Fužine Blues Read online

  It felt totally odd to me. Adam’s garden was still laid out in the same way, but next to the high fence it looked totally different. As if I’d never lived here. The neighbouring houses were also strange. Similar to how I remembered them, very similar, but a little older. But that high fence seemed to dominate the whole street, lorded over it, re-arranged it according to its taste, defaced it, made it strange, monstruous. I never lived here.

  “You could have got a loan, paid it off,” continues Adam. “There was no need for you to move... to Fužine.”

  I don’t like that. I preferred his previous sentence. It was more thematically interesting. Its interpersonal aspect was warmer. More promising. This last one borders on social unacceptability. On aggression. No, not aggression actually, but rather pity. Adam, what are you doing? You start to lay a trail and then in the next moment erase it. A totally different hierarchy of power.

  “And what’s wrong with Fužine?” I chirrup.

  “Well, it’s not the most appropriate, let alone the most salubrious part of Ljubljana, for a retired university professor, that’s all,” says Adam, reaching for the bottle. He refills my glass, which I’m still holding in my hands without even realising it is empty.

  “Salubrious,” I laugh, salubrious, oh Adam, here we go again. “Adam, I live by the River Ljubljanica, very near the hills. Not far from the ring road. On the eleventh floor, far above the noise and with a marvellous view of Ljubljana.”

  I’m talking like that pig-headed Ščinkovec, who lives at the end of the corridor, and sells his shabby flats from his shabby office near the Kolinska factory.

  “But isn’t it a bit, I don’t know, Wild West?” asks Adam, refilling his own glass. What a senseless conversation. Why did I steer him towards this? Why don’t I steer him towards, say Goran, towards, say, that afternoon when I went to see him about the manure, towards... You, who is so adept at steering discussions. Why?

  “Sometimes I go to Fužine Manor for dinner,” I tell him and hope that I sound as fed up as I feel. “From there it’s only a five-hundred metre walk home, along a quiet path. And nobody’s ever harmed a hair on my head. An elderly lady with a handbag.” Adam wants to say something, but just in case I raise a warning finger: “Fužine is just like any other high-rise development in Ljubljana. Or anywhere else in Ljubljana.”

  Adam evidently still has something to say, but he waits a moment, probably to see if my mini-lecture is over. When he sees that it probably is, he leans back and comes out with an important question:

  “Doesn’t anyone walk you home?”

  “I go out alone,” I reply.

  “You go to Fužine Manor for dinner on your own?”

  I bite my tongue. Adam, you... No, it’s my fault. It was I that said it. Although I was trying to say something completely different. Now this sounds like something completely different, like — I can see it clearly. It would be even worse if he knew... No, of course, I’m not going as far as that. To tell him when...That won’t happen, of course it won’t

  “We could go together some time,” says Adam. Ah ha, here we are.

  “Wouldn’t you be afraid to come to my part of town?” I say. Adam chuckles.

  “I’d be relying on you to defend me with your handbag.”

  I really don’t know what led me to say something like that. What a strange day. The strangest day I remember.

  And I do feel rather strange. I don’t know, I’ve felt rather tense all day. Nervous, but in a not unpleasant kind of way. A slight burning sensation just below my ribs, at the entrance to my stomach. But now that I’ve come to Adam’s it is strange. Strange. Something isn’t right. Something’s different.

  When Romana told me Adam had married someyoung thing, I wasn’t really in the slightest perturbed. I thought I was at the time, but I actually wasn’t. It only seemed as if I was. But I wasn’t. In fact, the sensation persisted. Perhaps it lay low for a moment or changed into something else. But when I came to Malča Beličeva, among the old houses, it was as if — oh, I don’t know — everything had changed so completely. There’s now an Interspar supermarket there and the Mercator store looks completely different. The blocks of flats are older and somehow less respectable looking. Once, I seem to remember, they were very nice. The grassy area between Tomažič Street and the first row of houses is overgrown, and there’s not a trace of the May Day bonfire that we used to make with all the trimmed branches. But anyway, anyway.

  When Adam opened the door, when he replied to my question about his wife, that she had gone with the children to her mother’s in Žalec, to help her... help her, with whatever she helped her with. Hunting Colorado beetles or whatever. Because of me.

  Adam is telling some story:

  “...and they took them to casualty, she had a great bump on her head and burns on her back, while his dick was half bitten off. You’ll never guess what happened, ha ha...”

  No, I probably won’t, Adam.

  “This woman was giving him a blow job in the kitchen while he was frying eggs. He got a bit too carried away and in his enthusiasm splashed hot oil on his wife’s back. Well, you can imagine — she screamed, clenched her teeth, then the guy howled and, he couldn’t help himself, bashed her on the head with the frying pan...”

  This was a story that Adam would, at one time, have included in his urban myths. What’s happening here, Adam? Is perhaps the function of the story more important than its content? What is its function? A hint? Would you like to go and fry some eggs, Adam?

  A strange feeling. A very strange feeling. No, Adam really has changed. Not because he wouldn’t have told dirty stories. That’s precisely where the problem lies. I always thought such stories were distasteful, slippery, insinuating — always, except when Adam told them. He did used to enjoy telling some risqué story now and again, but it somehow suited him. It was part of his overall image. Because you knew he wasn’t the slippery type — no, he just liked being provocative. He was funny. Why this unusual feeling? As if I was about to indulge in sentimentality. Yes, that’s it. The fundamental change that suddenly came, when I saw him sitting on the sofa with glass in hand telling a story, was this: it looks as if Adam, too, has lost a lot of his advantages. That he could tell dirty stories and still seem honest, innocently amusing. Pleasant. As I sat in front of him, listening to him talk about oral sex and fried eggs his words seemed distasteful. Slippery. Insinuating. I almost shuddered.

  Is it possible he was always like that? No, of course not. Your memory can’t play such tricks on you. Why is there a fence now between Adam’s garden and what used to be ours? And that not a low one, as among all the other gardens in the neighbourhood, but a high barrier? At one time we were each able to sit on our respective patios and now and then exchange a leisurely word or two. Adam was able to tell some dirty story and Goran and I would laugh. Jolanda would also laugh.

  All of a sudden I felt ashamed. In front of whom? Not in front of Adam. He suddenly seemed unworthy of shame. Who then? His wife, whom I’ve never even met? Probably not. Jolanda?

  In front of Jolanda. Whydid I never say anything to Jolanda?

  I really should have trusted her. More than Adam. Why didn’t I? Because it was impossible? Absurd? Well, it was all pretty absurd, but it wasn’t that. And it wasn’t impossible. If I’d really wanted to I would have found a way. Of course, it would have been difficult, as well as complicated — but there are ways and means, even for that sort of thing. They do exist. Of course they do, novels are full of them, and films, and neighbours’ gossip. I could have done a little research as to what they are. But in reality, I placed myself on Adam’s side. Not that I saw that at the time. But in reality that’s what I did. Why?

  Jolanda was a nice woman. We were friends, at least as far as circumstances would allow. She used to give me apple peelings to make vinegar with. I bought her a book of Dane Zajc’s poems for her birthday. She told me when Adam bought a record deck and amplifier for two thousand marks without telling
her, even though, when they’d talked about it before, she’d been very much against. I told her when Goran wanted to build a fireplace against the patio wall, because I was afraid the heat would crack it and cause damage on the other side — in spite of Goran’s vehement assertions that no harm could come from such a small fire. I went against my own husband, for heaven’s sake, and could have ruined his plans because it seemed to me that, unwittingly, he was going to do something unfair to them. Of course, I preferred to tell her than Adam — that would have been far too overt. But in any case, in any case.

  Why didn’t I tell her that her husband was chasing around the house naked after some strange woman, while she was away on a business trip?

  Is it possible that in reality I was always an ally of this chap who is sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine recounting tales of oral sex? While his wife is — oh so conveniently — in Žalec?

  Why did I dress like this? I was thinking something about first impressions. After all these years. And so blatant. Why a dress that I’d never even worn before, that I’d ordered months ago at Quelle for a special occasion— was it my fault if there hadn’t been one before? Anyway, it’s only early afternoon and in it I look like — well, a message on two legs. I still look good. I still have slender legs. The odd varicose vein, but nothing too serious. And I still have that slightly protruding lower lip that Goran used to like so much. For this particular moment I look too good. It would be better if I weighed seventy-five kilos. Or eighty.

  “Do you ever see Jolanda?” I ask painfully. At that moment it seems to me the only sensible thing to ask. Sensible sensible

  Adam pulls a face.

  “One year less than when you last saw Goran.”

  For a moment I hesitate about whether to ask him what was really the matter between the two of them. I mean, what specifically, tangibly. But as soon as the idea enters my head it seems completely unfeasible. Totally out of place. It’s not as if I can even imagine what it was. I’ve no idea what led up to it. I sincerely doubt whether Adam would tell me just like that. The situation had suited him all too well. Jolanda had been such a steady, smart and caring wife. But I had a feeling that any possible answer he might give me would allude to something unpleasant, intimate. Slippery.

  Then the interior of the house suddenly started to seem strange. Not just the exterior. Okay, the room was almost completely different from how it had been all those years ago. The furniture had been replaced. Evidently some time ago, because the current lot already looked a little worn. Then the layout. The table in the dining area was no longer rectangular, but round. Of course, different mistress of the house, different taste... But it wasn’t just that. It was strange also in a different way. The neighbour’s fence? The thought that I might have to touch anything was somewhat repugnant to me. Anything at all. The walls, the table, the rug that I in any case had my feet on. A rug that seemed to have come from another planet. The vase of flowers on the table. Obviously Adam’s new wife was a good housekeeper. Of course, would he have chosen any other? Was it possible that Adam seemed so different because of all these changes? Perhaps it wasn’t him who had changed so much, but his surroundings; he had been placed in a different space. And in that space, everything he said sounded completely different. The only pleasant thing for me to touch was the glass, which I was still cradling in my hands. I think the wine had started to go to my head a little, and that was good. It made things slightly more bearable. So holding the glass was nice. Promising.

  I couldn’t believe what Adam then started to tell me. The only thing that would have been worse would have been if he’d talked about Jolanda. He told me how he’d met his young wife. How he knew so well how everyone was condemning him. Of course. An elderly professor and a young Masters student. Although he’d never done anything dishonest, let alone had any dishonourable intentions.

  “Nothing happened between us while I was her supervisor,” he says. “She was simply a gifted student.”

  Adam, enthusiast for clever women.

  “It never entered my head that she might receive any kind of favourable treatment. Over three-and-a-half years I never gave her any indication. Nor she me. Although there was always a slight electricity in the air.”

  So he sensed something in the air. A sixty-year-old with bags under his eyes felt that there was some kind of electricity between him and a twenty-five-year-old.

  “It started when she invited her Masters Committee to dinner,” he says.

  A present. Thirteen years ago. Through the post. No signature. A thin, square book of poetry. there are: different locations and secret hiding places. Without doubt: an existential verbal process. All these things undoubtedly are, exist. Different locations: existent. Secret hiding places: exactly the same. the comet’s path: also existent. It exists. What else can a path do: extend? Wend? Yes, of course, paths wend their way. then the unmeasurable expanse of the sky — another existent. A verbal process that could be material — measure —becomes a safe adjectival form; it had potential to be an active process but did not become so. stretched across — here is some potential, stretch doesn’t seem to be the same as be, but when you look more closely, it’s merely an existential process, nothing more. And every hope of greater variety of existence hidden within it is suppressed by it being a participle, which cancels out the personal form. silent as the parchment’s code, here we are somewhat closer. The sky is silent. That is no longer an existential process: here we’re dealing with a relational process of the attributive kind. The sky does not simply exist: it possesses a certain property, it is the bearer of a property. A fundamental step forward. A bearer of the property of silence. A fundamental step forward in the hierarchy of things.that will never be unravelled.A new leap? Unravel — an active, material process in its purest form. There is some hope. Damn little, though. To begin with, it is in the passive voice, not active. What is a material process without an actor? There is little active in it. A rather feeble material process. And secondly, it is negated. Will never be unravelled. It won’t be, even if you stand on your head. Do not cultivate vain hopes, my dear. Never.

  “You know, it’s not a problem of favouritism,” I tell him.

  “How come? That’s the first thing that enters the heads of those who are jealous.”

  Ha, jealousy. Can’t you think of anything better? There you have it, jealousy.

  “You know what the real problem is? Abuse of position is the problem.”

  “What abuse of position?” He misunderstands me. “Do you think I in any way forced myself on her?”

  “No, of course not,” I reply, taking another sip of wine. It’s good. “I’m talking about reputation. You’re a supervisor, a person who is in command, who has knowledge. Thanks to your position, you have all the attributes of a person who excites admiration. Especially a women who values knowledge and craves a solid base. Which you have. Isn’t that unjustified abuse of position?”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” says Adam, glaring at me.

  “It’s not surprising that women go weak at the knees,” I say maliciously, still sipping my wine.

  “Nonsense.”

  “Abuse of position.”

  Adam is silent for a few seconds and then he suddenly explodes. Literally explodes, so that for a moment I’m quite breathless. Jesus, he has changed. That Adam Zaman should lose control of himself? Jesus, that’s never happened before. I don’t remember that. That Adam Zaman should ever explode like that! Adam Zaman, when he wants to cut someone down to size, always comes out with some sarcastic comment. That’s the way he always works, isn’t it?

  “Weak at the knees? What the hell are you getting at?” he hisses and his eyes even widen a little. Oh ho, even strong language! Then he lowers his voice somewhat, as if he’s realised that his reaction is a little strange, inexplicable, but he still speaks quickly, too quickly. “I was a good sixty years old and you speak to me of wrongdoing? Of misplacedadmiration? With my gut? With my stomach
ulcer? Wrong doing? Are you off your head or what? You think I don’t have the right to be admired? Why? Because I’ve been divorced twice?”

  and all that comes a moment before monotony. Ah ha, now we’re definitely getting somewhere. Now there is an active being, an actor. An undoubtedly material process. We are dealing with the One that comes. That comes in a specific time frame. A moment before monotony. Interesting how a noun phrase can represent circumstances. Would it make sense to deal withmoment as a participant in this process? This theory still isn’t quite worked out, is it? Perhaps the formalists have a slight advantage here, as they’re not weighed down by so much baggage. I lean towards the idea that moment is an equal participant. Side by side with the actor, the One that comes. The moment and it. And then, quite out of the blue, the victory of action — a purposive link:to make an impression in the wet cement. The One that comes has a defined purpose in life, a mission you might say. Comes to make an impression in the wet cement. Which in all likelihood then sets hard. And preserves the traces. What a magnificent purpose. Laudable. you. I?

  My cement never wants to set. I see no sign of any traces in it. None worthy of mention. Look at him, Professor Adam Zaman: sitting opposite me, pouring red wine, getting worked up. Because someone supposedly infers that he doesn’t have the right to be admired. But look: he has a wife who will be around for at least, let’s say, fifty years. At least thirty years after he’s long dead and buried. He has fathered two children. If that’s not a mark in the cement I don’t know what is. And he’s objecting to — what exactly? That he’s not receiving the respect he deserves? Why does he need my respect? Why does he expect me to feel anything of the kind? I certainly didn’t come here with anything like that in mind. I came with very specific issues in mind, but did any of them receive the attention they deserved? The Translation Department, for example. Plus a host of other issues in need of some clarification. Why didn’t I go home with Professor Wasik for coffee? To leave a trace in the wet cement. I exist. I exist here, before you. Do I have any other characteristic? Silence, for example. Would you like that more? If I were as quiet as