It’s summer in the global south (which is winter in the global north), and for the month of January Literatur.Review is bringing them all together, publishing previously untranslated or unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

Stefan Markovski is a Macedonian writer, poet, screenwriter, and philosopher, author of novels, short story collections, poetry, and academic books, MA in Screenwriting at the Faculty of Dramatic Arts (FDU) in Skopje. 

"The true story of a person's life can never be written. It is beyond the power of literature. The full tale of any life would be both utterly boring and utterly unbelievable.” – Isaac Bashevis Singer

The warm golden hue spread in straight lines over the winding roads and the wooden houses that sprung up on both sides of the gorge as if injecting all the art of the cosmos directly into the small world of autumn between the river Vardar and the small village bordered by giant rocks and a little beyond by carefully planted vineyards. When I got to that end, I felt that I could see it, but also more – I could almost breathe it all for an unlimited time, without forgetting all my obligations.

Walking along the only road, lost in my thoughts in the nothingness through which no living thing had passed for hours, I was startled when I realized in an instant that what loomed in the distance, on the railway itself, was none other than that familiar human figure that who knows how many times I came across already. Yes, it was the same man again with scythe and broom in his hand, bent directly over the endless parallel strips of metal, and from all I could see, I could only conclude he had not stopped for a moment whatever it is that he was doing, and the more and more, as I got closer, it seemed he was cleaning the train track of branches, leaves and all sorts of rubbish.

Curiosity got the better of me and I decided to strike up a conversation with this railroad sweeper who seemed like a humble man whose face spoke of years of hard work and endurance.
"I'm sorry, you work on the railway?" I approached him, and he, wiping off his sweat, casually greeted me with a stiff smile.
"Well, not anymore."
"How come?"
"They made me redundant and had to hand me a notice of termination."
It was not always easy or convenient to explain some things to myself in words, so I tried to find the appropriate questions to simply describe them to myself first. When I offered him a glass of the old red wine I was carrying in my backpack, a smile through a natural ripple revealed his cheeks.
"Did you know that this seemingly 'foreign' wine is made right here?"
"Yeah, really? Aren't you a vine grower?'
"There's no one here who isn't."
"So there are some of your grapes here too?"
"Let me try it, I'll tell you," he grabbed the glass and immediately nodded.
"When did you get fired?"
"It's been three years now."
"You’re telling me that you’ve been doing this for that long? You clean the rust for free?"
He stopped for a moment, as if thinking about what to answer.
"Young sir," he said humbly, "I've been on the railroad for more than thirty years. And I was proud to be the person engaged in its maintenance, knowing the importance of it. And so, it happened, as often happens in life, that we find ourselves in situations of powerlessness..."
"What exactly happened?"
"I wish I knew... they just told me I'd have to leave."
"No reason given?"
He laughed bitterly, “Oh, there was a reason, but it had nothing to do with the way I did the job or anything. A local politician wanted to hire the wife of one of his nephews in my place, so he orchestrated my removal from the job."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
“But let me tell you,” he continued, his eyes now sparkling with determination, “it's not like my world has turned after all that. And it's not that from agriculture and viticulture, which I've always done and now much more, I can't afford some kind of living, no matter how modest it is. What I do know is that the train track still needs cleaning, and I don't know how I could afford to not even think about it.''

I felt that somewhere a cavern opened inside of me just as long as the main tunnel in the gorge, in which his words, once spoken, would continue to vibrate in an eternal echo that itself defied the laws of physics.

From that day, when the road took me in that direction, I went to the gorge to see if I could spot him, if it was really as he told me. And yes, I always saw him trying to remove even the tiniest piece of garbage from the railway, and all his neighbors knew that, but also his former colleagues, who, knowing his fanatical and unwavering devotion, could rarely be seen on this part of the road.

Undoubtedly, those who express their silent protest against "the system" through a simple, humble life above the frustrations of the daily intoxication of materialism in all its forms are counted on the fingers, and knowing that no media had reported his story, one day I decided to do it, so I wrote what was supposed to be a very short story, a kind of "experiment".

It was a very short story spread over just one page of a daily newspaper, which turned out to be read by some people with enough power and influence to offer him a new job.
The railroad sweeper, on the other hand, remained true to his path which continued to follow the river and down the gorge in an almost straight line, passing through an endless field of vineyards illuminated by the sun in all its forms.