Fužine Blues Read online

  “Where’s it going to lead if we run scared of every Pašković?” I say.

  Zoki looks away and picks up his beer. He holds it in his hand for quite some time before he lifts it to his lips and has a slurp.

  “I don’t really give a toss,” he says, putting his glass down. “Do what you want.”

  Fuck me, now he’s going to be like that. I’m not listening to that. I lean on the table.

  “Okay, now you tell me what’s wrong with you today, for fuck’s sake,” I say. “You’ve been looking so bleeding miserable all day, like someone’s raped your granny. Spit it out before I drag it out of you. A Ballantine’s,” I say to the waitress, who’s hovering nearby. She just nods and goes.

  Zoki raises his hands and waves them in front of him.

  “What do you mean, what’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong.” Then he turns to me. Jesus, if looks could kill, I’d be dead already.

  “Nothing at all. Do you really want to know what’s wrong? It’s all a load of shit, that’s what’s wrong.”

  I’m a bit confused, I’ve got to admit.

  “What’s a load of...”

  “Every-bloody-thing.” For a second or two his lips are moving, as if he was mumbling something, but there’s no sound. “Sod it,” he comes out with eventually, “Fani’s on my case again”.

  “The wife!” I nearly fucking laugh. What, because of that he’s... “Come on, we’ll...”

  “My wife and fucking money, and... She’s going to finish me off, I’m telling you.”

  Dear oh dear. Better let him get it off his chest a bit. Okay. We all have our difficulties in that area from time to time. Me too. What now? The same old story already?

  “Fucking money. She’s always got something to say about it.” Yep, same old story.

  Zoki’s wife’s an orderly at the hospital. She gets a totally crap wage, about as much as she’d get selling bunches of daffs down by the market. She goes to work mainly so that she doesn’t sit at home dying of boredom. On top of that, they’ve got a car loan. Zoki got himself a nice Cavalier, says it enhances the business’s image. That’s a phrase he heard on a course we went on to learn the business and he always liked it. That’s probably what he liked most from the course. A Cavalier to enhance the business — okay, but then it’s much harder to afford a holiday. I mean, the best you can hope for is a week in Croatia out of season. His wife would much rather be taking a new coat for a walk than riding around in a Cavalier. And Zoki, soft bastard that he is, would like to give her everything she wants. But Fixed Properties, well, what can you say, Fixed Properties hasn’t quite taken off. Notquite. It still sometimes swallows up more cash than it brings in. I mean, it brings in what you might call pocket money, but not real dosh. Two years now and it’s not quite there. But you’ve got to have some faith, got to have some perspective. You can look at it from a different angle: two years already and the firm hasn’t gone under. If you’re a bit more optimistic. But Zoki’s wife isn’t optimistic. It seems she wants it all now.

  “You know what it is now?” asks Zoki. “Fani’s sister.” He raises his finger as if he was giving me a lesson. “Her sister. With that husband of hers, you know, you remember...”

  “Lorry driver.”

  “Yeh, the lorry driver. They’ve bought a plot of land at the coast. They’re going to build some sort of weekend place on it. I don’t know, some cabin or something. So her little boy can enjoy himself there and go fishing with his dad. And she can grow tomatoes and blackcurrants.” He leans back. “That’s what I’ve got to listen to. And we can barely pay the loan off each month.”

  “But what?” I ask, because I know where this discussion is leading. “You want to become a lorry driver?”

  “Oh yeh. I really feel like getting into bootlegging stuff.” Then he’s quiet, staring into his beer mug, from which he’s hardly drunk. Then he starts to mumble. “It’s all such shit, two per cent commission here, two per cent there, then that Erjavec today who only wanted to give us a thousand marks because he and his wife had to rewrite the contract... Then there’s rent and phones and answering machine and power and taxes and, just shit...”

  Yeh, exactly. We don’t need to hear any more.

  “Come on, Zoki, quit moaning.”

  Zoki just looks around quietly. The TV is already on inside, and the news ’ll be on any minute. Not that I give a toss about the news. What are we going to do with Zoki? Fuck sisters-in-law and their wonderful husbands. What about Zoki? If they hadn’t bought his wife’s work flat under Jazbinšek’s law they’d just be renting some dump today. Weekend place? Only if they inherited somewhere. His folks moved here from Bosnia, the part where the Muslims and Croats are now. If they had a bloody house there it probably got blown up long ago. He’s never mentioned anything.

  And with his salary, no way. Three years ago he was working as a doorkeeper. The last six months he got paid in vouchers. He had to go to some guy who ran a second-hand bookshop to get the vouchers cashed — and only because the guy felt sorry for him. Fuck me. Once he said that his biggest regret was that he didn’t take his last lot of cyclostyled vouchers and stick them right up his boss’s tight arse. That shit with the six-hundred thousand salary and the big house in Podutik. He mimicked him: “Gentlemen! Although turnover in the last quarter has recovered somewhat, we must give ourselves some room for manoeuvre...”

  Zoki suddenly shifts in his seat and leans forward. Looks as if he’s got something of his own to tell me.

  “Listen,” he says, “this is a good one. The other day I heard about this agency.”

  “Yeh.”

  “They start building some new flats. Just a small block. Upmarket, three-bedrooms and so on. Know what I mean? They buy the land, get planning permission. Start digging, and raise money by selling the flats as they go.”

  “What’s the connection here?” I ask. “Where do they get the money from for the land and the permit?”

  “Listen further,” says Zoki. “They sell the flats. When the building is nearing completion, they go to the bank and get a loan. For security, they put up the flats they’ve already sold.”

  “How, if they’ve sold them?”

  “Like this: you’ve got the money for the flats you’ve sold, and at the bank you remortgage them.”

  What bullshit is this? Who’d give you money for a flat that isn’t yours? It makes no sense.

  “What then, a one-way ticket to Venezuela?” I ask.

  “What bloody ticket for Venezuela? You use the money to buy a new piece of land and start building again.”

  “But which bank is going to take something that isn’t yours as security?” I ask.

  “Pay attention now — they’ve sold them, but they are still the owners. Until the handover, the others are still only buyers, they’re not owners. The owner can take out a mortgage when he wants.”

  Oh right. Well, I’m not saying the idea’s not an interesting one. But wouldn’t the first buyer who found out file a complaint? No, of course he bleeding well wouldn’t. If the firm goes up the spout, so does your three-hundred-thousand-mark flat. The bank ’ll sell it again. Of course he won’t fucking complain. You’re protected in the best possible way. You and your buyer are in the same boat together.

  “And you’re saying that it’s going well?”

  “So well, they own their own premises — a whole floor in an office block — and they’re opening branch offices in Koper and Maribor...”

  Strange, isn’t it? My first reaction is okay, you provide people with homes, get some cash off them... But as soon as it gets down to specifics — planning permission, building, branch offices for fuck’s sake, I’m turned right off the whole thing. Just as I am with all Zoki’s ideas. I’m just not the fucking type for that sort of business. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like the business to grow, just like anyone else. We set it up to make something of it. But not like that. I can only work with someone I really get on with, who’ll go with me to Kovač’
s for a whisky when there’s a gap in the schedule, so we can plan things. Not with some builder and loads of other people. Big business — don’t give me grief.

  “But, Zoki, that’s a bit out of our league,” I tell him. “Where would we get the start-up money? From Brković? From Rottweiler Pašković?”

  “We certainly won’t now, when you’re threatening to do over his mate.”

  “Oh, that’s just great!” I can’t believe that Zoki’s serious. That’s why he was so much against me telling Mirković what’s what. But he can’t be. He’s not that crazy. From some Montengrin? What security will we offer — our flats and cars, and the kids to sell in Kosovo? We’re regular guys, for god’s sake.

  “Hey, man, this isn’t for us,” I tell him.

  “And why not?” says Zoki. “Why not?”

  “Listen, you dumb fuck, nutters like that for a loan — that’s for old hands. Or young pricks straight out of business school,” I say. “They know how to twist things their way and look so professional about it that no-one dares say, excuse me, gentlemen, didn’t you just, if you don’t mind me saying, pull a fucking fast one? If it was us that got caught, we’d be done for straight away.”

  “But I’m telling you, it’s all legal and above board,” says Zoki. Fucking legal. Shit like that. It’s really not my kind of thing. I don’t know, I mean he probably hasn’t really thought things through. If he really thought about it, he’d agree with me. That damn wife of his, messing with his head. Otherwise, he’d see straight off that he’s just not like that.

  “We’re lucky if the client doesn’t notice that the extractor fan’s broken or that you can smell next door’s shit in the bathroom, because he thinks the owner’s just done a dump and is too embarrassed to ask.”

  What the hell, now I’ve said that it doesn’t sound all that good to me either. It’s not the kind of thing, well, not exactly something to get excited about. It’s not really what I meant to say.

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head,” says Zoki.

  The we sit for a while. Zoki sips his beer, me my whisky. Whisky, water of life, say the Scots. Fuck me, why does Zoki have to start moaning about this now? How many times do we have to have this conversation? Like an old married couple. His wife can go fuck herself. I mean, what’s so bad here? Nobody’s going hungry. Things were bad in the old days, as my old man could tell us. Nobody’s got horrendous debts. So why all this crap?

  But that’s not really the problem — Zoki knows damn well we’d never be able to set something like that up on our own. We’d need someone with a business background, a finance person. But you know what these finance people are like — they handle your money so cleverly that, at the end of the day, you can’t see what they’re raking off for themselves. There’s not a single one I’d trust not to pull a fast one on us or get us into jail — and I know quite a few.

  I look in through the window. The news is on but no-one’s watching. Hey, it’s getting busy, crowded in there. Bloody Zoki’s really cheesed me off now. We should be going inside, if we want to get a good seat. Shall we go in?

  “Marketing, my old friend.” Zoki comes out with suddenly. And that after I’ve been staring inside at the TV, trying to relax a bit. Not to think about his bullshit. And it was almost working. “Marketing. Hoardings. Displays.”

  “Yeh,” I say, “and what do I pay for them with? Sell the car?”

  “Image enhancement,” he continues. He’s not going to be interrupted. “Image enhancement, do you remember? Better designed suits, in these we look like two farmers at a wedding.”

  “Farmers at a wedding look different,” I say, “cheaper.”

  “Like two bloody farmers at a friend’s friend’s wedding,” Zoki goes on, wrapped up in his idea. “You’ve got to look like yuppies. Professional. Mura design.”

  “Fuck you.” Now he really is getting on my tits. “I can’t walk around dressed like that. Should I come to Kovač’s in a Mura suit, or what?”

  “Does it have to be Kovač’s?” asks Zoki. “There are other places to go.”

  “Yeh, but they’re full of yuppie faggots.”

  Now Zoki is silent. Good. At last something has gotten through to him. Would you credit it, he’s thinking in the right way. He needed things putting in perspective a bit. Maybe he’ll understand something now. Maybe he’ll see what it’s all about.

  Really, we’re not going to get involved with any throat-cutting yuppies. You’ve got to have vision, how to progress, but with your own kind of people. Me and Zoki. The way forward is clear. First, the business has got to run smoothly. The way it should, with plenty of properties on offer. Next, when it looks like we can’t handle things on our own any more, we take on some student. Through the student agency, straightforward, good from the tax point of view, no obligations. Teach him the tricks of the trade, let him handle viewings, collecting commission. Under us two, of course. When the business starts to grow and more money comes in, we take on some more students. We gradually withdraw into the business side — handling the database, finance, exchange of contracts. Bosses. But not so that we’d feel embarrassed coming into Kovač’s. Okay, you can drive up in your Cavalier or your Mondeo, but when you get out you’re still the same person. It’s clear to everyone the money hasn’t gone to your head. No, not you. You’ll still stand a few drinks. Just that now you are someone.

  We just need a bit of patience.

  “Have you got any ideas?” he says after a while. “Something new. A money earner.”

  He’s still going to hassle me. The best way to earn money.

  “Yeh,” I say. Obviously I’m only going to get through to the guy if I rattle his cage a bit. “One possibility, been thinking about it for a while. Loan-sharking.” Zoki shifts in his seat, so it’s clear he’s not all that happy. I’ve just got to clarify things for him. “Yeh, it pays and there’s no need to re-register the company. You know what a pain it is to register for some new activity, don’t you? Well, you don’t need to do any of that. Or what about, hang on,” I have to raise my hand because he wants to interrupt, “a rock group. Now’s just the right time. We could play in Zoom, now that Dominik Kozarič and Simona Weiss have buggered off out of it. It can’t be that fucking hard to learn guitar. Have you got any ideas what we could call ourselves? So it’s not all my idea...”

  Okay, I can’t help smiling a bit when I say it, because the whole thing is funny. But Zoki doesn’t.

  “No, you listen,” he says, waving his hand. “Now you’re taking the piss, as if I’m getting at you or something. I only asked. No obligations. Just think about it a bit. An idea. Just to pass the time till kick-off.”

  Okay, okay, anything to make him happy.

  “So, have you got any ideas?” I ask him first, just in case. Just so he can’t torment me for ten minutes first, and then at the end tell me his brilliant idea. Zoki wants to argue, but I get in first: “No, no, no, you tell me. Go on.”

  Zoki stares into space for a while.

  Then he says: “Well, for example, a car dealership.” He can see I’m about to break into a grin, so he quickly stops me. “No, hang on. Two possibilities. First. You’ve got theAdvertiser. People sell all kinds of crap through that, from fridges and stereos to cars and flats. Why not have a shop to buy all that stuff? You buy it, do it up, sell it.” I don’t quite get it. “You know, like you can with cars. Dealing. Knock the price down, buy it, do it up, sell it.”

  “But how do you do a fridge up?” Is your brain still working, Zoki? “If it’s buggered, nobody’s going to be selling it. If it’s working, how do you squeeze a profit out of it? Are you going to build a water fountain in?”

  “Well, you give a guarantee, for example.”

  Hm. Crazy idea. I somehow can’t see myself messing about with people’s washing machines. I can fix most things, but you know?..

  “Second idea: a straightforward car dealership. You slowly make progress, put some money aside, specialise. When you’ve
got enough, pow, there you are — car showroom.

  No whisky left. Think I’ll definitely need another.

  “Listen,” I say, speaking slowly to make an impression. Zoki is in that kind of state where he needs a more dramatic approach. “Seems to me that we’ve had this discussion before. Do you remember when? When we started this business. No, hang on...” now it’s me who has to raise his hand, “what guarantee have we got that this business will do any better than estate agency? Better than selling flats? Eh? What guarantee is there?”

  Is that clear? He’s quiet as the grave. What else could he be?

  I remember how it was then. When we talked about setting up a business together. Going into business. Zoki had just got the bleeding sack. Just got his last fucking coupons. I was still driving. City bus. Number 6. God, how that route got on my tits!

  All day, all bleeding day you sit behind that bloody great steering wheel — like trying to turn a two-hundred litre barrel. And keep gawping at those monthly passes. Most people don’t real realise how many million ways there are of showing your monthly pass to the driver. It’s a whole science. Some grip the bottom and hold it up in the air like a ref showing a yellow card. Some just kind of wave it in front of them, not towards you, you don’t see a thing, but towards the other passengers. As if the old dear on the third seat was checking passes for a living, for Christ’s sake. Then again, some of them pull it out from below, leisurely, like a gun. Very impressive, very casual. Another lot hold it like a mirror, holding it up so steady, as if you’re going to shave in it. A million bloody ways you can look at them, every bleeding hour of every fucking day, every week, every month... Sod it.

  The worst thing are the kids, especially at night. If I just fucking picture it. I’m driving the midnight bus towards Vič. It’s like driving a mobile barn, you know — butting, jumping, bleating, shouting, mooing. Bleeding kids, don’t even know how to drink. There should be some kind of test you take to show you can drink normally, not like these kids who are like cattle. Then they can drink, if they have to. But that sodding night was worse than usual. When we were going past the theatre there were already screeches coming from the back, then when we turned onto Aškerc Road it went too far. Yelling and “you cunt” and “you too” and “aaayy!” Bugger me, what are we going to do? Drive on, that’s what. But no, it’s no go — some fucking woman who’s just got off jumps in front of the bus and starts banging on the windscreen. And people at the back are shouting “hold it” and “open the bloody doors” and “help”. The woman’s banging on the glass like it’s a matter of life and death, her eyes are like saucers. I’m totally screwed up. I start to feel sick to my stomach. What I’d really like to do is open the side door and bugger off somewhere for a beer. Trouble is, there’s nowhere open at that time of night round there.