justification, that would be a solid basis for a "new beginning." And it is no one but himself who does this, he who has not believed in the possibility of a new beginning for a long time.
Though he seems like a man who still remembers his lost soul, this is sheer illusion, a cheap trick of self-promotion: he has no soul, or courage to admit that to himself and behave accordingly. Hence, he is a Freak assuming to be a Fright. In other words, a pillar of society.


The Businessman (a small one)

He starts his career as a policeman, but soon realizes what is going on: he has met people, been in the right place at the right time, and taken the opportunities offered. He is aware that opportunities present themselves only once, and if he does not take them in that moment, he will not again have a chance. He has been assigned on several occasions to escort a convoy in an official car and, having done a good job, he makes a name for himself in affluent circles. He earns a reputation and very soon starts to receive business offers outside the police service, well-paid moonlighting, well-used free time. Shortly afterwards, he quits the police, sets up his own agency and becomes a one-man company. But he does not forget his previous life and maintains acquaintance with people from the police. He is well-aware of the fact that a policeman, clergyman and communist never cease being so; the knowledge makes him feel safe.
After a time he gives up this dodgy business, investing his acquired wealth in the construction of blocks of flats to be sold and legitimizing his money that way. He launders money, his own and his business friends' alike, doing so swiftly and gracefully, leaving no trace behind. He starts to believe in his own business ingeniousness, convincing himself that no misfortune could ever befall him, for at last God has smiled on him, too. He has become somebody.
He is no longer a tenant; he cannot remember all the properties in his possession, and his wife soon discovers the joys of money spent profusely and unsparingly. This is the reason she generously forgives him his underage mistresses and frequent business trips. She understands and supports him, being assured that as long as she has their sons with her, he will be somewhere around and under supervision, and their marriage will be safe. In a phrase, an ideal family: they dine together in high-class restaurants, showing themselves in the right light and revelling in the envious gaze of mere mortals. They are reputable citizens now; nobody has any recollection of the past; it has been erased for good. They consider the future of their children, providing them with private tuition in foreign languages and fantasizing about sending them to attend school abroad: Switzerland, perhaps England, Italy or Germany. In any case, it must be a serious business school, for the family wealth is worth multiplying. They invest in the forthcoming time, dreaming of their own empire since they know that the future belongs to those who hear its footsteps. For this reason they listen carefully to the darkness in which they live. They are happy, content, and they wonder at those who are not, those useless lazybones boring themselves and others alike. For: "nothing can be gained without work, man," as the businessman and his Lady Macbeth often say with one voice.
With the approach of any election, the businessman allocates a large amount of money to the political party and does so willingly since he knows how to make a good business move. "It's no good being selfish," he claims. "A man's got to think of the public welfare, too." After the victory celebration, the money invested quickly returns, and he is offered new deals and a chance to further increase his wealth. Oh Lord, he addresses his protector in heaven in moments of sincerity, what a beautiful life this is. And simple, too, he does not fail to point out with a sigh.
His downfall has an invisible start. He no longer is capable of monitoring his own insatiability or keeping it under control. He simultaneously embarks on several different businesses, erects blocks of flats which he knows in advance will never be finished, selling the same flats more than once without thinking whether any of the swindled buyers could do him any harm. He borrows money from usurers only to lend it at interest to some other wretch. He rolls, drills and shoots from one scheme to another, admiring his own flair for business. He still manages to keep up appearances and to live his life in luxury, although his headaches become increasingly severe and the phone calls he dare not answer increase. In response to his wife's questions about what is going on at work, he shakes his head saying it's nothing serious, just some temporary setbacks. In order to prove that, he buys a new car, more luxurious than the previous one, or sets up yet another agency, or takes the family somewhere on holiday, to Morocco, Egypt, Tunisia ...
One afternoon, a stranger visits the family home. He's looked for his business partner in the office, he says, but there was nobody there, so he decides to wait for him here in his house. He refuses the offered drink, smiling politely at the children, and patiently sits waiting in the living room for seven hours. "Give him my best regards," he says on his departure. The businessman did not come home that day, and his lady had a nervous break-down. That was the beginning of, as they saw it, the totally undeserved end of a transitional fairy tale. Disturbances grow more and more ruthless, while threats become more and more brutal. He seeks help from his mates, but none of them seems to be willing to even talk to him; they no longer know him, suddenly becoming unapproachable, out of reach. Everybody forgets him and, unless pursuing him for fraud, they flee from him. In order to pay off his debts and protect the family from creditors who are after him, the businessman first sells his company cars, his yacht, speedboat, then his business premises in the city centre which used to house his real estate agency. Then the construction machinery follows and, eventually, his house, a watch worth 10,000 Euros, their collection of paintings, his wife's jewellery... "You incompetent wimp," Lady Macbeth shouts at her husband while walking like an apparition around the drab little flat they have retreated into. She looks unkempt and slovenly, with dark shadows around her eyes testifying to the depth of the fall. "You'll never get out of this," she shrieks inconsolably. "You're bankrupt, you wimp! You've destroyed the future of our children! Now they're just like their father, nobody."
"I didn't do it alone," replies the husband. "You were the one who helped me, you filthy bitch." This is how a family row begins. It regularly ends in a fight and the smashing of the remnants of furnishings that remain unsold.
He takes to drink, buying a bottle of cheap booze in a shop and going to one of his unfinished buildings where he drinks ad nauseam. One night some debt collectors track him down, tie up his thumbs with a steel cable and hang him from a ceiling beam. Coerced by beating, he promises to sell his flat, the only thing he has left, to pay off the money he owes, "with interest," as the debt collectors point out and he helplessly confirms, "with interest." And he does so, indeed, sells his flat in ten days or so, only he does not have the guts to tell his family of this, postponing it for a better time.
However, he does not hand the money over to the debt collectors, the amount presenting too big a temptation for him to resist. In the little heap of money in his hands he recognizes a chance for a new beginning only if he makes a smart move, and he will make it. He has no other choice. He puts on his only decent suit and leaves a letter for his wife in which he tries to explain what he has done. He is not worried about her or the kids; they can live at granny's and grandpa's; they may pay off debts if they like, it's all the same to him. With 30,000 Euros in his pocket, the businessman leaves for Serbia, planning to reach his friends. He still has good connections, and he's going to use them. Being a typical, thickheaded Montenegrin, he believes that in Serbia there are no crooks or swindlers of his rank, which is why he is convinced that he is destined to enlighten them and teach them the new methods of trickery. While listening to the soporific rattling of the train on the Bar-Belgrade line, he fantasizes of 'getting back to his feet' after two or three business deals, of buying his house back and paying his debts. He solemnly promises himself that he will be more cautious and play it safe in his new life, without the slightest possibility of failure.
Immediately after his arrival in Belgrade, the businessman buys a number and two phone cards for his mobile, checks into the Slavija Hotel and embarks on calling his acquaintances, eager to start. The same night the debt collectors find him, confiscate his money, beat him up and take him away in an unknown direction. Although there are some people who insist that he was not killed, that they have seen him with their own eyes working as a bartender in a disco, not a single sober person believes such stories.
A Freak.


Translated by: Olivera Kusovac