A story by Maja Solar translated from Serbo-Croatian by Rebecca Duras
Sivilom na sivom
Gledam kako komarac gravitira oko njegove glave. Čini se, već čitavih nekoliko minuta. On nastavlja da priča stameno i izgleda kao da niti čuje niti primećuje leteći objekt. Ništa ga ne ometa. Hm, je li to komarac? Pitam se da li David, koji sedi pored mene i sluša prezentaciju, primećuje isto. Komarac, ili već neki drugi insekt, sleti tačno na prodavčevu desnu slepoočnicu. On nastavlja da priča. Ne pomjera ništa osim usta. Ne mahne rukom. Ne trepne.
Prošlo je pola sata od kako je došao, a prešao je tek delić prezentacije u kojoj opisuje mogućnosti čudesne mašine za čišćenje i održavanje kuće. I kako vam se čini, pita nas nakon svakog segmenta. Šta mislite koliko bi svaka od ovih sprava koštala ako bi se kupovala posebno, otprilike? David i ja lupamo cifre, znamo da je liku bitno da prođe svaki korak i da mu se tako računaju bodovi. Nama je bitno da nam očisti sofu. I ovu u dnevnoj sobi i onu u spavaćoj.
Tek smo se uselili i isprva smo se jako obradovali kada su nam javili da su nas izvukli u nagradnoj igri: dobili smo besplatno čišćenje. Nakon vala ushićenja, David se malo zamislio i onda rekao kako je moguće da su u pitanju lopovi. Jer on bi, kada bi pljačkao stanove, radio to baš tako, objašnjavao mi je. Prezentirao bi kućni uređaj koji navodno prodaje, a istovremeno bi pamtio lica stanarki i stanara, pa kada izađu iz zgrade on bi to znao, sedeo bi u kolima i sve brižljivo pratio. Zar nije čudno, pita me, što su insistirali da oboje budemo tu. Zajedno smo tek nekoliko mjeseci i njegova logika me dosta umiruje. To kako odmah od svega napravi neki plan, pa i od opasnosti. Postoji puno dobrih načina da se obogatimo, kaže, možemo i da pljačkamo. Ipak smo odlučili da budemo u tek iznajmljenom stanu u dogovoreno vrijeme, da se nadamo čišćenju, a osmislili smo i mehanizme kako da predupredimo potencijalnu pljačku naših stvari. Prvo ćemo ih pitati koja kompanija je u pitanju, pa će David guglati i provjeravati, dok ja treba da čavrljam i šarmiram ih. Dosetili smo se i da bismo mogli tražiti neku identifikaciju. Pretresli smo još nekoliko opcija i nastavili da se radujemo besplatnom dubinskom čišćenju sofa.
Ushićenje sada splašnjava, polako se umaramo. A prodavac se zalaufao.
Komarac ili neka druga buba se zadržava na Goranovoj slepoočnici. Tako se zove prodavac, Goran. Studira FTN i ovo je počeo da radi prije dva mjeseca. Podrobno prezentuje svaki korak onoga što mora da ispriča u najmanje dva a najviše tri sata, jer ako skupi te bodove poslaće ga za mjesec dana u Beč na neku obuku. On nam to sve kaže na početku, igra i na skupljanje bodova svojom iskrenošću. Poželim da mahnem i oteram komarca, mušicu ili šta već, ali očekujem da će on to uraditi sam, nemoguće da mu ne smeta. Nastavljam se, zajedno sa Davidom, udubljivati u uloge zainteresovanih slušaoca i kupaca. Pomislim kako bi bilo sjajno da imam te pare, da odmah prekinemo prezentaciju i da poklonim Davidu, koji je ospesivno uredan, čudo od mašine. Komarac odleti, a Goran nakon nekog minuta ustane. Vadi već neki deseti dodatak mašine, kojim sada čisti pod. Još uvijek dosta koncentrisano pratim šta priča, ali pazim i da ne propustim šta se događa sa slepoočnicom. Hoće li se pojaviti makar malecno crvenilo? Prvo ćemo usisati običnim usisivačem, kaže, pa onda našom mašinom. Uključuje Davidov usisivač i pređe u nekoliko poteza preko poda. Onda nam pokaže papirne filtere, ima čitavo pakovanje bijelih krugova. Mali su, oblika kao najmanji heklani tabletići, onih koji su obično ispod pepeljara ili vaza. Jedan filter postavi u neku pregradu, pa usisa istu površinu koju je već prešao usisivačem. Isključi mašinu i izvadi papir na kojem su sivkasto braon ostaci prašine. Čak se može osetiti i pesak, kaže, a mi pipnemo i izražavamo, već po ko zna koji put, oduševljenje. Potvrđujemo da nam se i ovaj dodatak sviđa. Letimičnim pogledima shvatam da David postaje snužden. Prezentacija se polako pretvara u borbu između njegovog starog usisivača i male, ali svemoćne, skalamerije: meč između lakoperaša i teškokategoraša.
Prodavac priča i pokazuje različite načine čišćenja. Postaje sve toplije, iako je danas pala kiša i prilično je hladan ljetnji dan. Mi smo u malom i dobro izolovanom stanu. Otvorena su vrata terase. Goranovo lice je sve sjajnije, glas mu se razmekšava. Priča već skoro sat vremena. Riječi poput rascpucanih kokica ispunjavaju sobu. Dâ nam da uporedimo dva papirna kruga. Onaj koji se lako pocepa je za obične usisivače, onaj neuništivi, koji David i ja pokušavamo nekako poderati ali ne ide, za svemirsku mašinu. Metalna sprava je manja od usisivača, ali ima pregršt dodataka koji su u ogromnoj kutiji. Srebrnasto-crna mašina oštrih uglova izgleda kao opasno vozeće stvorenje iz nekih Ratova zvijezda. Davidov crveni usisivač, koji je najvećim delom plastika, namešten je pored moćne sprave. Stari usisivač, insistira prodavac, traje oko pet godina, a ovo najmanje trideset. Gledam usisivač koji mi liči na mekanog kućnog ljubimca, bacim pogled na mašinu i ona mi se naceri.
Na Goranovoj slepoočinici se pojavila crvenkasta kvrga sa bijelom sredinom, znači ipak je bio komarac. Još se ne dodiruje, ne podiže ruku i ne češka se. Nastavlja da pakuje pokazane dodatke. Dolazimo do važnijeg dela, kaže. Vadi plastično crijevo. Nije obična plastika, naglasi kao nešto važno, kompanija je investirala u visoko kvalitetne materijale. Pa namješta istu cijev na tri načina, jer je svaki za drugačiju vrstu usisavanja: za zavlačenje po ćoškovima, usisavanje poda stojećki uspravno bez savijanja leđa, usisavanje gornjih površina, čak i stropa, opet stojeći bez savijanja i izdizanja, bez penjanja na stolicu, gospodski, kaže on. Ovo je već drugi put kako je upotrebio riječ gospodski, pa zamislim sliku ljudi u odelima, sa kravatama, kako usisivaju gornje delove komode. Goran opet ističe kako zdravlje nema cijenu, a ovaj uređaj je rešenje za gotovo sve probleme. Usredsredim se na kvrgu na slepoočnici: prodavac još nijednom nije dodirnuo mjesto uboda, čak ni ovlaš. Mirno, naučenim pokretima i redosledom, pokazuje mogućnosti podnog, stropnog, zidnog i drugih čišćenja. Lice mu se sve više sija. Mokro je. Staloženo pomjera ruke, samo se zlatni lanac oko lijevog zgloba blago zatrese. Kvrga je sve veća. Počinjem da bridim, kvržica iritira mene. Prodavac isključi mašinu i izvadi oba filtera. Prvi, onaj za stare usisivače, pokazuje da propušta prašinu na filter koji je postavljen ispod njega. Drugi filter je nepropustan i ne može se pocepati. U nekoliko navrata ih zamjeni, pa nepropusni filter bude pun prašine, ali drugi ostaje skoro čist. To je još jedan dokaz da obični usisivači ‒ koji dosta usisanog izduvavaju nazad u prostor ‒ propuštaju dobar dio prljavštine kroz papirni filter, objašnjava nam.
To je još jedan dokaz da je Davidov crveni drugar inferioran.
David ustaje i odlazi do terase. Pali cigaretu. Goran zastane i kao da se malo obraduje. Pita ga za jednu cigaru, a ja jedva dočekam da mu ponudim još vode i da izađemo na trenutak iz ekonomskih uloga. Slobodno napravi pauzu, kažem, odmori malo, nije ovo lako. On uzima cigaru i počne da se obraća Davidu opuštenijim tonom u glasu. Iako sam se uzvrpoljila oko sudopera, stalno se okrećem i pratim situaciju sa kvrgom na čelu: da ne propustim momenat kada će se počešati. Prodavac kine. Alergija?, pitam. Da, kaže. Od prašine? Ma ne, na ambroziju. Kvrga kao da se smanjuje, ali Goran čak ni u pauzi ne diže ruku da se počeše. Sada nas opet, kao na početku, ispituje o nama. Pitao je odakle smo, koja smo godišta, pa je pogađao, pa promašio moje za više od desetljeće, pa razrogračio oči kada je izračunao razliku u godinama između Davida i mene, i rekao silaznim tonom pa dobro. Već je nekoliko puta zverao svuda okolo i istakao kako smo vrlo pedantni. Pitam se da li će reći još jednom baš ste super, kao što je rekao na početku kada nas je odmeravao. Je l’ mogu nešto da te pitam, zainteresujem se. Naravno, kaže. A koliko si ti uredan? On kaže: iskreno, ne baš toliko. Ne čisti i ne sređuje stan prečesto, ali onda jednom kad se nakani, sve sredi. Ne pitam ga da li poseduje ovu spravu, jer je već rekao da je student i da ovo radi od nedavno kao posao za dodatnu kintu. Sumnjam da to može da si priušti. Deluje čisto, osjeća se neka voćna nota, nešto kao oni dezodoransi koji su bili popularni devedesetih, Denim i slično. Oko lijeve ruke je zlatni lančić, na desnoj je fensi sat.
Predavanje u duhu robne estetike se nastavlja. Slijedi dodatak sa posebno moćnom četkom sa finim dlakama koje usisavaju prašinu iz skrivenih dijelova. Kaže mi da donesem laptop. Odmah otrčim u sobu, ali se malo zamislim dok ga uzimam, jer ako je u pitanju pljačkaš sada zna da imam laptop. Valjda će primetiti koliko je star, možda da ga obavestim kako ne radi nekoliko slova na tastaturi. Donesem komp, a prodavac nekoliko minuta usisava prašnjavo čudo između tipkica koje ne samo da ne vidimo nego, opiše nam, nijedan štapić za uši ne može tako dobro izvući. Pokazuje prethodno bijele filtere, sada prepune prašine. Pitam se da li mi ovo ulazi u nos dok kuckam. Odmah utrčavam u sobu da donesem bežičnu tastaturu od pc-a i vraćam se ushićena kao kad sam na morskoj plaži. Kontam da lik nije lopov nego deda mraz koji će sve lijepo očistiti i spasiti nas od svih prljavština, bakterija, grinja, pijeska i štroka ovog svijeta. On se smeje, ali usisava i tu tastaturu temeljito. Ponavlja koliko je pijesak loš za naše živote, kako uništava nameštaj i stvari, kako je svuda skriven a mi ne znamo. I kako zdravlje nema cijenu.
U pretposlednjem dijelu prezentacije, važnijem od prethodnih, prodavac konačno najavljuje čišćenje sofe. Prezentacija je bila gradualna i u svakom segmentu je naglasio kako je sada nešto još važnije, a kako stvari stoje izgleda da ni ovo nije kulminacija. Na redu je, dakle, kauč. Oba kauča, koja su bila tu dok smo se uselili deluju prilično staro. David i ja, a on malo više, zaziremo od korišćenja nečega za šta ne znamo kako i ko je koristio prije nas. David je opsednut čistoćom. Skoro svakog dana temeljno čisti stan. On pere suđe, jer je onda čistije i sunđeri su dobro oceđeni, sve dezinficira visoko-procentnim alkoholom i Asepsolom, kupatilo obilno zaliva Domestosom i usisava na svaka dva-tri dana. Mjesta gdje spavamo, jedemo, kupamo se i vodimo ljubav su crvene zastave na njegovoj mapi za čišćenje. A ako je nešto nepoznato, poput stana u koji smo se tek doselili, to dodatno uključuje antene, pa kao iz topa nabraja šta je sve neko prije nas radio ovde, kakvo bi sve porijeklo fleka moglo biti i koliko mi ljudi dlaka, izlučevina, krmelja, nosnih, ušnih i drugih materija svakodnevno ostavljamo.
Prodavac namješta novi dodatak. David se sjeti da bi mogli da se usisaju i dijelovi trpezarijskih stolica na kojima je tapacirung, na naslonu i na sjedalu. Lik ih čisti, a mi mahnito guramo sto koji smo priljubili uz zid, da bismo oslobodili sve stolice. On ih fakat čisti. Ushićenje je opet u usponu. Nastavljamo da dajemo maksimalne ocjene za svaki dio koji nam Goran prezentira, nastavljamo da budemo iznenađeni koliko je mašina moćna i šta sve izlazi iz površina koje sam prije neki dan ribala četkom i jakom hemijom. Ali ne samo da sva ta uvrežena sredstva ne mogu to da očiste, ona i uništavaju naše stolice i kaučeve, kaže prodavac, pa nam traju duplo manje, a koliko to tek košta. Pri tome, pesak je izgleda duboko u porama stvari, pesak je svuda, poentira.
Onda kreće ono zbog čega se skup organizirao: dubinsko čišćenje kauča. Prodavac prelazi uzduž i poprijeko trećinu kauča, pa zaustavlja mašinu i vadi duple filtere, pokazuje i prljavštinu i propusnost papira starih mašina. Možete ovo i sâmi probati, kaže, a mi uskočimo u segmentirani ritam čišćenja i dijelimo poteze. David očisti jedan dio, pa pusti prodavca da isključi mašinu i opet nam pokaže filtere. Ja očistim još jedan dio i pustim ga da opet isključi mašinu i slavodobitno potvrdi svemoć tehnologije pokazujući filter prepun prašine i pijeska. Nekoć bijeli papirni krugovi tetovirani su svim nijansama sive. Htela sam odmah da ih bacim, jer znam kako se David osjeća okružen dinama prašine, ali prodavac kaže da moraju ostati. Napomenuo je kako će ih ostavljati svuda po stanu, da neko ko ga je dovezao i ko će ponovo doći na kraju ‒ neko ko je očito nadređeni ‒ vidi šta je urađeno. Ok, kapiramo. Nastavljamo čišćenje sofe. I David i ja u segmentiranim potezima pravimo vrlo temeljne prelaze preko kauča, posebno na dijelovima sa strane gdje se obično naslanjaju glave. Sve se odvija u uigranom ritmu: prodavac priča, pokaže, mi probamo, samo segment, ne odjednom cijelo kako bismo inače čistili, mašina se isključuje, vade se filteri, iskazuje se oduševljenje. I nakon nekoliko ponavljanja, opet slede pitanja: i kako vam se sada čini, i da li biste voleli imati ovako nešto, i šta mislite koliko bi ovakav jedan uređaj namenjen samo za to koštao ako bi se kupovao posebno, i koliko ovo košta ako se radi trideset godina. Brutalno, apsolutno, pa prilično skupo, štajaznam, oko sto eura, ne nije, između petsto i hiljadu je, hmm, šta ti misliš, evo staviću najjeftiniju cijenu, evo je l’ vidite koliko prosječno jedna porodica potroši na to i to, čak i onda ako ne čisti preterano, vauuuuu, strava, baš se isplati, neverovatno, toliko godišnje? Mi nismo i nikada nećemo biti porodica, pomislim, ali mogao bi više da nam usisa i taj drugi kauč, prošlo je dva sata i sada sam već jako gladna. Čujem kako creva grgolje. Stavimo karakterne maske potrošača i nastavljamo.
A sada naj naj najvažniji deo, kaže prodavac. Ovo sam ostavio za kraj jer je najbolje, jer zdravlje, pogleda nas značajno pa nastavi: nema cenu. Dobro, i ovo za tepihe je najvažnije, ali pošto ste rekli da nikada nećete imati tepih onda ništa, ’ste sigurni da nikad nećete imati tepih? Možda se predomislite. Ako hoćete da vam pokažem za tepihe, možemo da probamo sa otiračem ispred vrata. Ma ne, stvarno nema potrebe, sigurno nikada nećemo imati tepihe, ne volimo ih, David i ja u nedogovorenom horu krećemo da ubrzavamo stvar. Vrijeme je da se nagrada besplatnog čišćenja ‒ koja za sada košta dva sata našeg naprezanja ‒ privede kraju. I vrijeme je za našu večeru. Goran deluje prilično umorno, ali je i dalje ozaren. Ipak, sada se događa najvažniji dio, a kupci su svaku dodatnu alatku ocijenili maksimalno. Kada nas je pitao koji dio nam se najviše sviđa, nismo mogli odlučiti, naveli smo nekoliko dodataka koji su nam u samom vrhu. I svaki put smo potvrdili kako bismo definitivno želeli da imamo bijesnu mašinu.
Prodavac vadi najkabastiji metalni dodatak, prilično velike usisne površine sa četkama. Opet se približi Davidovom crvenom usisivaču i uzima kraj cijevi. Izloži obe završne jedinice priljubljeno, je l’ vidite koja je razlika, kaže. Uuu da daa, mnogo moćno, govorim dok buljimo u glomaznu završnu četku maestralne mašine i malecnu plastiku Davidivog ljubimca. David šuti. Demonstrator objasni kako je ovaj deo prva stvar zbog koje je kompanija poznata, jer se najviše tiče zdravlja, a zdravlje…, pogleda nas, nema cijenu, ja ko iz topa. Održi malo predavanje, ovog puta o grinjama, onda natakne crnu krpu ‒ koju nam prvo izokreće kao kakav mađioničar koji pokazuje da nema nikakvih trikova – na mašinu. Konačno odlazi u spavaću sobu. Pomislim kako je sjajno što je najvažniji dio čišćenja zapao baš kauč na kojem spavamo, ima da budemo zdravi ko komarci.
Kauč se rasklapa. Onda se mali bijesni robot uključuje i postaje najbučniji do sada. Poput kosilice. Prodavac prelazi preko kreveta čitavom površinom. Isključuje svemirski objekt, nosi crnu krpu u dnevnu sobu, mi kao pilići za njim. Rasprostire krpu, okupljamo se u krug i napeto čekamo nastavak objašnjenja. Na krpi je kupa beličasto-sivkaste prašine. Pitamo šta je to, možda je malo gadno, kaže, ali to je otpad od grinja. Kako misliš otpad, nešto kao govna od grinja, ma nee, to su ostaci grinja. Znači leševi. Pauza za tišinu. Pa nastavak: da, zamisli koliko toga inače ima ako je ovo iz kauča koji je nedavno riban i dezinficiran. Onda traži novčić. David donese kovanicu od pet dinara. Lik zahvati grinjo-prašinu kovanicom i zapali je. Odmah se osjeti čudan miris. Ponuka nas da se približimo da dobro onjušimo to sranje. Pa zbaci prašinu sa novčića i vrati ga nazad Davidu. On ispruži dlan, kao znak za stop, ne nee, kaže i odmahne glavom. Prodavac se smeje. Kaže da to nije sve i ponavlja postupak još tri puta. Svakog sledećeg puta kupa je manja, a na kraju prašina više nije kupasta, nego tanka srebrnasta Rošarhova mrlja od preminulih grinja.
Sada i prodavac i onaj nadređeni sede ispred nas. Vrijeme je da im temeljito objasnimo kako nećemo kupiti mašinu neverovatnih mogućnosti, fantastičnih energetskih i, dugoročno, novčanih ušteda. Nadređeni pita smije li zapaliti cigaru. Goran i od njega traži još jednu. Naravno, može, samo još nemamo pepeljaru, kaže David. Nema veze, poslednja je pa ću tresti u kutiju, ležerno kaže nadređeni i nastavlja ubeđivanje. Prvo istakne koliko mu je zanimljiv moj „ruski‟ akcenat, ja kažem „hrvatski‟ a on ništa ne odgovori. Onda nas pita sve isto što nas je Goran pitao: da li nam se sviđa, koliko nam se sviđa, da li bismo voleli da imamo. Da, jako, da mogu evo sad bih kupila spravu kao poklon Davidu, za Dan republike ili za rođendan, jer to bi bio najbolji poklon za njega, kažem. Ali mi nemamo taj novac, naglasim. E zato postoje mogućnosti plaćanja na rate, kaže nadređeni, pa ponudi prvu opciju, a nakon nekoliko minuta našeg odbijanja ponudi i drugu, povoljniju opciju. Kaže i zar vam je stvarno pedeset eurića mesečno puno, kad znate koliko se dugoročno isplati. Druže, kažem, realno, s obzirom na naše prekarne materijalne uvjete i situaciju, mi narednih godinu dana ni u ludilu ne možemo ovako nešto da kupimo, jedino kad bismo dobili na lotou, ali jebiga ne igramo loto. Dobro, kaže on kratko i hladno, završiću cigaru u hodniku. Naglo ustane, pozdravi se i izađe. Tajac. Naš demonstrator još stoji pored vrata terase, slegne ramenima i kaže: to je Zoran. Pa dobro, pomislim, boli nas kurac i za Zorana, a i za tebe, hajde više idite, prošlo je skoro tri sata i gladni smo. Ali Goran mirno dovršava svoju cigaretu, pa sedne na očišćeni tabure. Sada se vidi da je premoren. Samo da obavim poziv, kaže. Priča, izgleda, sa nadređenim, koji verovatno dreždi negde ispred ulaza. Onda nas obaveštava da je sledeća „dobitnica‟, kakva sreća, također u našem ulazu, eto ne mora da ide dalje. Pošto smo ranije završili, ima još pola sata do prezentacije. Onda sedi i ćuti nekoliko sekundi. Sada ja naglo ustanem i počnem da vadim patlidžan iz frižidera. Kažem Davidu, kao da se nekome nešto pravdam, moram ga iseći da stigne da se odgorči. Kako Goran i dalje sedi na tabureu i zamišljeno gleda u jednu tačku, počinjem ubrzano da spremam klopu. Goran opet uzima telefon i zove. Ovog puta razgovara sa sledećom sretnom dobitnicom. Ona mu potvrdi da je kući i da slobodno može doći ranije. Nakon pozdrava, ponovnih potvrda koliko nam se sprava sviđa i kako ćemo je nekad u budućnosti verovatno kupiti, Goran konačno odlazi. Verovatno ćemo kupiti mašinu kad se obogatimo pljačkajući stanove, pomislim. Prodavac je na kraju još jednom rekao baš ste super, a onda i mi njemu da je i on super, i još: sretno druže, želimo ti da dobiješ taj Beč. Hvala, ajde ćao, ćao.
Sačekali smo koji minut, da nas ne čuje, onda prasnuli u smijeh. Jesi li video kako ga je ujeo komarac a kako nije ni trepnuo ni pomjerio se, pitam Davida, a on oduševljeno potvrđuje. Koji lik, kažem i smejem se. To je zato što on nije čovek nego prodavac, kaže David. Mahnito prepričavamo dijelove događaja dok pravimo večeru. Cerekamo se, iako smo čišćenje platili skoro tri sata vremena. Ipak, divimo se očišćenim kaučima, stolicama, čak i tastaturama, možda nas je ipak zadesio lutrijski zgoditak. Sjetim se Karverove priče Uterivači, koju sam nedavno čitala i baš tada pomislila kako mi nikada niko nije pozvonio na vrata radi čišćenja. Eto, kažem Davidu kroz suze, dogodila se neka karverovska situacija. Peku me oči od luka koji David seče. I njemu se slivaju suze. A jesi čula kad je opisivao kako mi mislimo da usisivači usisaju, ali to je privid, zamisli, on je to rekao za sve usisivače, kaže. I to upoređ
ivanje, pa nije ta sprava samo usisisvač da bi se upoređivala sa usisivačima. Stavlja luk na tiganj. To je uvreda za čitav rod usisivača, kaže. Smejem se, a on se približi i zagrli me s leđa.
Stan miriše na tikvice, patlidžan, crveni i bijeli luk. David se nasloni na kuhinjsku radnu površinu. I dalje je zamišljen. Puši još jednu cigaru, dok se povrće u tiganju krčka. A je l’da da moj usisivač super čisti, više potvrdi nego što me pita.
***
Gray on Gray
I watch as the mosquito orbits around his head. For a few minutes already, I think. He continues to speak steadily, and it seems as if he neither hears nor notices the flying thing. Nothing distracts him. Is it a mosquito? I ask myself if David, who is sitting next to me and listening to the presentation, also notices it. The mosquito, or whatever it is, lands exactly on the salesman’s right temple. He continues speaking, not moving anything other than his mouth. He doesn’t wave his hand. He doesn’t blink.
It’s been half an hour since he came, and he’s only gone over a small part of the presentation in which he describes the possibilities of a miraculous machine for house cleaning and maintenance. So, what do you think? he asks us after each segment. Approximately how much would each piece of this device cost if bought separately? David and I guess numbers, knowing it’s important to the guy that he goes through every step since that’s how his company calculates his points for the day. To us, it’s important that he cleans our sofas. This one in the living room and the one in our bedroom.
We just moved in. At first, we were thrilled when they let us know that they’d drawn our names in the sweepstakes: we won a free cleaning. After the initial wave of excitement, David thought a bit and said it was possible they were thieves. Because, if he were a burglar, he would do it exactly that way, David explained to me. He would present home appliances that he allegedly sold, and at the same time, he would memorize the faces of the residents so when they left the building, he could sit in his car and carefully wait for a familiar visage. Isn’t it strange, he had asked me, that they insist we both have to be present?
We’ve been together for only a few months, David and I, and this logic of his calms me down a lot. The way he immediately makes a plan out of everything, even out of danger. There are many good ways we can get rich, he had told me. We can even be burglars.
In the end, we decided to host a salesman in our just-rented apartment at the agreed-upon time, hoping for a cleaning. Still, we came up with mechanisms on how to anticipate a potential robbery of our things. First, we would ask the salesman what company he was from, then David would Google and check it out while I was supposed to chat and charm the potential threat. We remembered that we could even ask the salesman for identification. We went through a few other options and continued to happily wait for our free deep cleaning of the sofas.
But now, our excitement is waning. We’re getting tired. And the salesman is just getting started. The mosquito, or some other bug, stays on Goran’s temple. That’s the name of the salesman: Goran. He studies at the Faculty of Technical Sciences, and he just started doing this sales thing two months ago. He carefully presents every step he must explain in at least two and at most three hours, because if he collects enough points at the sales company, they’re going to send him to Vienna for a month for training. He tells us all of this at the beginning, trying to score some points with us by using the honesty card.
I want to wave and shoo away the mosquito, fly, or whatever, but I expect that Goran will do that himself; there’s no way it’s not bothering him. I continue to immerse myself, along with David, in the role of an interested buyer. I think how it would be great if we had money, enough so that I could immediately interrupt the presentation and give David, who is obsessive about cleanliness, Goran’s magical machine. The mosquito flies off, and Goran gets up after a few minutes. He takes out yet another attachment for the machine, which he is now using to clean our floor. I’m still following what he’s saying, but I make sure not to miss what’s happening with his temple. Is there at least a little redness appearing?
First, we will clean with your ordinary vacuum, he says, then with my machine. His metal contraption is smaller than a vacuum but has a bunch of attachments that are in a huge box. The silver-black machine’s sharp angles make it look like a dangerous being from a Star Wars movie. David’s red vacuum, which is mostly plastic, is sitting next to it. He turns David’s vacuum on and goes over the floor in a few strokes. After, he pulls out and shows us an entire package of little white circles, paper filters shaped like the smallest crocheted doilies, the ones usually under ashtrays or vases. He puts one filter in a compartment of his own machine then goes over the same surface. He turns off the machine and takes out the paper, which has greyish-brown traces of dust. You can feel the sand, Goran says, and we touch the filter and express, for who knows how many times, enthusiasm. We confirm that we like this attachment. After a quick glance, I realize that David is downcast. The presentation is slowly becoming a fight between his old vacuum cleaner and the small yet mighty contraption, a match between a featherweight and a heavyweight.
The salesman is talking and showing different cleaning methods. It’s getting hotter and hotter even though it rained earlier on this relatively cool summer day. We’re in a small, well-insulated apartment. The balcony doors are open. Goran’s face is shinier and shinier, his voice softening. He’s been speaking for almost an hour, his words filling the room like popcorn. He gives us two paper circles to compare. The one that tears easily is for ordinary vacuums, and the indestructible one, which David and I try to tear without success, is for the Star Wars space machine. An old vacuum, the salesman insists, lasts around five years. This one lasts for at least thirty. I look at David’s vacuum, which resembles a soft pet, then glance at Goran’s machine, which leers at me. A red bump with a white center shows up on Goran’s temple. So it was a mosquito after all. He still doesn’t touch it, doesn’t lift his hand to scratch himself. He continues to pack up the demonstrated attachments, promising, We’re getting to the important part, before taking out a plastic tube. It isn’t ordinary plastic, he emphasizes, as if it’s important. My company invests in high-quality materials.
He sets up the tube in three different ways, each for different types of vacuuming: for reaching under corners; vacuuming the floor in a standing position without bending your back; vacuuming higher surfaces, including the ceiling, again while standing upright without bending, tiptoeing, or climbing on a chair, all gentlemanlike. This is the second time that he uses the word gentlemanlike, so I picture a group of people in suits, sporting ties as they vacuum the upper part of their closet. Goran points out that you can’t put a price tag on health, and this device is the solution for almost all health problems. I focus on the bump on his temple—the salesman still hasn’t touched the site of the bite once, not even in passing. Calmly, with practiced movements and order, he shows the possibilities of vacuuming the floor, ceiling, and wall. His face is even shinier. It’s wet.
Goran moves his hands steadily, the golden chain around his left wrist gently shaking. His bump is getting bigger and bigger. It’s irritating me. I begin to fidget. The salesman turns off the machine and takes out both filters. The first one, meant for old vacuum cleaners, is leaking dust onto the filter placed below it. The second filter is impermeable and cannot be torn. He switches them a few times so that the impermeable filter is full of dust while the other one stays almost clean. Even more proof that ordinary vacuum cleaners, which return a lot of what is vacuumed up back into the air, leak a good part of dirt through the paper filter, he explains to us.
More proof that David’s trusted vacuum, his red buddy, is inferior. David gets up and goes out to the balcony. He lights a cigarette. Goran pauses, seeming almost happy, and asks David for a cigarette. I can’t wait to offer him more water and for all of us to leave our economic roles for a moment. Feel free to take a break, I tell him. Relax a bit. Goran takes a cigarette and begins to talk to David with a more relaxed tone. Even though I’m fussing around the sink, I constantly turn around to follow the situation with the bump on Goran’s forehead; I don’t want to miss the moment when he’ll scratch himself. The salesman sneezes. Allergies? I ask. Yes, he says. From dust? No, to ragweed.
I look at Goran’s bump. He hasn’t raised his hand to scratch it even during his break. Now he’s asking us about ourselves again, like he did at the beginning of his visit. He asks where we’re from, what year we were born, then interrupts us to guess, missing mine by nearly a decade. He widens his eyes when he calculates the age gap between David and me, and says with a declining tone, Well, okay. He’s already wandered around the apartment a few times, pointing out how we are very neat. I wonder if he’ll say, You guys are awesome, again, the way he did when he was sizing us up at the beginning.
Can I ask you something? I say. Of course, he responds. How neat are you? Honestly, not really, he says. He explains that he doesn’t tidy up his apartment often, but when he sets his mind to it, he cleans it all. I don’t ask him if he owns the appliance he’s trying to sell to us; he already said he’s a student and that he started working this role recently for some extra money. I doubt that he can afford it. He seems clean; you can smell a fruity note, something like those deodorants that were popular in the nineties. Denim and stuff like that. There’s a golden chain on his left hand, a fancy watch on the right.
His lecture in the spirit of commodity aesthetics soon continues. Up next is an attachment with a particularly strong fine-bristled brush that vacuums up dust from hidden parts of a home. He tells me to bring my laptop. I run to the bedroom immediately, but I stop and think for a bit. If he’s a burglar, now he knows that I have a laptop. Although he’ll probably take notice of how old it is, I should emphasize that several letters on the keyboard don’t work. I bring my laptop, and the salesman spends several minutes vacuuming up the dusty stuff between the keys that cannot even be cleaned with a Q-tip. He shows the previously white filters, now full of dust. Was this stuff going up my nose when I typed? I immediately run to the room to bring our wireless PC keyboard. I realize that Goran is less of a thief and more of a Santa Claus who will nicely clean everything and save us from dirt, bacteria, mites, sand, and all the grime in the world. Sand is bad for our lives, Goran says as he thoroughly vacuums the wireless keyboard. It ruins our furniture, and it hides everywhere. And remember: you just can’t put a price tag on health.
In the second-to-last part of Goran’s presentation, more important than all the previous ones, the salesman finally announces the cleaning of our sofa. This presentation is gradual; for each segment, he emphasizes that something more important is coming, that the peak of cleanliness hasn’t even yet occurred. So, it’s the couch’s turn.
Both couches that were there when we moved in are old. David and I, but mostly David, shy away from using something when we don’t know who used it before us. David is obsessed with cleanliness. He tidies the apartment almost every day, ensuring sponges are properly drained after washing the dishes and disinfecting everything with high-percentage cleaning alcohol. The bathroom receives special treatment; he thoroughly pours bleach all over. Every two to three days, David vacuums. The places where we sleep, eat, bathe, and make love are red flags on his cleaning map. And if something is unknown, like the apartment we just moved into, that alerts his antennae even more, prompting him to hypothesize about everything that someone did here before us, from the origins of stains to how many hairs and secretions former tenants have left for us.
The salesman fits another attachment to his machine. David remembers that Goran could vacuum the upholstered parts of the dining room chairs, on the backrest and seat. Goran obliges, so we manically push the table against the wall, freeing all of the chairs for easy cleaning. As he vacuums, our elation rises again. We continue giving maximum marks for every attachment that Goran presents to us. We continue to be surprised by how powerful the machine is and what all is being sucked up from surfaces that I scrubbed with a brush and strong chemicals just a few days ago. Those popular substances are not able to clean, Goran says. They also destroy our chairs and couches, so furniture lasts only half as long, and how much does that wind up costing you? Besides, sand is always deep in the pores of our things.
Then it’s time for the primary purpose of our gathering: cleaning the sofa. The salesman passes over a third of the couch, then stops the machine and takes out its filters, showing the dirt and permeability of the papers from David’s old vacuum. You can try this yourselves, Goran says, and so we jump into a segmented rhythm of cleaning. David cleans one part of the couch, then lets the salesman turn off the machine and show us the filters. I clean another part before Goran turns the machine off again, triumphantly confirming the superiority of his company’s technology by showing us a filter full of sand and dust. The once-white paper circles are tattooed with shades of gray.
I want to throw them out right away; I know how David feels surrounded by dynamos of dust, but the salesman says that they have to stay. He mentions that he will leave them around the apartment so that a superior who dropped him off and will come again at the end of his presentation can see what was done. Ok—we understand. We continue cleaning the sofa. In segmented movements, David and I make very thorough passes over the couch, especially the side where we usually rest our heads. Everything is happening in a practiced rhythm: the salesman talks, demonstrates, we try, just a segment, not all at once how we would usually clean, the machine is turned off, the filters are taken out, delight is shown.
After a few repetitions, the questions come again—what do you think now, and would you like to have something like this, and what do you guess: how much would an appliance just for this purpose cost if you bought it separately, and don’t you think it pays itself off if you use it for thirty years? Then strong, amazing, and well, pretty expensive, but what do I know, it’s about one hundred euros, wait, no, it isn’t, it’s between five hundred and a thousand, but what do you think, here, I’ll offer the cheapest price, do you see about how much the average household spends on this, even if it isn’t cleaned too often, it really is worth the cost…
It’s been two hours. I wish Goran would vacuum the second couch already. Plus, I’m really hungry; I can hear my stomach gurgling. David and I put on our masks of consumer characters and continue. And now the really, really important part, Goran says. I saved this for last since it’s the best, and because, as you know, you can’t put a price tag—he looks at us significantly before continuing—on health. He begins to pull out another device and drones on, This cleaner for carpets is great, but I remember you two saying that you’ll never have a full-room carpet. Are you sure about that? Maybe you’ll change your mind. If you want me to show you this cleaner and how well it works, we can try vacuuming the doormat. No, really; there’s no need, David and I interject, trying to speed things up as though we’re part of an unplanned chorus. We’ll definitely never have carpets; we don’t like them.
It’s time that the reward of a free cleaning, which has already cost us two hours of our lives, comes to an end. Besides, it’s dinnertime. Goran seems tired yet still manages to act wound up. After all, the most important part is happening; us buyers are giving him our ratings of his presentation. When he asks us which part we liked the best, we can’t decide. I name a few attachments that I remember the names of. David affirms convincingly that we would definitely like to have Goran’s amazing machine. The salesman takes out his biggest metal accessory, a fairly large vacuum surface with brushes. He goes up to David’s red vacuum cleaner again and takes the end of its hose. He shows us both final attachments pressed together, marveling, Do you see how big the difference is?
Yes, yes. Really powerful, I say while I stare at how the massive brush of Goran’s magisterial machine dwarfs the little plastic of David’s pet vacuum. David is quiet. Goran explains how this part is the first thing for which his company is famous, because, It has the most to do with maintaining your health, and you can’t… Goran looks at us expectantly, and I blurt out, Put a price tag on health. Satisfied, Goran continues giving his new lecture, this time about dust mites. He puts a black cloth on the machine, not before twisting it around like some magician showing that there are no tricks. Goran finally gets up and goes into our bedroom. I think about how great it is that the most important cleaning part is right on the couch where we sleep. Goran better clean it so well that we become as healthy as mosquitos.
The sofa folds out. Goran’s little fierce robot turns on, and is the loudest it’s been so far, like a lawn mower. The salesman goes over the entire surface of the sofa. He turns off the space object, takes the black cloth to the living room, and we follow him like chicks. We circle him as he spreads out the cloth, tensely awaiting the rest of his explanation. There is a pile of grayish-white dust on the cloth. Maybe it is a little gross, Goran admits, but this is the dust mite waste. What do you mean by waste? Something like poop? I ask. No, Goran assures me. Waste as in the remains of the dust mites. Just their corpses. A pause for silence. Then the rest: Yes, think about how much of that there usually is if this came out of a sofa that was recently scrubbed and disinfected.
1Then he asks for a coin. David offers one worth five dinars. Goran scoops up the mite-dust with the coin and sets the pile of debris on fire. We’re immediately hit with a strange smell as Goran encourages us to come close and really smell that shit. Then he brushes the dust from the coin and gives it back to David. He spreads out his palm, like a stop sign, shaking his head and refusing the coin. The salesman laughs and repeats the process three more times. Each time, the pile is smaller, and in the end, the dust is no longer pile-shaped, but a thin silver Rorschach blot of dead mites.
The presentation ends, and it’s time for the finale. Goran calls in his supervisor, so now Goran and his supervisor are sitting in front of us. It’s time to thoroughly explain that we will not be buying the machine of incredible capabilities, fantastic power, and (long-term) financial savings. The supervisor asks if he can light a cigarette. Goran asks his supervisor for one, too. Of course you can, except we don’t have an ashtray, says David. No worries; it’s the last one, so I’ll shake it into the box, the supervisor says leisurely before mentioning how interesting my Russian accent is. I say, It’s Croatian, but he doesn’t answer. Then he asks us the same questions Goran asked: do we like it, how much do we like it, would we like to have it. Yes, a lot, if I could, I would buy the appliance now as a present for David, for Yugoslav Republic Day or for his birthday, because that would be the best present for him, I say. But we don’t have that kind of money. We have the possibility of paying in installments, the supervisor says, then offers a financial plan, then after a few minutes of our refusals, offers another, more affordable option, saying that fifty euros monthly isn’t too much considering how much his product pays off long-term. Buddy, I say, considering our precarious material conditions and situation, there’s no way we can buy something like this in the next year. Maybe if we won the lottery, but we don’t play the lottery.
Alright, he says coldly and curtly. I’ll finish my cigarette in the hallway outside. He gets up, says goodbye, and leaves the apartment. Silence. Our demonstrator, Goran, is standing by the balcony doors, shrugging his shoulders and saying, That’s Zoran. Well, I think to myself, we don’t give a fuck about Zoran, or about you. Come on and get out of here already! It’s been nearly three hours, and we’re hungry. But Goran calmly finishes his cigarette, then sits on the cleaned stool. He is visibly exhausted. Just let me make a call, he says. He’s talking, it seems, with the supervisor, who’s probably lurking somewhere in front of the apartment building entrance. Goran lets us know that the next sweepstake winner that he and Zoran will be meeting with is, what luck, living in our complex, so Goran doesn’t have to move on too quickly from us. Since we finished earlier, he has another half hour until the presentation. He sits in silence for a few seconds. I get up suddenly and begin taking the eggplant out of the fridge. I tell David, as if I have to excuse myself to someone, that I have to cut it up so it loses its bitterness. Since Goran is still sitting on the stool and pensively staring into space, I begin to quickly make our food. Goran takes out his phone again and makes a call. This time, he’s talking to the next lucky winner. She confirms that she’s home and that he’s free to come earlier than expected. After goodbyes and repeated confirmations about how much we like the appliance and how we’ll probably buy it in the future, Goran finally leaves. We’ll probably buy the machine when we get rich by robbing apartments, I think. Before he left, Goran assured us that we were really great, so we said that he was really great, too, and that we hoped he’d get his trip to Vienna.
We wait a minute after Goran shuts the door behind him so he doesn’t hear us. Then, we burst out laughing. Did you see when the mosquito bit him and he didn’t even blink or move, I ask David, and he confirms with delight. What a guy, I laugh. That’s because he’s not a man but a salesman, says David. We feverishly retell parts of the event while we make dinner. We’re grinning, even though we paid for the cleaning with almost three hours of time. Still, we admire our newly cleaned sofas, chairs, and keyboards, thinking maybe we really did win the lottery. I remember Raymond Carver’s story “Collectors,” which I read recently. I thought at the time how nobody ever rang my doorbell to clean. There, I tell David through tears caused by cutting onions. We just experienced a Carveresque situation. Tears are also pricking at David’s eyes. And did you hear when he described how his machine was better than our vacuum? David asks. All that comparison, yet that thing he was trying to sell wasn’t just a vacuum, so it was disingenuous for him to compare it to our regular one.
David puts minced onion in the frying pan. That creature was an insult to all vacuums, he says. I laugh, and he comes close to hug me from behind. The apartment smells of zucchini, eggplants, red onion, and garlic. David leans on the kitchen counter. He’s still pensive, smoking another cigarette as vegetables bubble in the pan. And isn’t it true that my vacuum cleans great? he confirms more than asks.