The Unexpected Return of Petar Knežević

“It’s 5:05 a.m., and I have to pee.”

In Skadarlija—the cobbled, bohemian quarter of Belgrade where the air carried food from kitchens and music from open doors, most of it better than anything he had at home—lived an old man named Petar Knežević, who had reached the age where even his boredom had routines.

Yes—this is what happens when a man lives long enough, he thought, groaning as his knees and wrists offered their special good‑morning greeting. He sat up with effort. He had every intention of sleeping in, yet his body had other plans. Chiefly, his bladder.

He shuffled to the bathroom, finished his business, and then stood at the kitchen window with a cup of tea, feeling a little more himself. The street below was quiet in the early light—as it always was before everything woke up.

“I am bored,” he announced to no one, and drifted into thought.

As the morning warmed, the square outside began to stir. Vendors shouted. Children chased pigeons. A young man played guitar—pitchy, but with unwavering confidence—and that was when an idea began to take root.

Petar narrowed his eyes.

“I can do better than that,” he said.

A strange new idea rose inside him. Petar had no artistic talents. His singing was dreadful, and his dancing had once been described—kindly—as brave. He had been an opančar once — a shoemaker. Not because he had chosen it, but because it had simply been there, like most things in his life. Back when people still needed shoes made by hand, before everything began arriving from elsewhere.

“Shoes,” his father would say, as if naming a disappointment. “Fine work. No future in it.”

Petar had argued with him once. Maybe twice.

Still, boredom is a powerful motivator.

By noon, Petar had made a decision.

“I will become,” he said, standing up slowly and with great confidence, “a street performer.”

He stepped into his bedroom, paused, and adjusted a chair by a few centimeters—a habit he never questioned—then immediately forgot what he had come in for. This happened to him from time to time. Petar had a long-standing agreement with his thoughts: they didn’t vanish—they just liked to leave without telling him where they were going.

He stood there, trying to catch the thought that had slipped away.

Nothing.

“I came in here for something important,” he said aloud.

He looked at the bed. Suspicious.

Then the chair. Also suspicious—maybe even more so.

He opened a drawer.

Socks.

“Not you,” he muttered, closing it again.

He stood very still, hoping the idea would return.

Thoughts are slippery little devils, he thought, amused at himself. “Well,” he sighed, “if it was important, it would come back.”

He nodded, satisfied with this logic, and shuffled back to the kitchen.

Staring out the window, he felt the idea drifting back toward him.

Then it landed—against the better wishes of his subconscious.

“Ah—I will become a street performer,” he remembered suddenly.

By early afternoon, Petar had assembled what he believed to be “props,” writing them down in his careful, deliberate hand, the way he wrote everything.

One worn juggling club, cracked near the handle

A scarf of uncertain origin

Three apples (one a little too ripe)

An old hat for coins

A clown mask not used since at least 1984

A chipped kafana ashtray he had absolutely no memory of acquiring

He examined his collection.

“This is enough,” he declared.

As he reached for his coat, Petar paused. Something flickered at the edge of his mind— flour in the air, laughter he couldn’t place, a voice shouting, This is not going how I imagined!

He blinked.

Gone.

“Strange,” he muttered, and went on his way.

Today, he thought, they—or at least I—will never forget.

*****

Petar placed his hat on the ground. Nerves began to take root in his mind. I am old, he thought. Today I am just going to have a little fun.

He stood tall, cleared his throat, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen!”

No one stopped.

People walked by without even taking notice—except for one five‑year‑old boy holding a small airplane toy.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he tried again, louder.

His first attempt went dreadfully wrong.

He hesitated, turning the clown mask over in his hands.

“Hm.”

It made him uneasy, though he couldn’t remember why.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Children used to like clowns.”

He put it on.

The mother looked at Petar in horror, grabbed her child, and hurried away.

Petar quickly removed the mask, his face reddening.

“Kids these days,” Petar muttered. “When I was young, no one was afraid of clowns.”

He considered this.

“At least, I don’t remember anyone saying so.”

The crowd broke apart as quickly as it had formed, leaving space in front of Petar again.

An older boy, now with his mother, drifted closer, watching with great curiosity.

He then pulled out the three apples.

“Consider, my friends, the ancient art of juggling!” he declared, giving a dramatic pause.

Then he decided to be honest.

“To my beloved audience—I have never actually done this before.”

A few eyes rolled, but the confession seemed to spark their interest.

“Hey, check him out—he doesn’t know what he’s doing!” a teenager shouted.

This unsolicited recommendation made the crowd stop—eager to witness some form of embarrassment.

“Mom! He’s terrible! Can we watch him mess up?” the boy said, tugging his mother’s hand.

From behind a cart, a vendor muttered, “If he drops one of my oranges, I’m charging him double.”

Petar smirked and began. It went as badly as expected.

One apple jammed his finger with surprising force, another bounced off and was immediately snatched up by a dog, and the last rolled toward the boy whose eyes were full of amusement.

“That was awful, mister!” the boy said. “Here—take it back!”

And with that, he launched the apple straight at Petar. It came fast—spiraling toward him with fierce velocity. Petar had barely a heartbeat to react, but his hands remembered a lifetime of measuring, cutting, shaping things to exactness.

The scarf of unknown origin flicked into motion—just enough to slow the apple, redirect it, and send it along a new path.

With one clean sleight of hand, the apple rolled off the fabric and dropped neatly into Petar’s waiting palm.

“Do it again! Throw something else!” the boy shouted, delighted now.

Before Petar could object, something else came flying. Not an apple this time, but a small orange—thrown harder, straighter.

There was no time to think.

His shoulders settled. His grip adjusted. The scarf moved with familiar precision. He cuffed the orange, letting the fabric catch it, then guided it into his other hand—the one now carrying the apple.

He looked at the boy coolly, as if this had been his plan all along, and took a bite out of the apple. His heart was racing.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

The boy’s mouth fell open.

People stared in disbelief.

Petar regretted biting into such a hard apple.

The juggling club lay forgotten at his side, untouched.

“Bravo!”

The square erupted.

Someone even yelled, “Now this man has talent! Can we throw some other things at you?”

Petar bowed, unsure what else to do, as coins clattered into his hat. He knew these streets well. Attention came quickly, and didn’t like to stay.

“Mister—” the boy began.

“Are you coming back tomorrow?”

Petar took another bite of the apple, nodding slowly as coins continued to rain into his hat.

“Tomorrow!” the boy shouted again.

Petar frowned. “Tomorrow what?”

The boy pointed at him. “You! Here! Juggling! Do that thing again!”

“I might,” Petar said with a grin. “Depends if I remember this happened.”

The crowd laughed.

Then an older man pushed forward, eyes wide with delight.

“You’re him! You’re the clown! The one from the Great Skadarlija Bakery Fiasco!”

The crowd erupted with excitement.

Petar blinked. “The what?”

“The tall clown?” the man pressed on. “The one who apologized during the robbery?”

Petar opened his mouth as if to say something. Then, he closed it again.

“I don’t remember robbing anything,” Petar said with some hesitation.

“Oh, you didn’t rob anything,” the fruit vendor said, delighted.

“Worst heist in Belgrade’s history. Three clowns went in and slipped on kiflice before they could do anything.”

Petar looked at his scarf and said, “I have never tripped on kiflice my entire life.”

The fruit vendor looked at him for a long moment. “You tripped twice.”

Laughter rolled through the square.

“Kiflice everywhere,” a nearby baker added. “Flour in the air—you couldn’t see a thing.”

As the man spoke, Petar touched his face, as if something in it felt familiar.

Flour in the air. Heart pumping in his chest. A sting in his eyes.

The older man chimed back in, hardly able to contain himself.

“And you—” he pointed at Petar, “—you stood up and shouted—”

“This is not going how I imagined!”

Petar’s face tightened, as something half-remembered briefly insisted on being real.

“And when the police arrived,” the baker continued, wiping tears from his eyes, “they didn’t arrest you. They just stood there watching you sweep.”

Petar stood still.

Another yelled, “Do the scarf trick again!”

The crowd cheered.

Someone shouted, “A true Skadarlija hero!”

Coins rained harder into the hat.

The boy tugged Petar’s sleeve. “Mister… you’re famous.”

Petar considered this.

He looked at the scarf in his hand.

Then, slowly, he looked at the clown mask, as if it had remembered him.

“Ah,” he said. “That explains the mask.”

“So this is not my first performance.”

The crowd chanted his name as he gathered his things. Evening settled over Skadarlija, sunlight warming his shoulders as its soft orange glow wandered unevenly over the cobblestones.

A small, mischievous thought drifted through him.

I wonder how many times I’ve already met myself for the first time?