Fužine Blues Read online

  When the dentist says to you, that’s it, you can rinse your mouth now, you’re bathed in a wonderful softness, and it’s with real relish that you spit out that sticky stuff with saliva, blood and water. It’s over. It’s alright. It’s all over. It’s good lyin’ like this. The ground’s filthy, but if I lie here a bit I won’t be any dirtier than I am. It’ll be alright as long as I don’t move. Just don’t move.

  It’s just that this pain in my ribs is gettin’ worse, or rather, now it’s startin’ to seem as if it’s me that’s hurtin’, it ain’t just some simulation.

  Oh fuck. It hurts like hell.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, why this? Why can’t people keep an eye on their kids? If they did everythin’ ’d be different. This wouldn’t have happened.

  Two blokes and three tarts. Janina! One of the cunts was Janina. A lot uglier and smaller and more aggressive Janina, completely different from the neighbours’ girl, she’s much warmer and softer and silky to the touch.

  Who’d have thought it?

  Oh god.

  What was I goin’ to do? Nothin’, but I’ll have to get up. Can’t skive around on the ground here forever.

  First, a phone. Bertl. Second, beer. Is the preferential order any different now? No, it ain’t. I’ll have to move.

  Why does my fuckin’ leg hurt so much? My shinbone. One of the bastards has booted my shinbone. Probably one of the tarts. Maybe that gorgeous one in the long narrow skirt and the black tights. What the fuck did she have on ’er feet? I didn’t get a chance to see.

  Hey, if only circumstances were a little different, the little bitch.

  Whatever she had on ’er feet, I’d pull ’em OFF and then those fuckin’ black tights, then I’d shove ’er on this here table, pull ’er skirt UP and FUCK ’er within an inch of ’er life — the hot sun on ’er bare legs, circlin’ my head like she’s riding a bike and she’s screamin’ fit to burst, and ’er head’s hangin’ down across the metal bar as if I’m goin’ to ram it through and I give ’er a slap so that ’er hair’s flyin’ in the air

  A ciggy. What I really need is a ciggy.

  * * *

  We all sit there sippin’ our beer. Late afternoon.

  “Hi there, Bertl!” My hand trembles a bit when I take the ciggy from my mouth, the smoke goes in my eyes. That’s all I need, that as well.

  “Pero, dude! Where the fuck are you?”

  Hey, hey. A warm feelin’ runs down across my chest, my stomach, my thighs. Hey, that’s it, that’s old Bertl.

  “I’m here, man, I’m here.”

  “Where, man, where?”

  “Here. In Fužine, man.”

  This is totally crazy, totally cool. Bertl, dude, tell me how things are. Where you’re hangin’ out these days.

  “So you’re in Fužine, man? How are the old Yugos doin’, eh?”

  Hey, who gives a flyin’ fuck about Yugos. Tell me somethin’ about you. Well, okay, I’ll tell you somethin’ about me, start the ball rollin’.

  “I’m rentin’ a pad here. My folks finally chucked me out. Said I’d used ’em enough. Now I’m sellin’ newspapers. The Advertiserand all.

  “The Advertiser? Hey, that’s cool, man.”

  Bertl’s always been a big user of the word ‘man’. I’d kind of forgotten. A bit much, in fact, for my likin’, I seem to remember. But it ain’t a problem. It’s cool. And one other quality old Bertl always had, though I dunno where he got it from. The women always went for ’im totally. A real lover boy.

  I remember this party. Bertl came with Vesna, they’d been goin’ out three weeks. A really excellent party. I came there at ten and it was already heavin’ with people totally out of it. Took me about two hours to catch up. A total bash. Then around two-ish I decide to crash. Trič was already lyin’ on the bed, high as a kite. I shoved ’im off and got on to sleep. Then I wake to a scene where I’m on the floor and someone’s jumpin’ on my hand, which is still on the bed. No more sign of Trič. I look up and see Bertl on the bed, givin’ it to Barbara. My head hurts. What about Vesna? Then I don’t just wanna rush out, I wanna wait till they’re through. But it ain’t that simple. They do stop, and I’m plannin’ to get up when Bertl says: “How about I give it you from behind now?” I mean, I really fuckin’ cursed ’em.

  Anyway, then I was lucky ’cos Vesna comes wanderin’ in by chance and I go scootin’ off to the kitchen, and leave ’em to sort out who’s done what to who. And we carry on boozin’ till mornin’.

  “Hey, Bertl, did you hear about Flint?”

  Bertl’s voice is kind of croaky, it really hit ’im as well.

  “Course I did. A total fuckin’ mess, man.”

  “Bang, and he’s gone.”

  “Makes you think, eh?”

  Yeh, that was Špaco’s party. What the hell happened to Špaco anyway? It’s a bit longer since I last saw ’im than Bertl. He used to hang out at Metelkova too. Then all of a sudden, nothing.

  “Hey, Bertl, heard anythin’ from Špaco? I’ve no idea what’s happened to ’im.”

  Bertl’s quiet for a moment while he works that one out.

  “What, you didn’t hear what happened?” he replies. “Didn’t you read in the papers?”

  Haven’t a clue what he’s on about.

  “Yeh, Špaco raped some lad in the park.”

  Oh fuck. “He must be comin’ out of the nick soon,” says Bertl, “I haven’t heard anythin’ from ’im.”

  Nothin’ but fuckin’ shocks today, nothin’ but shocks.

  “RAPE? He raped some KID?”

  “Yup,” says Bertl. “From what I read in the paper, he said one night he couldn’t sleep and went for a walk round Tivoli.”

  “But Špaco wasn’t a fuckin’ POOFTA.” Course he wasn’t a poofta. He went out with Marta for a year or two, for fuck’s sake. A legendary couple. Fuck me. You totally screwed up or what, Bertl?

  “He doesn’t have to be. It was just that he met this seventeen year old on his way home from a disco, shoved him in the bushes and gave him one up the arse. Pants down, the works.”

  “You don’t fuckin’ say.”

  “Crazy, man.”

  Fuckin’ hell, I’ll have to chew this one over a bit, let it sink in. But then I think, why should I give a toss about Špaco? Never meant to invite ’im anyway. He was always a bit of a vicious bastard. Wasn’t really our type. I wanted to invite Bertl. Main thing is that Bertl comes, then we can go on talkin’ about things. Deal with Špaco. Different stuff. For example, how he thumped that girl in the face ’cos she knocked his ciggy out of his mouth. And that was ’cos he called ’er a fuckin’ ugly bitch or some such. No, Špaco never had much finesse, never had any charm. It’s no wonder he ended up like this. In the nick, for fuck’s sake.

  “Okay, Bertl old chum,” I say. “A beer or two or twenty with old mates. Trič is here. Vasja too. You should see how smart the bastard is, a real smoothie.”

  Bertl doesn’t say anythin’.

  “And hey,” I say, “you should see how I’ve got my pad sorted. Fužine’s the place to be, no kiddin’.”

  Bertl still doesn’t say anythin’. I’m a bit fuckin’ unhappy about this, that he ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Bertl was never quiet like that. Flint was the quiet one, he was the man of few words, the man of action. Bertl usually liked spoutin’ off.

  “You’ll dig my view of Ljubljana,” I say, tryin’ to give the impression that nothin’s botherin’ me, though it is, I’m startin’ to get a bad feelin’. There’s gonna be somethin’ wrong here with Bertl. He’s gonna say somethin’ bad. He ain’t gonna say what he oughta.

  “Hey, man, I can’t” says Bertl.

  I knew he’d say that.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve got work real early tomorrow, man. I’m workin’ in a bank now.”

  “You’re workin’ in a bank?” I wanna burst out laughin’, but the feelin’ quickly passes ’cos Bertl doesn’t show any signs of joinin’ in. He should start to laugh too, bu
t he doesn’t. “What, you printin’ money for ’em?” I start laughin’ again, but not for long. Bertl still doesn’t join in. And he always had such a good sense of humour.

  “Nah,” he says, “I’m just on the counter. I’m attendin’ this course, like. You’ve got to better yourself, haven’t you, eh? You can’t get by forever on a wage like that.”

  Fuckin’ hell, he’s become a swot in his old age.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, “I’m only invitin’ you for a couple of drinks. What’s wrong with that? It’s the big match this evening. We’re just gonna watch the fuckin’ telly together, with a beer or two. You’ll get home in plenty of time.”

  Bertl’s still not sayin’ anythin’.

  I remember how I was once at a party at Bertl’s place and I go on the balcony at three in the fuckin’ mornin’. And what do I see, but Bertl, leanin’ over the edge and pukin’ his guts up. All well and good. Only next to ’im is Vesna, on ’er fuckin’ knees with his dick in ’er mouth, givin’ ’im a blow job. I mean, for fuck’s sake.

  You must remember this, Vesna, Bertl was explaining.Never mix red and white. Even if it’s classier stuff... Never mix it.

  Then he saw me standin’ there in the doorway. I think my eyes were poppin’ out of my head.

  Well, if that’s not the height of fuckin’ decadence, I said. I just stood there, with my ciggy in my hand and stared. I should have felt a bit embarrassed, really, but I didn’t ’cos Bertl didn’t either. And neither was Vesna. I was just a bit confused, like.

  Yeh, said Bertl, it’s not exactly, he started to stutter a bit, in accordance with the kind of values... he held on to the edge of the balcony a bit harder, that are traditionally held... by the Slovene nation.

  “Sorry, man.”

  Fuckin’ hell, Bertl, for old times’ sake.

  “I can’t.”

  Fuck it, Bertl, that stinks.

  When I put down the paper and get up from the bog I realise, for the umpteenth time today, that there’s no water. The cistern’s silent as the fuckin’ grave. I pull my trousers up and fasten ’em. I’m fed up with this. I go into the kitchen, take a plastic bottle of fizzy water from the fridge. The three at the table don’t even see me. I go back and start to empty the bottle into the bog.

  It starts to fizz like crazy. Like some weird fuckin’ cocktail. The bubbles rattle on the folded, dirty bog paper, and the whole thing turns into this strange, frothy porridge. The bottle glug glug glugs. It’s three-quarters empty when I realise I’m not gonna get anywhere. That shitty mess at the bottom is just gettin’ more and more stirred up, muddy and runny. It’s obvious it ain’t gonna work. Fuckin’ idiot. It needs flushin’. At least a whole litre at once. Not a trickle like this. Idiot.

  What next? Empty all the beer we have into a bucket and pour it in? Oh yeh, of course. Are you mad, or what? We’re never gonna pour the beer out. We need the beer. And women.

  * * *

  Soon it’ll be time. Time to go in. Even fucking Zoki has calmed down a bit. The match is getting nearer, just half an hour and it’ll be on, and surely even this manic depressive will be affected by it.

  As we go in I’m still thinking about Mirković and what I said to young Mirković. Shit, I just hope he doesn’t show up, because if he does it’ll require serious action, and I don’t know if I’m up to it today. Not a day like today. This talk with Zoki has left me feeling a bit more content — don’t really know how to describe it. Now I have a better idea of how things stand. Basically: you’ve got to have vision. You’ve got to stand on your own two bleeding feet and look things in the face: solid, stable, firm. You haven’t got to let yourself be shaken — by some woman, like Zoki is. Zoki’s okay, but he lets himself get thrown off track too easy. But things are moving on. Things are going in the right direction. I feel kind of alright, you know? And then the match, the moment of truth. No, I don’t fancy any argy-bargy today. Let’s have a nice peaceful one today, and a few whiskies to wash it down. And then — no, I wouldn’t even hurt a fly today.

  Beno’s already gone inside. With one of those friends of his — the other one’s buggered off somewhere. When we pass he introduces us: Marjan, from Kodeljevo. A very talkative type — although, what other type would Beno drag here. Or anywhere for that matter? I hope the others ’ll turn up soon. At least Hammer should come. He’s called that because his hands are like hams — one blow from him and not even the grass grows again. I’d feel better if he were here. Just in case Mirković dares to show his face.

  We station ourselves in the corner, directly opposite the TV. It’s the biggest table, in case anyone else comes, and it’s got a view across the whole place. Beno starts droning on right away, something about court. Some magistrate is giving him grief. He’d parked somewhere in Šiška and when he came back someone had slashed all four of his tyres and scratched his paintwork. They’d left a note: LEARN HOW TO PARK MORON. Beno was so bloody annoyed he called the police — doesn’t know what came over him, he saw red. Anyway, the police come and start harassing him about blocking an emergency access. But it was only his fucking front end sticking out about a metre — anyone who knew how to drive could easily get past.

  “They can find an excuse for anything,” says his mate.

  “Yeh, of course,” says Beno.

  “I’ll tell you a good one,” says Marjan. “About what this friend of mine did. They got him on the motorway when he was doing two hundred and twenty.”

  “What? Are the bastards using radar on the motorway now?” asks Zoki.

  “He got fined, so he appealed. Naturally. But listen up to what he wrote.” I wanted to turn and order another whisky, but I decided to hold on. “He wrote that it was like this — he was driving along the motorway, keeping to the limit and so on, when he saw a tanker parked on the hard shoulder…”

  “It’s easier for them to go after people on the motorway, ’cause there’s no way off,” says Beno to Zoki. The guy only pays attention when it’s him talking. And I mean, what bullshit. Who’s going after people on the motorway?

  “Anyway, that’s what he wrote. He saw this tanker parked by the side of the road and was gripped by a sudden fear that it would explode. He’d seen this TV programme the day before about tankers exploding, and now he sees one stuck on the hard shoulder, and it looks as if there must be something wrong…” We all grin. It’s true, isn’t it — the more far-fetched the excuse, the less it sounds as if you’ve made it up. “So, he put his foot down, but he has a very powerful car, and before he knew where he was he was doing two hundred and twenty… And then, whoosh, the radar gets him.”

  Zoki nods a bit.

  “Did the judge believe him, then?” he asks. Who gives a fuck?

  “What could he do? Of course he believed him. I mean, that’s a real car that is, Toyota Civic, you just tickle it with your foot and it takes off…”

  These fucking Jap cars are not the rubbish they once were. And they’re reliable. I think this report said it was Toyotas that had the fewest faults in the long term — far better than any of the bleeding Kraut jobs.

  But I don’t want to get into that, I’d rather hear about something else.

  Then Beno turns to me and asks: “So how’s business? Sold anything recently?”

  Have I sold anything recently? Yeh, he’s after another drink. Sorry mate, it’s not on.

  “Not that great for the time of year,” I say. “Start of the summer. Everyone’s got holidays on their minds now. It’ll pick up again in August…”

  Don’t want to start explaining how it is. I’ve already done it once today.

  * * *

  Fuck it, pizda im materina, when I unlock the door to the flat I can hear ćale and Mladen talking in the kitchen. Jebo mater, I was hoping the old bastards’d gone. Course, it’s only eight. But they could’ve gone, had a little raki at the bar, just to warm up like. Looks as if they’ve agreed to do that at home. Why else would ćale ’ve bought some raki down at the coast? Just as
long as they don’t decide to watch the game here. If they do, I’m off out again — I’m not willing to be in the same space as Mladen more than’s strictly necessary.

  “Don’t worry,” I say to Daša, who’s already rolling her eyes. “They’ll be off soon.”

  Daša takes her shoes off and I open the kitchen door.

  “Ciao, stric Mladen, ciao,ćale,” I say. “Me and Daša ’ve come to listen to a bit of music.”

  “In you come, Janina,uði, uði,” says Mladen. Well, he doesn’t actually say it — yells, more like. Looks as if they’ve already put away half a bottle. Little unusual that. Mladen don’t usually drink all that much, you know, he likes to have his wits about him. Seems as if this footballing evening is even getting to him a bit. “Uði Janina, what’re you hiding for?”

  ]ale’s not looking at me very friendly. I should’ve been here to welcome Mladen when he came. These family things mean a lot to ćale. Even when he don’t care for the family member in question.

  “Tu sam, here I am, stricMladen,” I say, opening the door a little wider, just so as he can see we’ve got company — if he didn’t hear what I said. Daša sticks her head through the door. “Daša’s here.”

  “Hi Daša,” says Mladen, eyeing her up. He likes her, of course. Who wouldn’t like our little Daša, she’s so cute. “How are you Janina?” he asks, turning his attention to me again. “How’s school, kako ti ide?”

  Why’s Mladen always so interested in school? He finished school — well, not finished exactly, more stopped going — somewhere around the sixth or seventh grade. He’s even proud of the fact he’s not some creepy intellectual. Now he’s got thousands of marks to throw around and he dares to ask me how school is.

  “Okay,” I say, “bit hard at the moment ’cause we’re right at the end of the year.”