Tea with Kublai Khan

By Saša Radonjić (Sasa Radonjic)

I begin with the conductor
on tram line number two.
A face I see every day,
yet one that fiercely resists
any attempt at description.
So, I’ll simply say this –
The conductor had the face of a jellyfish. 
The previous evening, while the rows of letters
in the book I was reading
lost their geometric order,
twisting and stretching
like a tram composition in motion,
he suddenly rose from the endless whiteness
of the pages and charged me a ticket
for a night without dreams.
And he said – he –
the conductor with the face of an owl –
the following:“Not only will you dream nothing,
but your entire next day will be empty,
objectless, stripped bare,
and, in fact, unnecessary.”Opening my eyes in the morning
after a night without sleep,
I said aloud:
“And why should it be any different?”

Then I washed my face, brushed my teeth,
dressed elegantly – befitting
such an objectless day – went to work,
returned home after eight hours,
and while hanging my favorite brown tweed jacket
on the hanger, I found, curled up
and fast asleep at the bottom of the wardrobe,
none other than – KUBLAI KHAN himself. But how was that possible –
the conductor said nothing would happen,
and he never makes mistakes.
Yet, however much I trusted
the conductor with the face of a fireplace,
I trusted my own eyes more,
fixed on Kublai Khan, who, peacefully
and deeply inhaling the stale air of our apartment,
slept hidden in the lee
of a particleboard wardrobe
veneered in a color that –
on closer inspection –
was actually the color of the steppe. I gently laid my jacket on the armchair,
closed the wardrobe door so that
the grandson of Genghis Khan
and conqueror of China
would not have light fall directly on his face,
then tiptoed to the radiator
and turned up the heat,
for his shimmering imperial robes
were silk, and therefore unsuited
to the climate of our apartment. Satisfied that all was in order,
I undressed, intending to nap myself
after a long day of work.
But just as I lay down on the couch,
a gigantic blowfly appeared from nowhere,
circled the chandelier several times,
and dive‑bombed straight onto
the tip of Kublai Khan’s nose. I leapt up immediately
and with a swift motion of the hand
shooed it away,
but it soon returned to the same spot.
It was likely drawn to Khan’s skin –
in both color and texture
resembling lemon peel. I found myself in a terribly delicate situation –
faced with the possibility that
the conqueror of China might awaken
in a wardrobe with a fly,
a miniature demon, perched on his nose.
I had to think quickly
and eliminate the intruder –
quietly, precisely, silently.
I simply could not allow Khan to wake
before I borrowed from the neighbor
a porcelain tea set
and prepared the drink
in the traditional manner
to which my esteemed guest
was accustomed. But to kill a fly silently –
I don’t know that anyone
has ever succeeded in that.
Still, time was passing,
my wife’s return from work approached,
and before that,
I absolutely had to drink tea
with Kublai Khan.“And why?”
the conductor with the face of –
picking his nose with a finger
as long as an egg – would ask.
God, I didn’t mean to say “egg,”
I meant something else,
but I don’t know what.
Fine, let it be –
he picked his nose
with a finger as long as an egg. But the fly – what about it?
Ah yes, exactly that:
I could smear the tip of my nose,
long as a finger,
with the yolk of an egg
and lure this airborne nuisance
into a sticky trap
of eternal life.
For an egg symbolizes something like that –
I think – eternal life. So, I did,
and we finally rid ourselves of the fly.

Now quickly to the neighbor
for the porcelain tea set.
Then I’ll lower the blinds,
lock both locks from the inside
so, my wife cannot enter,
and also plug that tiny gap
between the blinds and the window frame
to prevent her from peeking in
during the tea ceremony.
I must also check whether I have
that excellent Lipton Earl Grey
in leaf form – though leaves
are not quite appropriate.
I’ll have to grind them into fine powder.
I believe Kublai Khan
is accustomed to tea prepared that way.

Then adjust the lighting,
change the tablecloth,
remove the TV
and the icon of the Holy Trinity.
Only then, completely at peace,
will I surrender to the enchanting ritual
of preparing tea. But first – the neighbor’s tea set.…

And why am I not going?
Why am I frozen,
completely paralyzed,
like one of those wax figures?
Why am I dressed in silk
and sitting curled up
at the bottom of the wardrobe
with Mongol‑slanted pupils?
And why am I no longer horrified
by the idea of visiting the neighbor
who is, in fact,
the conductor with the face of a dolphin,
a sorcerer ready to transform me –
KUBLAI KHAN –
with a single kiss
into a petal of a Mongolian orchid
or a peaceful clerk
in an oil company?