If I could cry, I would. If I could wail, I would wail. In a manly way, to thunder, to spread the word throughout the Bar valley and all of Montenegro: Professor Maksim Lutovac died!
An unusually intelligent and gifted man, one of the symbols of this city, fell asleep.
He headed to his Dapsići to fulfill those long-ago boyhood dreams. To Dapsić, which is named after him, from which he left confused, scared and alone, and to which he returns on a white horse, adored by his wife, daughter, sons, seven grandchildren, daughter-in-law, son-in-law, as well as relatives, godfathers, friends and numerous unknown admirers of his image and work.
The applause that erupted when he entered the hall of the Cultural Center for the celebration of the centenary of the Gymnasium was worth a lifetime. If nothing else had happened to him but that ovation, that joy, he could have peacefully ended his earthly existence and gone to meet his parents and sister, because he never had that opportunity in his lifetime. His mother died when he was one year old, during childbirth with his sister, who herself soon closed her eyes. Father Milun was killed in the partisans when Maxim was six years old. It is not known who put the greater burden of responsibility on whom - father Milun to his son Maksim or father Maksim to his son Milun, and Darko and Lara. It was not easy to be the son of the hero Milun, who left his bones on Markov's hill, since, according to custom, he went first to where it was densest, and by God it is not easy to be a descendant of the charismatic, wise Maksim of Milun's Lutovac either.
He was the longest-serving director in the history of Bar High School. For 28 years, he skilfully steered the most significant local educational institution. Under his "pen" the Gymnasium was praised and celebrated. He managed, with a special charm and gentle words, but also decisively when necessary, to relax where it was tight and to tighten where it was relaxed. And to bring together, in a noble mission, former students who were loyal to the Gymnasium and who, above all, respected him.
He wrote easily, seductively, in a disheveled, poetic style, full of wonderful descriptions, metaphors, sparkling digressions, comparisons, healing lessons... He left behind many chess and literary works, two capital ones: "Chess Wreath" and "Bar - Phoenix City ".
60 years ago, in 1963, he became the champion of Montenegro in chess. He loved the ancient game above all else. There are few chess players in this area who have played more games, both tournament and rapid-move, than national master Maksim Lutovac. If it hadn't been for him, chess in Bar would have long been what it is today - a pale shadow. He organized, among other things, seven magnificent "Sozina" grandmaster tournaments, with a small, almost negligible help from friends. He burned, and generously divided the merits into equal honors.
Because of him, the Latin "Mens sana in corpore sano" was changed to "In sana mente corpus sanus" (In a healthy mind, a healthy body). That inimitable spirit of his maintained his failing body for years. Someone will say: an old man died. It's not. A man died in his late years, with a youthful, until his last breath, creative spirit. Death came for him several times, but returned unfinished, because she did not know how to separate him from the pen. And yesterday, they were on top of each other and death, sometime before midnight, finally won. Maksim's pen always remained in her hands.
Irresistible optimism spread all around him. He made, with his eternal optimism and healthy, bubbly humor, not agreeing to gloomy thoughts, platitudes and mediocrity, that many, in every respect, became better than they were before they met him.
Maksim, like no one else, knew how to dream when he was awake, but also to turn those dreams into reality with incredible persistence. He rejoiced, without a grain of jealousy or vanity, in other people's successes, and he carried his own with dignity. He was benevolent, making friends with ease. He knew how to show respect even to those significantly younger than him, if they deserved that respect.
Perhaps because he grew up without parents, alone, he was unusually, to the point of fanaticism, devoted to the family he built with his steady and caring wife Lalica. Nothing was too difficult for him to do for her. Nothing.
And something personal.
I know that one day, we will once again take our destined path, from the monument to St. John Vladimir towards the sea, then to the right, through the Promenade of King Nikola, past "Tourists", the Castle and the stadium, to the bridge on the Railway. And I know that even then you won't blame me for waiting for me, as usual, at the monument. You will only ask: "Shall we go before or after the walk?" I will answer: "Better after." And we rarely skipped that baklava at "Helena". The only thing will be, while we walk foot in front of foot, while you hold me under your arm, proud of that intimate act, while I listen to you carefully and only answer and question a few things, while your roaring laugh rings out and before the point, never the same anecdote twice and while we are caressed by the winter the sun that nowhere, at the end and beginning of the year, warms like in Bar, without that sentence of yours, the light motive of our half-century friendship: "Is this life beautiful, my Mićaš!"
Goodbye Makuta Blejski, goodbye Mjaksima, goodbye Majo.
If he had lived until May 5, Maksim Lutovac would have turned 88 years old. He will be buried on Sunday, December 31, at the city cemetery Gvozden brijeg in Bar.
Bonus video:
