Fužine Blues Read online

  Daša gets up and goes towards the entrance. Bobi calls after her “Going for a piss or a shit, girl?” When Daša ignores him, he shouts even louder: “Going to drop a load, eh?”

  Fucking moron. Fuck him and his load dropping.

  “Fuck me, look at the arse on that,” says Željo suddenly, staring past me. They all look the same way, so that I have to as well. This chick has just come onto the terrace. She’s really heavily built and I think I can smell her perfume, even though she’s about ten metres away. She’s wearing a mini and enough make-up to make your eyes water.

  “One hell of an arse,” says Trobevšek, “probably rips her pants every morning.”

  “Probably got mussels growing up there,” says Bobi and all three guys start to laugh. Dunja looks at me none too happily.

  “Fucking shellfish?” says Trobevšek.

  “Fucking molluscs, yeh,” says Bobi. Molluscs. Fucking biology. I mean, the guy’s barely passed one year of secondary school and he’s eighteen already.

  Then it’s quiet at the table. For a while we all sit, looking round. That suits me best of all. Then Daša comes back, sits down in a dignified way.

  “Did you drop a big one?” says Željko. Daša just looks at me and says nothing. But she’s got a pained look on her face.

  “I’ve got this schoolmate,” says Dunja out the blue, like she’s just remembered something. “This schoolmate who’s crazy about molluscs. Collects them.”

  “What molluscs?” asks Daša, somewhat confused.

  “Oh, it’s a long story,” says Dunja, starting to smile. “No, I mean really, he’s just crazy about them. This friend said she’d been to his home, and he’s got starfish and shellfish, you know, in jars like, and, what’re they called, sea anemones and such…”

  Now we girls are smiling more than the guys. I’m trying to imagine going to see some guy and being shown sea anemones.

  “Did he show you any sea cucumbers, as well?” asks Trobevšek.

  “But I mean, for fuck’s sake, molluscs of all things,” says Daša. “Is there anything more disgusting than sea cucumbers? And snails, aren’t they just…”

  But if you really think about it

  “But if you really think about it, why are they so disgusting?” I say. Wouldn’t it be boring if we all agreed all the time? What’s so disgusting about them? I mean, we probably don’t look all that beautiful to them, do we, thrashing around in the water like non-aquatic freaks? “I mean, it may seem pretty dumb to us just lying there all day,” I say, “but they probably have a really exciting life by their standards. Like, lying there may seem real cool thing to do if you’re a sea cucumber, we’ve just no idea what other creatures find cool, or not.”

  They all look at me as if I’ve finally lost it completely. Even Daša’s giving me a funny look.

  “You’ve been watching too much Discovery Channel,” says Željo.

  “I fucking well haven’t.”

  “I can get you this guy’s phone number,” says Dunja with a grin. The others smirk. Idiots, you’ve no idea, have you? Okay, okay, it’s all pretty stupid anyway, what a glupaconversation. Or maybe not.

  It’s like, I don’t know, but why, for example, should some guy who studies sea cucumbers be any more stupid than say Eva, who puts on all that idiotic gear and smears herself with warpaint? I like people that are a bit odd sometimes. Not that I’d want to go to his place and look at them or anything — no way José. But at least he’s doing his own thing, doesn’t give a toss what anyone else thinks. There should be more like him. That Eva is the other extreme, creating some image for herself ’cause she thinks that’s what folk want to see. Even worse, ’cause she thinks guys ’ll fall for it.

  Fuck this, my girl, you’re getting too philosophical. It’d be simpler just to remember Krista. That’s good

  The waiter’s back. He’s got a Coca Cola and an ice tea on his tray and, wait for it, a whisky. He puts the Coke in front of Daša and the whisky in front of Dunja, who looks gobsmacked.

  “Hey, I didn’t order that,” she says. “Said I haven’t got any money.”

  The waiter puts the ice tea in front of me.

  “Didn’t you say you wanted to earn some?” he says. “See that gent through the window there? Don’t stare, it’s rude,” he says, as we all turn to look in that direction. Can’t help it. This guy’s sitting right next to the window, so we can see him, the guy opposite and another one. He’s about forty, very smart. Perfectly turned out, you know?

  “This is from him,” says the waiter. “If you want to earn a little cash. You could be back in half an hour.”

  “What?” says Dunja, dopey like, not quite getting it. The guys have already started to grin.

  “He’s very clean and smart,” says the waiter, “really, nothing to it.”

  Trobevšek snorts with laughter and starts to bang the table with his hand. But the waiter’s looking none too happy, seems he doesn’t like being too much the centre of attention.

  “Maestro!” yells Trobevšek. “Come on Dunja, we’ll have enough for a couple more rounds.”

  “Are you completely off your trolley?” Dunja stares at the waiter, who looks totally serious. Doesn’t move an inch. Total fucking pro. I could even like the look of him if he hadn’t started to disgust me with what he said when he brought the drink.

  “You said you wanted to earn something,” he says. “If you’re not happy I can take it back.”

  “Get rid of it!” snaps Dunja, looking at me and Daša, who rolls her eyes. I feel a laugh coming on, but it wouldn’t do to show it. I’m supposed to look shocked. The waiter doesn’t bat an eyelid, just says okay, no problem, takes the glass of whisky and goes back. Out of the corner of my eye I see the guy through the window. Now he’s looking towards our table — would be odd if he weren’t — and when the other guys start laughing and he sees the waiter coming back with the whisky, he just waves his hand lazily towards us, saying oh leave it there. The waiter turns and comes back.

  “The gent says it’s on him,” he says, putting the glass on the table. Dunja just glares at the glass.

  “I’m not drinking that,” says Dunja, understandably, though it’s a real dilemma. In the end, Željo saves the situation and the whisky. He reaches across the table and says:

  “No problem, I’ll drink it.”

  Krista is a good counter-example. A really great chick, you know? A good friend. We’ve really had some wild times together and all. Yeh, that guy’d better watch himself — it’d be real wicked to see him talking to Danila, say, or Biljana, then he’d soon be clear where chicks get their money from. Yeh, Krista and I were together, whether it was a crap time or the best. Once we went to this do, near the river I think. First we got totally tanked up. We almost always drank fruit brandy and bambus. A litre ofbambus — orangeade and red wine — now that’s a drink and a half, should be made compulsory, though no-one seems to drink it these days.

  Anyway, we were so far gone we didn’t realise just how far gone we were, you know? Then, well, I liked riding pillion behind Krista on the motorbike ’cause she really knew how to go for it. Somewhere near Brod we nicked the first machine we could get our hands on and whizzed off on it. Somewhere in Šiška, near the engineering works, we hit a bend at full speed and came off. We rolled over a couple of times then came to a halt and started laughing. Like we thought it was oh-so-funny. But if some fucking car had come zooming round the bend we’d have been dead. We didn’t give a shit.

  Daša has already drunk her Coke. She knocked it back pretty damn fast and looks real nervous.

  “Janina, let’s go back to the supermarket and take a look,” she says. She’s already itching to go. Sad cow.

  “For fuck’s sake, Daša, when did you ever see Mirsad at the supermarket?” I ask, rather tetchily I admit, but I mean, how inconsiderate can you get — I’ve still got half a glass of ice tea left. “He’s probably in town, in any case. Can’t you see I haven’t finished?”
/>
  “Oh fuck the bloody drink,” explodes Daša. “You’re so bloody self-centered! You can come back, it’s only ten minutes there and back.”

  Hello! I have to look away so as not to blow it. She accuses me of putting myself first. What about yesterday, when she hid in the bushes? I mean, really.

  I get up.

  “Okay, let’s go,” I say, waving towards the other four. Daša just says see you.

  When we’re far enough from the table I lay it on the line for her:

  “Right, we’ll go Mercator, but if he’s not there — which I’m sure he isn’t — then I’m not moving another inch. We can go up to mine. My dad’s not there anyway, he went to the bar to watch the footie.

  “What’ll we do at yours?”

  “Dunno, I’ll make some hot chocolate with cream and we can watch the match, or whatever, play some music.”

  Daša’s quiet as we walk along. Then after a bit she says:

  “Bit of a spooky fucking place that.”

  She must mean the Malibu. Is that why she wanted to get away so fast? If I remember the fucking expression on Dunja’s face. That was something new for her as well. I must tell Jaro about it, for a change. So he sees it’s not just him that these things happen to.

  We look in Mercator, but no sign of Mirsad. Nor in the Melody, nor in Borsalino’s. Course not. What else did she expect? No sign of him in the Rosso Nero either. It’s busy in there anyway, older folk slowly getting ready for the evening. Some are standing outside, saying hello to those going in. I don’t want to look in too much in case ćale sees me. Daša goes in, then comes out looking like it’s the end of the world. She hesitates. She stands there in front of the supermarket, at the ice-cream stand, looking around.

  “Okay, it’s settled,” I say. “We’re going to mine.”

  Daša scratches her chest, then she says:

  “Wouldn’t you rather go back to Rusjanov to watch the match?

  I look at her so as to leave her in doubt what I mean.

  “What the fuck you on about? I said we can watch it at mine.”

  “Maybe Mirsad’ll turn up.”

  There’s no helping the silly bitch.

  Daša and Mirsad. Mirsad and Daša. An undreamt of combination. A multi-ethnic pair, a symbol ofbratsvta in jedinstva,brotherhood and unity, made in Fužine. A big career, founders of the first family-run Slovene industrial giant Mirković and Tart, producers of bullshit. Dear viewers, let us get to know them better. How did you meet?

  Oh just like a lot of other ordinary couples. We were both out one evening, each with their own crowd, in this bar. He caught my eye ’cause he was at the next table, pissed as a rat, and shouting and rolling around on the floor. And he had such gorgeous blue eyes.

  No, hang on, that’s not how she talks. Let’s be fair to her.

  He caught my eye ’cause he seemed somehow sad, as if he was alone in the middle of his hooligan friends. As if he really needed a bit of TLC.

  When did you first realise you were made for each other?

  That’s hard to say. There wasn’t any particular moment when I realised. It didn’t come all of a sudden, like a bolt of lightning, as they say in novels. We just kind of slowly opened up to each other, you know?

  Slowly and inevitably, eh? And what would you say was the secret of your success?

  Well, you should never give up. You’ve got to be determined. Even if you’ve got to crawl around all day looking for your guy. I mean, you’ve got to fight for what’s yours, haven’t you? We’ve been in a right fucking mess once or twice, but we’ve got over it somehow, I mean, you know, like that time when Mirsad got kicked out of school for punching the Geog teacher. And I got thrown out for skiving off. I liked hanging around the bars near school too much and smoking dope down near the Roman wall. But sometimes courage pays off. After two weeks Mirsad found a job through one of is mates, sweeping up at this warehouse…

  That papak. When I think how he went around boasting how how his granddad, with his dad still in nappies, had to flee Kosovo ’cause of some blood feud, ’cause one of his family had killed some priest.

  “Let’s go!” I tell her, giving her no choice, and turn towards the road. She needs a firm hand, or we’ll never get nowhere. Daša stands there for a while after I walk off. Then she finally starts to move. Goes after me, what else?

  * * *

  I’m heading towards the Rosso Nero. End of today’s bloody shift — Zoki and I are meeting up a bit before the start to cheer them on. I wonder if he’s going to be such a wet blanket as he was earlier. This isn’t the kind of day to be such a misery. I’ll have to test the water. First I’ve got to pop to the chemist’s for some aspirin. An order from Mira. Thank god there’s no queue at least.

  When I come out I’m going past the Perla and at the corner I see, oh-ho. Look who I can see. Young Mirković, Mirsad. Holding hands with some floosy. Ah-ha. Another southern strumpet with long hair and tight black trousers. What a wonderful opportunity to send old Mirković a little message. I go towards them.

  “Hey, lad!” I shout, when I see that they’re about to scoot off. The young ’un has already turned away, but when I call he stays still. Turns back towards me. His floosy too. “Hey, lad,” I say again, just in case, “hang on a sec.”

  “What you want?” he says. They both look at me.

  “I’m actually looking for your dad,” I say, standing in front of him. “But it looks as if he’s gone into hiding.”

  “Yeh,” says Mirković junior, looking at me, his eyes slightly narrow. Looks like another stubborn one, he’s not going to shit himself. Like sodding Mira. And I don’t like it any more on him than I do on her. “Yeh, he’s always hiding something.”

  “You’ll probably see him today, won’t you?” I say, looking him in the eye. Nice and slowly, that always helps.

  “Yeh, probably,” he says, looking a bit more edgy. Yes, it does help.

  “Tell him that if he shows his face in the Rosso Nero today he’ll regret it,” I say nice and slowly, enjoying it. To see what he’ll say. The lad blinks a bit. Yes, his arsehole is definitely tightening. “Tell him that Ščinkovec doesn’t forget when someone pokes his nose into his business.” He stands and looks at me. “Will you tell him?”

  “Yeh, course,” says young Mirsad, or whatever his name is. “Word for word. I’m sure he’ll be real interested.”

  “I hope he will,” I say, “so that he can’t claim later he didn’t know.”

  “He’ll be fully informed,” says the lad.

  “That’s right,” I say, “good lad, Mirsad.”

  When I go past the Perla towards the station I can’t help but whistle. I mean, was that a wonderful piece of rhetorical footwork, or wasn’t it? Like they taught us on that course in business communication. Communicating with customers. Confidently, straightforwardly, taking as read what you and the other person already know. A hint that you both know is enough. That increases the sense of alliance. Those two are still standing there behind the library looking after me. Ha ha.

  Woah. When I get to the road, I see Pašković’s lass, Janina, on the other side. I’ve already seen her once today, in the morning, in front of the flats. She’s got that friend from the next block of flats with her. They’re going towards the passageway, probably towards our flats. They’re both right little goers, there’s no denying it. But Pašković’s lass is better turned out. She doesn’t slap tons of make-up on her face, but she knows how to choose T-shirts that show off what she’s got. You can’t get away from that. But I don’t know why girls today wear these trainers with these bleeding thick soles, instead of putting on a nice pair of high heels. Girls in my day knew what they were doing. But what’s the point.

  When I get to the Rosso Nero, Zoki’s sitting at an outside table. Outside — okay, fuck it, we’ll sit outside. There’s still a good hour till the kick off. It’s good sitting outside at the Rosso Nero. There’s an atmosphere, a kind of Mediterranean feel. God kno
ws why. Two tables away is Beno, with a couple of others. He’s already waving. But no, sorry mate, no can do. I’m already booked. I wave back and sit with Zoki.

  “Hi there, Igor,” shouts Beno. “Did you sell anything? Are you good for a drink?”

  So now we’re in that frame of mind, when all he can think about is if I’ll buy them a drink on the strength of my commission.

  “The drinks are on me when Slovenia hammers Yugoslavia three-two,” I call back. Zoki smiles rather sourly.

  “Booo!” someone shouts inside the bar, two guys look at me through the glass, grinning.

  “That’s a risky promise,” says Zoki with a grin.

  “That scrounging bastard,” I say to him quietly.

  Zoki’s still smiling, but you can still tell he’s not in too good a mood. What the hell, he’ll spit it out when the time comes. He can judge best when that is.

  “I saw young Mirković,” I tell him. Let him brighten up a bit more. But he just raises one eyebrow slightly.

  “And?” he asks.

  “I told him to tell his old man not to show his face in the bar today.”

  But Zoki doesn’t look very happy about that. He face even darkens.

  “Not to come in the bar? Do you think he’d be on his own? Are you going to do him over?”

  Now he’s going to shit himself.

  “But we won’t be on our fucking own. Beno’s already here, and Mičo will be coming, and Rade, and Hammer...”

  Zoki just shrugs.

  “Haven’t you given any thought to what I said this morning?” he asks. Oh, him and his Pašković. Bugger all these peasants who fancy themselves as gangsters. Everyone’s got to look out for themselves. Even Pašković. Every kid knows if you let everyone fuck you in the arse you don’t get any respect, do you?