The Stage

It’s always been here, but I’ve never succeeded in getting close to it, except on some concerts in the past. Concerts I never enjoyed, because the artists were loud and savage, and people were squeezing me from all sides and not paying attention to me at all. I didn’t feel like having anything to do there apart from pleasing my parents. They took me to every festival when I was a child and Children’s Day was an absolute must. Then, when I got older, they stopped taking me to festivals and I only walked past it from time to time, not even daring to touch its wall. I could only imagine what it might have felt like. It was a stone stage, or a concrete one, I wasn’t sure. The only thing I was sure of was that it was designed to survive everything and neither crowds of people nor heaviest rainfall could damage it. I wondered many times whether I’d be able to get on it by merely lifting my body in my hands and climbing up like I climbed on rocks in the mountains, although there were stairs on one side. Sometimes, maybe once or twice a year, I saw some people on it, playing, rehearsing or just monkeying about, but usually it was empty. Anyway, I never stopped next to it, unless I had something to do which was not associated with the stage in the slightest, such as taking my phone out of my bag and sending a message. But even then, I had to be extremely cautious, cause I was sure that if I looked at the stage again, my eyes would give the game away completely and the force of my sight would just make a hole in that stone or concrete or whatever material it was. And if there was anyone on it, my sight would just devour them. So I kept being cautious about the stage and I didn’t even talk about it to my friends and relatives, cause I was sure that if I tried only mentioning it, it would come out as an uncontrollable torrent of emotional words full of unintended tears of regret and affection.

Today, after so many years, it’s not different. I’m only realising more and more that I’m attracting attention like a magnet by merely existing and it’s just annoying. People give me angry glances every time I walk past them or when I get on the bus. My voice sounds shrill whenever I open my mouth and I always obstruct the view for people behind me, but somehow the last places, whether in a classroom, a hall or a bus, are always taken.

I’m sighing heavily when I get on the bus and I look around discreetly, not being able to resist my curiosity. This time, everyone is focused either on the view behind the window, their mobile or a friend. I’m shrugging slightly and I’m indulging in daydreaming about my stage without even realising it. Admittedly, for a few days, or maybe weeks, or months, I’ve been dreaming about performing more than ever before. And it’s not only about that stage in the park near my house. I can see stages everywhere. There’s a stage in the shopping centre I visit regularly, though I’ve never dedicated much thought to it—maybe because it’s always taken by some useless, to me, food and craft stalls. There’s a stage in the assembly hall in our school and even in most classrooms. There was a stage with a grand piano in a restaurant I’ve been to recently. There was also a mobile stage in another park I visited with Cornelia and Tiana and the elevated floor in the gym also resembles a stage. I even found a small stage in the forest during my last lonely walk, or at least a curious wooden platform. There are so many stages to perform on and I never take advantage of them. I’m feeling a sudden surge of frustration, or maybe even anger. I’m sighing heavily again and I’m surprised as no one reacts to it. The bus is standing still, waiting for the traffic lights to change, and everyone is looking at the window, at their phone, or a friend. Maybe I don’t attract attention so much after all. When the bus moves on again, I clear my throat on purpose and when it doesn’t bring about any change, I’m shouldering my way to the other end of the bus with no reason. People move obediently so I can pass or just don’t react when I push them slightly. I’m feeling more and more like playing with fire, but I decide to take out an old ticket I keep in my pocket and I ask the nearest person to validate it for me. Just as an experiment. I have a monthly ticket anyway.

“Excuse me,” I repeat, this time a bit louder. “Could you validate this ticket for me?”

I’m waiting with my hand extended, but the man doesn’t even turn.

“I swear, they just didn’t see me,” I say when we’re standing in the school hallway with Cornelia. I try to explain to my friend my rising anxiety, but she looks away, certainly noticing Tiana or someone else who will soon join us and put an end to our conversation.

“Are you listening?”

“I’m sorry,” Cornelia says after a moment, turning her head. “Could you talk a bit louder? I can barely hear you in this noise.”

I say I’m doing my best to speak up and I don’t want the whole school to hear us, but soon I find out that no one can hear me, just like on the bus. The lesson starts and I start squirming and fidgeting on my seat, willing to see how far I can stay unnoticed. I pretend to be coughing and I refuse to open my book and work, which usually attracts our teacher’s attention, but today there’s nothing. At some point, I put up my hand as if I wanted to answer a question, and I’m actually prepared to do it, but the teacher doesn’t look at me. Finally, after raising my hand for the third time, Cornelia suggests timidly if I could say something and the teacher finally notices me. I give all the information I remember on the Age of Discovery, which was just mentioned, and I wonder whether the teacher would soon become annoyed, or maybe rather just amazed by that quite lengthy talk of mine, but at the end he just says “yes” and continues talking about the other stuff.

During the recess, put out and confused by the course of action, I announce to Cornelia and Tiana that I’m going to try making use of the stage in the park today, but they say nothing. They know it’s the matter of plucking up all my courage to make this decision, but they seem just distracted and as if my message didn’t reach their minds with its full meaning. Finally, they admit it can be a good idea, as though we talked about buying a hot-dog for lunch, and they also admit that they don’t feel such a strong motivation to go to another part of the city just to see me climbing a stage. I point out that Cornelia doesn’t live far from the park, but she only insists that I come to her volleyball training first and I get discouraged. I don’t enjoy playing volleyball, and now, when I’ve found the courage to step on the stage and start going for my dreams and pursuing my destiny, it’d be ridiculous to spend time on a useless, for me, volleyball training instead. I talk to a few more people with whom I’ve had a word some day, but they only answer “yes” or “no” to my questions, so I give it up.

After school, I actually touch the stage for the first time in my life and, after a short hesitation, climb the stairs. Or at least the first step. Then, suddenly, I get a hunch that someone will accuse me of the intention of organising manifestation and stirring up the society and I retreat. Once I’ve got down, I want to climb again, but suddenly I’m feeling very clumsy and unprepared. I don’t have any specific idea of what I’d like to present on the stage and a group of finely dressed people approach me out of the blue, giving an impression as if they wanted to present something “serious” now and time’s up for my tentative, childish game. The next day, I climb the second step, with my blood curdled, but something tells me that it’s a crazy idea, cause I’ll certainly forget everything there up and I’ll just stand still in the middle of the stage like a lemon. There are quite many people in the park right now and a few of them have even sat on the benches for the stage’s audience. I can’t cope with risking humiliation and I flee. The third day, I finally reach the last step, but I feel as if I’d broken a law. In the beginning, I pretend to only be walking casually or trying to see something in the distance. But as no one even looks at me, I try to enjoy being in that special place gradually and I realise an enthusiastic song is playing in my mind ceaselessly, as if trying to get out. It takes a few days until I finally decide to take my guitar and give a show, but the effect is splendid. I feel like I’m in a movie and my voice synchronises perfectly with the guitar, even though the first notes sound somewhat awkward. The next day, however, the experience is not splendid anymore and becomes boring. In the end, still, no one is paying attention to my performance and I feel pointless and miserable. Then, my mind rushes in an interminable pursuit of new ideas and I decide to go to the restaurant where I saw the piano with rising excitement. The piano is just being used by a pianist of some sort and a lady is singing next to him, but I don’t get discouraged and I sit in a corner, waiting for my turn to come. After an hour or so, I approach the counter and ask if they know when the show will finish and whether I’ll be able to use the stage afterwards, but they can’t hear me. I try to outshout the roar of the music, but finally I only see the waitress pointing at a door behind me, which clearly indicates that she misheard my question.

When I finally sit behind the hefty instrument, I’m feeling a sudden surge of desire to receive feedback, just any feedback, even the worst feedback that one can give to get someone down. Cause only then can I be sure that they are honest with me and my life will take on some colours, following long colourless years of indifference and apathy. I’m just fed up with moving along a line of robots that only enter and leave buildings and are never interested in interacting with me—this is how I perceive reality. So after playing something that sounds like a song, I ask the nearest couple what they think about my music. However, they say they didn’t hear anything and I’m getting out of breath for a moment. Then, with uncontrollable serenity that comes over my body as a result of interior tension and an outburst of oppressive emotions that never come to externalise, I sit behind the grand piano again and carry on, determined to sing along, although it’s out of my capability. I’ve never been great at playing piano and I actually haven’t played it for a few years, so playing a single song without opening my mouth is already an achievement, but I don’t care about quality anymore. Actually, I’m of the opinion that improvisation may sometimes give a better show and the beauty of composing is truly seen only through it. So I play and sing and, as no one expresses either approval or disapproval, I do it louder, louder, and louder. Finally, I realise that I’m screaming, but the people around me don’t seem to notice anything beyond their tables, small and round like islands in the sea of mad, but elusive noise. When I’m about to get up, chagrined and resigned, I see a hand with a business card in front of me.

“This is the finest music studio in the city,” the man holding the card comments, peeking at me. “First lesson gratis. Experienced teachers and professional approach. You can practise in far more comfortable conditions than these ones,” he points at the surroundings with his head.

“And why do you offer it to me?” I ask. “Do you think I can make a career?”

“Well, we are in charge of teaching,” he says mysteriously. “Surely good musicians are more likely to succeed. Besides, you seem quite desperate to practise here, in a public place, instead of in a school or a studio.”

“I don’t just practise,” I reply. “It’s a performance.”

“Well, then, why so quiet?”

“Quiet?” I repeat, taken aback. But the businessman doesn’t have anything else to tell me and retreats, shaking his head like after coming across an unable to comprehend child.

The next day, I feel remorse. I realise I have been acting hastily and putting my disorganised dreams before all social norms. My classmates and teachers are certainly fed up with my loud behaviour and are looking for an occasion to incriminate me. And even if they’re not so determined in this matter, I ought not to risk like that as I tremble at the thought of spoiling my reputation.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Tiana, noticing her. “I’ve been a bit rude lately. I just felt that I didn’t attract attention that much after all and I got excessively excited about rocking that stage.”

Tiana turns out to be surprised, however, and she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“To be honest, you are a very gentle person, Jasmina. So gentle I just can’t hear you when we’re with other friends.”

“And you really haven’t noticed any change in recent days?” I want to make sure.

Tiana shrugs hopelessly.

“No.”

I sigh again and I remember almost immediately that I don’t need to control it. We’re still in the hallway and no one is able to notice whether my sigh is deep or contained. And, anyway, apparently, they just don’t notice me whatever I do. However, I feel that it’ll take some time to teach my body this new truth and reverse containment reflexes that I’ve learnt over the course of my life.

After school, I decide to call Cornelia, as I learn she has been off for a few days (just like me), but I can’t resist rounding off my experiment first. I know that talking with Cornelia won’t change anything. I know her quite well and I can guess what she’ll tell me. Let’s go to a volleyball match or let’s complain about how much we have to study. I can even guess the reason why she’s been off. And the thing is that there’s actually no reason, or at least she’s usually not able to identify it. I know her well enough. And she’s probably the only person besides my family about whom I can say so. I stick with Tiana at school, but somehow she’s not so eager to keep in touch outside. Once we leave the building, she’s getting into her “busy bubble” and it really puzzles me sometimes. Anyway, none of them will absolutely not help me with my problem, even if they wanted to. I’m mature enough to see that eventually we all have to deal with our problems on our own, at least on an earthly level, and at least with most of them. No one will climb the stage for me, attract people’s attention for me and basically make me act. This is a challenge I must face myself.

I’ve got another idea now and I head to the library. The library is always quiet and there’s a sign “Do Not Disturb” on the door. I walk down the aisles surrounded by bookcases as if testing grounds, but no examination is needed—everything is just the same as always. Eventually, I sit at a table and start. At first, I’m just crooning to myself, then I raise my voice gradually and begin singing out loud. From the table I’m sitting at, I have a very good view of the whole front part of the library. I can see the librarians at their desk, talking fervently; students on one side, immersed in their readings, and students on the other side, searching for the right books, holding them, and putting them back. However, no one seems to have noticed my voice. When I realise that I’m screaming again, I give up and stand up, almost kicking the chair away. A terrible thought crosses my mind—maybe they’re just pretending they can’t hear me? But everything’s just too quiet and steady. I approach the librarians and ask if I didn’t disturb anyone, but they only react when I repeat my question the third time. They say they didn’t know I was talking to them.

“You’re looking away,” one of them explains.

Oh, well. I’ve forgotten about that one.

Later, I realise that I haven’t forgotten about that. I have never even thought about it. I recall the many times I was crying and screaming in the school yard to make the teacher and other kids care about me and my needs. And the particular time when I was sitting in the middle of the stage in our school hall, calling for attention. Sitting,looking down, and crying that I wanted to play the leading role. Or actually it didn’t have to be the leading one, it’d be enough if I could play one of those important roles that appeared next to the leading character or with one another. But it didn’t matter. I couldn’t get it anyway and it wasn’t because all the roles had already been assigned, but because no one even considered that I could play one of the important characters. I remembered then what my mum had told me and cried as loud as I could. My mum had told me a day before that I’d spoken too quietly at school, because the teacher had never noticed me when I’d claimed I’d told her something. So my mum had advised me to speak louder and I did my best to follow her advice. I was just afraid that someone would kick me all of the sudden, so I guess I didn’t really do my best, but I tried. I screamed and cried and eventually our teacher took hold of me, dragged me across the stage and down the stairs, and told me, using a soothing tone, that I didn’t have to perform if I didn’t want to.

“Honey, you don’t have to! No worries! You don’t have to be on the stage and act. It’s not a problem!”

Then, I felt even more upset and I continued crying, but I certainly wasn’t in a mood for articulating any words norlooking upat anyone. I just sat there, crying, but I couldn’t do it too loud, because by the end of the class the group had already rehearsed the entire show. Maybe it’s been too long ago to remember the details, but right now I don’t remember looking at anyone while talking to them a single time.

When I get home, I feel so devastated that I don’t feel like talking with anyone in any form, even with Cornelia. The next day in the morning, I approach the stage in the park again, though I don’t know if it’s still out of a real motivation or maybe just out of force of habit. I still have new ideas and lyrics in my head, but I’m fed up with playing for empty benches. I promise myself that this time I’ll try to stare at anyone who’ll be passing by, but I don’t have a chance. Suddenly, I trip over something and fall. I realise it’s a person, and next, I see Cornelia’s face opposite mine.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, shocked. I don’t know if I want to laugh or scream at her in such an unexpected encounter.

“Well,” Cornelia sighs as if she was about to explain the same thing to someone a hundredth time. “Do you really want to know?”

“What do you mean?” I reply. “Are you stalking me? Why haven’t you just called me or met me at school?”

“And what if I want to be on the stage like you? Have you thought about such a possibility?”

“What do you mean…?” I repeat, confused.

“I mean that I really want to be on the stage like you, perform, sing and act. And have fans. Is it really so wrong? I’ve wanted it for a long time, but I’ve never had courage, just like you.”

Cornelia raises her voice and starts gesturing widely just like every time she’s put out.

“But why have you never told me?” I cut in, impatiently.

“I tried. I invited you to the volleyball training to spend some time together and talk, but you didn’t want to. Don’t you remember?”

“It’s because I don’t like playing it,” I answer, outraged. “I didn’t know you wanted totalk!”

“Don’t we always talk after the training? You know it boosts my spirits and we have the best conversations on the way back home.”

“But there are many different places and occasions we can talk in. Why didn’t you talk to me at school? Or at least phone me?”

“Our school is not the best place to talk about such delicate issues. They require a proper environment. And then, you just stopped coming and started climbing the stage every morning instead. So I understood that you wanted to work for your success on your own and that you didn’t want any associates. So I decided that I’d pursue my own dream by myself and I watched the stage every day to see when I could take it. But you know what? It wasalwaystaken! You’re coming here every morning and then some kids play on it until late.”

I shake my head in disbelief. My best friend spying on me to take her turn on a stage that I’ve always considered inaccessible until so recently? Cornelia still has a hoodie on her head. She’s wearing a loose black jumper that I’ve never seen on her before and she’s been lying on a roll mat. Suddenly, I crack up.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “It’s just so crazy. I had no idea you might have a similar desire… But you know I have no fans, right? I mean, I think that no one has even noticed me. I perform for empty benches. But can you guess what I’ve just found out?”

“You don’t have fans because you don’t want any,” Cornelia cuts in and looks daggers at me. “People are bending over backwards to see you.”

I shake my head slowly.

“It must be just your imagination.”

Cornelia gets up suddenly and gestures to follow her.

“Come with me,” she says and heads towards the background of the audience space opposite the stage, covered with trees and bushes.

“Guys, come! Where are you?” Cornelia asks, bending over to pass below spreading tree branches.

I want to ask her what she’s doing, but I don’t make it in time. I spot a group of people turning to us, although some of them are walking away.

“Melanie, wait! Girls!” someone shouts and the women stop and turn too. Only one of them speeds up and walks away without hesitation.

“Guys, Jasmina is not mad with you. She’s actually delighted to have supporters,” Cornelia says and the group of people look at us with different expressions on their faces. They are both men and women aged around twenty to forty, plus two teenage girls. Most of them look just confused, one girl looks as if she was about to be arrested and one woman has such a serene and insipid expression on her face that I doubt she can ever get affected by anything.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” a woman says, either the one who was called Melanie or her friend. She has a familiarly substantive and clear voice, a voice that makes me think of my science teacher. “I was actually walking past here one of these days and I heard a voice singing, so I stopped for a moment. But now, I’m sorry, but I’m a bit in a rush.”

She’s about to walk away. Cornelia looks at metriumphantly and expectantly.

“And what do you think of my performances?” I blurt off hastily. “Do you like them?”

Melanie—if that’s her name—looks at me again.

“Yes.”

I wait for the continuation expectantly, but it doesn’t come.

“And what do you like exactly?” I ask before she leaves. “Why do you like them?”

“I like them,” she only repeats, looking at me seriously and nodding her head vigorously as if it was meant a compensation for her succinctness. I don’t see the point in asking her the same or similar question again when she turns and finally leaves.

“Actually, I was about to leave again,” says a man. “I’m on my way to work and have just stopped here to see what’s happening.

Another man joins his club and and a girl walks away, saying goodbye and smiling widely, but shortly.

“Cornelia, how did you bring your friend round to accept an audience?” another woman asks.

“Well, actually, it was a misunderstanding,” my friend replies and laughs curtly.

“I’ve never told you that I didn’t want to have an audience,” I point out, surprised.

“So why are you singing so quietly?” the woman asks.

“I don’t. I mean, it was not meant to be quiet. Why do you think I perform in public space? I was counting for an audience from the very beginning.”

“Why don’t we go to a coffee shop for a talk, shall we?” says she, unexpectedly.

Two more people leave and we, that is me, Cornelia, the woman and a man go to a nearby café. Cornelia explains to me quickly and quietly that she couldn’t convince people that I wanted to be heard, so eventually she let them think according to their own beliefs.

“Well, so, did you like my show?” ask I, after having agreed upon where to sit and what to order.

“Yes,” answer they in a vivid tone, but say nothing else.

“What did you like exactly?” I repeat, feeling unconvinced and unsatisfied. “Why did you like it?”

“We liked it,” they repeat in agreement.

“But… Can you tell me what did you like exactly comparing to other musicals you’ve seen in your life? Was it very quiet? Or underwhelming? Or…”

“Why are you asking us if apparently you’re not able to believe us?” the man says. “We can give you elaborated feedback, but you won’t believe anyway.”

He sounds so firm that I don’t find strength to keep badgering them.

The next time, we perform together with Cornelia and although I feel very thrilled in the beginning, seeing even a bigger group of people sitting in the benches than the one we found behind the trees, I’m feeling more and more like a fish out of water when our show is going on. On the one hand, my heart is melting from delight, but on the other hand, I’m feeling I’m just not doing well. I must be either too quiet or too loud, and either too showy or too contained. Maybe I’m meant to be showy, but not like that. When the audience is applauding (some of them even standing up and whistling), I’m realising I can’t be happy, because I’m just not feeling good with myself. My self-esteem must be wobbling like a drunk man on a tightrope and even a group of zealous fans will not be able to soothe it.

“It was just so quiet and gentle that we were afraid of spooking you,” says one woman after our performance has ended. Most people approach Cornelia, but some approach me too. I have no idea how Cornelia did it, but somehow she made them come by putting up a few announcements.

“You know, it’s amazingly brave of you to start performing like this on your own,” a man points out and I feel like in an interview worthy of a first-rate star, though apart from a brief intense delight, I also experience terrifying pressure of having to meet the same expectation from now on to keep this admirable reputation.

After one hour of an after-show gathering in a small circle, my eyes just can’t stand the pressure anymore and urge me to close them. They’re filling with tears out of exhaustion and I feel that my staying there longer is pointless, although a part of me is not able to leave. It’s just too great a gift to leave it, so I wait for my audience to do so.

After one more show we gave together, and another meeting, I notice that the atmosphere of initial enthusiasm dwindles, I continue feeling dissatisfied with my own performance and people start losing interest in me and taking on interests in other issues. Again, I talk to them, but some questions or remarks come out just too quiet. My eyes disobey me when I try to maintain eye contact. I also realise that I’ve taken an inch and I’m greedily looking forward to taking a mile. But will a mile make me happy? I don’t think so.

When I tell Cornelia that I’m not feeling like carrying on with our shows, she’s not pleased.

“It’s your time now,” I say evasively.

“But I’m really feeling more confident with you. I can’t imagine doing it on my own now… Even though you may still intimidate some spectators.”

We burst into laughter, even though this fact isn’t actually funny for me.

“Well, if you really feel so…,” after all, I’m feeling moved by such a confession. “And what about involving other people?” I add spontaneously.

“What do you mean? Who?”

“Lina, perhaps? She’s mentioned several times that she’d love to perform on stage.”

Cornelia shrugs.

“I’m not sure what she’s capable of, but if she has our motivation, we can definitely try!”

We met Lina, a teenage girl slightly younger than us, after our last show. I wouldn’t be surprised to find her scheming a plot to climb the stage secretly like Cornelia, and I’d be delighted to prevent it. She can be spared it. So I’m really happy to see her smiling widely at our invitation and going up the stairs in a few days. At the end of her performance, I’m waiting for her unconsciously to blink at me or at least look at me. But I realise I don’t really need it. I may be happy in the shadow, cause I’m always ready to come to the light. And, most of all, because I’ve let someone else be happy. And that’s true, even though I’ll always look for occasions to take a mile and I experience regular relapses of an urge to steal the show.