Fužine Blues Read online

  Adam is still speaking. Angrily.

  “But Adam, I don’t give a damn about you two,” I tell him. I hear myself say it and I’m horrified. What effrontery. I’m a guest. I look at Adam. He looks into space, indecisively moves his jaw, but without a sound, like some old man, sitting in the corner of a bar talking to himself.Extremely odd. Where is the respect due to grey hair? It really is shameless of me to deny him it. To rub his nose in something like that. You should never say anything like that to another person. And what about due respect? Why do I not feel any? Not even a trace of it. I should, I know I should. But how can I? It’s terrible, terrible.

  I am gripped by the fear that when I leave I shall have to touch Adam’s hand.

  * * *

  School’s finally over. Thought I’d fuckin’ flake out. Like, there’s me all hung over, and that old cow for Chemo sits there rambling on about flour. Then that other old cow for Lit wittering on about that dreary Incident in the Town of Goga — expects us to sit in groups discussing it. Hello? We, like, just sit there and stare at each other. I mean, is that sick or what? Least the timetable’s shorter on Tuesdays. So that at five, goodbye. And I’m home at six.

  Didn’t see Daša during the break, said we’d meet after. At six we’re both down in front of the block. I can hardly wait to be with someone who really understands what I’m saying, you know? Specially when I’m feeling like this. But what’s the fucking point? I mean, soon as she opens her fucking trap I know she’s going to put me in a bad mood.

  After one minute I’m thinking: why am I wasting my fucking time here with this budala? Instead of doing something worthwhile, she wants to look for Mirsad. I mean. Hasn’t called her like he said he would. Baš čudno, very odd.

  But finding him would be hard work, you know? If he’s not answering the phone that means he’s not at home and if he’s not in front of the flats he could be anywhere. Hasn’t got a steady venue. Don’t go to the Rosso Nero, or the Borsalina, or the Melody Bar so as to avoid his otac— Mirković senior is one fucked up guy. He don’t go to Rusjanov ’cause he don’t know anyone there — says they’re all faggots there anyway, just low lifes. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Usually rounds up his mates and then they go — wherever, play footie, bowling, into town. That’s the most likely, dragging them to some pinball machine, wasting money instead of treating his mates, or his chick. I mean, what’s the world coming to?

  “Come on, let’s go down to the bowling alley,” Daša starts nagging me. Yeh, there’s only kids at the footie. And I mean, who the fuck’s going to play footie after what we knocked back last night,jebemti. Like, Jaro over there in the doorway, could hardly keep upright last night. Okay, let’s go.

  “Saw Eva on the bus the other day,” says Daša. Ah-ha, that silly mare from our class.

  “In the afternoon?”

  “Evening, actually. Going out.”

  Eva is a typical daft cow. Daša’s classmate. Thinks she’s so special, always throwing herself at some fella, but not exactly lucky. I mean, the way she dresses. Drapes herself in every tacky thing she can find. Perfect example of too much money and no taste, you know? Her folks throw money at her so they don’t have to do anything for her, waste of space that she is.

  “She have her warpaint on?” I had to ask.

  “The chick has no fucking style, but she always hits the jackpot with the fellas. Terrible, eh?”

  Strange thing to say, very. I just don’t get it. As I just said, Eva has no luck at all with fellas. Least, not as far as I know. The only jackpot that chick might hit is on a slot machine, and that a half-empty one. Unless Daša knows something I don’t. But then she should tell me, like. Got to keep people informed, not walk around like a total idiot.

  “Last time she went to the Central with her fella,” says Daša, “she kind of got slightly pissed. Just enough to start making eyes at this other guy on the dance floor, real hunk he was. Then the silly bitch starts snogging him right there and then. Her fella went totally crazy.”

  “No shit,” I say and try to picture that mare Eva with some stud.

  “Then her fella comes over and says to this other guy they should step outside. And they went up round the corner towards the Napoli, and this stud gave Eva’s fella such a pasting that he needed five minutes just to pick himself up.”

  “Fucking hell.” Never mind no shit — no piss either. I couldn’t help laughing, you know?

  “But the best thing was, listen to this: when this stud has finished pasting her fella Eva gets totally hysterical, hurls herself on this pathetic heap on the pavement and starts kissing him and crying all over him. You know, fuck that sexy guy who won, how brave the poor thing was to stand up for her, and so on.”

  “She tell you this?” I ask, tickled pink.

  “First I heard it from Jelena, when we went for a smoke during break. Then I couldn’t help asking Eva when I saw her on the bus. She said it was all true, she felt so sorry for her fella, was real upset about him, you know? She took him home and then went to sleep, all emotional like. But then the next day when they get together, her fella gives her the big elbow and kicks up such a fuss about it that now she’s like totally offended and wants to find someone to give him a good pasting on her behalf.”

  Some a fucking exciting life they lead. Not that I miss it that much that I’d want to walk around looking like Eva, you know?

  “So you go out for a smoke and not a word to me,” I say. It’s a bad habit of Daša’s. We’re in parallel classes, we always go out together for a ciggy at break time. Well, not always, you know, sometimes some of our girls drag me off somewhere else for a quick joint.

  “Yeh, with Jelena and Sandra… You know what the best thing was…” Daša starts to laugh. “… Mirsad was there too — we were smoking it straight, no tobacco. Then he goes and does an English test. And you know what he gets? Grade B. The bastard never had a grade like that since the middle of primary school.”

  “Always said the wood technology school was a good one.” Couldn’t help being a bit bitchy. “A couple of acid tabs before the end of the term and he’ll end up with a straight A. And he’ll be making furniture that’ll stand on the walls and ceiling.”

  Daša smiles too, though it seems a bit glupo, bit dumb you know? She believes everything the guy tells her.

  “But you know,” I can’t help saying, “if I was you I’d want to see one of his reports before I started telling a story like that around.”

  “Why’s that?” asks Daša, giving me a dirty look.

  “Well it’s well possible that Mirsad’s just bullshitting you. You can’t write a good test when you’re stoned. I know, I’ve tried it.”

  That was true. Once I had a good few tokes then I went to a maths test. The first question I get to, I just stare at it, you know? It was like, so Zen. Is eight divided by four really three, I mean two, I mean… shit! But Daša don’t take this in the spirit it was intended. She looks kind of offended, you know?

  “You never fucking believe anyone, do you?” she says. “No wonder Mirsad thinks that…”

  “Thinks what?”

  Now she goes all quiet on me. After I’ve looked at her for a while, she eventually says: “Well, you know, that he thinks you’re like you are.”

  “What am I like?”

  Just great. In the end I’m going to find out that half Fužine hates my guts. And that shit-for-brains from Rusjanov and that mangupfrom Preglov. Maybe all of them from Preglov? But then, why should they like me — I’m just a mala zločesta Črnagorka, an evil little Montenegrin bitch.

  Daša don’t say a word, just looks round the bowling alley — we just got there. I don’t give a toss about bowling or about Mirsad, as far as I can see there’s just old fogies here, you know? And if there’s old fogies about, then Mirsad won’t be. Old man Mirković might turn up.

  “So what am I like, then?”

  Daša just shakes her head.

  “Shit, no sign of him. Come
on, let’s go to the Malibu.”

  “You can stick the Malibu up your arse, tell me what Mirsad’s saying about me. Look, are we friends are not? You’re not going to defend some guy before me, are you? What am I going to do to him, beat him up one night in the park, or what?”

  Daša keeps going towards Rusjanov. She looks back, so I set off after her, but I’m none to keen, you know?

  “It’s nothing. He just says you’re real smart. But that’s why we’re friends, in the end, innit? Do you think I could be friends with some thick cow like Eva?”

  I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be any consolation or not.

  “Okay, we’re cool. But if Mirsad’s saying something like that, I doubt it’s meant as a compliment.”

  Like, he’s just the one to say someone’s real smart. I mean, he’s as thick as pigshit. Daša’s capacity for forgetting things is just amazing, you know? She can’t even remember how many times he’s fucked her about. Even before they got stuck together. Like a year back, at that party that we had on the common near the nuthouse. It was Mirjana’s birthday again and she organised a do — a crate of wine, a couple of beer, people brought some dope along, nothing special. She invited some of the crowd from Rusjanov, but not Mirsad. Didn’t know him yet. Anyway, then the word got round. Some time round eleven Mirsad shows up, totally ratted, he’d been knocking it back with his mates somewhere. Then he really started to fuck things up. It was all chicks at the party, just a couple of guys and they were pretty feeble types. If Trobevšek’d been there he’d have smashed his face in. But Mirjana let him drink, didn’t want to get into a fight on her birthday. Then he started having a go at Daša. Started insulting her, I dunno, how fat and pathetic she is, you know?

  I remember how I really lost it. Daša just sat there, not saying much, and I thought she was going to cry any minute. She’d said to me before how her dad had beaten the shit out of her ’cause he’d found out about her grades. Her old man is a total cunt, he’s always hitting her. She was so fucking depressed I could hardly bear to look at her. And now this moron Mirsad, that’s all she needs. I tell him to bugger off if he’s going to act like that. He hisses something back and I give him a shove that sends him flying. I want to kick the bastard, but one of the other guys jumps in between, worried that Mirsad’ll go for me. But he just lies on the ground laughing, thinks it’s far out that some woman pushes him like that. He’s totally rat-arsed.

  After half an hour or so we’ve all calmed down a bit and I want to say it’s cool, he can get up now, but he just lies there on the grass, his head on the wheel of my bike, snoring. Da mu jebeš mater, motherfucker. And that’s the guy who says I act smart. And Daša thinks of it as a compliment.

  I don’t fancy the Malibu. Trobevšek and those other loudmouths ’ll be there. The ones who say I’ve got an attitude problem. But it’s a bit late to announce this now, as we’re right outside. Mirsad’s probably not here. What would he be doing here? But Trobevšek probably is. Him and that Željo and Dunja, and that cretin Bobi. Bobi, the brain deadgolazen from Brodarjev. The guy walks from Brodarjev to Rusjanov and stops off at the station at Preglov to cadge change for his bus fare off old ladies. By the time he gets to the Malibu he’s got just enough cash for the first beer. Then he scrounges off his friends.

  “Come on, he’s not here, let’s go back,” I take hold of her elbow, but it’s too late. Trobevšek’s already waving.

  “Hey Daša, Janina, here a sec!” he shouts. Daša gives me a funny look.

  “Okay, then, just for a bit,” she says. And goes towards him. Oh fuck.

  There’s no choice but to follow — what can you do? I park myself between Željo and Dunja, opposite Trobevšek. Daša sits next to Bobi, who immediately starts whispering to her. I try to look away ’cause Trobevšek’s staring straight at me, or at my tits to be more exact. Fuck this low-cut top. It’s about ten seconds before I can’t take no more.

  “No parties worth talking about round here recently,” I say, looking straight at him. He doesn’t respond.

  “There’ll be a real fucking party when we finally give those Yugos a pasting,” says Bobi. Trobevšek just grins at him.

  “Will you fuck,” says Željo. “Want to put some money on it?”

  “Money, what money? Where would I get money from?” For once, he speaks the truth.

  “If you’ve got the balls, go and borrow some from Brković and have a bet. You’re gonna get fucking stuffed today, you’ll see.”

  Brković is a locally bred version of my uncle. Fuck me, if there’s one thing that gets on my tits today it’s this football. I mean, football’s okay. But this Slovenia-Yugoslavia gig really is too much. Everything’s gonna be so fucked up. Okay, the whole of Fužine knows who’ll be rooting for who. They’re all in on it. After coffee they’ll all be voting one way or the other. For Slovenia? To the left, if you please. Yugoslavia? To the right, please. Even the girls. Daša for Slovenia, of course — or perhaps not if Mirsad glares at her. Samira for Slovenia, of course, though her folks are from southern Serbia and there is Miran to think about. Unless he comes to see me instead. I don’t get it. Okay, I do get it why ćale would root for Yugo, but not where Željo gets the same idea. He’s only ever seen Yugoslavia on the telly. And then only when bombs were falling on it. If there’s one of the players who’s our boy it’s Zahovič — he’s a Slovene Yugo just like us. But anyway, who gives a fuck? What do I care what I am or what he is?

  This football debate is just glupa, stupid, so I decide to tell a story instead. I turn to Dunja and start telling her about yesterday. And there you go, after ten secs they all forget about the fucking footie and start listening to me. Specially when I mention the cops and what Jaro said. Hey, crazy, that really is so bad. I mean, it really was. Even I regretted not being there at the pool, that they hadn’t made me take a swim. Though for sure it wouldn’t have been as it as with the Swedish guy. If it’d been me, I’d have been straight in the clink overnight. I don’t have the right kind of surname for those fuckers.

  “The cops should come here instead and sort these junkies out,” says Daša, jerking her head towards a group of lads sitting at the edge of the terrace. She’s still got a strop on ’cause Mirsad’s nowhere to be seen. She hates the whole world when he’s not around. When he’s around, she hates him. Shit, if remember how it was yesterday.

  “Hey,” Bobi spits at her. “What’s your problem?”

  “They’re just sitting there gawping.”

  “Careful, that one you’re pointing at is a friend of mine. I’ll invite him over if you want, tell him what you said and you can sort it out together.”

  “Don’t want anything,” says Daša.

  “It’s not nice to talk about folk behind their backs.”

  I mean, hello! It’s no great surprise Bobi has such friends, he’s wacko himself. Half the time, you’ve no idea what he’s on about. I remember once we ran into him at New Year time near the stalls in town. He had a tin of beer in his hand and started explaining something to me. I hadn’t the slightest what he was trying to tell me ’cause I spent half the time observing him. He looked kind of on edge and the hand he held the beer in was trembling the whole time. Then his face became all flushed, dunno what stuff he was on, and he started to cool himself down with the beer tin. Then he started to bang his face with it and after a while he’d bashed his forehead so much that the beer was running down his face. Then I really didn’t hang about, you know, I said sorry and everything,žuri mi se, I’m in a hurry.

  Trobevšek is looking towards the Malibu. Seems he’s not happy if he’s not the centre of attention. Then he points towards one of the places in the passageway.

  “Hey,” he says, “remember when there was a watchmaker’s there?”

  The waiter comes to the table and starts clearing glasses.

  “Think we can order anything here?” asks Daša.

  “Course, I remember,” I say. “Crazy Ðogić.” I remember how ćale show
ed me once when we went past. He says: see Ðogić over there? Yes, I say. Then he says: take your watch there if you never want it to work again.

  “What’ll you have?” says the waiter.

  “Coke,” says Daša.

  “Ice tea,” I say.

  “Can I get you anything?” he says to Dunja, who doesn’t have a drink in front of her.

  “I once took this watch to him I got for my birthday,” says Trobevšek “Just to get a new battery…”

  “Man, if I had any cash on me I know what I’d have,” says Dunja. “If I knew where I could get lay my hands on some of the readies I’d order a whisky.”

  “Such a smart watch, it was, just little lines, you know, no numbers. I mean I was in the eighth grade then an’ that was the best watch in the world,” says Trobevšek.

  “I know where you can,” says the waiter, wiping the table. “But only if you’re serious.”

  “Then sort me out a job, man, if you know of one,” says Dunja.

  “And you know what Ðogić did? When I come to collect it, the guy had scratched Roman numbers on the face. I mean, scratched them with a file on my beautiful watch.”

  The waiter goes off. Everyone laughs, even Dunja, who hasn’t even heard the story.

  But one of the druggies is a bit of a looker. Short blond hair, you know, and his eyes look kind of bright. Doesn’t look too healthy, though, very pale. Dunno why I always fall for such pathetic sorts. Maybe ’cause they’re completely different from bigmouths like Mirsad and Trobevšek and Bobi. Harmless. I’d like to give him a bit of TLC. But fuck me, he probably doesn’t have a very glowing future. The most likely future he faces is getting arrested after he breaks into some office to snaffle computers he’s going to sell for small change. And he’ll be so high that he won’t even realise it’s the police, he’ll think he’s hallucinating, you know? And he’s younger than me, probably no more than fifteen for fuck’s sake.