The sun makes everything on the island better. The sea is more blue, the green bush more lush. The mood a little brighter. But it’s “the Bura wind that makes everything clearer”. Or at least that was what the ferry worker told Gustav once he landed from mainland Croatia. And it was this blizzard cold wind that pushed him all the way to the island of Mljet. 

The wind vents violently in between the tiny inlets of Babino Polje, Mljet’s main village, right in the middle of the 50km long island. The village is home to less than 260 people in winter including a fireman, a nurse, a visiting chaplain, half a dozen teachers, librarian, bus driver and a baker. And for a couple of months, this community will now also have to count Gustav among its pack. 

It’s the early months of the year 2005. Gustav is by now a seasoned writer and researcher who was, some years back, commissioned to write about the Slav coast and its islands following the war of the early 1990s. 

He has been touring the coast on this side of the Mediterranean since 1995, producing a handful of well-researched books. One island, one coast after another. All the way from the Cursed Mountains in Albania, to the tiny rocky islands littering the coast of Croatia.

With the population in winter being so small, everyone on the island knew that there was a stranger in their midst. In a matter of days, he worked on understanding the machinery of the island. The location of the only shop, the one restaurant and, very importantly, an illegally-run bar which housed very decent local red wine, made by the owner himself. 

The conglomeration of men smoking at the corner of the bar appeared like a theatrical scene from a Greek tragedy. Their unrelenting puffs of smoke smudged the dim light from the electricity bulb in the middle, engorged their shadows against the ancient wall of the bar and produced a cloud of mysticism to a bar on an island which was already mystique, in every literary quality. 

Although, as Gustav would discover, there wasn’t much of a literary culture to speak of in Mljet. And the men looked at Gustav as if he were committing some bizarre atrocity when, after ordering his wine, he sat in a corner and opened his notebook and landed his reading book on the table.

“You’re a writer?” Said an aged voice in one dark corner. Gustav only managed to make out his wrinkled face through the flame at the end of his thick cigarette. 

“I am, yes. I came here to research…”

The man interrupted him. “Nah nah nah…if you are into books, you ought to speak to Ivana.”

“Who is Ivana?” Gustav asked.

“The lady who opened the room with books.”

“You mean a library?” That was a weird way to describe a conventional library, thought Gustav.  

“It’s a room…with many books. Ivana runs it. Speak to her. The rest of us here, we are not into books,” the man said dismissively. 

“Ok…thank you.” Gustav wanted to extend the conversation and perhaps explain that one way to learn about the island was to speak to the locals. But given the omni-directionality of the conversation, it was clear that this man was not willing to tell much. 

His evening at the bar did not, however, leave him empty handed.

As he went to pay for his wine, Gustav asked about Ivana, the lady of the many books, in a little room. 

“Yes, her room is just down by this same road. The main road of Babino Polje. How are you travelling?”

“By foot”, said Gustav, very matter-of-factly. 

Then the owner behind the bar shouted at the four men sitting in the smokey corner and yelled something in Croatian. After a couple of minutes, the man behind the bar told him; “that guy. He will lend you a bike. But good luck with cycling here. It’s many ups and downs. And Mljet has had many more ups than downs in recent years…you’ll see.”

–

“Are you Ivana?”

The woman in her late forties emerged from between the tall piles of books like Godzilla between the skyscrapers of Manhattan. She was wrapped in a thick chequered blanket which looked heavy and stained with years.

“So you’re the writer?”

Of course, like everyone else on the island, she knew Gustav was the latest addition to the odd popolis of Babino Polje.

“I am. I’ve come to Mljet to research on the recent years of the island, after the war of the nineties.”

“I know who you are,” Ivana muttered, as she scrambled for two glasses in one corner of the small room. She continued before Gustav asked for more; “I’ve read your books. I probably have them here somewhere. You’re good. You seem to go to places which tend to be overlooked. And Mljet is particularly overlooked, even by our own compatriots.”

Gustav could tell that this was an old building, but he could not see the traditional rubble walls that most of the Mljet old houses were made out of because of all the books.

“Quite a collection you have here,” he said as she passed him a cup with some red wine.

“It is the only collection of books you’ll find on this island. The people here are not of the reading type. I have tried, believe me, to revitalise the literary interest here, but oh it’s been a struggle. I might as well keep the door open at night, cos no one will set a foot inside.”

In the limited space there was between them, Gustav tried to walk around and have a look at the titles. Ivana sat down and put some music on her newly acquired CD player. There was one book called “Parallel islands: Mljet and Malta”. Gustav grabbed it and asked Ivana if he could borrow it.

“Sure. This is an open library. Borrow what you want. As long as you get it back before you head to wherever you came from.”

And so he did. The book was a treasure throve for his research and Gustav devoured it in a couple of days.

Over the next few weeks, Gustav became a regular at this ‘room with books’, as the barman put it. Because that is what it really was, nothing much else to it.

Ivana grew accustomed to this stranger and she herself enjoyed the company. Although she did not speak much. Her mouth was often occupied downing glasses of red wine or holding a rolled-up cigarette. Notwithstanding, having another person sharing her space was pleasant, even for an eccentric like Ivana.

“I’m heading home soon. Do you want to stay more?” she asked as she grabbed her thick coat and a warm beanie.

The room was small but not very well lit. In fact, the only source of light was a yellow, warm-coloured bulb in the middle that provided this intense chiaroscuro effect on the myriad of books that cluttered these walls.

Ivana noticed that her departure was going to go unnoticed. “Mr Gustav, I said I’m going home. Feel free to stay a while longer.”

Gustav emerged from an obscure corner of the room holding a thin book, of not more than a hundred pages.

“What is this book?” Gustav moved closer to the light. The title and the text inside were handwritten, not printed and the cover only contained “The Municipality of no choice” as a title.

“Who wrote this? And why is it hand written?” He looked at her.

Ivana was already holding the door open with the jacket in her hand ready to leave. She looked towards the outside. Bura wind was persisting and the cold outside made it unbearable to just stand in anyone’s doorway. It was either out or in. And by the looks of Gustav’s discovery, she had to stay in.

“Ah, I see you found this library’s precious manuscript.”

Gustav pulled over a small chair and sat down under the one source of light. Ivana closed the door shut, and Gustav opened the first page of the book.

“Like many of you, I was born afflicted with the freedom of choice. As I grew up, I exercised myself into abolishing this burden and piece by piece, I managed to live a simple life, free of anxiety, fear and insecurity.”

“What is this? Who wrote this? Is it a draft of some sorts?” Gustav fired his questions without looking up at the only other person in the room.

Ivana pulled a chair next to him and grabbed the book in her hand. She opened a random page;

“To make my life even more simple, choiceless, I became vegan. So when I came to the only restaurant open on the island, I got myself absolutely no option, unburdened with a redundant choice from a needy menu. I made my life simpler. I was, here too, free, completely.”

She smiled and shook her head as she read this.

“You know the author” said Gustav as he saw her smile.

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

Gustav was waiting for some more elaboration from her.

“No one bothered to come here for a very long time. In fact, he was practically the only one attending this blessed library. You remind me so much of him, actually. Sitting here in these dark corners, reading.”

“Well, I am intrigued. I’d love to read it. Perhaps I’ll take it home with me, Ivana. I know you were on your way out. I don’t want to keep you.”

“No,” she said immediately.

“This book does not leave these four walls. The people out there…they wouldn’t understand.”

Gustav didn’t quite get what she meant by that but the woman in front of him seemed adamant not to have the book moved from here.

“Let’s revisit this tomorrow, what do you think?” she asked, holding the book close to her chest.

–

In the few weeks living on the island, Gustav’s flat got populated by newspaper cuttings, history books and little pieces of loose paper with hand-written notes. He had newspaper clippings of developments in the past decade, infrastructural improvement on the island as well as a number of odd disasters which stood out in an otherwise very uneventful island scenario.

There was a fire which destroyed most of the carob trees on the island leaving many households dumbfounded as to how such a tragedy happened. The olive trees owners, which constitute the other half of the population, helped out the families financially as their production never seized fire – the fire literally only destroyed the part where carob trees grew.

The newspaper clipping next to it spoke about the increase in population of goats and how it’s affecting the human inhabitants who would randomly find goats grazing on their front lawns and destroying their crops.

The oddest of stories was preserved on a newspaper clipping which described the vanishing of a lone tourist who came to visit the island. There wasn’t much detail about the woman. She was in her late 30s, and at the time of the visit, in January of 1997, she was practically the only tourist on the island. Her last known whereabouts was the olive passage which led to the Odysseus cave in the south coast of the island.

So many stories to occupy his mind. But nothing, nothing, caused more intrigue than that hand-written manuscript he found at the library.

So, the next morning, right after his first coffee, he got onto his bike and sped down towards Ivana’s library.

Gustav found Ivana at her usual seat, sipping coffee this time, not wine. And in her hands, piles of loose paper. “The Municipality of No Choice” was there next to her, unopened.

“What are you reading?” Gustav asked.

“Letters I received over the years.”

He smiled at her reply. In the weeks he’d known her she never bulged to any deep human sentiment. But today, this morning, the woman in front of him seemed to carry a warm, loving look. Albeit, Gustav noticed a twinge of melancholy weighing on her smile.

“You’re here for the book. Here.” She passed on the hand-written manuscript before he could ask more questions about the letters she was clenching in her hands.

Gustav sat down, poured himself some of the freshly brewed coffee and opened the book. The hand-writing was refined, easy to read and clear enough for everyone to read.

This book was the final version of multiple writing tryouts, thought Gustav. The author didn’t sit down for one long night and covered the whole thing. Whoever this person was, he or she must have written it after compiling little pieces of texts, of information, or in this case, arguments in this ‘manifesto’. And it was well written. Being a writer himself, Gustav could appreciate the craftsmanship of the language used. 

At first Ivana sat a few metres away from him, reading her letters. But at one point, after sometime, Gustav lifted his face and eyed her with curious intrigue. She deemed it wise to give this man some space.

Or perhaps, she was the one who needed space to breath.

She got her coat and left. For once, Mljet was blessed with a nice sun and no wind. A walk would do Ivana a lot of good. And perhaps right now, a long walk was the only thing she needed.

A couple of hours later, she headed back to the library. Gustav’s coffee mug was replaced with a glass of red wine. The book was closed in front of him. And his face was stunned. Ivana knew he had devoured it all in one go. She had barely any time to put her coat on the hanger, Gustav turned to her for questions.

“You knew the author?”

“I did,” replied Ivan as she sat down.

“I met him the first time when I used to work at the local mini-market. The manager called me to go clean the isle where the clothes detergents were. I walk there and I see Igor - that’s his name - lying on all fours. He had just thrown up.”

Gustav had no idea where this story was going. Ivana continued.

“I asked him if he was feeling sick. His face was wet with sweat. He was…beautiful.”

Igor had stood up abruptly and left the mini market without looking up at the shelves, eyes on the floor, as though ashamed, but mostly angry.

“I knew something was off with this man. So I followed him out.”

Igor turned to face her. She realized then that she had never seen him on the island before – which either meant that he just arrived or that he didn’t interact much. It’s a small population, and everyone knows who’s inhabiting the village.

“Since when do you have so many different brands of laundry detergents?” That was the first thing Igor told Ivana.

“What? That was his opening line?” Gustav asked, intrigued now more than moments before.

“Yes. I sat with him for a while. He looked traumatized, poor man. He explained to me that, he had thrown up upon seeing so many different choices on the detergent’s section of the mini market. You see, he later confessed to me that he suffered from severe anxiety. And that his main trigger was choice.”

“Choice?”

“Options, alternatives…to things which could otherwise be clear and straight forward. For Igor, choice was like a looped prison. A source of tremendous anxiety and tension.”

Ivana recalled how the two had sat under an olive tree. Igor had opened up, as though talking to a long-lost friend, divulging every little detail of this particular malaise of his.

Back at the library, Gustav looked at his book in hand. Choice. The Municipality of no choice.

“So this book, this manuscript is…”

“It’s his manifesto. To live in a world, free of choice. Unburdened by alternatives. That is why he had travelled to Mljet. This was to be his perfect, safe ground.”

At this point Gustav needed to stand up, to make sense of what he had just learned and what he had read in the small book.

“Do not judge him, please. He was a sick man, taunted by an obsession. Whatever you read, whatever you may have understood from the words he wrote, don’t rush into anger or judgement.”

“Choice…” Gustav said, although he wasn’t even sure if he was talking to Ivana or himself.

“At some point he had to choose more than a simple laundry detergent, did he?”

And he recalled the passage of how he would become so annoyed when, while hiking the Olive Path which goes all the way under the village of Babino Polje, he would find two paths which would take you to the exact same destination.

“Why are people so obsessed with handing out alternatives? Stick to one path. Why should there be two paths to the same destination, if the one that is already there is perfectly fine? So I went, one night, and chopped down a big tree and closed off the alternative roads. I slept better that night, knowing that I made my life simpler.” – Gustav recalled this particular passage now as he walked around.

“But then his obsession grew wilder, didn’t it?” he said. “Choice of food, paths…who to love even. These choices burdened him deeply”. He was no longer sitting down, pacing around and his brain was on a fast track of joining the dots and making connections.

Then he stopped and looked at the woman in front of him.

“Oh my god…the woman, the tourist who disappeared in the cave back in ‘97.”

Ivana looked down.

“And these letters. They’re from him. Right?” he asked.

Gustav’s eyes on her made her uneasy, but she had an accepting resigning look on her face, as he continued to fire questions towards her:

“You did not only know him, did you? He fell in love with you, that’s why he did what he did…he eliminated his alternative, the other option. He wanted to get rid of any form of choice…including who to be with, who to love.”

The newspaper cutting in his little flat suddenly flashed before his eyes as he said this.

“Igor was a romantic. He was, like you, a writer. He stole my heart writing to me poems about Mljet, beauty and the sun. He used to get inspired after long walks round the island. He only carried a bottle of water, a reading book and a writing notepad. I was in love with him too, yes. But I could tell that, despite his love, he could not relax and simply be with me. Something was holding him back.”

“It was his woman back home”, blurted out Gustav.

“He had only just started seeing her,” Ivana added.

“It destroyed him, poor man,” she proceeded. “To know that he came all the way to Mljet to eliminate choice, but left being unable to deal with the harshest of alternatives – who to love. That is the biggest choice of all. And Igor wanted to deal with it.”

Gustav could not utter much after that. His mind was picking up pieces of little puzzles from the things he learned while on the island, and collaged them with what Igor wrote in his manuscript.

The burning of the carob trees incident – was it him? Did he want to eliminate even the choice of produce of the island? It sounded too crazy to even speak of it in front of Ivana, although she would, indeed, be the only one who could possibly understand him.

“The letters you were holding this morning…”

“They were all his, yes. This island inspired him. And he produced some of the best pieces of literature I ever saw.”

Then Ivana walked towards the desk and chose one from the pile of hand written letters.

“I’ve never shared these with anyone. But I gather you will appreciate the words, even if they were written by a madman.”

Gustav took the letter and started to walk back home. He stopped at the highest point of the village and sat down for a while, opening the letter he had just been handed and read the last bit of a very long poem.

Loving you is not fate’s embrace,
but our choice made in time and space.
No stars aligned or destined ties,
but steady hands and willing eyes.

Each day we choose to stand or stray,
To mend, to trust, to give away.

Not just a dream, not just a voice,
You are my heart, my choice.

The sun was about to set but the golden ball of flame it produced did not make things brighter. The Bura wind, however, did not disappoint. The cold gushing wind just before the dark, made Gustav’s stay on Mljet now clearer.

-The end-