Fužine Blues Read online

  Yes, I know, the whole thing’s pretty screwed up, whichever way you look at it, even forgetting about the fucked-up broad. There’s no getting away from that.

  It’s pretty quiet round the table.

  “Ah. I apologise, I do,” says Zoki. “I’m sorry. My condolences.”

  “Mine too,” I say. Mrs Galušić’s eyes are wide, while Galušić himself is looking here, there and everywhere. Mrs Erjavec is silent. The situation’s, well, what the fuck can you say? The caffetiere finished burbling long ago, but no-one’s pouring the coffee. And I could really do with one. You really need one in a situation like that.

  Then Galušić clears his throat, deep down, like a bear, puts his hand in an inside pocket and pulls out an envelope, the kind you get in the bank. Money. Thank god, we’re saved. Cash. Ten thousand marks. Even Zoki’s eyes light up when he sees it. He reaches for the folder.

  What the fuck, saved. Mrs E is still staring into space and carries on talking, as if nothing has happened:

  “It was in all the papers. She went out in the evening, in the morning they found her body all burnt somewhere by the railway lines, somewhere near Zelena jama...”

  Fuck.

  I was totally bewildered there, just for a moment. Utterly fucking bewildered. Not like before, when she first came out with it. And not because I was scared that the broad had gone totally gaga. I mean, for god’s sake, two crazies in one day should be statistically impossible. No, damn it, in that moment I realised something. I realised that I knew exactly what she was on about. I don’t fucking know how to describe it. Just that what she was saying somehow becamereal.

  I remembered that I had read something about it in the paper. Not only that, but I remembered exactly how it was. I remembered what I’d thought at the time. Suddenly, I somehow knew exactly what this fucked-up broad, who corrects the grammar in a contract that I have got ready — me, who knows how these things are done — I know exactly what the silly cow is thinking. What she’s feeling, for fuck’s sake. It’s awful. You’re sitting in front of some cow who you can’t stand and at the same time, you know how she feels. That’s — I don’t know how to explain it — one shit awful feeling.

  I was sitting there drinking my coffee and reading the morning paper. The story was quite a big one, half a page in theDaily News. I remember what it said — someone had looked out of his window in a nearby block of flats and seen something burning by the railways lines. That wouldn’t have seemed all that strange, but the wind was blowing in his direction and it smelt to high heaven — like the smell you get if goulash boils dry. So he put his shoes on and went down to see if there was anything interesting he could tell his mates about over a beer. But the girl was already burnt beyond recognition. Only her legs were still intact: she had on light blue jeans, her brown ankle-boots were lying next to her — she was barefoot, for Christ’s sake, and that winter was freezing, ten below at night — and pink socks. I don’t know why I remember those pink socks in particular.

  In fact, I do know. Our little one had some pink socks, my mother-in-law bought her them. I stared at the paper and thought of my little one’s feet. I was thinking of a photo: I was lying in one morning, my wife brought the little one to our bed and she was kicking all the time with her legs in the air. My wife must have taken a photo: in the foreground, my bloody great size 43’s, in big close up, and next to them her little footsies, couldn’t have been more than seven centimetres altogether. All still kind of wrinkled. She was about a month-and-a-half. Now she wears pink socks. And that other young lass wore them — I mean, 15 to 18 years old, light blue jeans, brown ankle-boots, pink socks, does anyone know her? For fuck’s sake. So, that evening she put them on, at home, sitting on the bed in her room. By night time she’s already smelling of burnt goulash, so that some guy from a block of flats in Zelena jama has to come down and see what mischief those bleeding kids have been up to again. Kids are always up to some fucking mischief round the blocks of flats.

  Then I remembered some other stuff. I remembered how we sat once in front of Roso Nero, me and my wife, Beno and his wife. And the two little ones were racing around the passageway between the bank and the cafe. What danger could there be? Just pedestrians everywhere, a shopping centre for Christ’s sake. Nothing else. Just a coffee after the Saturday morning shopping. A tradition. No bleeding trouble. None at all.

  And then, Beno was just telling how some mechanic had tried to pull a fast one on him, bang, crash, “Shit!”, “Waah!”, and I was on my fucking feet. I just saw the bike, lying there, its wheels spinning in the air, some damn kid lying on the ground and a metre away little Manja screaming her head off. Screaming like a siren. As if someone had ripped her leg off.

  I was over there in one fucking step and tried to pull him up by his T-shirt, but it tore, and so the blow I aimed, instead of hitting him in the teeth got him somewhere next to his eye. I hadn’t a fucking clue what was happening. I was just holding onto this kid on the ground and kicking him.

  “You fucking little shit, riding here! You little cunt, I’ll slaughter you!”

  Eventually, Beno and his wife dragged me off, and my wife was blabbering something about how I’d frighten Manja even more, that she was alright, she’d just had a fright. I couldn’t see anything, I just wanted to kill that kid. He’s knocked over my little girl. That’s all I knew. He’s knocked over my little girl. I’m going to kill him the little git. I’m going to slaughter him.

  But this little one burnt beside the railway tracks. It was such a bad winter that even I would cuddle my kid if we went out in the evening, and I’m not one for spoiling kids, ever. In that kind of cold she could come down with something, flu or pneumonia or some such, and I wouldn’t stand for something like that. My kid’s going to go and study when she grows up, for fuck’s sake, not be at home ill all the time. Without an education you’re buggered, you’ve got to go on fucking courses and pass exams to get a licence for every crappy little thing you want to do, just to earn a little dosh. Sod it all.

  And here stands this broad who wasn’t able to protect her kid in that cold from whatever it was. I suddenly felt so stupid — so stupid I can’t tell you. As if I was embarrassed in front of her. Not her, as if I was embarrassed. But why the fuck should I be embarrassed, in front of some German teacher?

  “We have the invoice ready,” I said. I had the papers from Zoki’s folder in my hands. Such a bloody ridiculous situation. Both names are on the invoice, hers and her husband’s, but he’s still not home. The man whose daughter was flambéd. The man whose window they were fucking well shooting under. But nobody shot at him, the little professor. Maybe they will, if he’s going to keep on being such a pain.

  Anyway, what about that coffee? It’s getting cold.

  * * *

  3.

  Well, at least one question was quickly resolved. How does that kind of age show on a thin man? At least on Adam.

  Adam was no longer thin.

  The Adam that sat opposite me drinking red wine had surprisingly little in common with that one. With the other one. The tanned one, in short sleeves. Who on Bale beach proudly stood up and recommended that I lie there and warm my you-know-what. Who in the garden at Malča Beličeva barbecued čevapčiči and lectured on spontaneous combustion. He was large and slack, tired. He was wearing a loose cotton shirt and long trousers. Trousers for at home, though not the bottom half of a tracksuit, oh no, khaki trousers. He was suitably attired for a visit, then. That was different, too. And the gaze that rested on me as we trotted out our introductory inanities, so that we had the most relevant current data on each other, was also somehow different.

  Some new questions arise. Number one, what kind of Adam do I actually remember? I’ve nevergenuinely studied my memories. If I do so, it will undoubtedly be easier to ascertain the differences. What effects does the process of ageing have? Perhaps I shall arrive at some valuable conclusion. So, let’s see, what was thatother Adam like?

  Th
e Adam I remember was, as I said, thin. He had a rather angular beard, as if on two levels, with the upper level growing into slightly hollow cheeks. He had dark brown hair, brushed back. Grey eyes, slightly closed, as if he was weighing you up the whole time, from a distance. At first sight, this may make him seem disagreeable, arrogant, although in truth Adam was not disagreeable.

  As a matter of fact, when you got to know him better, his way of looking at you was intriguing. It didn’t quite go together with a characteristic I slowly came to recognise. It’s true, he did think very highly of himself. That’s absolutely true, there’s no getting away from it. But soon you could discern — if you spent enough time with him — that all his logic, his derision towards everything unscientific, was — I know it sounds rather clichéd, rather sentimental — a kind of armour, a kind of shield. In reality, he was not that self-confident. If you listened to him closely then you would realise, it would become clear, that this calculating gaze was really defensive and his logic an attempt to keep on top of the discussion in a world which he didn’t fully understand.

  He would tell, for instance, how his first application for the title of Assistant Professor had been rejected. He was mortally offended at the time. It took him two years to really get over it. As if he couldn’t understand that certain things just happen — some article may be evaluated differently from what you might expect, some lecture may be differently graded, especially if colleagues think that the situation... you know? But no, not to him!

  The very fact that this academic title meant so much to him, the degree to which his pride was wounded, show that for him social conventions, prestige — not only pure, impartial logic, science for its own sake — were of great importance. Extreme importance. An academic title — like some childhood trauma. And typically, when he had to somehow do battle with his sense of injustice, he used, well, what else but logic? He fought with what he had available to him. Logic told him that if he was not good enough for Assistant Professor, he could not, therefore, do the kind of work for which research assistants were not officially qualified. Thus, no seminars, no more substitute lectures, nothing. He would rather have a below-standard workload than do that which others should self-evidently be doing. And so he shut himself in his laboratory. In reality, he worked terribly, terribly hard to improve himself. His rejected application was a rejection of him, of his too feeble, immature self. Therefore it was necessary to prepare a new version of himself. He was unable to distance himself one iota.

  His way of laying into the humanities was typical. Of course, he didn’t understand their discourse. He knew that he couldn’t win on foreign territory, that there was no chance of that happening, so he moved the battle on to other ground, that he thought he could command: methodology, logic and, above all, popular literature. And he really was good. I took it primarily as an interesting example, how different discourses control the world. As soon as he lured me from the safe haven of my language onto territory where he could operate in accordance with his own rules and on his own terms I was completely helpless, doctorate or not. Although I was aware the whole time what nonsense he was talking, I simply couldn’t get the better of him. It was like banging my head against a wall. He always had some new association ready, some new counter-evidence. And a new gaze from those slightly-closed eyes, which was infuriating.

  What now? He sits on the sofa watching me talk. His eyes are still slightly closed, but the lids seem to droop somewhat. So it no longer seems calculating — the effect is completely different. And what a difference. A slightly different position of the eyelids, but an immense difference. He simply looks tired.

  This effect is not necessarily a bad one. A hint of tiredness suggests a calming down. At least a tired person cannot be so caustic.

  “Small children are not for me any more,” he says. Oh dear. Heaven help us, I think. Small children! Now would be the time for grandchildren that the children bring once a fortnight. Well, you’ve brought this on yourself. It’s a good thing that nothing like that can happen to a woman. Not that I’ve exactly had a lot of opportunities. And not even if an opportunity should happen to come along — not with my stock of condoms.

  He listens silently to the story of the Translation Department, with no particular sign of interest. For heaven’s sake, that at least is one area of the humanities he should approve of. It is appliedafter all, it is useful, not just playing with words — to use his vocabulary. He probably wouldn’t understand if I said that, in principle, the real problem was that it was a professional subject and not an academic one, and that basically such a course of study did not belong in a university, but at some kind of college. That it involved skill, rather than knowledge, comprehension, cognition. Once again, he would think I was pushing some sort of academic exclusivity. Perhaps it would be worth saying that out loud, to see what the reaction was.

  I say it out loud.

  “With all due respect to my translation colleagues,” I say, “I personally am not convinced that their goods are really of university quality.”

  Adam slightly raises his eyebrows, and his reaction awakens doubt in me — what I’ve just said does not sit well with the intention behind my request, does it? I’m supposed be their advocate. So why this? Am I willing to undermine them just to indulge in some small personal experiment?

  “It’s not that it’s without any academic content,” I say anyway, stubbornly — I need to pursue what I’ve started to the limit, then we shall see how things stand. “But these translators require very little academic content. And that could be included in regular language study. What they need specifically is professional training. A college course.”

  Adam smiles, and for a moment it seems that something flashes in his eyes, some kind of spark. That he’s going to come back with some provocative response. But he doesn’t. He keeps on smiling and instead of a response says:

  “I don’t know why that department can’t be self-financing. If there’s one subject at the faculty that could survive on charging for courses it’s that one.”

  Yes, of course. As if they didn’t know that themselves.

  I watch him as he talks. Second observation: he has bags under his eyes. Strange, usually that looks rather charming on older men, but on him the effect is to make him look somehow used up. Beneath his eyes he has bags of flesh that appear as if they’ve been glued on. If they pull his lower lids down he’ll look like Donald Sutherland in Casanova, at the end of the film. Donald Sutherland, he always seemed sexy to me. Did Adam have bags under his eyes before?

  No, I don’t recall any. When Adam Zaman was in the garden cutting the grass he didn’t look at all used up. He looked like someone who used others. He pushed the lawn mower up and down the lawn in front of his house and usedit to embellish the garden, strengthen his muscles, air his brain and create a good impression. A shamefully good impression on those who sat on the balcony, sipping ice-cold raspberry liqueur and reading a woman’s magazine.

  What a shame.

  “So I doubt anything will come of it,” says Adam, who only partly surreptitiously radiates a clear lack of interest and a desire to steer the conversation in a different direction. Towards something that strikes him as more important. But he knows me well enough to know that I won’t be put off so easily. At least, not until he has said something convincing. “I could promise that I’d find out what’s happening with that request. But unofficially...” he says, crossing his legs, “one way or another our faculty has to get new premises, because the old ones are no longer up to standard. Neither in terms of technology, nor safety, nor space. They’re planning to move in a few years. If you ask me, your colleagues’ request has probably been delayed until then.”

  Fine. Concise and effective. I knew I could rely on Adam. He’s good in this kind of situation. He deals with the topic effectively. He delivers precisely what is needed. Now we can put this to one side. Now we can turn our attention to other things.

  I reach for my glass and
have a sip of wine. Adam no longer drinks local wine from Štajerska. Now he buys bottled wine. Red. From near the coast. Lisjak, Sara. A mixture of Cabernet, Teran and Merlot. 1994 vintage. No doubt it cost an arm and a leg. And he opened it for me. He remembers that I don’t drink sweet, white, scented wine for ladies.

  “Do you ever see Goran?” he asks suddenly.

  I don’t know why I hesitate before answering. The answer’s very simple.

  “No, not for fifteen years.”

  “I could never understand at the time why you sold the house,” says Adam. “Such a good investment.”

  “What, you miss having Goran as a neighbour?”

  Goran had acted pretty badly towards Adam during the final year. Worse than badly — unpredictably. When he was having a good day, he would invite him for a coffee. He even used to apologise for all the bad things he’d said. Then, the next day, he’d be abusing him because the leaves from his cherry tree were falling on our side of the garden.

  It was all over with him when the flames devoured the little one

  whoosh

  whoosh

  and I went to church, the church in Vič, and stared all afternoon at that idiot on the cross, the cross beneath which were buried Bohorič and Edling and Mr Censor Kopitar and — How that cross buries people! How they ignite.

  “No,” says Adam and even smiles. “He and I could have been neighbours.”

  I cradle my glass. That’s a bad habit, as then my fingerprints remain and the thin glass becomes cloudy and ugly and the colours are no longer right. Beautiful, dark reds, like pig’s blood, just before you make it into blood sausage, though clearer.

  Before I rang at Adam’s door I walked round to look at the row of houses. Of course, between his garden and what used to be ours there was now a different fence. A high one. The new owner had erected a barrier so high that you could no longer see in. Pity. I’d like to have seen the garden. I only saw that our cherry tree was no longer there. In its place, the top of a silver spruce appeared above the fence. I don’t suppose the flower beds are there either — I think the man who bought the house is an architect or something, who’s probably made a proper little park in front of the house.