In the terrible darkness that surrounds us, sometimes we need a bit of magic to keep moving forward. The novel “The Full Moon Coffee Shop” brings exactly that—a touch of enchantment in troubled times. Mai Mochizuki reminds us that the world around us isn’t only a frightening place; it can also be magical if we dare to lift our heads and gaze upward—toward the starry sky.

In the novel, we meet five characters whose lives have been intertwined since childhood. Each of them is at a turning point in life, and magical helpers in the form of talking cats guide them toward the right path. When we feel lost, we must look within ourselves as if consulting a map, and understanding ourselves really means taking care of ourselves.

Whether you genuinely believe in astrology or see it merely as a pastime, I’m confident this novel will entertain you and remind you that the only law governing the world is, in fact, the “law of mirrors.” What you do comes back to you, and to do good for others, you must first be good to yourself.

Translated from Serbian by Kruna Petrić

The literary technique applied in the first book by Michiko Aoyama, translated into English as What You Are Looking For Is in the Library, is repeated in her new work. Before us is a collection of five short stories centered around Hinode Park and its most famous “resident” — the hippopotamus Kabahiko.

Legend has it that Kabahiko is not an ordinary decoration of the old park. He possesses magical healing powers and can help you if you find yourself in a hopeless situation. If something hurts, all you need to do is rub that part of your body against Kabahiko and the pain will disappear.

In the five stories, we become acquainted with five different characters. They belong to different age groups and even different social classes, and their paths intersect in Hinode Park. Hinode means “sunrise” in Japanese, and spending time in the park next to the orange hippopotamus believed to be magical brings each of these characters a symbolic sunrise — an emergence from the spiritual darkness in which they have found themselves.

An encounter with Kabahiko leads them to look deeply within themselves, and this introspection brings them a solution to their problems. Their pains are most often not only physical in nature, but also represent mental blockages that each of us encounters in life and which we are sometimes unable to remove on our own. Kabahiko helps the protagonists of these stories reach for the remedy hidden somewhere within themselves.

At moments, these stories will remind us of fairy tales — not because of their fantastical elements, for there are none in the text, but because they describe a thoroughly human dimension of everyday life from which we have grown so unaccustomed that it seems to us as though it exists only in fairy tales. This is a book to read when you feel unwell, when you are sad and lonely; it will embrace you with its warmth and whisper: “Everything will be all right.”

I’m writing this while a tiny ginger kitten sits on my lap, kneading my legs as if they were dough. Until recently, I wasn’t a cat person at all. At one point, our home belonged to five cats. First there was Britney Bitch, named after the famously uttered words of Britney Spears: “It’s Britney, bitch!” Because she is a little bit crazy — and a bit of a bitch. My husband found her when she was just a little kitten, wrapped inside a plastic bag under the palm tree in our front yard. Someone threw her there and she was lucky; she found her people.

I never liked cats very much growing up. My younger sisters both had cats in their apartments but I didn’t care much for either of them. After Britney came into my life, I changed my mind and became a cat person. We didn’t get her sterilised in time; I didn’t know cats could get pregnant so soon…and she gave us three adorable little kittens, I named them Huey, Dewey, and Louie, after an old cartoon I used to love as a little girl.

They had so much fun running up and down a tree, fighting each other, getting to know the world around them. Two of them — the boys — were gray and white, and the sister was white with a round yellow mark on her back reminding me of the sun.

Britney, momma, was taking care of them and then after a while she let them get by on their own. And three of them were growing, living partly in the front yard, partly in the house. They brought us so much joy and happiness. During the winter, a new kitten came out of nowhere. The little ginger one currently sitting in my lap. We called her Sivka. She was exhausted and dirty. The others didn’t like her very much, but somehow, she managed to stay. And that was my winter, surrounded by five cats, I was in heaven.

Then one day in February, Dewey went missing. We looked for him everywhere — he just disappeared. That was my first heartbreak. After a while, my little Louie, white as an angel, fell off the tree. It was slippery and she was light as a feather and very gentle. We took her to the vet. They operated on her twice, but we just couldn’t save her.

Now I was left with three cats and a broken heart.

And why do I even write this? I found myself thinking a lot: was it worth getting to know them, to love them? Was my life easier when I didn’t care about animals so much? Well, it is less complicated for sure, because taking care of pets takes time and money, but no one will ever give you that kind of love. In some of my darkest moments they are here to give me love, to “make cookies” on my lap, kiss me with their little noses, telling me that I am their person.

So, in conclusion, yes it was worth it. Worth the heartbreak, not sleeping at night waiting to see if a cat would recover from surgery. Every tear, every fear was worth it.

That is love.
Caring for someone even when you know how easily they can disappear.
Giving your heart anyway — and receiving a small cat heart in return.

Shadows

When Grandpa travelled to Hocha,
While he was alive,
Yet he is but a shadow
Sky caressed roads
And wheels clattered away.

When Uncle was making brandy
While he was alive,
Yet he is but a shadow
We waited for embers
To hide potatoes under cauldron

When Grandma had a journal
While she was alive
Yet she is but a shadow
She smelled like French scent
in her silk blouses.

Sometimes
I dream about flying on swing
Rays go through vine
Garden is endless like eternity
And my shadows smile kindly

Сене

Када је деда путовао за Хочу,
док је још био жив,
а сада је сена
небо се миловало са калдрмом,
а точкови су клопарали.

Када је стриц пекао ракију,
док је још био жив,
а сада је сена,
чекали смо да се направи жар
и под казаном крили кромпире.

Када је баба носила дневник,
док је још била жива,
а сада је сена,
мирисала је на Француску
и носила свилене блузе.

Понекад сањам да летим на љуљашци
кроз лозу се пробија сунце
двориште је пут до бескраја,
а сене ми се нежно осмехују.

In a summer day

On a picture is a temple
Celebrating God
We don’t believe in.
On picture your little smile
Beauty pose
Peach coloured dress
And my shadow
to save you.

On a picture blue sky above sea
And white walls of shrine.
You in your clumsy manner
As always.
Left foot tilted
gently touches right one
Your crooked toes
In golden sandals.

On picture summer sun and sky
Shroud above slumber city.
Rare moment of peace
Rarer moment of happiness.
In frame of salt
With thought of sand
Your gaze touches distances
And loses itself in infinity.

У летњи дан

На слици стоји храм
подигнут у славу бога
у кога нисмо веровале.
На слици твој полуосмех
поза лепотице
хаљина боје кајсије
и моја сенка
да те чува.

На слици плаво небо изнад мора
и беле зидине богомоље.
Ти стојиш трапаво
као и увек.
Лево стопало накривљено
Нежно додирује десно
и твоји криви прсти
уоквирени златним сандалама.

На слици летње сунце и небо
Као покров изнад дремљивог града.
Ретки тренутак спокоја
Још ређи осећај среће.
У оквиру од соли
Са слутњом пешчаног спруда
Твој поглед милује даљине
И губи се у бескрају.

untitled

For a while now, you are not a Father, but a vague thought
Upside-down fairytale I tell myself before sleep
And when I do, grass devours me in dreams
And strange men dance on your grave.

And this sorrow for you is all grown up
I stole your grey hairs, waisted years
Our old life is divided and given by me
To poor and begging, who don’t have memories.

Perhaps you would like to know, I don’t pray to any god.
All of them betrayed us, turning their heads in disgust.
Perhaps you would like to know, every day I tell stories
Where you die as tragic hero without guilt.

***

Одавно ниси отац већ нека нејасна мисао
Наопака бајка коју причам себи пред спавање.
Кад заспим онда сањам како ме прождире трава
И непознате људе који играју на твоме гробу.

И већ је пунолетна ова моја туга за тобом
Украла сам ти седе власи, непроживљене године
Наш некадашњи живот распарчала сам и разделила
Убогима и кљастима што немају ни успомене.

Можда би волео да знаш, не молим се ниједном богу
Сви су нас редом издали, са гађењем окренули главе.
Можда би волео да знаш, сваког дана измишљам приче
У њима си трагични јунак који страда без кривице.

The novel Welcome to America by Linda Boström Knausgård tells the story of a dysfunctional family from the perspective of eleven-year-old Ellen. Her father dies, and the girl, convinced of the magical power of her words, believes that she killed him with her wish. “Maybe I stopped speaking because my wish came true.” The narrator concludes that we think the fulfillment of our wishes would make us happy, but that is not true—it only disrupts the order of things in the world.

The father struggled with mental illness, and his behavior created an atmosphere of fear and unease within the family, an influence that does not fade even after his death. Ellen stops speaking, and this short novel without chapters is in fact an unstoppable stream of her unspoken thoughts. Through her childlike perspective, the narrator tries to explain the world around her, presenting things as they are arranged in the mind of a child who does not understand everything—or at least does not understand everything fully. But do adults understand anything at all?

The central, all-pervading figure in the novel is the mother—an actress, a woman who calls her family a “family of light.” The relationship between mother and daughter forms the backbone of the story. The mother is portrayed as a force of nature, as light itself, the driving principle, the sun that illuminates the darkness into which her daughter has sunk. When the mother is joyful, the entire apartment is filled with light; but when the mother cries, the whole world suddenly collapses, and nothing exists except the sound of weeping.

The daughter is the opposite of her mother, as is often the case. She is overwhelmed by doubt, caught off guard by her own growing up, and feels that she cannot grow and speak at the same time. She is a silent observer and chronicler of events.

Although the mother insists that they are a family of light, the children inevitably sink into darkness. The darkness seeps into every pore of their everyday lives and threatens to swallow them as, barricaded in their rooms, each of them languishes through their half-days of existence.

Set in Mozambique, the novel opens in medias res with an incident involving the protagonist Rami’s youngest son, whose act of breaking the window of a luxury car prompts Rami’s reflection on the perceived difficulty of maintaining a household without male authority. Rami decides not to sit idly by and resolves to confront her rival, realizing that behind every new door she opens there awaits another woman. Tony’s mistresses are like Russian nesting dolls: open one figurine and inside you find another. “Tony’s heart is a constellation of five points.” It is made up of his legal wife Rami and four mistresses, who together with the polygamist form a love hexagon.

The main narrative branches into several side streams, testimonial sub-narratives, that bring us the confessions of different women from Rami’s surroundings and their bitter life experiences. Each new testimony reveals fresh humiliations and paints a picture of the painful subjugation of Mozambican women, whose lives hover between Christian principles imposed by Portuguese colonizers on one side and ancient rituals on the other. Neither system works in their favor; both push them toward ruin.

Through short, almost laconic sentences reminiscent of folk sayings, Paulina Chiziane—the first female novelist of Mozambique—brings centuries of female oppression into the light and allows countless previously silenced women’s voices to speak through her prose. Her heroine Rami transforms into a feminist figure who, instead of choosing the path of hatred, chooses to help these unfortunate women—her husband’s mistresses—wondering whether they are in fact her sisters, driven into their circumstances by merciless social conditions. They are unhappy; they need help, not condemnation.

Female solidarity proves to be the path to freedom. By supporting one another, the women from Tony’s polygamous circle grow stronger and, one by one, free themselves from the jaws of subjugation, leaving him to suffer the punishment for his hybris.

unspoken

we’ve planted yet

another fight

in our front garden

the rain will water it

the sun will make it strong

till it sprouts

till it blossoms

till it ripens

and eats us with delight

and eats us with delight

Stara varoš beše tek napunila trista godina. Lenjo se izležavala na prolećnom suncu i toplim pogledom obujmila svu svoju decu, marljive i vredne ljude, lekare, vinogradare, pisce, naučnike, lovce. Milovala ih je majčinskom rukom, ušuškavala drevnim pričama, opijala mirisom zrelih grozdova u jesen. Slušala je vrisku i pocikivanje mladeži, topeći se od miline.

I ljudi su živeli, ponekad srećni, ponekad setni. Ušuškani u krilu svog starog grada. Neki zagledani u raspeće Hristovo, drugi u polumesec, krstili se i klanjali, povezani beskrajnom ljubavlju prema strmim, uskim ulicama prekrivenih turskom kaldrmom, niskim orijentalnim kućicama sa baščama iz kojih se širio miris jorgovana i lipe, zagledani u obrise dragih planina koje su svojim plavetnilom čuvale grad od urokljivih očiju.

Dani su proticali jednolično, stari su umirali, praćeni na večni počinak, neki u raj, neki u dženet, deca se rađala, pa se krstila ili sunetila i činilo se da će tako unedogled trajati taj jednolični život srećnih ljudi sa dosadnom istorijom.

***

Jednoga dana markantni stranac ušetao je u varoš, bez prošlosti, bez imena, kako su mnogi vekovima dolazili. Nikome to nije bilo čudno. Na nebu su se preteći gomilali oblaci najavljujući letnji pljusak. Bio je utorak, dan boga Marsa, ali ko je to mogao znati.

Širom pokrajine poznati po gostoljubivosti, varošani su ga oberučke prigrlili, utrkujući se ko će pred nepoznatog gosta izneti slađe vino, ukusnije baklave, mekše lokume, masniju filiju. Otvorili su mu visoke vratnice svojih domova, naučili ga pesmama, starim običajima.

Stranac je zalazio u patrijarhalne kuće sa tradicijom starom više vekova u kojima je svako znao ko mu je bio askurđel i od kojih potiče. Krišom je šaputao u uši varošana zavodljive priče o različitosti, o nepravdi, o davno zakopanim ratniim sekirama, o tapijama Lazara i Skender Bega. Uzburkavao usnule duhove prošlih vremena, podsećao na krvne osvete i nevraćene dugove.

Stara varoš je zbunjeno posmatrala svoju decu kako skupljaju kamenje po okolnim brdima i pune njime svoje džepove, krišom, gledajući preko ramena da ne vide oni Drugi. Nema i nemoćna slutila je skoru nesreću i nesreća je došla. Kotrljala se niz obližnja brda i, kotrljajući se, rasla, preteći da uništi sve ono što se vekovima gradilo.

Počele su prve zađevice, oko međa, vinograda, oko avlija i vratolomnih kapidžika, a varošani su svakoga dana na sredini ulice koja odvaja crkvu od džamije spuštali po jedan kamen. Isprva krišom, noću, da niko ne vidi, porumeneli od stida i griže savesti, kasnije sve otvorenije i prkosnije.

Kamen po kamen, godina za godinom, pred njihovim očima rastao je zid.

Pravili su se isprva da ga ne primećuju, prosto se čudeći otkuda to u njihovom gradu ta rogobatna građevina, iznikla niotkuda, kojoj niko ne vidi smisao, ni svrhu. Ipak, počeli su oprezno da zaključavaju svoje kapije čim padne veče, a na ulici su se pozdravljali gotovo nečujno, obazrivo, ubrzavajući korak kad bi naišli na one Druge.

Stara varoš je posmatrala svoju decu i tužno ćutala. Zamukle su i frule i zurle, i dečiji smeh i ćeretanje mladeži. Sve je naizgled stalo, samo je zid nezadrživo rastao. Toliko je narastao da se preko njega više nisu mogli ni videti, podeljeni na dve strane.

Zbunjeni, hodali su ćutke sa glavom uronjenom u oblak od briga, zarobljeni u svega nekoliko ulica koje su odabrali za sebe i svoje i jedino je zalutali stranac zadovoljno trljao ruke sa zmijolikim prstima, dok mu je iz očiju iskrio zloslutni sjaj.

Do dana današnjeg ne zna se ko je od dveju podeljenih strana prvi ispustio ratnički poklič, ni da li je prvi metak opaljen sa jedne ili druge strane. Povampirili su se stari duhovi, a bogovi su na nebu već vodili svoju bitku. Zid je opasan bodljikavom žicom, a miroljubivi varošani našli su se u getu. ne shvatajući sasvim šta im se to dogodilo.

Oni mudriji i dalekovidiji pod plaštom noći počeli su da odlaze prazneći svoje džepove od zaostalog kamenja koje im tamo gde idu više neće trebati. Odseljavali su se daleko, u zemlje sa stranim imenima, pokušavajući decenijama kasnije da zaborave sliku tog zida koji je u njihovim snovima neprekidno rastao.

Preostali su škrgutali zubima, prolivali krv jedni drugima i sve su zaboravili. Berbe vinograda, letnji korzo, bratstvo i jedinstvo. Jedni su prisvojili Boru, drugi Ramiza i kola su se skotrljala niz brdo, a nije bilo nikog da ih zaustavi.

Zarobljeni okovima zaslepljujuće mržnje, raspirivane od birzemana, klali su se noževima, zubima, rečima. Bombe su nemilosrdno budile ulice koje su vekovima mirno dremale. Jedan po jedan padali su varošani ne znajući ni sami zašto ginu, ne videći dalje od tog nesrećnog zida koji je ostao da svedoči o ljudskoj gluposti i besmislu jednog krvoprolića.

Poput majke koja s tugom posmatra svoje sinove, zakrvljenu braću, stara varoš je razgranatim krošnjama bezuspešno pokušavala da sakrije sveže grobove, granatirane kuće, šrapnelima prošarane zidove stambenih zgrada. Pesme su pevane tiše, mladi su šetali obazrivo, a vreme je učinilo svoje.

Na obe strane život je potekao kao ranije i niko se nije osvrnuo na bat užurbanih koraka koji su odzvanjali pustom kaldrmom u noći. Vešto se krećući po uskim uličicama, tajanstveni stranac već je hitao u nove pohode. Zastao je samo par trenutaka ispred kamenog zida, diveći se, poput uspešnog neimara, svojoj velelepnoj građevini.

(Priča "Zid" uvrštena je u izbor najboljih priča na Mondo.ba konkursu "Priče iz komšiluka 3" i objavljena je u istoimenoj knjizi.)

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