is a film story. Documentary-fiction, a black-white technic; documentary part (from the wartime archives) presented through an umber colour filter, while fiction, through the green one. Time: the pre-war, wartime, and the post-war Sarajevo. For the old people of Sarajevo and our main character, Sarajevo is the city from Marin-dvor to the Bash-charshia. It is an old math professor, who lives alone in one of Marindvor’s basements, sharing it with cats, wandering dogs, charcoal, and firewood. The character is tragically bohemian, grotesque in his effort, with a pretended superiority, to fight his despair. He looks such in the scenes before the war. The war figure is radiant, with a touch of the superior self-confidence; almost heroic. The post war one is overcome with the despair, or an assumed serenity.

Professor represents a type of Bohemia - people dislocated from life - flourishing only in Bosnia, on the fertile soil of the frequent political persecutions; of Bogumils, Hamzawis, Communists, Young Muslims… until these last collective calamities of the entire nation. In a flashback is to be used the archival material from Bosnian political history. 

A voice, perhaps Basheski’s, or of an imaginary tour-guide, heard from the play-offs: "This city has been systematically taught to forget. What destroy not the armies, do not kill the plagues, do not ravage the arsons (like the one by Eugene Savoy), that is slayed by the bureaucracy, hunger and envy. What sweeps not away the history, that is, with a pen, as with a shovel, wiped out by the science of History. What is not choked with the silken rope, that is stifled by Charshia or policy; what is not abolished by the laws (always else's, always foreign), that abrogates a self-denial. Walk of camera through the sites of Sarajevo from the further back and recent past; cemeteries, towers, roads, fountains, historical plates, sacral and other objects, prisons, albums, archives, library catalogues... All what is neglected, destroyed, mutilated…, including humans.

Taught to forget, the city does not know when and why Professor is pushed to the margin of life, into its depth, not metaphysical, but the cellar's… In which he bothered himself about metaphysics, which he once outlined in the street this way. "Stop," said he, "me too, am a creature of suffering. And as for Him, the Almighty, because of belief in Who they now crucify you, to me the mathematics is His most sublime Epiphany, so they do not bother me. “Mathematics - my Epiphany." The Informbiro's cleansing, or the Young Muslims', or the individual political sin, no one has wondered, and nobody no one has ever asked him. Who knew, sympathetically kept silent, and he himself artfully hid it even from himself. Pretending madness, or in the way of Bohemia bosniaca, a humanoid kind which grows for centuries, like a weed, rare but persistent, on the fertile soil of the political persecutions.

Shabby urban apparel, the backs bent, but upright when he explains to a random collocutor,  "I am, you know, a professor", a bit sniffy, slightly fusty,  "Yes, a professor, of mathematics. I'm... you know, God reveals Himself to me through the mathematical rules, I do not mind for politics, to me God has revealed Himself through the Pythagorean theorem, listen, you and I, we are 1+1 = 2, but His oneness is different. Unique, uncountable, unable to be minimised, or multiplied, indivisible, you know I do not need politics... "Shut up!" angrily and ironically, and admonishing at the same time, would respond to him some from among his interlocutors, perhaps a former student, or former co-prisoner. Similar dialogues, or actually monologues, looking for the ears.

The war is on. Besieged Sarajevo. 24-hours shelling grenades, sniper bullets, pam music..., the race under the grenades and bullets after water, food, survivors. Or hush, desolation, time for the Professor and his caravan. What has not escaped by the last cars and buses from the city, descends to the cellars; there being improvised the underground life, chased away from them are their pre-war tenants: quadrupeds, stinky, nobody's, but the bipeds too, like Professor who hardly saves his small basement-flat, are suddenly at the high price. Old-Austrian cellars are most sought after: deep, spacious, massive. The chance for the life is in descent into them. The Professor's into leaving them. And of the dogs and cats, Sarajevan cellar population, which he will lead and of which he will take care during the entire war. The caravan, like a painting of Hieronymus Bosh or Breughel, roams the desolate city, suddenly free; wherever it pleases. Not reviled, not kicked. Stripped in its ugliness, and grotesquely proud. Almost perfect freedom, if only were there not the grenades and bullets, and the death from them, if only was there not a constantly increasing hunger.    

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