Tuesday, February 24, 2026

Emili






Sedeo sam sa mojim drugarom detektivom u restoranu i slušao njegov izveštaj pokušaja otmice male Emili. Gangsteri su bežali od policije tokom pljačke banke i videvši malu Emili pokušali da je otmu i ucene njene bogate roditelje. Priča mu je bila malo nepovezana pošto smo i ja i on bili pijani.

-Slušaj, Čede. Evo kako je bilo.

-Probudio  sam  se  u  pola  sedam  uveče, sa  osrednjom  glavoboljom. Soba  je  bila  zamračena, roletne  spuštene. Ljudi  koji  pate  od  glavobolja  su  osetljivi  na svetlost. Pišalo  mi  se. Kurac  je  bio  čvrst  i  topao. Uzeo  sam  kafetin  sa  noćnog  stočića  i  flašu  tople  vode, i  popio  ga. Jedan  kafetin  je  dovoljan. Nosio  sam  gaće  marke  „Hugo-Boss“, sive  boje. Izvadio  sam  kurac  i  počeo  da  ga  drkam. Omirisao  sam  svoje  prste, spustio  pljuvačku  na  njih, i  nastavio  da  drkam. Usmeravao  sam  svoje  misli  ka  postizanju  vrhunca, i  naposletku  svršio. Jedna  peruška  mi  je  pala  na  butinu, dunuo  sam  i  oterao  je, ali  se  ona  ponovo  vratila. Zagledao  sam  se  malo  u  procep  na  roletni  kroz  koji  je  proticao  zrak  sunca, raznosio  prašinu  i  ustajali  vazduh, i  padao  na  moju  butinu, osvetljavajući  linije  sperme  koje  su  curile  niz  nju. Ustao  sam  i  navukao  papuče, otišao  da  pišam. Napolju  se  mogla  čuti  graja  dece. Penzioneri  su  šetali. Dok  sam  pišao, slušao  sam  moju  malu  komšinicu  kako  vežba   pevanje  kroz  zid  kupatila. Pritisnuo  sam  vodokotlić  koji  je  zagušio  njeno  pevanje  i  napustio  kupatilo. Kroz  par  trenutaka  pevanje  se  ponovo  počelo  dizati. Podjoh  u  kuhinju  da  skuvam  kafu. Voleo  sam  3  u  1. Kad  sam  skuvao  kafu, podigao  sam  roletne  jednim  potezom  i  pustio  svetlo  u  sobu. Iako  sam  spavao  tek  tri  sata  nisam  se  osećao  umoran. Seo  sam  na  terasu, srknuo  kafu  i  zapalio  cigaretu. Malo  sam  se  prodrhtao, zgrčio  pa  opustio. Uzeo  sam  moj  plavi  durbin  i  uperio  ga  u  susednu  zgradu. Gledao  sam  moje  susede  uveličavajućim  durbinom, praksa  koju  sam  upražnjavao  od  rane  mladosti. U  jednom  stanu  je  goreo  požar, ljudi  su  uzbudjeno  vikali, a  ispred  zgrade  se  okupila  masa  ljudi. Ubrzo  su  stigla  vatrogasna  kola. Starci  su  žučno  negodovali  zbog  nepažnje  stanara.

-Ništa  ne  paze, ti  ljudi! Jedna  neugašena  cigareta, i  ode  sve  u  kurac!

Njegov  prijatelj  se  složio  sa  starčevim  mišljenjem, i  njih  dvoje  nastaviše  šetnju  gledajući  u  zemlju. Sa  moje  terase  se  pružao  lep  pogled  koji  se  protezao  ka  horizontu  i  gubio  u  suncu  i  oblacima. I  tako, spuštala  se  noć. Bio  sam  nadasve  u  nekakvom  ushićenju. Naoblačilo  se  i  poče  tiha  grmljavina. Glavobolja  je  neprimetno  prestala, kao  dlanom  ruke  odnešena. Hladan  letnji  vetar  poče  strujati  kroz  vazduh, i  ja  ga  udisah. Uvek  osetim  priliv  čudnog  zadovoljstva  kad  me  prestane  glavobolja. Sevnu  munja. Puče  grom  i  pade  jaka  kiša. Noć  je  već  potpuno  preuzela  smenu, i  nikoga  više  nije  bilo  na  ulicama, osim  jedne  žene  koja  je  trčala  pokrivajući  se  jaknom  i  vodeći  svoje  dete  za  ruku. Posmatrao  sam  mokro  lelujavo  drveće  i  saobraćajne  znakove. Pored  puta  se  nalazila  jedna  stara  kafana. Kroz  durbin  sam  unutra  ugledao  neke  ljude  što  piju  pivo  i  prevlače  rukama  po  bradi, dok  je  svirala  stara  narodna  muzika  harmonike. Sve  je  bilo  tako  tiho  i  nepomično, osim  jedne  kese  koju  je  nosio  vetar. Bacio  sam  pikavac  kroz  terasu, i  povukao  se  u  svoju  sobu. Uzeo  sam  malo  hleba  sa  sirom. Posle  sam  skuvao  crnu  kafu. Pokušavao  sam  malo  da  radim, da  se  nečim  bavim. Ali  nisam  mogao. Mislio  sam  na  moju  Anabelu. Seo  sam  na  pod  prekrštenih  nogu  i  gledao  njene  fotografije. Srknuo  sam  malo  kafe  crne  kao  noćno  more, i  upalio  kompjuter, i  pustio  neku  tihu  muziku, koja  se  mešala  sa  udarcima  kišnih  kapi. Oko  mene  su  bili  mnogi  ispisani  papiri, drveni  čiviluk, sto, stolica. Pepeljara. Ipak, smogao  sam  snage  da  pročitam  nekoliko  stranica  uz  božju  pomoć. Blizu  mog  mesta  se  nalazila  pruga, pa  sam  često  slušao  vozove. Ali  odjednom  začuh  nečije  korake  u  hodniku  zgrade. Podigoh  glavu  i  skočih  pažljivo  do  vrata, saguvši  se  i  izbacivši  zadnjicu  nazad  a  gornji  deo  tela  napred, pogledah  kroz  špijunku. Neki  čovek  se  spuštao  na  moj  sprat  izbijajući  iz  tame, i  naglo  se  okrenuvši  tako  da  mu  ne  videh  lice, stao  ukopan, kao  razmišljajući. Onda  nastavi  da  silazi. Odem  na  terasu  da  ga  vidim  kako  izlazi, i  vidim, prestala  kiša, udahnem  svež  vazduh. Čovek  izidje  iz  zgrade  i  podje  levo  ulicom  ka  centru, kako  mi  se  učinilo, krsteći  se. Bilo  je  12  sati. Gde  li  ide? Vratih  se  u  sobu  i  dugo  razmišljah  o  tome. Reših  da  se  bacim  pod  tuš, i  vrela  voda  mi  išuri  telo. Legnem  u  krevet  i  brzo  zaspih, i  sanjah  Anabelu, ali  vrlo  nejasno.


Sutradan  sam  ustao  malo  ranije, jer  sam  očekivao  poštara. Opet  nije  došao. Ponovo  glavobolja. Nestalo  mi  je  kafetina, pa  sam  uzeo  prašak  protiv  bolova. On  se  sipa  u  čašu  vode, promeša  i  popije, ali  je  ukus  neprijatan. Mrzovolja  me  obuhvati. Neko  mi  pozvoni  na  vrata, neka  žena.

-Dobar  dan, skupljamo  novac  za  decu  bez  roditeljskog  staranja. Samo  50  vaših  dinara  je  dovoljno  da  izvuče  osmejak  jednom  detetu.

-Nisam  u  mogućnosti.

Zatvorim  joj  vrata. Ko  zna  koliko  je  usamljenih  starica  prevarila  ta  narkomanka. Ona  im  dolazi  i  po  više  puta, ali  starice  je  zaborave, pa  misle  da  je  neka  nova. Pozvoni  mi  telefon.

-Halo?

-Gde  si, Pušinski! Boris  ovde.

-A, ti  si.

-Hoćeš  u  grad?

-Hoću.

Spustio  sam  slušalicu, i  zagledao  se  u  persijski  tepih. Boris  je  bio  moj  stari  drug, još  iz  mladjih  dana. Još  od  onda. Koliko  je  prošlo  od  tada? Koliko  istovetnih, suvih  dana, provedenih  u  istoj  sobi? Koliko  popijenih  kafa, pogleda  u  prazno, pročitanih  novina, televizijskih  programa? Pet  godina  nisam  izlazio  nikuda. Ponovo  me  je  obuzeo  stari  poznati  osećaj, grešan  i  lep. Lepo  je  uneti  malo  promene. Posle  toliko  godina. Naravno, ni  ovako  nije  loše. Nema  više  trzanja. Ali  nema  više  ni  onog  drugog. Naučio  sam  se  mirnom  življenju, bez  trzanja, mirnoći. Ništa  me  više  ne  može  potresti. Pa  ni  ovaj  poziv. Živim  uz  minimum  neophodnosti, kao  monah. Pogledao  sam  moju  neurednu  sobu. Danas  je  osetno  svežije, 14  stepeni. Taman  za  moj  svileni  crni  kaput. Iznad  kamina  je  visio  zidni  sat, a  iznad  njega  portret  moga  pokojnog  oca, koji  je  bacao  senku  duž  crvenog  tepiha  i  crnog  zida  ukrašenog  zelenim  zavesama. Odjednom  se  prisetih  kako  sam  kao  mali  ležao  sa  majkom, pio  med  i  mleko  i  posmatrao  igru  senki  na  plafonu  od  gradskih  svetala, lica  u  zavesama, svega  toga. Pogledao  sam  kroz  prozor  i  video  mog  bibliotekara  kako  šeta, uzvrpoljio  se  i  odmaknuo. Blizu  mog  mesta  se  nalazio  auto-put. Prodjoše  kola.


Izašao  sam  na  sporedni  izlaz  i  uputio  se  ka  taksi-stanici, krckajući  opalo  jesenje  lišće. Pozdravio  sam  moga  komšiju. Moj  trenutni  smeštaj  mi  je  odgovarao, udaljen, a  blizak  gradu. Boris  je  hteo  da  se  sretnemo  na  Dorćolu, ali  ja  nisam  hteo, zato  što  sam  tamo  rodjen. Predložio  sam  da  se  vidimo  kod  Crkve  Svetog  Marka. U  prolazu  do  taksija  sam  video  gradjevinsko  zemljište. Gradili  su  novu  zgradu. Krenuli  smo  brzo, proticali  su  prizori. Male  kućice  nanizane  jedna  pored  druge, opasane  ogradicama, tik  uz  prometnu  ulicu, pored  njih  zgradurine, pa  neke  uvale, prodavnice, mega-marketi, tržni  centri, razvaline, smećišta, mostovi, tuneli, podzemni  prolazi, betonske  konstrukcije, uspavani  soliteri, stotinu  čudesa. Prolaznici, kontejneri, klošari. Prodjosmo  luku. Čekao  sam  Borisa  10  minuta, kasnio  je, vragolan. Prema  njemu  sam  bio  dobar, jer  iako  je  u  suštini  bio  mentol, bio  mi  je  simpatičan. Bio  je  niži  od  mene, velikog  nosa, lica  kao  u  pacova, ali  širokih  ramena. Najzad  dodje. Pričali  smo  malo, ali  sadržajno. Pošto  sam  zapalio  sveću  u  crkvi  za  pokoj  duše, otišli  smo  po  travu, i  seli  u  park. Preko  puta  nas  su  sedela  dva  momka  i  gledala  nas. Boris  je  motao  travu.

-Borise, šta  nas  gledaju  ovi?

-Ja  mislim  da  i  oni  motaju.

-Hahaha! Sad  im  je  čudno  što  i  mi  motamo.

Boris  smota  i  zapali  džoint, povuče  par  dimova, i  predade  meni. Popušimo  mi  džoint, kad  oni  tipovi  krenuše  ka  nama.

-Momci, samo  da  vam  kažemo, videli  smo  nekog  tipa  u  plavom, tu  iza  parka.

-Ajde  da  idemo, Borise.

Uhvati  nas  neka  panika, i  mi  odemo  iz  parka  na  ulicu  koja  vodi  u  sportski  centar  „Milan  Gale  Muškatirović“. Ja  bacim  pogled  na  ono  dvoje, kad, oni  seli  na  našu  klupu.

-Borise, da  nisu  ovi  namerno  rekli  da  su  videli  pandura  da  bi  nas  oterali  i  seli  na  našu  klupu?

-Hahaha!

Trava  nas  je  uhvatila, i  krenuli  smo  trotoarom, u  lice  vetru, ka  dunavskom  keju, gore. Jedan  autobus  koji  je  išao  ka  nama  skrenu  ulevo. Mi  ga  shvatismo  kao  živo  biće. Išli  smo  naizgled  bez  cilja, i  došli  smo  do  reke. Stajao  sam  i  gledao  u  ogledalo  svetlucave, nemirne  reke. U  reci  je  bila  ukopana  olupina  starog, zardjalog  broda  koja  tu  leži  trideset  godina. Unutra  se  noću  skupljaju  klošari  i  narkomani, ludaci, i  pale  vatre. Oko  broda  je  reka  bila  crna  i  mutna. Lepo  je  unutra, i  šteta  što  brod  ne  radi. Boris  poče  pričati  kako  vidi  skrivene  dimenzije  prostora  i  vremena. Naravno, perturbacije  i  iskrivljenja  su  moguća. Često  smo  pričali  o  izmenjenom  doživljaju  vremene  i  prostora  pod  uticajem  droga, o  uplivu. Pozvali  smo  Duleta  da  dodje. On  je  bio  veoma  namučen  momak. Bio  je  nizak  i  krupan, nabijen. Imao  je  nešto  dečje  u  sebi, i  ranjeno. Motali  smo  drugi  džoint, kad  on  dodje. I  odmah  je  počeo  da  lupeta. Video  je  Isusa, vanzemaljce, dinosauruse. On  poče  da  puši  džoint  ko  stoka, zakašlje  se, i  sline  mu  izadju  iz  nosa  koje  on  obriše  nekim  lišćem. Posmatramo  površinu  reke, i  vidimo  nešto  kako  plovi  ka  nama. To  je  bila  policijska  kapa.

-Rečna  policija!

Izroni  policajac, sav  mokar  i  sluzav, obavijen  rečnom  travom. Sreća  što  nismo  imali  više  travu, inače  bi  nas  uhapsio.

-Naduvali  ste  se. Lepo  vam  je, a?

Mi  se  smejemo. Policajac  skoči  natrag  u  vodu, i  otplovi  kao  delfin. Mora  da  su  imali  neku  stanicu  u  dnu  reke. Riblja  policija, haha! Ali  on  se  vrati  i  ipak  nas  privede  zbog  rizli, i  dade  nam  maske  sa  kiseonikom  i  mi  zaronimo  sa  njim  do  dna  reke, do  neke  kućice  na  dnu. U  kućici  su  bila  dva  policajca, jedan  za  stolom, a  drugi  obešen  o  luster. Vrtela  se  ona  hladilica  na  plafonu  i  udarala  obešenog  čoveka. Policajac  za  stolom  je  bio  kapetan  riblje  policije, i  ličio  je  malo  na  šarana. Policajac  koji  nas  je  priveo  je  stajao  iza  nas. Kod  njih  je  dolazila  povremeno  žena  sa  pijace  da  uzme  svežu  ribu. Kapetan  se  zakašlja, izadje  mu  mehur  i  blato  iz  usta.

-Momci, loše  vam  se  piše. Predvidjena  kazna  za  vas  je  15  godina. Imamo  i  ćelije  ovde. Obešeni, pokaži  im  ćelije.

Obešeni  visi, udara  ga  hladilica. Kapetan  se  gromko  zasmeja  sebi  u  bradu.

-Ah, da, on  je  mrtav. Uvek  to  zaboravim. Čovek  svašta  zaboravi  ovde.

Kapetan  se  zagleda  u  sto, vodnjikav  i  prašnjav, popravi  neke  zgužvane  papire  i  pogleda  u  nas.

-Naravno, i  ja  sam  nekad  duvao, kao  i  vi, momci. Znate  šta, pustiću  vas  ako  me  neko  od  vas  naduva. OK?

Kapetan  skine  pantalone  i  izvadi  debelog  djoku. Plutajuće  blato  mu  predje  preko  lica.

-Ko  će  da  me  naduva?

-Što  vam  ne  duvaju  vaši  pomoćnici?

-He, he. Pa  ne  mogu  oni.

Ja, Dule  i  Boris  odlučimo  da  odigramo  zimi-zami-zum. Točak  sudbine  odabere  Duleta. On  mu  ga  ispuši, i  kapetan  poče  da  se  naduvava  kao  balon  i  iskoči  na  površinu  reke.

-Ah! Konačno  malo  vazduha.

Kapetan  uze  iglu  i  izbuši  se  i  vrati  se  u  stanicu  kao  mršavi, izduženi  starac  u  crnom  odelu. Pogleda  Duleta  sa  takvom  mržnjom  da  ovaj  poskoči  nazad. Onda  ode  na  kraj  sobe, u  neki  mrak. Mi  smo  bili  začudjeni. Drugi  policajac  je  otišao  iza  kućice  da  gleda  porno  magazine. Vrati  se, i  potera  nas  u  ćeliju.

-Ali  rekli  ste  da  ćete  nas  pustiti!

Policajac  nas  osmotri  blago  nakrivivši  glavu.

-Kapetan  je  usamljen  čovek, i  željan  je  društva. Maske  vam  neće  trebati, ćelija  je  izolovana.

Policajac  zalupi  vrata. Otpadne  malter  sa  zida. Ćelija  je  pružala  osnovne  higijenske  potrebe, ali  malo  čega  drugog. Bili  smo  jako  zgureni. Na  zidu  je  visila  okačena  slika  Eduarda  Manea „Doručak  na  travi“ u  kojoj  su  gola  devojka  i  obučen  mladić  doručkovali  ležeći  na  travi. Na  jednoj  naslonjači  je  sedeo  kostur, a  u  uglu  sobe  je  stajao  TV. Policajac  nam  kroz  otvor  ubaci  ribu  sa  hlebom. Mi  uzesmo  ribu  i  posedasmo  za  TV. Na  programu  je  bila  emisija  u  kojoj  su  debili  radosno  trčali  i  igrali  se  jedni  sa  drugima, grleći  se  sa  roditeljima  koji  su  ih  bodrili  da  nastave  da  trče, i  koji  su  ih  uveravali  da  nema  više  tih  ljudi  kojih  su  se  bojali. Prebacili  smo  na  drugi  program, u  kojem  su  neki  čuvari  kružili  oko  nekog  mesta. Na  trećem  programu  je  prikazivana  emisija  „Jebanje  mrtve  dece  na  sto  načina“ gde  je  krupan  muškarac  nabadao  mrtvu  devojčicu  na  kurac, na  ćetvrtom  je  lepa  devojka  vrtela  kukovima  u  ritmičnom  zanosu, dok  su  okupljeni  ljudi  sedeli  prekrštenih  nogu  i  gledali  je  kao  boga, a  na  petom  emisija  „Život  i  priključenija  Todora  Stavrofora“. Brzo  sam  prebacivao  programe, upečatljive  slike  su  se  smenjivale  u  krešendu. Mi  se  zagledali, i  zaboravili  na  naše  trenutno  stanje  koje  nije  bilo  naročito  povoljno. Proverili  smo  sve  mogućnosti, ali  nije  bilo  izlaza. Ali  kako  smo  upali, tako  ćemo  i  izaći. Prolazili  su  dani, porasla  nam  brada, pušili  smo  jedni  drugima. Jednog  dana  kapetan  udje  i  pusti  nas  na  slobodu. Izašli  smo  iz  reke  i  krenuli  prema  centru. Ušli  smo  u  čudno  zbijeni  i  neprirodno  visok  tramvaj  koji  nas  je  odveo  na  poprište  sukoba  dve  grupe  ljudi, i  tu  je  Dule  počeo  da  razgovara  sa  policajcima  o  nekoj  temi. Čekali  smo  ga  na  klupi, a  posle  otišli  na  kafu. Videsmo  nekog  misterioznog  čoveka  sa  šeširom. Dule  nam  predloži  da  odemo  kod  Uroša. Ušli  smo  u  pogrešni  autobus, ali  nas  nije  bilo  briga, pa  smo  išli  do  kraja, i  nazad. Tokom  vožnje  Dule  zaspa, pa  smo  ga  jedva  probudili. Udarila  ga  vrućina. Ko  zna  koliko  bi  krugova  okrenuo. Sišli  smo  kod  Vuka, i  spustili  se  u  podzemni  prolaz. Tu  smo  stajali  malo  i  slušali  kišu. Svidela  nam  se  ta  muzika. Kako  kaplje, kao  neka  praskajuća  tehno  muzika. Onda  smo  seli  ispred  video  kluba  da  odmorimo. Ja  sam  stavio  levu  nogu  na  neku  stolicu. Izadje  žena  iz  kluba  i  zaprepasti  se.

-Alo, bre, šta  radiš  to?

Tu  je  stajao  neki  čuvar  sa  pištoljem  za  pojasom, pa  smo  otišli  odatle, uvredjenog  ponosa. Penjali  smo  se  pokretnim  stepenicama, i  Dule  ugleda  malu  cigančicu  kako  prosi  novac. Reče  joj  da  će  joj  dati  20  dinara  ako  mu  popuši  kurac. Odu  oni  u  šumarak.  Dule  je  jebao  u  usta.

-Mala  cigančice, odmalena  prosiš  novac.

Ne  gledavši, Dule  upade  u  kanalizaciju. Jedva  se  izvukao  i  pobegao  od  ljudi  pacova. Ugledao  sam  prelepog  momka  od  15-ak  godina, mršavog, bronzanog, uskog  dupeta. Bilo  kako  bilo, dodjemo  mi  kod  Uroša. Tamo  sede  dva  narkomana, jedan  visok  i  mršav, drugi  nizak  i  debeo. Treći  je  ležao  u  krevetu  u  patikama  i  spavao. Bila  je  tu  i  neka  gola, mršava  devojka  bele  puti. Oni  duvaju  i  snifaju  koku  i  pucaju  heroin  pa  su  dali  i  nama. Onaj  što  je  spavao  se  probudi  na  miris  trave  i  poče  da  moli  ovog  visokog  za  koku.

-Daj  miii...

-Neću.

-Pičko.

Ovaj  mu  ipak  da, i  on  skuva  i  pukne  se. Zove  oca.

-Napravi  nešto  da  se  nažderem. Dolazim.

Pitamo  ga  da  nam  nabavi  eksere, i  on  ode  po  njih. Već  se  smračivalo. Brzo  se  vrati, i  mi  progutamo  eksere. Zove  ga  otac.

-Hoćeš  doći, sine?

-Nisam  više  gladan.

Posle  je  došao  još  jedan  narkoman. Počeli  su  da  pričaju  neku  narkomansku  priču, kako  su  jurili  pandurima  jugom  uskim  zvezdarskim  sokacima, kako  je  prošle  godine  bilo  više  koke, kako  je  Cvele  uzajmljivao  čarape  suzatvoreniku  u  CZ-u. Tresnuo  se  spidom, pa  blago  zanjihao. Droga  stupa  na  delo-kaza  Žare, smejući  se  grotesknim  ne-smehom, krastav  i  umrljan  krvnim  zrncima. Cvele  je  izgubio  spid, pa  napao  Žareta  šipkom. Tamara  je  uzela  Borisa  ustima  kleknuvši, a  ja  sam  joj  prišao  sa  ledja  i  prodro  u  njeno  belo  dupe  držeći  je  za  ruke. Tamara  se  otkači  od  naših  kurčeva  i  baci  u  kokainskoj  paranoji. Posle  smo  otišli  na  tehno  žurku, ja, Boris  i  Dule, a  šta  se  tamo  dešavalo, više  ni  ja  ne  znam. Mislim  da  je  bila  dobra  žurka. Ivana  mi  je  izdudlala  za  dva  eksera  na  klupi  pred  početak. Sećam  se  da  smo  pronašli  Mareta  na  klupi  u  parku, kako  spava  u  progorelom  kaputu, mrtav  pijan, sa  patuljkom  pored  sebe. Taj  patuljak  nas  je  odveo  na  putovanje  kroz  ružičasto  meso  i  uveo  u  podzemni  dvorac  jakog  svetla  i  menjajućih  oblika. Tamo  sam  video  Borisa-duplikata, i  popričao  sa  njim, okružen  iglama  u  močvari. Ali  otvorio  se  portal  i  upao  vukodlak  u  šumu  visećih  glava  devojaka, konci  mi  leteše  iz  prstiju. Sigurno  je  da  sam  te  noći  doživeo  ono  što  se  ne  da  iskazati  rečima, ili  kroz  misao. Znači, ono  što  se  ne  može  pojmiti. Možda  jedino  kroz  gubitak  sebe. Probudio  sam  se  oko  pola  4  ujutru, u  nekom  parku. Video  sam  ogromnu  maglu  pred  sobom. Čudno  sam  se  osećao, hodao  sam  kao  po  blatu. Napipao  sam  nešto  na  glavi, nešto  krzavo. Nebo  nije  bilo  nebo. Protresao  sam  glavu. Iz  nje  su  ispadali  nekakvi  kamenčići, potpuno  besmisleno. Kleknuo  sam  na  mekani  beton, i  u  njemu  video  lice  moje  Anabele.

-Anabela...

Iz  betona  su  izronile  njene  ruke  i  obuhvatile  me. Kroz  um  su  mi  prolazile  slike  u  kojima  se  teturam  ulicom, vozim  u  autobusu  gledajući  kroz  prozor  i  u  moje  prljave  pantalone, slike  poznate. Nalazim  se  u  krevetu  sa  Anabelom, ona  leži  na  stomaku, tucam  je  u  dupe, ona  svršava, vadim  kurac  i  prskam  je  u  ledja. Ulaze  neki  ljudi, nose  nas  sa  krevetom  u  bunar, padamo  a  krevet  se  rastvara  u  jato  ptica  koje  poleću  uvis, dočekujem  se  na  noge, Anabela  se  pretvara  u  pantera  i  nestaje  u  hodniku.

-Uhvati  me!

Jurim  je, ona  me  gadja  strelama, ležimo  sad  na  krevetu, diže  se  sunce, obasjava  njenu  guzu, ona  me  gleda  iza  ledja, iz  nje  izlazi  silueta  koja  iscrtava  samu  sebe, nadgradjuje, kao  voda  koja  spira  kamen. Anabela  ustaje, lice  joj  se  menja  kako  se  kreće, daje  mi  ogledalo, ne  prepoznajem  se, pogledam  u  Anabelu, nje  nema, vratim  se  ogledalu, umesto  njega  ona  mi  se  smeši, leži  ispod  mene, sedam  za  sto  i  jedem  tortu. Odem  za  kompjuter, igram  auto-trke. Ugledam  sebe  sa  Anabelom  u  hiper-marketu, pričamo, vozim  kolica. Oprosti  mi, Anabela. Ugledam  skupljača  konzervi  u  parku, izbija  dan  pun  belih  zvezda. Nekad  se  zapitam, da  li  se  to  stvarno  desilo? Neki  dogadjaj. Vidim  Borisa  u  autobusu, pa  mi  pobeže. Posle  ga  zovem. Kaže  da  je  kući. Hodam  sa  Anabelom  kroz  jutarnju  maglu, ona  iskrivi  glavu  i  udahne  maglu  pa  je  da  meni  kroz  svetlucavo  jutro  ona  je  suva...došao  sam  kući, aha, ključevi, dobro, tu  sam, zatvaram  vrata, malo  sam  sedeo  i  slušao  muziku, pa  lako  zaspao. Probudio  sam  se  posle  dva  dana  pod  neizbledelim  utiskom  koji  će  odjekivati  u  meni  dugo  vremena. Upalio  sam  kompjuter  i  počeo  da  pišem. Pisao  sam  deset  minuta, popušio  ono  malo  trave  što  je  ostalo, pogledao  kroz  terasu, otišao  da  kupim  sok  od  jabuka  slatko  umornim  korakom, sreo  neke  ljude, vratio  se, pa  ponovo  prošetao  da  kupim  cigare  povremeno  padajući  u  san  dok  sam  išao, ali  ipak  budan, vraćao  se  kući  svojoj. Uveče  sam  se  sastao  sa  Borisom, ispod  velikog  drveta, u  nekom  uvučenom  parku, malo  smo  prošetali, pa  se  rastali. Ja  sam  produžio  nekuda, bilo  kuda. Zašao  sam  u  zagradjenu  zonu  koja  se  krivila  na  levo  ukoso  pa  sam  klizio  u  daljinu  i  u  blesku  polarne  svetlosti  upao  u  prostoriju  u  obliku  ljudskih, ispucalih  usana...noć  je, uzimam  papir  za  crtanje  i  slikam  napuštenu  fabriku  koju  vadim  iz  napuklog  sećanja...dan  i  noć  se  prepliću...situacije  iskaču  nasumično  i  tiho  u  vrelom  letnjem  danu...duh  oslobodjen  tela  je  mučen  iznenadnim  udarcima  vetra...kroz  razbijene  filtere  fotoaparata  sam  pokušavao  da  uslikam  fotografije  izgubljenog  sećanja...dodje  mi  neka  pomisao, pa  se  izgubi, pa  je  tražim  puzeći  po  tepihu, uzmem  je  i  ona  se  raspadne  u  mojim  rukama...cigani  zauzeli  prostor  na  zelenom  vencu...u  pola  5  imam  kontrolu  u  Zavodu  za  kožne  bolesti, ulazim  u  njenu  ordinaciju  i  sedam  na  stolicu, skidajući  majicu, savijem  se  i  pokažem  joj  ledja  bela  i  stvrdnuta  od  tečnosti.

-Kako  vam  izgleda, doktorka?

-Dobro  je, smiruje  se. Kontrola  za  dve  nedelje. 

Vratio  sam  se  kući  i  legnuo  da  gledam  film  o  nekom  čoveku  majstoru  što  je  išao  na  putovanje. Neko  mi  pozvoni  na  vrata. Pojavi  se  mladić  požutelog  lica, zakržljao.

-Dobar  dan, gospodine  Pušinski. Pozivam  vas  na  nedeljni  sastanak  udruženja  mrzitelja  bazena  u  19:30, u  haustoru  22.

On  ode. Sednem  na  stolicu. Kad  sam  se  ja  to  učlanio  u  udruženje  mrzitelja  bazena? Zar  tako  nešto  postoji? Potražim  u  jakni  člansku  kartu. Tu  je. Odem  u  mračnu  sobu, gledam  fotografije.

Evo  nas  na  sastanku. Dugački  sto, sede  ljudi, i  jedna  devojka  koju  sam  upoznao  u  foto-klubu, gleda  me  preko  stola, na  čelu  predsednik  visokog  čela. U  uglu  sedi  spremačica  i  puši  cigaru  zaklonjena  iza  ormana  sa  prašnjavim  knjigama. Iz  pukotina  na  stolu  izlaze  bubašvabe, i  jedna  mačka  kašlje  ispod  stola. Obrati  nam  se  predsednik.

-Gospodo, želim  čuti  vaše  akcije  tokom  ove  nedelje. Da  počnemo  od  vas, Mirko.

-Ja  sam  prošao  pored  jednog  punog  bazena, i  pogledao  ga  sa  jakom  mržnjom.

-Koliko  je  bila  jaka  ta  mržnja, Mirko?

-Mnogo  jaka.

I  tako  oni  pričaju, i  ja  zaspim. U  magnovenju  čujem:

-Gospodo, sastanak  je  završen. Pridružite  nam  se  u  velikoj  Sali  na  aperitiv, kasnije  će  biti  predavanje  ”Tehnike  odbrane  od  bazenskih  kompleksa”.

Na  vreme  izadjem  sa  njima  u  veliku  salu, gde  su  ljudi  stajali  i  pili  šampanjac  usporenim  pokretima. Prošunjam  se  i  izadjem  na  stražnji  izlaz  koji  vodi  kroz  prostorije  bioskopa  ”Balkan”, pa  iz  njega  izbijem  na  ulicu. Podjem  trotoarom  nizbrdo, ka  29-om. Udjem  u  tramvaj  hvatajući  se  za  šipke  i  sednem  iza  jednog  brkatog  čiče  sa  kapom  na  glavi. On  poče  pričati.

-Pušinski, mala  Emili  se  izgubila  u  šumi. Moraš  je  pronaći.

Izadjem  kod  podvožnjaka, ispod  vozne  stanice  ”Novi  Beograd”. Popnem  se  gore  tankim  metalnim  stepenicama  i  udjem  u  prazan  voz. Proveravam  koliko  imam  metaka  u  pištolju, sakrivši  lice  iza  crnog  šešira. Izadjem  kod  ranžirne  stanice  ”Makiš”. Makiš  je  jedna  velika  šuma  sa  močvarama  kroz  koju  prolaze  vozovi. Ima  i  nekih  kuća, ali  samo  pri  glavnom  putu, gde  prolaze  automobili  i  poneki  autobusi. Podjem  u  šumu, oko  mene  groblje  razlupanih  vozova  i  železničkog  materijala. Na  obzorju  se  vidi  velika  zgrada  popucalih  prozora, tkz. Centar  za  opravku  vozova  gde  hodaju  umrljani  mašinci  i  radnici, a  vozovi  stoje  na  uzdignutim  postoljima. Zadnji  tragovi  sunca  su  preletali  preko  šikara, sve  je  bivalo  u  kohabitaciji. Udjem  unutra  i  vidim  malu  Emili  kako  čuči  kraj  velikog  železničkog  točka, umrljana  mašinskim  crnim  uljem  i  uplašena. Pridjem  joj, i  ona  mi  se  baci  u  zagrljaj. Lice  joj  čedno, nevino.

-Spasite  me, gospodine!

-Ne  brini  se, mala  Emili. Niko  te  više  neće  povrediti.

Uzmem  je  na  krkače  da  je  odvedem, ali  navrnuše  tri  gangstera  na  ulaz, koji  su  pre  toga  obigravali  spolja. Spustim  Emili, i  sakrijemo  se  iza  točka. Gangsteri  osuše  paljbu, varnice  sevaju. Ja  uzvratim, i  pogodim  jednog  u  čelo, a  drugog  u  stomak. Treći  me  pogodi  u  rame, ja  podignem  glavu  od  bola  i  vidim  gredu  koja  visi  na  plafonu  prikačena  konopcem, pucam  u  konopac  zadnjim  metkom  i  greda  se  otpusti  i  zgnječi  gangstera. Uzmem  Emili  za  ručicu  i  povedem  je  napolje  na  sunce  i  čistinu, i  mi  podjemo  kući, obasjani  crvenilom  zalaska  sunca.

Pušinski izgasi cigaretu i zapali novu, pa otpije malo piva.

-Emilini roditelji su me dobro nagradili što sam je spasao.

-Ćudan slučaj, reče Čed Piterson paleći cigaretu. Platili su račun i izašli iz restorana, pa krenuli do šetališta pokraj reke.

Friday, February 20, 2026

Lionel White - Steal Big/The Big Caper


 


As I mentioned earlier on the blog when discussing Grave Undertaking, Lionel White repeatedly returned to the heist formula. The two novels collected in this volume follow that same pattern, yet with noticeably different results.

The first novel proves the stronger of the two. It builds genuine tension through careful planning, clearly defined roles within the criminal team, and steadily escalating complications. The characters feel more sharply drawn, and — as is often the case in White’s fiction — one unstable personality ultimately destabilizes the entire operation. The collapse of the plan feels inevitable, but not arbitrary; it grows organically from ego, mistrust, and psychological imbalance.

The second novel, by contrast, feels more diffuse. While it contains the familiar elements of White’s method — preparation, execution, unraveling — the tension is weaker and the characters less distinct. The structure is still competent, but the narrative lacks the tightness and urgency that made the first novel compelling.

Jim Thompson - Nothing More Than Murder




In Nothing More Than Murder, Jim Thompson appears at first to be working within the familiar framework of Double Indemnity: an unhappy marriage, an affair, and a plan driven by money and insurance. Yet the novel gradually undermines that expectation. The crime ultimately gives no one anything of real value. There is no triumph, no glamorous payoff.

What truly drives the protagonist is not greed alone, but a provincial power fantasy. As the owner of a small-town movie theater, he sees himself as a local magnate, locked in petty rivalries and desperate to assert dominance. The murder becomes less a calculated financial maneuver and more an extension of his fragile need for control. Thompson strips the noir formula of its sheen and exposes the smallness beneath the ambition.

Among the writers published by Gold Medal Books, Jim Thompson remains, for me, the most compelling. Even more than David Goodis, whose work I admire but often find overwhelmingly atmospheric and steeped in a kind of relentless depression. Where Goodis immerses the reader in mood and despair, Thompson balances psychological darkness with structural control and narrative momentum. His novels feel less suffocating and more sharply observed, driven not only by emotion but by a clear understanding of character and consequence.


Jim Thompson - The Criminal

 




In The Criminal, Jim Thompson builds the narrative around the murder of a young girl and the accusation against a boy who knew her. Rather than functioning as a conventional whodunit, the novel unfolds through multiple perspectives, creating a fragmented structure that almost recalls Rashomon. Yet Thompson’s purpose is not to relativize truth but to expose the moral decay of individuals and institutions.

What I found particularly compelling is the battle between the district attorney and the boy’s defense lawyer, especially during the interrogations. Their questioning turns into a subtle contest of power and interpretation, where the boy becomes less a person and more a battleground for competing ambitions. The tension does not arise from discovering new facts, but from watching how authority shapes, pressures, and reframes those facts. The crime becomes a lens through which the legal system itself is examined — and quietly condemned.

Wednesday, February 18, 2026

Gil Brewer - Wild To Possess/A Taste Of Sin

 





When I bought Wild to Possess and A Taste of Sin, I thought I had discovered an interesting pulp writer. After finishing both novels, however, I was left rather disappointed.

Wild to Possess begins in an intriguing way: the protagonist discovers an attempted murder involving a woman and her lover, apparently motivated by money. The situation is complicated by his own secret — he once found a woman and her lover dead. As the story progresses, the lover’s brother appears and accuses him of being responsible for the deaths. The premise promises psychological tension and moral ambiguity, but as the plot unfolds, the structure begins to feel unstable and the characters’ motivations insufficiently developed.

In A Taste of Sin, there is a stronger emphasis on sexual tension and a planned bank robbery. While these elements could have created greater momentum, the story never quite achieves the necessary narrative control. The stakes feel lower than they should, and the tension fails to build in a convincing way.

It is perhaps worth noting that Gil Brewer struggled heavily with alcoholism and addiction to sleeping pills, something that may have affected both the consistency and discipline of his writing.

Thursday, February 12, 2026

James Crumley - The Last Good Kiss





The Last Good Kiss (1978) is often cited as one of the key American crime novels of the late twentieth century, yet it ultimately transcends the boundaries of classic noir. Instead of a claustrophobic trap of fate, Crumley presents a vast American landscape — highways, bars, and motel rooms — through which private investigator C.W. Sughrue wanders more as a lost witness than as a traditional detective.

The novel is melancholic, darkly humorous, and slower than one might expect from the genre. The investigation provides the narrative framework, but the true subject is the exhaustion of the post-Vietnam generation, moral erosion, and a persistent sense of disorientation. Crumley builds atmosphere rather than suspense; his characters drink, talk, and drift through spaces that feel geographically expansive yet emotionally empty.

Crumley’s personal life — marked by long-term alcoholism and struggles with cocaine — left a visible imprint on his writing. His novels carry an authentic sense of self-destructiveness and inner disintegration, without romanticizing it. In The Last Good Kiss, alcohol is not a symbol of bohemian glamour, but part of the everyday existence of characters attempting to dull disappointment and loss.

For that reason, the novel reads less like classic noir and more like a literary novel featuring a private detective — a story of a search that reveals not only a missing person, but the emotional exhaustion of the world through which its protagonist moves.

Tuesday, February 10, 2026

Martin Goldsmith - Detour

 




Detour is one of the purest and most merciless examples of classic noir, a novel in which there is no investigation, no crime in the conventional sense, and no possibility of redemption. What remains is the inner collapse of a man who believes he is being hunted by fate—and the novel persistently suggests that he may be right.

The protagonist, Alexander Roth, is not a typical pulp figure. He is introspective, educated, and keenly aware of his own vulnerability, yet this awareness offers no salvation. Goldsmith masterfully employs interior monologue to show how a chain of coincidences, bad decisions, and ill-fated encounters turns into a prison with no exit. Fate in this novel is not a metaphor—it is an active force, cold and inescapable.

The book is short, dense, and stripped of everything superfluous. There are no psychological justifications and no attempts to comfort the reader with explanations. As in the finest noir fiction, everything is already lost; the tension arises not from whether collapse will occur, but when.

The female character is not a classic femme fatale but rather a weapon of fate—a figure who enters the story not to seduce, but to complete what has already begun. Her presence merely accelerates the movement toward the inevitable end.

Compared to the film adaptation, the novel is colder and more pessimistic. The film Detour offers unforgettable atmosphere, but the book goes further: it refuses consolation, irony, or distance.

Detour is a novel without illusions, noir in its purest form—a story of a man caught in a merciless game of fate, where every decision, even the most trivial one, leads to the same outcome.


Monday, February 9, 2026

Guy Cullingford - Post Mortem




Guy Cullingford was a pseudonym of woman crime writer Constance Lindsay Taylor who wrote bunch of classic murder mysteries. This one is particularly unusual, being a tale of dysfunctional family whose father performed suicide, and now his ghost is observing the inquest, funeral and in itself is becoming some kind of ethereal sleuth. There is quite dreamlike poetry in musings of ghost and family itself is quite unconvential.

Friday, February 6, 2026

Jim Thompson - Pop. 1280




Jim Thompson’s Pop. 1280 is one of those rare crime novels that is both darkly funny and deeply disturbing.

On the surface, it reads like a grotesque comedy, but beneath the humor lies something far more corrosive. Thompson turns the small-town setting into a moral wasteland, where cruelty hides behind smiles, politeness, and folksy charm.

What makes the novel so powerful is Nick Corey’s voice: deceptively simple, almost naïve, yet carefully calculated. Thompson had, like very few writers, a profound insight into the mind of a psychopath. He does not explain or analyze it — he lets the reader inhabit it.The humor works as a trap — you laugh, and only afterward realize what you’ve been laughing at. Thompson’s prose is sharp, economical, and relentless, stripping away any illusion of innocence. 

In a strange way, Pop. 1280 is also poetic. Its rhythm, repetition, and cold clarity give the novel a bleak kind of beauty. Thompson doesn’t decorate violence or evil; he presents them plainly, and that starkness creates its own brutal poetry.

This is crime fiction at its most cynical and intelligent — a novel that entertains, unsettles, and lingers long after the final page.

Thompson was a hard alcoholic and many of his novels were fueled by alcohol, and eventually it killed him.

Wednesday, February 4, 2026

Charles Williams - Hot Spot




Hot Spot is pure, concentrated noir, with no excess and no excuses for its characters. Charles Williams wastes no time: the story starts fast and then tightens like a noose. One wrong judgment is enough for everything to fall apart.

The protagonist is neither a detective nor a hero, but an ordinary man who believes he has control over the situation. Of course, he doesn’t. Williams masterfully builds the relationship between desire, greed, and fear, without moralizing and without illusions. The femme fatale here is not a myth, but a cold fact.

The novel is short but precise. Every scene has a purpose, every line of dialogue drives the story toward its inevitable end. There are no ten-page psychological explanations—characters are revealed through their actions, and fate is not something that can be negotiated.

Hot Spot is a reminder of why classic noir never grows old: it speaks about weaknesses that never change. The mistake is made once. After that, everything moves only downhill.

Monday, February 2, 2026

Richard Hallas - You Play The Black And The Red Comes Up




You Play the Black and the Red Comes Up is a bleak Depression-era noir that blends hardboiled crime with social despair. Richard Hallas (Eric Knight) follows a drifting, defeated protagonist through a world of chance, poverty, and moral exhaustion, where every decision feels like a losing bet. The novel moves episodically, with sharp observations and sudden violence, capturing a raw sense of fatalism without romanticizing crime. Less polished than Cain but closer to McCoy in spirit, it stands out for its grim honesty and restless energy rather than tight plotting.

Elliot Chaze - Black Wings Has My Angel




Black Wings Has My Angel is often praised as a noir classic, but its reputation rests more on style than substance. Elliott Chaze focuses heavily on atmosphere and fatalism, using long, overwrought sentences that can feel pretentious and self-conscious. The mood is dark and nihilistic, but there is surprisingly little actual action, and the pacing often stalls under the weight of its own prose. While the novel has moments of power and a strong sense of doom, readers who prefer leaner, more dynamic noir may find it slow and frustrating.

Monday, January 19, 2026

Boris Vian - I spit on your graves




The celebrated pataphysician Boris Vian wrote this short, oversexed crime novel, charged with erotic intensity and uncontrolled, almost surrealistic violence.

Beneath the mask of American hard-boiled fiction, Vian exposes the sexual hypocrisy and deeply ingrained racism of American society.
Overall, Vian is an exceptionally fascinating writer: he loved jazz, beautiful women, and provocation, and although he died young, he left behind an impressive and remarkably diverse body of work.

This book still provokes strong reactions today, precisely because it exposes deeply ingrained moral hypocrisy and racism. However, what I find interesting and appealing is what lies beneath the surface layer: a skillfully told crime story, infused with large doses of eroticism and dreamlike narration.

Sunday, January 11, 2026

Robin Buss - French Film Noir





A few years ago, I enjoyed discovering what had until then seemed to me an almost unimaginable number of excellent old French crime films. While looking for context and explanations of that world, I came across this book, which presents the evolution of French film noir very clearly and readably — from early black-and-white works up to films of the 1990s.

I particularly liked that the author mentions some of my personal favorites, such as Going Places, Monsieur Hire, The Moon in the Gutter, Rififi, The Beast Must Die, The Clockmaker, Série Noire, L.627, Diva, and Subway. On the other hand, I was somewhat disappointed that in the final list of French noir films, titles like Blood Relatives, La Horse, Grilling, One Deadly Summer, Betty Blue, Deadly Circuit, Beau-Père, Without Apparent Motive, and Trap for Cinderella are not mentioned. Still, this is only a minor criticism of an otherwise very valuable book.

The author convincingly traces the development of French film noir from the 1930s to the 1990s, connecting it to literary influences such as Simenon (though unfortunately authors like Sébastien Japrisot, Jean-Patrick Manchette, and some other important crime writers are not mentioned). The chapter on France under the Vichy regime is particularly interesting, showing how anyone could have been a collaborator with Nazi Germany — even your neighbor — which perfectly suited the claustrophobic feeling of film noir.

The book then follows the post-war period, the 1950s and 1960s, and the emergence of new directors like Godard, Chabrol, and Melville. While American film noir of the 1940s and 1950s had a strong influence, the author rightly emphasizes that the relationship was mutual, as many elements of American noir actually originated in French traditions, particularly poetic realism.

One of the book’s strengths is its explanation of how French film noir, beyond its remarkable visual style, also served as a critique of society. However, with the advent of television and technological progress, style gradually became an end in itself while content lost weight — as can be clearly seen in films like Luc Besson’s Nikita.

Overall, this is a very valuable book for any admirer of French crime cinema. If you enjoy it, it is also worth taking a look at Andrew Spicer’s European Film Noir, which provides a broader European context.

Thursday, December 25, 2025

Gerald Kersh - Night And The City




Gerald Kersh (1912–1968) was an English writer of novels and short stories, partially famous during his lifetime but oddly forgotten and neglected after his death in poverty. In his youth, he held a variety of strange jobs, including working as a wrestler, which brought him into close contact with the London underworld. In his own words, the novels he had published up to that point “hadn’t really been fiction at all” and “contained an irreducible minimum of made-up stuff.”

During the Second World War, Kersh was severely injured during the Blitz — at one point he was buried alive three times — an experience that left him partially disabled. After the war, he moved to the United States, where he began writing articles as well as horror, science-fiction, detective stories, and novels, gaining recognition in both the USA and the UK.

Harlan Ellison later stated that Kersh was his favorite author. Writing to a fan, Ellison recommended Kersh by saying: “You will find yourself in the presence of a talent so immense and compelling that you will understand how grateful and humble I felt merely to have been permitted to associate myself with his name as editor.” Anthony Boucher likewise noted that Kersh was “incapable of writing a dull sentence.”

Today, Kersh is remembered (amongst others) for his novel Night and the City (loosely adapted into a film noir by Jules Dassin), which prompted me to write about it here — because I have rarely encountered a novel so relentlessly depressing and filthy, populated by characters so thoroughly rotten. Luckily, publisher London Books Classics reissued recently Night and the City with fine introduction by John King.

I expected some relatively easy noir reading, in the vein of David Goodis, but that was not the case here. Instead, the narrator throws us directly into the seedy world of London’s petty criminals and prostitutes, with Harry Fabian at its center — a figure so morally bankrupt that it is difficult to feel any sympathy for him.

Harry lives off his girlfriend Zoe, who prostitutes herself, and in one of the novel’s most unsettling episodes he stalks one of her customers, a lonely man whose wife is dying of cancer. After following him for some time, Harry finally confronts him in a Turkish bath and discovers documents in his coat revealing where he lives. He then visits the man’s home and blackmails him, demanding one hundred pounds in exchange for keeping his secret from his sick wife. The man can only produce fifty pounds, which Harry grudgingly accepts — enough, for the moment, to keep his schemes alive.

These schemes revolve around Harry’s attempt to establish a wrestling business, a venture driven more by desperation than by any real competence. Kersh’s sentences are long and dense, carefully describing each character while offering sharp, often merciless observations about human nature.

Alongside Harry, there is Vi, who works for the nightclub owner Nosseross, and her friend Helen. Vi persuades Helen — who initially appears innocent — to take a job at the nightclub. There is also Adam, perhaps the only genuinely decent character in the novel, who falls in love with Helen and reluctantly accepts work in the same corrupt environment.

Fabian, however, proves incapable of restraint. He quickly squanders the money he has obtained and is soon forced to look for more. One of the novel’s most tragic figures is the once-great wrestler Ali The Turk, an aging man who still believes he can fight one last battle despite his failing heart. Adam warns Fabian that the match may kill him, but Fabian ignores the warning. Ali wins the bout — and dies shortly afterward from a heart attack. I found this moment genuinely moving and deeply sad.

There is also Bert, Fabian’s brother, a hardworking fruit seller who repeatedly tries to pull Harry back from his downward spiral. In the end, Fabian is pursued by a deranged wrestler, recklessly gambles away what little money he has left, and is finally arrested after Zoe informs the police of his exploitation.

The only character who escapes this world with any dignity is Adam, who leaves the nightclub scene behind to pursue his true calling as a sculptor.

When compared to American noir writers such as James M. Cain, David Goodis, or Jim Thompson, Gerald Kersh feels markedly different. American noir, even at its darkest, often relies on speed, compression, and a certain brutal efficiency. The novels are short, the plots tight, and the prose stripped down to the bone. Kersh, on the other hand, allows his narrative to sprawl. He lingers over descriptions, moral observations, and the psychological decay of his characters.

Where Cain or Thompson often place us directly inside the mind of the criminal, Kersh keeps a certain distance, using an omniscient narrator who judges, observes, and exposes. This makes Night and the City less immediately gripping than many American noirs, but also more suffocating. There is no quick escape, no sharp punchline — only the slow accumulation of misery.

In Night and the City, the night is not merely a setting but a moral condition. Darkness does not simply cover London; it reveals it. The characters come alive only after sunset, when the city allows them to become what they truly are. When morning arrives, it brings no redemption — only anxiety, exhaustion, and the dread of returning to work and survival.

Fabian is not destroyed solely by society or circumstance but by his own nature. Kersh makes it clear that this is not a novel about an innocent man crushed by the system. Fabian is greedy, parasitic, and incapable of self-restraint. The city merely provides the stage on which his weaknesses are exposed. In this sense, Night and the City is less a crime novel than a study of self-destruction, one in which the night does not create monsters, but simply gives them room to move.

Thursday, November 27, 2025

James M. Cain - The Complete Crime Stories





You may all know the essential noir film Double Indemnity, based on James M. Cain’s classic novel. But in The Complete Crime Stories, we finally get all of Cain’s shorter works collected in one place, with an insightful introduction by Otto Penzler.

Unlike Hammett, Chandler, or Ross Macdonald, Cain was essentially a noir writer in the sense that his fiction contains no private investigators—only flawed, unsympathetic protagonists who usually stumble into trouble, often involving a woman. It can be argued that his work reflects the anxieties and hardships of the Great Depression era.

Cain originally wanted to be a singer, but he didn’t have the voice for it. He turned instead to journalism, where he was noticed by H. L. Mencken, who helped launch his writing career. His essay Paradise is still admired by critics.

His other notable novels include The Postman Always Rings Twice, which inspired a landmark noir film, as well as Mildred Pierce, but Serenade and Love’s Lovely Counterfeit are also worth reading.

Cain was fundamentally a short-form writer. As Otto Penzler notes in the introduction, none of Cain’s novels run much longer than 150 pages, and Cain himself once wrote that the short story is far superior to the novel. He also remarked that one of the weaknesses of American fiction is its dependence on the “sympathetic hero.”

Cain wrote in simple, direct language, believing that prose should sound like the speech of ordinary people on the street. Because of this style, he was sometimes called a writer of “tabloid murder.”

This collection of stories is very strong overall, but two stand out as the best: - Carreer in C Major, is one of Cain’s most unusual crime stories—there is no murder, no insurance scam, no getaway plan. Instead, Cain writes about a frustrated man in a dull marriage whose wife is an amateur singer. When he meets another woman, a professional vocalist, she discovers that he has a surprisingly good natural voice. As she trains him, he rises from an ordinary, unnoticed man to someone who can hold his own on an opera stage. But this new talent creates tension and jealousy between the two women in his life, and Cain turns what could have been a simple musical tale into a sharp study of vanity, desire, and emotional conflict., and Money and the Woman (Embezzler),tells the story of a bank employee who gets drawn into a moral and romantic trap. When his colleague, in debt, falls ill, the colleague’s wife asks the protagonist to assist in resolving her husband’s financial troubles. As they scheme to recover the money, unaware of the dangers around them, the protagonist falls in love with her, all the while suspicious of her intentions. Cain explores jealousy, temptation, and the consequences of human weakness, leading to a tense climax where plans unravel, loyalties are tested, and violence erupts. The story captures Cain’s signature noir style: ordinary people, flawed decisions, and a sense of inevitability that makes every choice carry weight. Great story that is reminiscent in some way of Double Indemnity. All in all, this is great short story collection for all noir lovers. French writers recognized existential elements in Cain prose and he was one of the first writers to appear in Gallimard imprint of American crime novels Serie Noire.

Sunday, November 23, 2025

The Leopard Man (1943)





The Leopard Man (1943) is one of the defining works of Val Lewton's production unit at RKO Pictures and a standout example of the way film noir and horror can blend into a unified genre. Directed by the master of suspense, Jacques Tourneur, and based on a short story by Cornell Woolrich, The Leopard Man stands as a significant work in both genres. It is a film where the eerie atmosphere of horror and the shadowy world of noir intersect, demonstrating how these two genres, though often distinct in tone and approach, can use similar thematic tools and stylistic techniques to evoke tension and fear.

A Noir-Horror Hybrid: Similarities in Tone and Method

At its core, The Leopard Man is a murder mystery with a chilling supernatural edge. The story revolves around a series of killings that seem to be the work of a leopard, but the audience is left to question whether the animal is responsible or if something far more sinister and human is behind the crimes. While this premise draws on the conventions of horror — the fear of the unknown, the supernatural, and the grotesque — it is fundamentally structured as a noir thriller. The film’s moody cinematography, tight framing, and characters driven by paranoia, guilt, and hidden motives are all staples of the noir tradition.

In film noir, crime and moral ambiguity are central, and in The Leopard Man, these themes are amplified by the horrific, almost dreamlike elements introduced through the serial killings. The tension is not only created by the possibility of a human killer lurking in the shadows but also by the looming fear that an unstoppable, wild force — symbolized by the leopard — is at play. Much like in classic noir films, the characters are trapped in a web of deceit, and the city itself, an essential element of many noirs, becomes a murky, threatening environment.

Jacques Tourneur’s Direction: Building Suspense Through Shadows

Tourneur, a director renowned for his mastery of suspense, plays a pivotal role in blending these genres. He is best known for his work with Val Lewton on several low-budget horror films that relied heavily on suggestion, atmosphere, and psychological tension rather than explicit horror. In The Leopard Man, Tourneur expertly uses the shadows and unseen forces, a hallmark of both noir and horror, to evoke an atmosphere of dread.

The film’s most famous sequence, involving the off-screen presence of the leopard and the horrifying off-screen deaths, is a perfect example of how Tourneur uses implied horror to create unease. The audience never fully sees the threat — the leopard is often only heard or seen in fleeting glimpses, which amplifies the tension in the same way that noir films often suggest moral corruption and violence without explicitly showing it. This technique mirrors the way noir films suggest danger lurking beneath the surface of everyday life, a theme that resonates deeply with the eerie unknowns in horror.

Val Lewton's Role: Merging Noir and Horror

As the producer of The Leopard Man, Val Lewton played a crucial role in shaping the film’s tone and blending elements of horror with the stylistic traits of noir. Lewton was known for his ability to craft psychological horror films that didn't rely on graphic violence or gore, but instead created a sense of dread and unease through atmosphere and suggestion. His work with Tourneur often centered on the idea that what is unseen is far more terrifying than what is shown — a philosophy that resonates with the ambiguity and existential dread of film noir.

Lewton’s films, including The Leopard Man, often explore the dark, hidden sides of human nature, which is a key characteristic of both noir and horror. In a typical noir film, characters are often motivated by greed, lust, or vengeance, leading them into morally dubious situations. In The Leopard Man, the horrors of the human mind — manifested in the disturbed characters, and the terrifying unknown presence of the leopard — serve as a reflection of these noir themes of isolation, fear, and the darkness within.

The Intersection of Genres: Horror and Noir as Complementary Forces

Though horror and noir are often treated as distinct genres, they share a great deal in common. Both are interested in the darker aspects of human experience: fear, violence, corruption, and the unknown. In The Leopard Man, these themes converge, with the horror of the leopard killings providing a backdrop to the noir world of deception and dread. Both genres rely on atmosphere, mood, and tension rather than overt action, and both frequently feature characters who are trapped in situations that seem inescapable, whether due to an external malevolent force (like a monster) or their own moral failings.

Moreover, the blending of noir and horror allows The Leopard Man to explore the psychological aspects of fear and anxiety in a unique way. Just as in classic noir, the characters in The Leopard Man are not simply victims of an external threat; they are also haunted by their own inner demons, guilty secrets, and fragile sense of self. This duality — the external horror and the internal conflict — creates a richer, more complex narrative than either genre could achieve on its own.

Conclusion: A Legacy of Suspense and Psychological Terror

The Leopard Man is a prime example of how noir and horror, when fused together, can create a film that is both deeply unsettling and thematically resonant. Directed by Jacques Tourneur and produced by Val Lewton, this film is a standout in the 1940s horror cycle, demonstrating the way psychological suspense, shadowy atmospheres, and complex characters can work in harmony to explore fear — both supernatural and psychological.

In this film, the boundaries between genres blur, and it’s clear that noir and horror are not so different after all. Both are concerned with the fragility of the human psyche, the dangers of the unknown, and the shadowy forces that drive people toward violence and destruction. Through its haunting visuals, suspenseful pacing, and moral ambiguity, The Leopard Man continues to stand as a fascinating exploration of how these genres can intertwine, creating a chilling experience that resonates long after the film ends.

Monday, November 10, 2025

Noir Thriller - Lee Horsley





As in her Companion to Crime Fiction, Lee Horsley’s Noir Thriller Crime Files division of Palgrave MacMillan is a deep dive into the world of noir, exploring its literature and film through a mix of historical, cultural, and stylistic perspectives. Horsley treats noir not just as a genre, but as a viewpoint—dark, morally complex, and rooted in the harsh realities of urban life.

The book is structured chronologically: it starts with early noir during the Great Depression Hammett, James M. Cain, Horace McCoy), moves through the Golden Age (1945–1970), covers the post-1970 era—including cyberpunk noir like Gibson’s Neuromancer—and ends with a short chapter on contemporary noir in the 2000s. My favorite part is the 1945–1970 section, where she highlights some of the most influential works that shaped the genre (Cornell Woolrich, Jim Thompson, Patricia Highsmith, David Goodis).

What works:

  • Horsley gives a fresh perspective on the fatal woman in noir films, showing how cinematic portrayals often demonized women, while literary noir offered more nuanced and complex characters.

  • The discussion of cyberpunk noir and questions of what it means to be human adds a modern, philosophical layer that’s really engaging.

Critiques:

  • Sometimes her focus on extra-literary factors—like politics or social context—can distract from the stories themselves.

  • The book covers so many works that a casual reader might feel overwhelmed, losing some of their personal connection to the novels.

  • She mostly focuses on American and British noir, leaving out contributions from Europe, Japan, and other regions.

  • One notable oversight: she labels Frankenstein as a science fiction novel, when it is more accurately a horror classic—a small but telling example of where her categorization feels off.

Overall, Noir Thriller is an excellent resource for serious noir fans. Its academic tone might not appeal to everyone, but for readers like me who love the genre, it offers insights, context, and new ways to think about classic and modern noir alike.

Emili

Sedeo sam sa mojim drugarom detektivom u restoranu i slušao njegov izveštaj pokušaja otmice male Emili. Gangsteri su bežali od policije toko...