Undergournd RiverUnderground River1You were supposed to have been born in Belgrade, on the second of July, nineteen seventy-one. You were supposed to have had curly red hair and a long life but your doom was woven into the fiber of the universe long before your supposed conception. Indeed, on that happy fall evening, your mother and father made love, not to each other, but their respective spouses and sired house-fulls of children who became the unwitting usurpers of your fate. True, you were a victim of circumstance, the sort that occurs with infinite frequency in the turbulent ocean of human gestures. Your absence from the world was heralded neither by war nor famine but cowardice, or rather, a momentary loss of heart when your father was eleven and your mother ten, when at the last moment he withdrew his gaze to avoid hers. In all fairness, he was a bashful boy and, as yet, lacked the necessary element to set your propitious future in motion.