Fužine Blues Page 17

  “And they’re all piling the work on, je li?” It doesn’t occur to Mladen to speak Slovene when Daša’s around. I mean, hello.

  “Getting ready for the footie?” I say, pointing to the bottle. “We’ll go into my room so we’re not in your way.”

  “Ðe ti se žuri, where you rushing off to, Janina?” shouts Mladen. “Aren’t you going to talk to your stricMladen?”

  “Pa što da ne, course I am” I reply. What else can I do? I feel a bit awkward in front of Daša, but fuck it. I park myself on the edge of the chair and Daša stays standing in the doorway. She looks desperately unhappy, but it can’t be helped. She’ll have to put up with it for a minute. I’ve got to put up with it. Let her look like that. Maybe they’ll take pity on us sooner.

  “Kaži, Janina, tell me something,” says Mladen, looking me in the eye, though I quickly look towards Daša. “Do the young crowd here in Fužine do a lot of drugs?”

  Oops! Now ćale turns his disapproving look on Mladen. Better than on me. The question is — what would you say — complex, to say the least. Daša’s looking at me now, with a smile on her face of course, ’cause she knows I’m in deeper shit than she is.

  “How should I know?” I say. “I think there’s quite a lot, for those dumb enough to do drugs.”

  “Ha, ha.” Mladen laughs and looks at ćale. “Smart girl your daughter. Idiots who poison themselves like that get all they deserve.”

  Oh right, so you’re interested in the drug trade now? You’re not going to smuggle Iranians in from Croatia. That’s the latest fashion, from what I’ve heard, and a very profitable business. Probably too complicated for you, eh?

  Great, I think, at leastćale won’t hold it against me now if I disappear from the kitchen. I mean, he’s got something to say to Mladen, something to clarify.

  “Hey, you know what? I’ve got something I must show Daša. We’ll come back, it’s just that Daša’s in a bit of a rush. Don’t mind, do you?

  No, they don’t mind. And whoosh, we’re out of there. We dash for the bedroom — I’m dying to laugh, Daša too.

  “I mean, fucking hell,” says Daša, “he’s a bit of a strange one, that uncle of yours.”

  “More than you think,” I say, closing the door behind us. Wonderful profession, stric Mladen. Lot of variety, fine if you like dealing with people — I remember from the careers advice at the end of primary school. But you’ve got to start very early. I remember some kids they got at our school — three of them, the oldest fifteen. They blackmailed this other kid by saying they’d tell it was him that nicked this bike that’d gone missing. Don’t even know if it was him. Anyway, he kept bringing them money from home and they bought a sound system and mobile phones and such shit, and no-one noticed. Dunno when this kid’s folks realised a lot of money was disappearing from the house — they’d got some pretty big bills and that all of a sudden, or what?

  No doubt Mladen started like that. I can just picture him walking across the playground with that sinister look on his face.

  * * *

  The bus is mercifully cooler than in the morning, the sun is already low. The bus is half empty — strangely so. There are usually far more people at this time of day. But at the moment all I’m interested in is getting home as soon as possible, having a shower and changing into something lighter. I have to cool down. I’ve had too much excitement today. Far too much for this time of year. Far too much for my age.

  The stops are short, very few people getting on or off. We’ve already crossed the river and gone past the main hospital building. When we go past the maternity unit I look to the right. Away. Those large red buildings fill me with horror. Not surprising that they put them on the same side of the road as oncology. Children also grow and grow and don’t know when to stop and then cause terrible wounds. Damn it.

  At the next stop I look across the river. They are building a new housing development. New Poljane, though it’s actually in Kodeljevo. Why don’t they call it New Kodeljevo? Kodeljevo is an old Ljubljana suburb. An interesting one. A kind of reservation for the old Ljubljana proletariat. Yes, the most interesting speakers of Ljubljana dialect come from Kodeljevo. The old dialect with all the German borrowings that are already disappearing elsewhere. Somebody should protect it. Like a regional park, or a reserve of some kind. They shouldn’t be building new developments here. This New Poljane is going to ruin it. There will be newcomers from all over Ljubljana, and beyond. What’ll happen to the old proletarian dialect then?

  What nonsense am I spinning? Damn it, if I could only … avoid — avoid what? Why would I want to avoid it? Why do I keep pushing it down — saving it for later? For when? My coffee break?

  I was shamefully rude. Why the hell did Adam seem so awful to me? He’s aged, I suppose. But then we all have, including me. Is he to blame for that? What kind of arrogance am I exhibiting here? The same as saying that newcomers will ruin Kodeljevo. What’s wrong with Adam? He’s put weight on. But otherwise — who am I to say I don’t give a damn about you two.After all, I was a visitor, I was in his home. If he expected anything, he had every right to. If he touched anything, he had every right to. If he hadn’t touched anything and hadn’t expected anything, well… But he did touch, just as much as is allowed, as is decent. How could he do more?

  He’ll never want to see me again, that’s for certain. I didn’t do the Translation Department any favours. Or perhaps I did. At the end of the day, he’s a very objective type, a natural scientist. He knows it wasn’t the Translation Department that offended him, that I have no direct connection with that department. I wasn’t even authorised by them. But I, what got into me? I mean, not only what I said, that I offended him — what was I even thinking of? Am I starting to fall apart in my old age? Am I becoming an old nag?

  Two young girls are sitting in front of me. About sixteen years old, I’d guess. They’re chatting. I catch the odd word. I hear something like “watch the match”. Oh yes. That makes a lot of things clear. Why the bus is so empty. Of course, the football match will be starting soon. Slovenia against Yugoslavia. Like in the good old days. Of course.

  Now I’m staring out the window on the other side, on the left. We pass the market. Not far now. The words of the two in front of reach me as if through a haze. I can’t even think very clearly. Adam’s face. Of course, his cheeks are no longer sunken. His two-level beard has somehow softened, become more attractive actually, as the two levels are not so distinct. That’s a step forward, in a sense.

  “You can stick the fucking Malibu up your arse!” I suddenly hear, as if through water. I come to with a start. As if something has lifted me. Goodness me, what language — and from young girls on the bus!

  Where is all this leading? These two don’t look particularly poor or neglected, they’re well dressed. Even quite tastefully, which is strange for their age. If such nicely turned out youngsters talk like that, then what is a person to think? Has this spiritual impoverishment swept all before it? Do the young have no other words with which to express themselves? Okay, it’s true that all language resources function in the same way and that none is inherently better or worse than any other — but don’t they know anything else? Are they really limited to this? I stare at the back of their necks, wishing increasingly that the words had not come from them, that they’d come from elsewhere. Is that possible? That in truth there’s more to them than that? But if it’s possible that they did say it, then what is not possible? If that’s how it is, then the world can take the corrupt civil servants and the money-obsessed yuppies and the whole lot of them can… I really hope it wasn’t these two. I really do. Terrible.

  I stare ahead. Why is the bus moving so slowly? There’s hardly anybody on it and the roads are pretty empty. How is it we’re still here? We haven’t even got to Kajuh Road yet. Not even to the petrol station. Adam’s face.

  God knows what his “young woman” is like. Not that it’s all that important, but… To go off like that when your husba
nd is expecting a visit. A lady friend from his youth. Did he even tell her? If he didn’t… But no, I’m sure he did. Of course he did, a man who talks like that about his wife doesn’t hide anything from her, he wouldn’t have said what he did if she didn’t have… Although, how could she go off like that and leave him alone with a strange woman? A woman he used to know well? She fell in love with a sixty-year-old man, but sixty-year-old women are no threat, are they? I can’t help it that I don’t care for his “young woman” — even though I’ve never met her, never even set eyes on her, I feel an aversion to her… What does she think about herself? What does she think about him? What does she know about him?

  Ridiculous really. A woman he knew well.Where do I take that from? Did he really know me all that well? That’s a bit rich! As a matter of fact, what do I really know about him? I mean factual information. He was a professor of inorganic chemistry. What did he get his doctorate in? What exactly was his field of research? Okay, he was born in sunny Štajerska, in the Prlekija area to be more exact, if I remember correctly. But who’s even interested? Who? What a stupid attempt to fill space… recalling trivial details. Professionally? I’d put it like this: a chemistry professor, but more of a professor than a chemist. Ha, here I go again. From where do I take these judgements? How well did we really know each other? I repeat: how well… And where does this sense of superiority of mine come from? Or rather, what am I trying to achieve here? A necrologist of old friendships? But yes —

  Here we are. Fužine. My dear home. East, west, home is best. But everywhere is nice if you’ve got one. Ha, it seems that the wine still hasn’t quite left my head. And this stuffy bus. Across Brodar Square and Archinet Street … a sleeping policeman, and we’re there. But yes

  * * *

  Hm, Daša doesn’t have much to say for herself now. She’s standing there looking out of the window. It looks as if her good mood, the way she laughed earlier, was more likely embarrassment. But then, I know what’s going through her head. She’s thinking about Mirsad. It really fucking gets to me. I know she’s wondering why she came up here with me in the first place. Why didn’t she go down to the Malibu. And I mean, if she’s going to be like that I’ll start wondering why I brought her up here.

  Why are me and Daša friends, anyway? Dunno, seems that she chose me at some point. Sometimes I think we’re quite alike. But only when she’s not dating anyone. When she is, then we’re not all that alike. In fact, it’s like we’re from different fucking planets.

  “Janina,” she says suddenly, plonking herself down on the bed. “Do you think anything’ll come of this business with me and Mirsad?”

  Teško pitanje, difficult question. As ćale would say:Teško pitanje, said Comrade Tito as a joke.

  “What do you want from it?” I say, hoping that my voice shows how sick I am of such questions. “Would you like to marry him and have kids?”

  “Lay off, stop taking the piss!” says Daša angrily.

  “I’m not taking the piss,” I say. “But I mean, what do you really want?”

  Daša doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s the first time she’s given it any fucking thought. Yeh, course. I mean, isn’t it pretty obvious?

  “I’d just like,” she says, “for us to be together.” I see something else has struck her, but I’d rather wait before I say anything. “Least for a while,” she says, thoughtfully.

  “Do you want a straight answer?” I ask. “I mean, you’re not going to throw the fucking chair out the window if I’m straight with you?”

  She gives a slight laugh.

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Course nothing will.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing’ll come of it.”

  “And why not?”

  Poor cow.

  “You still won’t chuck the chair through the window if I’m straight with you?”

  “Stop pissing me about, or I’ll scratch your fucking eyes out!” she shouts. Okay, okay, I was just checking.

  “‘cause Mirsad is a total moron. And I really don’t understand why a girl like you has got tangled up with him. He don’t deserve you.”

  Daša’s quiet again. Seems that wasn’t quite what she was wanting to hear, though on the other hand it wasn’t so bad. Right, Daša? Course, Janina knows what you need. But it seems Daša’s not all that sure, she needs more information. When she’s thought about it a bit, she asks:

  “Why not?”

  Why not indeed? Just ’cause you’re my friend, I suppose.

  No, not just that, that’s stupid. Basically, ’cause Mirsad is so glup that he doesn’t deserve any normal girl. Maybe someone like Eva.

  “He drinks too much,” I say, “he fucks about too much, he doesn’t give a shit about anything, and he wants a girl just to make him feel better about himself.”

  I can just imagine what’s going through her head, you know? It’s okay with me that he’s like he is ’cause there’s other benefits. And you think you’re the only one enjoying those benefits. You know he’s a prick, but at least he’s your prick. But you’re not the only one getting a slice of the action. You just can’t see it.

  Daša’s quiet again. Then she says:

  “If you’re trying to make me feel better it’s not working.”

  Yeh, I know.

  Thank god, I can hearćale and Mladen in the hall, getting ready to go out. Mladen is loud, my dad less so. That’s his problem, he can’t stay angry for long enough to get his way. That’s alright with me as his daughter, but then he can get really fucked over by others. I mean, he can’t even shout at his younger brother — Mladen shouts at him.

  Eventually I hear the door close and it’s quiet in the hall. Alone at last. The whole flat to ourselves. Now we can put a bit of music on. Daša’s still not saying anything. Looks as if she won’t, either, unless I say something. Now’s the best time to go and make a hot chocolate, like I promised. Let her think things over a bit, no need for me to be around bothering her.

  In the kitchen, I put some milk on. I see there’s still some whipped cream in the fridge. Dad puts it in his coffee. Great, we can use that. While I’m waiting for the milk to boil, I look through the window. It’s easy to imagine Daša doing the same in my room. That she’s looking towards the Malibu. Why did she come with me? Why did I even invite her? I’d no desire to watch the match there today. And I could’ve come up on my own. Could’ve done anything — watched the telly, whatever. Watched the match on my own. Daša could’ve gone chasing around after Mirsad with someone else.

  When the chocolate’s ready, I put some whipped cream on top and carry the cups to my room. No, Daša’s not looking out the window, she’s still lying on the bed. That’s okay. I put her chocolate on the bedside cabinet.

  “There,” I say, “try that.”

  Daša doesn’t reply. She takes it without a word. Hello, we’re going to act dumb ’cause we’re offended, or what? It’s going to be a fucking pain. So what do we do now to keep ourselves occupied?

  Music, I said we’d listen to some music. I’ll put some music on.

  * * *

  We all sit there sippin’ our beer. Late afternoon. Only fuckin’ blokes here, no chicks. No chicks at this do of mine.

  It suddenly hits me. Fuck it! How could I be such a twat? Irena! Didn’t I say I was goin’ to call Irena? Course I did. Irena!

  Irena. When we travelled back from Piran I was hurtin’ all over. And that fuckin’ night at the church. Bertl was grumblin’ the whole fuckin’ time, I slept about two hours. On the train we sat in the corridor, next to the bog. All the compartments were full. I leant against the side. You leant on the door next to me. When you fell asleep the swayin’ of the train moved you towards me. That was great. Your punk hairdo head on my shoulder. Was even better when I felt your fist pokin’ into my hip.

  I had a jacket thrown over me — one hell of a draught in the corridor. And I leant my head on yours. I was knackered. Had a right to be. Then I felt you
r hand under the jacket. A cold fist under my fingers. Cold. Put my hand over it. Maybe it’ll be better. Yeh, that’s real nice — tadam, tadam — nice, tadam, maybe we’re gettin’ somewhere. The fist warms up a bit, gets softer, soon it ain’t a fist ’cos it slowly opens. Enough to sneak a couple of fingers in, then another. Hey, your hand squeezes a bit, like a baby’s when you offer it a finger. You lightly clasp my hand. Tadam-tadam.

  Then you suddenly shudder and open your eyes and move your head a bit, so your hair brushes my ear. I lift my head as well. Open my eyes. They’re so fuckin’ glued together. You squeeze my fingers and when I turn towards you, you examine me like some doctor.

  “Hey,” you say.

  “Hm.”

  “I found something. Is this yours?” you say and push my hand away, over my lap and let it fall on my balls. My eyes are so glued together I have to blink. Everythin’s hurtin’.

  The plastic receiver is warm, sticks to my ear. My hand’s on my ribs. Everythin’s fuckin’ well hurtin’.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  Déja vu or what?

  “Hello, there. Peter Sokič here. Is that the Rodošek residence?”

  “Yes?”

  “Hello. Erm, I wonder if Irena’s still living there, or if she’s not if you could give me a number for her?”

  “Irena?” The voice at the other end seems uncertain. Fuck me, it ain’t as if I’m askin’ what fuckin’ condoms they use. Am I invadin’ their privacy, or what? “And who are you?”

  “Sorry,” I say. Yeh, sorry, you cunt. “We were close friends some years back, when she was at secondary school… And I thought we could get together, see what’s happened since we’ve seen each other. Fifteen years…”

  “Fifteen years?”

  The woman is no less suspicious, probably more so. As if she hasn’t got the fondest memories of fifteen years back. But there’s no need to get all offended. Although — you didn’t even tell your folks you were goin’ to Piran for three days. No, they weren’t too fuckin’ pleased.