Fužine Blues Read online

  The woman is yelling at me that I can’t drive on, am I crazy or what? I’m crazy! That her friend was stabbed on the bus. That I should call the police, what the fuck am I waiting for? That’s all I fucking well need. I thought about it for a while. If I started to drive on she’d have to get out the way, if I just nudged her a bit with the bus, but what the fuck, she was already hanging onto the wipers as if she was ready to rip them off.

  Okay, I raised my hands and called the police on the radio. But before ten seconds was out there were three guys standing next to me, another pair behind them. Punks or some such. Hey, you faggot, they tell me, open the door or we’ll knock your teeth out through your arse. Oh yeh, I said to them, you can try if you like, but you’re not going anywhere. Police are already on their way. Then one of them starts waving a knife at me. I just leaned back a bit towards my door and searched with my hand for something to smash the bugger with. The whole time he was yelling, you cunt, I’m going to slice you up, and I was yelling back, you little shit, lay off me, because if I use this spanner on you there’ll be all hell to pay. Then one of them grabs the red mallet that’s there in case of emergencies from above the window and starts swinging it about as if he’ll smash the windows if I don’t open the doors. If that happens I’m up shit creek. Little bastards, don’t give a toss what damage they cause, and I end up paying the price because I didn’t protect company property. What could I do? In the end I opened the doors and, pfff, the night swallowed them up, in seconds I was on my own. Even half the other passengers buggered off and left me to it.

  So what was going on? The police worked it all out. Some clever drunk decided to sit on the floor of the bus. Nobody could get past this genius. Then these punks get on, and they’re just in need of something like this to round off the evening. Hey, look at him, look — one of them gave him a good kicking from head to toe, then all his friends joined in and started shoving each other. One of them started waving a knife around then the others pushed him so that he landed in the drunk’s lap. Somehow, the knife went into his gut. Nothing serious, just a bit of a cut. The guy got a stitch or two and was then sent home. But that’s not the fucking point. A working guy such as me shouldn’t have to deal with such crap. So I made a definite decision that no way was I staying long in this lousy bleeding profession.

  In any case, the decision wasn’t a hard one. Zoki was helping a friend of his — totally impractical type — to buy a flat at the time. Zoki handled everything for him. If people do this for money, why shouldn’t we? So we put all the money we had saved into setting up the agency.

  “I’ll tell you this,” says Zoki, “no more clocking on for work. Ever.”

  Yeh, you’re right there. I’m with you one hundred per cent on that. No more of that crap about having to answer to some other bastard. I’ve had enough of that. Twenty years. If you’re smart you can manage without that. Okay, I know some jobs are very worthy and all. You’ve got to hand it to those who don’t screw up. If we all screwed up, where would we be? But I mean, really.

  What’s the world coming to, eh?

  * * *

  We all sit there sippin’ our beer. Late afternoon. That cunt Ščinkovec, neighbour of mine, appears. Fuckin’ wanker. Doesn’t stop, goes right on through the garden. I know where he’s goin’ — to the bookies, they’re all scurryin’ there today. But I don’t give a shite about ’im. Me, I’m more interested in the table at the end where the young ’uns are hangin’ out. I know a couple of ’em. I know that Janina, and young Bobi. He can get you stuff sometimes. Interestin’ table. The Fužine young crowd. The fuck is it interestin’. Let’s drink our beer and bugger the other tables.

  “Know what?” says Vasja, lightin’ a ciggy. “These here kids are a fuckin’ useless lot. They don’t know shit.”

  “My own thoughts precisely,” says Trič. “If you ask me,” he looks around, important like, and we all grin, ’cos we all know what he’s gonna say next, “what I say is, we do the fuckers.”

  Hey, it’s great to hear that — I mean, after a hundred years Trič has a constructive idea again — though it ain’t really on. You can’t really go beatin’ shite out of your neighbours. Where does it lead? Especially if in three days they’re meeting at

  You’ve got to cultivate

  Whoops-a-daisy

  “Leave ’em be,” I say, “tell us what you did at that Green Day concert. ’nother beer, here!” I shout towards the waiter, who’s just passin’. Little prick.

  “He-he,” Trič is grinning, full of ’imself. Fuck it, he really does fancy ’imself, though he’s a good lad otherwise. “Those shirt lifters from Prule were givin’ grief again.”

  “Well, they’ll never get fed up of that,” says Flint, hard-core warrior.

  “We need to get down there once, sort things out,” says Vasja.

  “But we gave ’em a pretty good sortin’ out last time, when you load of losers were awol,” says Trič. “They got a right good pasting.”

  “Who was there?” asks Vasja.

  “The whole crowd, just you three didn’t show. That’s not nice, lads, next time you’ll have to bring a letter from the doctor, no exceptions.”

  Flint looks as if he’d have no trouble gettin’ a letter from the doc’s, he’s got shadows round his eyes, they’re dark and jellyish. Vasja’s the opposite, burstin’ with health. His tailor should write ’im a letter, the cunt’s so bloody smart, it’s no wonder he doesn’t wanna go to punk concerts. Though I don’t know about punk. If Green Day are punks then I’m fuckin’ Barbie. Spoilt American brats hackin’ at guitars. Where are the days of Trash and Third Category and Exploited and Discharge, eh?

  “It was total shite at first, when young Grici got done,” says Trič. He looks, well, like he usually does. He’s still just like me. “I was just on my way to the bog, when I saw five or six guys standin’ round ’im, and one of ’em was arguin’ with ’im and every now and then hittin’ on the head with a stick.”

  “The Croat bastards,” says Vasja.

  “First I wanted to calm things down a bit,” says Trič, “but they just shoved me and told me to piss off. Oh-ho, I says to myself, if that’s how you wanna play it, then I’ll go and get the Ljubljana hardcore-metal power boys. But there was no need, as there was already quite a few standin’ around already. Then those Croats finally got it — they suddenly scattered, you couldn’t tell who was who. Some of our lot were arguin’ with ’em, but they were suddenly all innocent, like, they’d no idea who’d been doin’ the beatin’.”

  “Course not,” says Vasja.

  “But you know,” says Trič, “they all buggered off leavin’ just one behind.”

  “Cool,” I say. Trič ain’t the world’s best storyteller, but the pay-off always comes.

  “I was just goin’ for a slash,” he says, “I’m not sure exactly what happened. But this last one wanted to slink off, poor little sod, when we caught him on the stairs to the bogs. First he went clatterin’ down the stairs, then we kicked him from here to kingdom come. Covered in blood, he was,” says Trič, grinnin’.

  “Fuck him,” says Vasja, philosophically, “eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.”

  “What about the others,” asks Flint, “did you get the others as well?”

  “Not as far as I know,” says Trič, stretchin’. “I was standin’ at the bar with Bertl, didn’t see any of ’em. Then we went with the others to the K4 club, and so on till mornin’. But I did hear they were wanderin’ around lookin’ for us with baseball bats.”

  With Bertl. Hey, Bertl, where the fuck is Bertl? I need to call Bertl.

  “Fuck it,” I say, “I’m gonna call Bertl. Haven’t seen Bertl for ages.”

  “Me neither,” says Flint.

  “I’m gonna call ’im,” I say, gettin’ up. “Anyone need another beer from the fridge? I can get one on the way.”

  “I’ll have one,” says Flint, “it’s so fuckin’ hot in this pad of yours that the beer’s evaporatin�
��.”

  That’s music to the ears. Thirsty Slovene lads. We’ll quench their thirst. I shove myself away from the table and go across the livin’ room towards the door. But when I open it I stop for a minute. Should I go in the kitchen for a beer first, or make the call? Big decision, that. Big decision.

  Ha, beer — got its advantages. That last one was warm already, stale. A cold beer would liven me up. Not to mention that Flint — hey, cold beer, condensation on the bottle — will be very grateful. Another cold one. My T-shirt’s stuck to my back. It’s fuckin’ hot. My body ’d be eternally grateful, too. But no, there’s no competition, I must call Bertl first. That’s an urgent matter. Top priority. They can fuckin’ well wait a bit, can’t they, they’ll be here for a while. Whole night. Just so Bertl gets here as soon as possible. I go into the corridor. I go

  Fuck me!

  As soon as I get round the corner there’s some kid under my wheels. A little ’un, all frills and bows. Right under the front wheel. I jam on the brake like crazy, but it doesn’t make much difference. She grabs the wheel, then gets thrown back. Me too, to the right. I crash to the ground like a downed Spitfire. The bike flies forward, towards the Albanian ice-cream man, and I hit the pavement right under the cash machine. Ow, fuck, bang, crash, shit, my elbow hurts. Good job I didn’t hit the wall with my head. I press my face to the ground. Fuck it, bloody brat.

  Beer? I’ve had my fuckin’ beer. Now a beer would really come in handy.

  I just lie there. Everythin’ fuckin’ well hurts. The pavement’s rough. It’s hot and dusty. My shoulder’s burnin’, my shoulder and my elbow. I don’t even wanna look. It’s sure to have taken the skin off. It’d make me sick just to look. Shite. What the fuck we gonna do now? I’ve buggered it nicely. That’s all we need. Dare I open my eyes? God knows what’s happened to the kid. Can’t hear anythin’. Can’t hear the kid screamin’ and no-one else’s yellin’ at me. But there’s plenty of people about. By all the rules I should be getting it in the ear. Shall I open my eyes? Dare I? Bertl’d be grinnin’ at me by now. Fuckin’ Vasja’d be grinnin’ and Flint’d be laughin’ till the tears ran. From those slimy eyes of his.

  So I open my eyes.

  They’re standin’ a few metres away. Four of ’em. A guy and three tarts. The guy’s tall and thin, peaked cap, can of beer in his hand. The three tarts around ’im. Street-wise. Sixteen, seventeen years old. Little ravers. They’re just lookin’ at me, silently. There’s nobody else about. Just these young ladies, standin’ there, watchin’ like they’re in the cinema.

  They’ve got bottles in their hands, that pissin’ shandy. A poofta’s drink, a lady’s drink.

  “What the fuck are you gawping at, you prick?” one of the young ladies suddenly shouts. The littlest of the three, the one nearest me. An ugly little bitch with fat thighs in too-tight jeans. Oops, I’m fuckin’ blushin’. I’m wrapped in a strange warmth.

  But I don’t give a toss about these kids.

  Well, in principle I don’t. But what the hell do they think they’re starin’ at? It’s all a bit too much, innit? I mean, what have I done to deserve this? And in this fuckin’ heat and all.

  I slowly start to pick myself up. My arm hurts, really fuckin’ hurts. Just as I thought — above my elbow it’s red raw, and there’s grey dust all round it, all round the edge of the wound, red and wet with a grey border. What the fuck did I do to deserve this? And this little bitch, still wet behind the ears. My fuckin’ blood pressure suddenly shoots up and my head’s poundin’. There’s a stabbin’ pain in my shoulder. And this little prima donna callin’ me a prick. For fuck’s sake, I must be twenty, well, least fifteen years older than you, you stupid brat. When you were still ridin’ round in your push chair shittin’ in your Pampers, I was... I was... in the army, with an eighteen-kilo machine-gun under my arm, running around like crazy in Montenegro. In the evenin’ me and my friends would be over the fence and into town, sneaked slivovec back in and jerked off on watch. Now you cadge a couple of thousand from your folks and you’re out on the street pourin’ beer down you and you think you’re the fuckin’ bee’s knees. And you can scream like a stuck pig... Nah, what’s the point? Where’s my bike? Where the fuck has that bastard bike flown off to?

  I hear a snigger behind me, quiet like, maybe so I won’t hear it — the little cow just won’t leave it alone. She’s kind of whisperin’ somethin’, so I can hardly hear — I can’t get what she’s sayin’, I just hear fuck, fuck every now and then. I can feel my blood pressure risin’ and I’m suddenly taken with a desire to throttle the life out of ’er. Come on, Pero, calm down, there’s no point. Go and get your bike. Concentrate, get your priorities sorted out. Oh, the little cunt, I’d take hold of ’er like this, one hand on her collar, lift ’er a bit and give ’er a shakin’ — shake before use, and all that — then I’d give ’er a few clips round the ear, nice and slow, with style, like spreadin’ butter.

  Then these here fuckin’ gits behind me start sniggerin’ even louder, it seems the little cow has said somethin’ else — I didn’t hear, but I’ll bet it was about me. I dunno what the fuck’s got into me. I’ve got to say somethin’ though it’s obviously not the smartest thing to do.

  “What, you think I’m worth gawpin’ at, do you?” I say, half turnin’. I don’t say it very loud ’cos it’s crystal clear to me at the very same moment that I’ve fucked up big time, but fuck it, it’s already said. I’ve already said it, there’s no turnin’ back now.

  I’ve got no idea really if they even understood what I said. I was very quiet, like. But they definitely saw me turn round. That I came out with somethin’. Whispered somethin’

  “What was that, eh? What was that?” says this guy with the baseball cap, chuckin’ his beer can down. The three tarts start yellin’ like they’re havin’ an orgasm or somethin’ and chuck their cans down too. And then the shite really does hit the fan: some guy suddenly appears round the corner, some friend of theirs by the look of it, wasn’t there before, and he immediately gets the picture. Hey, that’s not fuckin’ fair. If I’d known, another guy — it’s just not fair. I’m immediately surrounded, no way out. Behind me there’s a wall with a Magritte picture on, a picture I bought once in fuckin’ London. Terrorisin’ some poor bloke in his own home, a guy on either side of me, and those three tarts dancin’ around ’em. Then I notice one of ’em ain’t all that bad lookin’ — thick red hair half way down ’er back and a long, narrow skirt with black tights under. Fuckin’ black tights, in this heat! ’er voice is different from the first one’s too, from the one who screams like a sow, this one’s voice is nice somehow. We could’ve a nice chat. We could be friends, you and me. The two guys grin like they’re so happy, as if they’re so friendly.

  “Hey, you got any change, friend?” the one with the baseball cap asks. He’s got a Champion T-shirt on, looks older than the chicks, but he can’t be no more than twenty. His hands are hangin’ by his side, but they’re not completely relaxed, he’s ready to grab me the moment I try to piss off out of it. Fuckin’ hell. Just a minute ago... Now... There doesn’t seem to be any way out. I feel a bit sick.

  “How much do you have in mind?” I ask, pointlessly. Why the fuck did I come here, anyway? I just hope no-one’s got a knife in their pocket, or a screwdriver.

  “How much are you prepared to donate to our charitable organisation?” says the second guy, smiling all friendly, like he’s on some chat show. What can I do? I feel in my back pocket, I’ve got a couple of notes in there, though it ain’t much, not much at all, you’re not goin’ to get much out of me.

  “That enough?” I say, holdin’ the money in front of me. I don’t give a toss who takes it, I fuckin’ don’t. All five of ’em suddenly come out with ooooo and the guy with the beer in his hand reaches out, but before he can grab it the little one who started all this off says:

  “Will be, but only if you kiss this and seal the transaction,” and she turns round and offers me ’er arse. Transact
ion. Definitely goin’ to middle economic school if she’s usin’ words like that.

  “No, this is quite enough, Janina,” says the tough guy, who’s already got the money in his hand, but at that moment, from the other side, from the one in the baseball cap, comes a blow that’d fell a fuckin’ tree. Good job he was wearing a cap so he couldn’t nut me. Janina! That fuckin’ bastard name rings in my head as I get down, fast as I can, and cover my stomach. Blows and kicks rain in from every direction, can’t tell which are comin’ from the talk show host and which from the beauty in the narrow skirt. Shame I’m not a masochist. Then there’s a flashin’ in my head, the back of my neck’s pressin’ against somethin’ hard, maybe a rubbish bin or somethin’. Leave me the fuck alone, I think, then the light breaks up into blotches and I realise my hands, that were protectin’ my face, are scrabblin’ on the ground. As if it wasn’t enough before. There’s no more blows.

  So, I kneel there and press my face, covered by my hands, to the ground. Ugh.

  It’s so quiet and peaceful now, just the distant sound of cars. Nothin’ else. I can feel somethin’ hurtin’, but it’s kind of far off, as if it was someone else. Not me. It’s as if nothin’ has happened to me. Not yet, anyway. Not to me. It ain’t my face that’s comin’ apart on one side? That salty taste ain’t in my gob, someone else’s, that fuckin’ idiot on the ground. This is the fuckin’ limit, I think. This is my place. I’m at home here. Got to go for some beer. No, got to call Bertl. No.