Fužine Blues Page 19

  “Can you at least tell me this, then,” I say. “Do you know where in Ljubljana Brezovec’s monument stands?”

  Brezovec is behind me and I hear how he suddenly stops and slowly turns. Yes, I can feel how he turns and leans on the desk, watching to see what happens. The student stares at the floor. What now, eh? I suddenly feel a little embarrassed. It’s true, what a stupid question. What can I do now before Brezovec — now that I’ve buried him in front of this student? No, it wasn’t a nice thing to do. I’m about to take the question back, to apologise, perhaps give her a few minutes to collect herself before we continue, when she suddenly says:

  “I’m so sorry, professor… I know I went past it only the other day, but now… I’m so nervous that I can’t think straight, I just can’t remember.”

  I turn slightly so that I can look over my shoulder, subtly, so that it doesn’t seem as if I’m trying to say to my colleague, listen to this silly little minx. No, it must look as if I’m merely curious as to what he’s doing. Brezovec is looking straight at me; when he sees me looking at him he pulls the corner of his mouth up, not in a smile, more a grimace, telling me that I’m showing off. I almost blush. I turn back round and offer the student her grade book back.

  “Thank you, you’ll need to come again. Ask the others waiting outside, perhaps one of them will be able to tell you.”

  When she goes out, Brezovec simply nods. I turn to him and shrug.

  “Do you think I went too far?” I ask. He doesn’t respond. “Such ignorance irritates me more than anything,” I say, quietly. “But does it make any difference if I worry about it? None at all.”

  None at all. So why do I bother? In fact, the only stupid actions worth worrying about are those I commit myself. Like today. If it is even worth it. I begin to doubt it. Okay, at least a sense of shame persists within me. But even that may go to hell soon, as well, and I’ll be left as a venomous old harpy, with not an ounce of compassion for those around me, no compassion even for myself. Thank God that my pension will be a decent one, that I’ll be able to afford a coffee in a decent café, solo dinners in restaurants, evenings at the opera, writing outraged letters to the newspaper about how everything is going to the dogs or, since we were on the scene, how worthless everything has become. Perhaps it was better in the poet Prešeren’s time. But even so, it’s probably good that we don’t know exactly how it was.

  * * *

  The first one I see is my neighbour Pašković. Old English Sheepdog Pašković. A large guy with a moustache and chest rug. Next to him… who else but Mirković? The cunt. My heart starts to pound. And the third one… I don’t even have to guess. I’ve never seen him before, but I don’t have to guess. Why is Rade pointing? Not because of Mirković, that’s for sure. Even less because of my neighbour. The third guy is taller than Pašković, not so big across the shoulders, less hairy. Does he look anything special? No, he doesn’t. If I saw him on his own in the bar I wouldn’t look twice. Maybe he’s a bit meaner looking — if you compare him to Pašković and Mirković, who look like friendly enough family types. But a lot of guys look like that. And he doesn’t look all that sociable — though he’s smiling, he seems to be holding something back. As if he’s smiling only because he thinks that’s what you should do when you walk into some new joint, to create a friendly first impression. Is this little Yugo really such a bastard? Rottweiler Pašković.

  “That guy’s big trouble,” says Rade. “Stay out of his way.”

  Zoki glances at me, then turns to Rade.

  “What’ve you heard about him?”

  “Enough,” says Rade. Shit, I don’t even have any time to think, ’cause they’re already coming in. They’re coming straight in, even though there are empty tables outside. Straight in. Well, fuck them, I’m okay, no sweat. I’ll just need to be alert. I see that Zoki is looking at them on the sly, Rade and Beno and Marjan are all looking through the window as if they’re not the slightest bit interested in Rottweiler Pašković.

  I’ve got them in my sights the whole time, but I move my eyes just for a moment to see that Zoki’s looking at me. That gets on my tits a bit. Especially when Mirković goes past and doesn’t even look at me, just goes straight on. Doesn’t even seem to have registered my presence. Probably hasn’t seen Mirsad yet. Just as well.

  This is bleeding stupid. It’s senseless staring at them like that. They’ll start to get suspicious. And I — well, I’m just not in the mood to tangle with them. After five whiskies I’m full of adrenaline and ready for the match. We’ll deal with them some other time. I turn to the other four.

  “Do you know what happened when Fatima says to Mujo, listen Mujo I’ve been raped by a Montenegrin?” Zoki gives me a look. Fuck him. If it’s for anyone, it’s for him I have to maintain the right image. How can he be jealous of me if I don’t?

  “For fuck’s sake, Igor…” he says.

  “And Mujo says, but Fatima, how do you know it was a Montenegrin?”

  I pause a moment for dramatic effect, all four of them looking at me.

  “How would I not,” says Fatima, “I had to do everything myself.”

  The all start to laugh, even Zoki, although he’s none too happy about it.

  “Hey, Ščinkovec,” I suddenly hear from the back. I turn round and see that the Pašković brothers are turned towards the TV and the ads are on. Mirković has his back to them and is looking towards me. He’s leaning with one hand on the counter. “Hey, Ščinkovec! Here a minute!”

  I look at Zoki. He looks a bit serious. The others don’t give a toss. Why should they? I think for a moment and say to Zoki:

  “No need to look as if you’re going to cry.”

  I get up and go towards Mirković.

  The trouble is no-one knows what’s going on here. Neither Rade nor Marjan nor even Beno. But what the hell, what bleeding difference would it make? If that cunt Rottweiler Pašković is there, nobody’s going to want to get involved anyway. But Pašković doesn’t seem to give as shit. It’s just between me and Mirković.

  “Hi,” says Mirković, when I get there. “Got a message from you today, from Mirsad.”

  Ah-ha. He’s going to start something. Alright. I’m not going to stick my neck out here. What are the options?

  “Oh, I just thought you wouldn’t be able to stand it when we wiped the floor with you at football,” I say. That’s the best, a good tactic. A bit jokey, you know, sporty. Make it all about fair play.

  “In your dreams,” says Mirković, grinning. Fine, he’s in a good mood as well. What football can’t do, eh? Brotherhood and understanding among nations. Then you give them the finger.

  “I just can’t be arsed today, right?” he says. Hm. “But what’s this now, picking on kids? You know where I live if you’ve got anything you want to say to me. We can have a nice cosy chat.”

  Sod him. Now he’s acting the tough guy. Of course, with this Mafiosa behind him. Who wouldn’t? Let him. Yeh, let him, I don’t give a shit. Well actually, I do. I do give a shit. I’ll get him on his own some time. I know where you live. I also know which is your car. And many other things. You’ll see what happens when Igor Ščinkovec has got it in for you. Only not today, not today. It’s football today. Today we’re going to kick your arses so hard you’ll be hanging your heads with tears in your eyes. You’re just banging your head against the wall. I can feel the adrenaline rushing to my head just thinking about it. We’re going to fucking win today. It’ll be a fucking disaster if we don’t shaft them today. Today we’ve got them. If we don’t bleeding win…

  “I never threatened the kid,” I say. “What would I have against your lad? You owe me a drink, to be honest, as you screwed up my deal.”

  “I owe you a drink?” says Mirković, glaring at me. Fucking hell, is he going to get all offended now? Don’t you see I’m trying to be human here, that I’m trying to find a fair way out, for you to keep your manhood. “Go on with you, get back over there,” he says, waving his hand towar
ds the other four, “get back over there, so I don’t have to look at you.”

  Okay. We’ll meet again. If you don’t take the hand I’ve offered. Okay, it’s your own fault. Sod it. I turn and go back. Zoki looks straight at me and the other three more from under their brows. As if they’re trying not to stare. Looks as if Zoki told them. Looks as if they were shitting themselves and were watching to see the fireworks start. Fucking chickens.

  * * *

  We all sit there sippin’ our beer. Late afternoon. That cunt Ščinkovec, neighbour of mine, appears. Fuckin’ wanker. Three guys with ’im. Look like ’im. They sit at a table in the corner. I don’t give a shit about ’em.

  At our table the cans are really pilin’ up, there won’t be any beer left in the fridge soon. Good that we kept a bit of raki back.

  “Remember when we were in Premantura?” says Bertl. He has a glass of rakiin his hand, seems it reminds ’im of the seaside. “Do you remember Špaco on the beach?”

  Špaco on the beach? Yeh, course I remember ’im. Man, he was some fuckin’ character. We were all on the beach in our cossies, like regular folk, I mean, there must have been about a million people there, packed it was. But not Špaco. Špaco sat there with us, at least he’d taken his jeans off, and he had his trunks on, but he still had his allstar trainers on, and a black leather jacket, and a thick leather belt with three rows of studs round his waist. We took the piss out of ’im for quite a while, but he just grinned, full of himself. And I mean, I’m talking about the fuckin’beach here, not some café next to it — on the beach, in the hot sun. What a crazy fucker.

  “It was a real fuckin’ nightmare when we had to sleep in the cemetery,” says Flint. Now he’s fuckin’ woken up. Needed a few beers, that’s all. Looks tons better than he did earlier. That cemetery! Yeh, so as not to waste money at the fuckin’ camp, we went to sleep in the woods. Then when it started to piss it down in the night, we sheltered in the local cemetery. The chapel was like a buildin’ site — dunno if they were doin’ it up or what — but we slept in there.

  “You have a nightmare, then?”

  “Well, there were about a million mosquitoes,” says Flint “and they were drivin’ me crazy. I just didn’t sleep, I was kind of half crashed-out. Then in the middle of the night it seemed to me or I dreamed that there were loads of others in the chapel and they were all lookin’ out and waitin’ for the rain to stop.”

  “What, ghosts you mean?”

  “How do I know?” says Flint. “Looked ordinary enough. But the whole time in my dream I was wonderin’ whether they were just ordinary folk who’d come in to shelter, or whether they really could be ghosts who didn’t want to get wet. I mean, have you heard ever heard of a wet ghost? I just couldn’t be sure. And they didn’t want to say what they were even when I asked them. They just said, don’t you fuckin’ worry, we’ll be away as soon as the rain stops.”

  “Then they definitely weren’t ghosts,” says Trič. He sees Flint raise his eyebrows when he looks at ’im and quickly adds: “Ghosts don’t talk like that, do they? I mean, fuckand all that.”

  “So you’re sayin’ ghosts never swear?” says Vasja.

  “Course not, the dead speak nicely. Standard Slovene, I’d say.”

  Really interesting discussion, this. But I’ll soon need to go to the bog and empty my tank.

  In the bog it reeks to high heaven. There’s a fuckin’ awful smell of stale piss, sharp enough to slice your nose off. So many guys pissin’ and no water. Just beer. Gallons of piss. Good job no-one’s had a shite, or you’d need a nuclear warhead to get it clear. And no sign of a toilet duck or anything hygienic, like. Sometimes it’s fuckin’ sad people ain’t a bit more hygienic.

  When I come out I go to the bar for another beer. The match starts soon, need to get stocked up. I stand right next to Ščinkovec, who’s standin’ next to some guy, talkin’. The waiter’s washin’ glasses. Has to do it this very instant of course. Hallo, service!

  “I hear you’re going around talking out your arse,” says this guy to Ščinkovec and Ščinkovec just gives ’im a black look. “My lad pissed himself laughing when he told me.”

  “I didn’t say anything out of order,” says Ščinkovec. Seems he’s tryin’ very hard to get himself out of somethin’.

  “Okay, but it seemed funny to him,” says the guy. “If you’d frightened my son, you’d be trying to pull this bottle out your throat now.” Ščinkovec looks and looks, his eyes wide, tryin’ to decide what’s the best thing to say. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today, ’cause we’re going to fuck you three-nil, you just wait and see.”

  Right, now he’s really in deep shite, Ščinkovec. You can see what he’d like to say. He’d like to say come on now to the Bosnian, but he daren’t. Poor cunt, what’s he got himself into, eh? But it’s okay, there won’t be any fisticuffs today. Today’s the day for sport and outside activity. And Ščinkovec is too shit scared to say anythin’.

  * * *

  I flick through my CDs and spend quite a bit of time choosing. Not that there are that many of them, just to give her the time to say something, to tell me what’s eating her, like. Behind me, I hear Daša drinking. That’s alright as well. I take Deep Forest out. Daša probably won’t like it ’cause you can’t jump around to it. But it won’t kill her. If nothing else, she’ll at least have to open her mouth if she wants to make a comment, ask what shit is this. But nothing. Like, even when it starts to play she’s doesn’t say a word. Just stares at the ceiling.

  Well, okay, if we’re gonna be like that. I lie down on the bed next to her. The music’s pretty loud, so it’s easy enough to listen to. Even if there’s silence. Right! I can gawp at the ceiling too. And I do, for quite some time.

  It must be five fucking minutes or more before Daša stirs herself. She leans on one elbow and looks at me. Let her look. Maybe she don’t know how I can stay quiet for so long. But she don’t ask how I can last so long without asking her what’s up. But, you know, it’s easier than you think. Yeh, and can’t you hear what good music this is? I’m listening to the music. Why would it be hard to keep quiet? No, I’m not going to say anything.

  Then Daša sits up. I just see her back. Still not a word. Okay, right, two can play at this game. If she just gets up that doesn’t count as saying something. We’ll hang on a bit longer, right? The music’s still okay. Now I have the advantage that I can see what she’s up to, I can watch her from behind — not lie on my back with her gawping at me. But there’s still something not right. Watching her from the back like this. I think her shoulders are shaking a bit. She’s surely not gonna start fucking crying now, is she?

  At first I try to ignore her. I mean, why the fuck can’t she say what’s up? She can’t just fucking cry like this in front of me. Hello, did I say anything? I didn’t say anything, did I, even though I could, easily, then she really would have something to cry about. Not like this. But no, she’s not crying. More likely she’s laughing. She’s laughing ’cause the pair of us are lying next to each other on the bed sulking, not saying a word. I mean, it really is so stupid you can’t help but laugh.

  But this has already lasted a bit too long.

  What the fuck’s going on here? Is this some new form of blackmail? Like yesterday, when she buggered off into the bushes and waited for someone to come and get her? If it is, then we’ll see how long she can keep it up for. Hello, is she really crying?

  No, she fucking can’t be.

  No, it can’t be that, she can’t be after anything. I mean, if she was, she’d be more up front about it. I mean, probably, you know, she’d come right out with it. But it seems as if she doesn’t want me to know. It’s more like she’s trying to hide something, but she’s not managing too well.

  Fucking hell, I’m going to lose my cool soon. Can’t go on like this. Now I’m starting to get a lump in my throat. I mean, hello! I can’t keep on. It’s no good. How can I enjoy my hot chocolate like this? I’m getting a cramp in my
stomach. Is it really possible that I feel sorry for her? What is this shit? I mean, I’ve no time for this kind of thing — none at all.

  * * *

  “What was that about?” says Zoki, drumming on the table with his fingers.

  “What do you think?” I say, sitting down. “I really can’t be arsed today. Zahovič and the boys will stick it to them right enough, no need for me to as well.”

  “Ah,” says Zoki, his eyes wide as if he’s miming surprise. “So, you couldn’t be arsed?”

  “That’s right, old chum, couldn’t be arsed,” I say. Okay, can we drop it now? “What’s up with you lot?” I say, looking round. “Why the long faces? Are we going to order something or just sit here?”

  “Yeh, right,” says Rade, turning towards the bar. He seems happy to be able to do something now, when he couldn’t before. Go on then. “Miss!” he shouts.

  “I thought you were going to get your head knocked off,” says Beno. I give him a look and he shuts up.

  Things actually turned out alright. I deserve a pat on the back. Fine, Zoki’s going to keep rattling my cage, he won’t be able to resist. But the other three. Mirković was giving me a friendly smile the whole time, and me him. You’ve got to be generous on a day like today, haven’t you? At least I didn’t cut and run. That’s the main thing. No-one’ll be able to accuse me of that.

  It takes quite a while for the waitress to get her arse in gear. Then she comes around the counter and heads for our table. She’s carrying a tray. A fucking tray, with a glass of lemonade on it. Not the kind from a bottle, but a freshly-squeezed lemonade.

  “This,” she says, putting the lemonade in front of me, “is from the gentleman over there.”