Title: Fantastical:
Tales of Bears, Beer and Hemophilia
Genre: Memoir
Author: Marija Bulatovic
Website: www.fantasticalbook.com
Publisher: SOL LLC
Purchase on Amazon
It’s been said that the truth is stranger
than fiction. Marija Bulatovic’s
dazzling debut, Fantastical: Tales of
Bears, Beer and Hemophilia, certainly underscores that adage. Fantastical,
Bulatovic’s reflections on her Yugoslavian childhood, is a mesmerizing
memoir that takes readers on a wild and unforgettable tour of a country that
has vanished from the map, but lives on in this lively collection.
With a pitch perfect voice, and a keen eye
for capturing the absurd, the outrageous, the hilarious, the touching, and the
sublime, Bulatovic weaves a rich tapestry.
Bears, gypsies, quirky family members, foiled plans, unusual and
unorthodox neighbors, Fantastical has
it all. Lovingly told with an
unmistakable fondness and deep affection, Fantastical
is resplendent with humor, magic, and whimsy.
In this colorful, captivating and clever
collection of stories, Bulatovic captures the spirit of the Slavic soul—passion
and melancholy with a twinkle in the eye.
Fantastical charms with its
wit, keen insights, and larger-than-life stories. Part memoir, part love letter
to a place and a people that lives on in memory, Fantastical is irresistible.
An exquisite assortment of stories—each
more delicious than the last—Fantastical is
a tale to be savored.
Introduction
The gypsy woman shuffled the cards, blew on them, and
cast them down, carefully, deliberately, with the skilled hand of a weaver of
life and magic:
You will travel the world,
A child will make you proud,
You will marry a businessman, but you will still work
to make your own way,
You will live a life of adventure…
– Kraljevo, 1993
The Yugoslavia of
my childhood was anything but dull. A
fantastical place rich in history, populated with intense people, and shot
through with wonders and deep emotions, it was part of the Balkans, otherwise
known as the powder keg of Europe. It
was the birthplace of diverse luminaries – from Nikola Tesla, inventor of modern
alternating current, to Anjezë Gonxhe
Bojaxhiu, the Albanian nun who would become Mother Teresa, to top
tennis star Novak Djokovic.
Touching Austria
to the North, Italy and the Adriatic to the West, Greece to the South, and
Romania and Bulgaria to the East, it was the place that started World War I,
that pioneered its own grand experiment in socialism, and that would later be
home to the infamous ethnic cleansing of the ’90s and some of the most
sought-after mass murderers on the planet.
Given its
strategic location, it had been in the path of many conquerors. Everyone from the Visigoths to the Ottomans
to the Austro-Hungarians to Soviet-era Communists had traversed its beautiful
lands, leaving parts of their customs, language, and DNA behind.
The Ottomans
brought foods and spices, the rhythms of the East, Islam. The Austro-Hungarians imparted Western
European tastes, their own musical preferences, and industrial-age improvements. Finally, the Communists, the great equalizers
of the diverse groups of people who now called this land home, were probably most
responsible for the feeling of solidarity that I most strongly associate with it.
To me it was an
amusing and intriguing place. Strange
happenings, outrageous gossip, black magic – all were part of the fabric of my
childhood, along with the safety and stability of home that was always there in
the background, the love embodied in my parents, grandparents, and the larger
circles of family and friends.
As I read back
through these stories, the word “fantastical” sticks in my mind. Its meaning ranges from “existing in fancy
only” to “slightly odd or even a bit weird.”
My Yugoslavian childhood was definitely both. These stories represent a lost world. Not only does the Yugoslav nation no longer
exist, but the sense of solidarity among its peoples, giving way in the ’80s
and ’90s to ethnic divisions and nationalist tendencies, will never be the
same.
These stories
also represent an odd world. In a young
socialist country with pagan roots, ancient and modern worlds slammed
together. The incongruities were
sometimes jarring, sometimes hilarious.
As a child, I tried continually to make sense of it all. As an adult, I feel lucky to have taken it
all in. I feel fortunate to have had
such a start in life – a strange start, perhaps, but one lived openly and in
full color.
I sometimes
describe my childhood as “socialist meets gypsy Woody Allen.” When I was eleven, a nurse on her way to work
one morning was stabbed in the back by a coworker. The two women worked together at the only
hospital in our town and were part of a love triangle. In the end, no charges were filed, and the
three lovers went back to work as usual.
As local gossip had it, it was fortunate the event had taken place near
the steps of the blood bank, ensuring rapid transfusion.
Others died each
year in horrific bus crashes, caused by the regular drinking of drivers
ferrying people to their chosen vacation destinations – or, in this case, to
their deaths. Still others met their
demise after eating poisonous mushrooms purchased at the local market. Apparently, the sellers couldn’t tell the
difference or just didn’t care.
Especially in
more remote parts of the country, a few people each year would barely escape
being buried alive. Since no doctor was
involved in validating death, the family would make the judgment on their own,
sometimes mistakenly. The deceased would
then be left to their own devices, forced to bang on the coffin lid in the
midst of the funeral procession to be let out.
Needless to say,
all this unpredictability fueled the superstitions harbored by many. At the same time, after more than thirty
years of Communism, some things in Yugoslavia were very predictable. In our
traditional, homogenous society, before the economic crisis that was to come,
no one was too rich or too poor, no one too well or shabbily dressed. You could always count on some things to run
smoothly and others not at all. A case
in point was the Yugo. Voted one of the Fifty Worst Cars of All Time,
it supposedly featured rear-window defrost so your hands wouldn’t get cold
while you pushed it.
The Yugoslavia of
my memory was wonderfully diverse, and in my world, at least, its various
ethnic and religious groups lived together in relative harmony. Those around me were generally happy and
satisfied with life, frequently socializing with friends and coworkers. The sense of solidarity was high. People wanted to do good and contribute to
the overall benefit of society, and they generally looked out for one another.
I also remember a
strong sense of intimacy, with people deeply involved in each other’s lives. It was common for everyone to know what you
were cooking for lunch, and should the aroma leave some question as to the exact
dish, it was perfectly acceptable to ask and have your suspicions validated.
Growing up, it
was my grandparents’ world I was most familiar with and that colored my
childhood. While my parents worked, I
spent most days with my grandparents in the large apartment complex they shared
with other military families in the Serbian city of Kraljevo. Communist-era buildings are typically
presented as drab and gray, but I remember the balconies always beautifully
adorned with plants and flowers, the interior walls always freshly painted in
pastel colors. I also recall the complex
teeming with people coming and going, providing abundant material for the local
gossip.
Other stories
reflect my parents’ world, in Kraljevo and on the banks of the Adriatic where
we vacationed each summer, still surrounded by family and friends. Their world, too, was caught up in tradition,
elaborate social norms, and the remnants of a more superstitious time, but it
gestured toward modernity.
Some of these
stories come to me solely though the gossip of neighbors, embellished in their
own minds and later, in mine. Some come
through the lens of childhood, colored by my need to make sense of my own
actions and an often confusing world.
Still, this place and time – the Yugoslavia of my childhood – is real. Welcome, reader, to these tales of a time and
place long gone, a world vanished from the map but not the mind. Join me on this journey and let your own
reality dissolve. .
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