Fužine Blues Page 20

  Oh fuck… Mirković really is one mean son of a bitch.

  * * *

  “Come on, Daša,” I say, still lying down. She’s still sitting there with her shoulders shaking, sobbing. Yeh, she really is sobbing, you can hear it even with the music. She’s not putting it on. I slowly pull myself up, sit just behind her, put my hand on her shoulder. She don’t move. Fine, at least she don’t shake me off. I shuffle forward a bit, till I’m beside her. She’s looking down, her face wet, her mouth kind of twisted. And my stomach is fluttering as I put my arm round her and pull her towards me. “Come on, Daša, what is it?” Still not a word. “Why are you crying for such a budala?”

  She shivers in my arms. Then she finally speaks. After all this time she finally says something.

  “I know he’s an idiot,” she sobs. “I know the whole thing’s stupid. But what can I do, I love him so much.”

  “Come on, come on.” At last. We’re finally going to talk. That’s the main thing. Then we can work it all out. I pull her more towards me and she sobs. She’s pressing her cheek against my neck. I can feel her tears. Why is it that she has to cry like this over some fella? Specially one with no real future. If it was mainly about reproduction, as some professor might say, then he’s not a very promising male of the species, not likely to father very good offspring. Why the fuck are you crying so, Daša?

  I put my arm round the head that’s pressing against my neck and stroke it. Shit, if anything she’s crying more than before — at least before she was trying to hide it, now she’s simply howling. She’s not at all embarrassed. We’re not gonna get nowhere like this. Now I really do feel sorry for her, that feeling in my stomach, but I dunno what to do, how to help. I’d really like to help. I’d do anything to make her feel a bit better, to make her stop, like, ’cause it’s fucking hurting me too, down in my stomach. I squeeze her head even tighter — must be fucking hurting by now.

  Then a surprise.

  Daša suddenly pulls her head from my embrace and looks up at me. Then she starts kissing me. Kissing me on my cheeks, then around my mouth, then right on the mouth. Okay, no problem. No need to panic, it’s no big deal, friends kissing. But not so fucking hard! Not so hard! Okay, stop is now for Christ’s sake!

  “Janina,” she says, “you’re so nice, you’re such a good friend. I really love you, Janina. And I know you love me.”

  Yeh, course I do. But don’t kick up such a fuss about it, please. Course I love you, Daša.

  * * *

  When I drift back into the room they’ve already switched the telly on. About time. The match is gonna start any minute, they’re already showin’ the ground, the teams are out, warmin’ up. Not long now. I’m sittin’ nicely on the couch, strangely enough next to Irena. She looks great, she’s got tight jeans on and a tight black top. Her hair’s like it always is — bit mousey, short on top and stickin’ up a bit, longer at the sides.

  Irena, I never told you this — not at that party of yours. It was only a small do — you only invited a few blokes, just a handpicked few. Probably ones that wouldn’t get too heavy. I was fuckin’ honoured. No Trič, no Bertl. Flint was sat there in an armchair, suppin’ rum. And Humar. What was he doin’ there, eh? Why was he there? Should’ve got kicked out.

  But tons of chicks, thank god.

  Don’t know how it happened that Mirjana attached herself to me. I certainly didn’t do anythin’ to encourage ’er, I swear. She obviously took a fancy to me or somethin’. Parked herself next to me and hung on my every word.

  I mean, how could I not like it? I’m only fuckin’ flesh and blood, after all. And I was gettin’ more and more stoned. Marta was rollin’ up the whole time, I was smokin’ one after the other, and the chick was sittin’ next to me pissin’ herself at every stupid thing I said. Who wouldn’t like that? Any normal person would.

  Then there’s one part of the do I don’t really remember much about, but I remember wakin’ up in your folks’ bedroom, naked as the day I was born, with Mirjana lying naked next to me. My prick was so red I thought at first I’d done myself an injury — but no, it came off when I rubbed it a bit. It was Mirjana’s blood, she was obviously a virgin. And I thought to myself, what fuckin’ kind of star performance did she get from me for ’er first time? But I didn’t give a shit. What was I doin’ with ’er? I didn’t choose ’er, that’s for certain. It wasn’t all clear to me, but that much was. I vaguely remembered she’d seemed okay, really, even with a few breaks and a bit of dozin’ in between. So all in all, a successful evenin’.

  I hoped she wouldn’t wake up. I crept downstairs, looked in the livin’ room. What a fuckin’ mess — tins and bottles and tab ends and skins everywhere. Flint still asleep in the armchair, some guy I didn’t know on the carpet next to ’im. No chicks anywhere. You were probably in your room. There was still some rum in Flint’s bottle. I had a few slugs, took a couple of ciggies from his packet and skedaddled.

  How did I drag myself to the number eleven bus? The sun was blazin’ down, it was about six in the morning, so it wasn’t too hot, but it was fuckin’ bright. How it flowed all over the fields. I felt kinda flabby from the night before, though the rum was coursin’ through me so I didn’t give a toss. The smoke from the ciggy was hackin’ at my burnt lungs. I had a virgin’s blood on my prick as I walked through that terrible brightness, you’d invited me to your select party, everythin’ was a crazy green, I smoked and thought — hey, cool Irena, I wish I could always leave your place like this.

  “What’s up, love?” I say. She’s moves away a bit. Maybe half an inch more than I care for. But no sweat. It looks as if things haven’t changed too much.

  “I’m really going to enjoy the next two hours,” she says. And I can’t help grinnin’.

  “You know, if it gets too much we can always go back to my place a bit, private party,” I say. She pulls a face.

  “I don’t think it’s going to be that bad.”

  Hey, Irena, Irena. No, not bad. As long as you’re here.

  Anyway, then it starts.

  * * *

  I don’t even need to look. It’s absolutely clear. This bleeding Mirković just doesn’t know when to stop. And after we’d talked it over so nicely. And now these four are just fucking looking at me. What do I do now?

  “A large beer for me,” says Marjan. He looks as if he’s regretting coming to watch football in Fužine.

  “Oh-oh,” says Zoki.

  Now think. Quickly. You need to do something fast. But what? I’m not going to drink Mirković’s lemonade, that would be too much. And I’m not going to throw it in his face across the bar. That’s no way to behave. I mean, this place is right next to where I live, for fuck’s sake, they’d ban me. Think, Igor, think.

  “I’ll have a beer as well,” says Rade. Zoki’s still looking at me.

  “I’ll have another whisky,” I say, pushing the lemonade away from me. “And take this back, please.” I think it over some more. No, that’s nothing. I’ve got to do something else, so they can see I’ve had my say as well. So it won’t look as if I’m shitting myself. And they’re not going to leave me in peace just like that. “And you know what,” I say, “give the three who sent this a double whisky each, on me.” I turn towards the other four. “If he’s so hard up he has to send lemonade, I’ll help him steady his nerves before the match,” I explain. “So they don’t think I’m some poor sod cadging a drink.”

  Good. I like it. The waitress turns and goes. I’m glad I thought of this, I’m pleased with it. Even if I’m a bit short of cash myself. Later on, when we’re all talking or when the match is on, I’ll have to make a discreet visit to the cash machine. No problem. We’ll sort it out. I think I’ve handled it pretty wisely. Like Solomon himself.

  Good, it seems things have calmed down a bit. Marjan, Beno and Rade are yacking again. Zoki’s a bit quieter, but he’s listening to them, not staring at me. I’m not altogether relaxed, I keep looking over towards those three. They’r
e talking. They don’t seem too concerned about me. Only when the waitress puts three double whiskies in front of them do they show any interest. Thank god she gave them good measures. Then they start to talk somewhat louder. Mirković and Rottweiler Pašković look at me briefly, but neighbour Pašković has his back towards me and can’t even be bothered to turn round. Probably doesn’t want to offend a neighbour. Good thing, too. Then the other two start to laugh out loud, Rottweiler Pašković looks in my direction again and even neighbour Pašković’s shoulders are shaking. But they don’t do anything. They just carry on talking.

  It’s humming now in the bar. There’s quite a crowd directly below the TV, but we still have a great view from our table. You can see the pitch, the teams standing there ready. This is going to be one hell of an evening. One hell of an evening.

  * * *

  Hm, bit of a mess to begin with. Not very promisin’. Zahovič is mincin’ around the pitch like some poofta. The ball’s movin’, of course, but it ain’t goin’ nowhere in particular. It’s all very slow somehow. Or that’s how it seems to me. Nobody says anythin’, they’re all just starin’ at the screen. But the stands are cool. It’s great to see ’em. There’s a lot more of our fans than the fuckin’ Yugos, or there seem to be. I know a couple of lads who’ve gone there — not from my crowd, bit younger. They say there’s about three thousand of ’em.

  Then suddenly. Oh fuck!

  “Fuck!” Vasja jumps up. “Go on!”

  We’re in front of their goal. That’s — hey, even Irena, who’s actin’ as if she doesn’t give a toss, is lookin’ excited. Yeh, yeh — fuck it, Milinović… Milinović, the cunt. The fuckin’ cunt.

  “Shite!” says Trič, on his feet, ready to jump in the air, then he flops back down.

  Fuckin’ shite. Gettin’ up our hopes like that. Fuck it. Okay. Let’s have more of that. Here we go!

  I look around a bit. It’s so fuckin’ packed. Wherever you look, eyes fixed, mouths open, chins floppin’ down. The volume level keeps goin’ up and down, from total silence to explosions of cursin’. One moment you can hear a pin drop, even the glasses behind the bar stop clinkin’. There’s just the commentator’s voice.

  I’ve got a strange feelin’. As if I’m a bit removed, watchin’ it all from outside. Weird bloody feelin’, but cool at the same time. I mean, it’s all pretty cool, really — Irena, for fuck’s sake, Bertl — why the fuck couldn’t he come? ’cos of fuckin’ work, for fuck’s sake — that shouldn’t stop you. And some fuckin’course. Oh, come on, Bertl, give me a fuckin’ break. I didn’t believe you for a moment. But on the other hand —

  What other fuckin’ hand? I don’t give a shit about the other hand.

  There’s somethin’ not quite right. I’m not used to watchin’ games in a bar. Fuckin’ football, anyway. I’m only into the championship. And I mean, this bar, in Fužine. I never usually go to places here. I always go into town for a beer. I only ever come in here when I go to the shop, to quench my thirst before I go back up. Maybe that’s it. Yeh, it’s probably just that.

  Flint’s flappin’ his wings.

  * * *

  When I unlock the door I’m greeted by a wave of heat. It breathes on me. I forgot to put the blinds down before I went — typical. Anyway, it probably makes no great difference. Just let me undress, get some air moving through the flat, have a shower — then it’ll be alright. Then I’ll see if there’s anything worth watching.

  So, the first thing I establish is that I won’t be having a shower — the water’s still off. Oh well, later. There’ll certainly be some, they said by the evening. At least I can take my things off. I put on an old robe, a shabby thing. I feel best in something soft at this point, something that will be gentle with me. No-one knows what I’ve been through today. And when I come from the bathroom, the flat really does seem somewhat cooler.

  At least a little. I close the bedroom window, but leave the spare room and the balcony open. The balcony’s cooling down a little — I’ll probably be able to have a coffee out there. It doesn’t bother me drinking coffee in the evening — never has. I’d have to drink about a litre before it stopped me from sleeping. I go into the kitchen and get the caffetiere ready. I fill it with water from a bottle, put coffee in, turn the electric ring on, stand there for a moment.

  Damn! I don’t know what’s got into me, but at that moment I want nothing more than to hurl the caffetiere at the wall, metal and water and all, so that the coffee flies out all over the kitchen and the living room. Even if I crack the tiles. Even if I stain the wall with coffee grounds. Even if it all runs down behind the cooker and sugar-crazed ants come running out. Even if — oh, I don’t know, if I knock that vase off the table…

  Huh, what a typical way of thinking. I won’t move from word to deed like that. I’m more a woman of words. Deeds are not my strong point.

  Okay, if that’s how it is, it’s better that I sit down and deal with words.

  * * *

  Kovačević — he can be fuckin’ dangerous. Wasn’t he a national hero, Kovačević? Sava Kovačević. But, HEY, HEY — Dabanović defends, of course, Dabanović, my old chum. What do you mean, Sava Kovačević? — here’s a fuckin’ hero! FUCKIN’ HERO!

  “Kill the bastard! Break his legs!” screams Vasja. He looks at us then grins wide when he sees us grinnin’ at ’im. It’s goin’ good. No shite, no weird feelings, what weird feelings? This is fuckin’ heaven, yeh, we’re in fuckin’ heaven.

  But, you know? I dunno what’s fuckin’ wrong. But I remember when I had the same feelin’. Very similar. When I went in the army. I remember when I first looked out the plane window, down at the Montenegrin mountains — such a weird feelin’. Really weird. I said to myself, if this plane crashes I don’t give a shit, I really don’t give a shit. The next year’s not goin’ to be livin’ anyway, away from Ljubljana, away from my mates, no life at all, let it fuckin’ crash. I don’t give a shit.

  I mean, away from my mates. Pretty hopeless then, anyway. Half my mates were in the army, the other half goin’ in six months. When I had my goin’ away do there were only a few of ’em there. Vasja and Flint ’d got called up six months earlier. Bertl went five days before me. Trič in six months, though at the party he was actin’ more of a tough guy than I was, but what the fuck, I was so fuckin’ down. What the fuck did I have to keep me in Ljubljana? Or anywhere for that matter? It was mainly kids then when we got together, in Lenin Park, on the roundabout. Kids. The young crowd.

  And what about when I came back? No sign of Irena. No-one even knew where she was. All the chicks from Polje had vanished — Irena, Marta, Sandra, Mirjana. Back to Polje, I suppose. I’ve no idea really. Bertl — Bertl came back from the army and signed up for law. Okay, that was no problem. He was still out and about, still goin’ at it hammer and tongs. He was really into Roman law, always had some cool story to tell about some Roman emperor or senators. Caligula. He was Roman emperor. Bertl told us how his horse drowned in some river, so he commanded his soldiers to wade in and whip it as punishment. Bit of a lad, that Caligula. You could have a fuckin’ wild time hangin’ out with ’im.

  Trič wasn’t in the army long before he started to act mad. It ain’t everyone that can do that — you’ve got to be the kind that’s not embarrassed by anythin’. Pretendin’ to be mad ain’t easy. He went there with hair down to his arse and he was carryin’ a furry frog with ’im. When it came to the barbers he tried to get away and he started cryin’ when they shaved his head. Worse came when they wanted to take his things and send ’em to Ljubljana. They tried to take his frog away and he went bananas. He got into a fight with the corporal over that frog and when they finally got it away from ’im he threw himself on the ground and started howlin’. Like some three-year-old in a supermarket. The soldiers just stood there givin’ ’im dirty looks. When he’d finally driven everyone half crazy with his racket they gave ’im his frog back. Then he hugged it and made such a happy face. After three weeks he was back home.
Even before he was sworn in. There ain’t half been some lucky bastards.

  But so what, he was only back on the scene a year when he started hangin’ out with a different crowd, those alternative types, oh-so cool. We saw less and less of ’im. Then I saw ’im occasionally at the K4 club, with these others like. But he just nodded from a distance, he only said anythin’ if you ran right into ’im. We were all right fuckin’ offended. Fuckin’ Judas. But what, I can’t really hold it against ’im. They all did the same, just some sooner, some later. Soon Vasja wasn’t around — he was always studyin’a bit, even when Bertl jacked it in. But he kept changin’ track. One year mining, the next at the arts faculty. Then he suddenly started comin’ round less. He was out with the other students or somethin’. Finally, I don’t recall when, he told us somethin’ about this trek from Litija to Čatež, or somewhere. They drank some new wine in Čatež, got right pissed and sang Slovene folk songs. Ethnologists or some such. Idiot. But what the hell. If I see ’im these days okay, he’s better dressed, but he’s still basically the same. He can’t fuckin’ hide that. He’s still the same underneath. He’s still the same Vasja who wore dreadlocks and played the drums at Logatec, stoned out his head.

  What about Flint? It was about the same time Bertl disappeared, if I remember rightly. They’d got in with another crowd as well. Rockers of some kind, from the other side of town. They didn’t go to Figovec, but to the Hunter or somewhere. It really bothered me that they didn’t once invite me. I’d have gone for sure. Rather them than those kids. But they didn’t. And even they were kind of driftin’ apart already. Bertl was always a bit more serious, Flint didn’t give a shit about anythin’. Bertl was more into chasin’ skirt, Flint more into drinkin’ When I met ’im at Metelkova a couple of years back he was totally ratted, no longer a dude — even tried to cadge some change off me. I mean, okay, we all go on the cadge if we’re short of cash, we’ve all done it. But at that fuckin’ age. If you’re askin’ for change at that age you’re a fuckin’ down and out. No wonder he became like he did. That’s not fuckin’ cool, Flint, not fuckin’ cool at all.