Spring in Lika is always late, just as winter always arrives early. But now it had finally come—green and lush, a true Lika spring.
It was Sunday morning, May 4, 1980. Gospić was drenched in rain, which had been falling steadily all morning.
“Boys, we’re going fishing today,” Uncle Niko Brkljačić, our next-door neighbour and one of the best fishermen in Gospić, said cheerfully. “The rain will stop soon, and then, as I’ve told you so many times, that’s when the fish bite best. We’re going to the Jadova; it’s full of pior right now.”
His son Boris, a year younger than me, needed no second invitation. And I was in the grip of fishing fever too. How many days had Boro and I spent at the Gospić weir, luring fish with worms we bought beneath the dried hides at the nearby tannery by the mill? And as for the junior fishing championship across from “Obala ljubavi” on Gospić’s Brioni, don’t even get me started.
Around noon we got into Niko’s “Ami 8” and set off toward Vrebac, above which a rainbow was just beginning to appear.
We reached the Jadova, wading through lush grass covered in dew.
“We’ll fish over there, by that willow. We’ll catch pior like never before,” Niko said knowingly, pulling a fairly large plastic barrel out of the trunk.
And sure enough. No sooner had we cast our lines than the pior started biting. Two or three hours had barely passed before we had almost filled the barrel to the top.
And pior is a tiny fish, barely a handspan long. But it is delicious—sweeter than trout. And it can be sold for a good price.
Comrade Milček, a music teacher and, like Uncle Niko, one of the better fishermen in Gospić, bought fish from local fishermen. And he paid immediately.
Already Boro and I were beginning to dream about what we would do with the money from our catch.
Recently it had become fashionable to put “banana” seats on ponies. One could occasionally find them in the shop run by Ante Daja, right next to the old bridge. We’d go tomorrow and see if they had any.
We could also put a “fish-eye” light on the bicycle. Ante Daja’s shop sold fishing tackle too.
And if there was any money left, we could go to the department store. They had some really good bait and lures there.
Lost in these dreams, we began carrying the barrel full of pior to the car and headed back to Gospić.
At around four in the afternoon we arrived in Žabica, outside Comrade Milček’s house. We rang the bell and waited impatiently for him to appear.
And there he was, his face covered in tears.
“Comrade Milček, we’ve brought you fish—pior, at least a hundred of them,” Boro and I blurted out almost simultaneously. But we could see that something was wrong, and we anxiously waited for his reply.
“I’m not buying fish today. They’ve just announced it. Comrade Tito has died,” Milček replied and closed the door.
Like in a cartoon, the little cloud of dreams above our heads suddenly burst.
No “banana” seats, no new bait, lures, or other fishing delights.
Soaked through, as if the rain had only just begun to pour rather than having fallen all morning, we headed home.
“What are we going to do with all this fish?” we asked Uncle Niko.
“Nothing. It won’t go to waste,” Niko replied, then continued:
“When we get home, we’ll give them to Nada and Milka—Boro’s mother and mine—to pack into bags. Then you two go from door to door around the neighbourhood. I’m sure everyone will be happy to receive this sweet little pior.”
Evening was falling over Gospić. The neighbourhood near Kolakovac smelled of freshly fried fish, while reports about Comrade Tito were coming from the television.
Tito was better known as a hunter, after all.
If he had been a fisherman, Boro and I thought, he would have waited just a few more hours—long enough for us to make it to Comrade Milček in time…
Jovica Krtinić