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METO JOVANOVSKI TOTE'S FINEST STORY It was always the same. At every wedding, at every party where Tote was .... "Come on, Tote. Tell him about it," people kept asking. But Tote still managed to put up with it. He liked to have ev- erybody asking and he was glad that they wanted to hear about it, but all the same it hurt him. Eventually he came to believe that they weren't trying to understand him. They can't see what I suf- fer, he would add, absorbed by his grief, his greatest sorrow. Then he would make excuses to the people gathered around. It was always the same. There he was again today, Tote-so short, pale, thin, and apparently calm with his scone on his shoulder and his pitcher of wine in his hand, going to a wedding once more. He didn't want to go. He had tried to get out of it, but it was the same this time as it had been many times before. He just had to go. Who would go if he didn't? He had no children, but still blood is thicker than water. Children. No, he hadn't got any chil- dren, but
Southeastern Europe – Brill
Published: Jan 1, 1985
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