Fužine Blues Page 21

  Why all this bullshit, these cretinous feelings? Did I organise a party or didn’t I? ’cause in the end you realise they’re all still basically the same underneath. Still the fuckin’ same. Okay. Just so you know I was right.

  Hey, this looks like a chance — Čeh. Čeh, a free kick. Come on pal! Come on, let’s show ’em what’s what. Cool. Come on.

  Čeh takes it. Come on, come on — Karić — bang! Zahovič! GOOAAAAL!

  * * *

  How could you have been be so damn stupid, Goran? Didn’t you know me at all? How much did I really know you? Or Adam? How can I be really sure who the stupid one was here? How can I say something like that, when I think about the game that was played with me, when I remember…

  Yes, that’s it, I remember now. To be honest, Adam was sexy that time we sat in our garden. Or when he was cutting the grass. Or when he spoke about how the social sciences were a load of hot air and drove me crazy. Yes, perhaps that was the reason he used to drive me crazy. What would I have done if those views had been expressed by some chap with thick glasses, protruding teeth and a lisp? I wouldn’t have worried too much, I’d have told him what I thought of him. Or I’d simply have shrugged. Although at the time I didn’t see it like that. I really didn’t.

  Perhaps you knew me better than I knew myself? Another fine cliché. No, it was simply like this: he was sexy, there was no more to it than that. There was nothing you could do about it, and I certainly had no intention of doing anything about it. It didn’t matter to me. It was Jolanda’s affair. I thought he had a way with children. I never had. He was so different; too different. And I had you, and that seemed more than enough to me. I’d never dared to hope for so much: a fine husband, a good job and a flat with a garden. No, I was head over heels in love with my daring young man, my lab assistant, who signed up on a course to become a chemical technician and then — God knows, perhaps further, perhaps a degree, perhaps his own small company dealing in chemicals. There was every chance of undreamed-of success. I was convinced that you were accusing me of something I was not capable of: being unfaithful to you.

  Being unfaithful! What a ridiculous idea. I wasn’t even in any state to verbally process such an idea. Processing such an idea was almost impossible for me. Dirty jokes — okay, stupid perhaps, but I can take them. But any kind of hint at such behaviour involving me would be totally ridiculous, a categorically impossible act. If I recall how I felt, how ridiculous I felt, that time when we went on an excursion to Slovene areas in Italy.

  The coffee is still hissing. I get up and go to the kitchen to pour some out. I add a drop of milk. I hope it hasn’t gone off. I bring my cup back into the room — I think I can go on the balcony now.

  We went with the students across the border to Friuli, to Cividale, to San Pietro al Natisone and so on. We ended up back on our side of the border, spent the night in Bovec. Of course, we didn’t go to bed straight away. Some of the teachers went to a café nearby, for an hour or so. And then, when we were getting ready to go, the Dean of the Faculty, Drevenšek, appeared from out of nowhere — evidently he’d been on a sort of pub crawl with the students. He’d managed to consume quite a bit in the process. Just so the students couldn’t accuse the professors of being uncommunicative. Well, one thing led to another. I don’t recall how I managed to steer the conversation round. Perhaps because I’d drunk two glasses of red wine and couldn’t extricate myself from the discussion I was having with professor Horvat about traditional Italian nationalism and the situation in bilingual areas. Anyway, I somehow managed to steer us back onto the same topic while Drevenšek was standing by the table. As a matter of fact, if I remember correctly, I was doing the talking, the others were just listening and Drevenšek was standing there.

  I recall ending my short lecture with the following declaration: “It’s simply a matter of expecting bilingualism. I mean, you don’t go into a shop and ask ‘Do you speak Slovene?’ — you simply start speaking. Only in that way can you create a situation in which equality is something entirely normal. Language will not treat you kindly if you do not treat it kindly.”

  I’ve no idea where that last sentence came from, probably from the two glasses of red wine. Then Drevenšek piped up: “Vera knows what she’s talking about, she’s orally gifted.”

  For a second or two I didn’t get it, then they all started to laugh, the women in the party somewhat shocked, but not too much. They kept looking at me to see how I’d react. I still didn’t get it.

  “What are you trying to say?” I asked.

  Drevenšek just chuckled, although now slightly awkwardly — perhaps he realised he’d been a bit near the knuckle. It was his awkwardness that gave me a hint as to what the joke was. And then I got it. And immediately turned bright red.

  * * *

  Fuckin’ hell, it’s like an explosion, half the place is jumpin’ up and down, throwin’ ’emselves about, the other half holdin’ their heads and howlin’ like wolves.

  “Awaaaay!” yells Vasja and grabs Trič’s head. Trič is laughin’ like a maniac.

  “Which one’s the whore, the one who does or the one who doesn’t?” I hear someone shoutin’ at the back. I look round. It’s Ščinkovec’s lot, one of the other four is bangin’ in rhythm on the table. There’s a racket outside. Firecrackers are rainin’ down from the blocks of flats. Fuck me, if there weren’t so many of ’em you’d not be able to hear ’em ’cos there’s so much fuckin’ noise in here. It’s a real fusillade. All the birds’ll have to fly up to Golovec hill. No, they’ll have to move from Golovec down to Dolenjsko. What am I talking about, Dolenjsko? — they’ll have to move to the forest round Kočevje for a bit of peace and quiet.

  “Beer! Give me beer!” yells Flint. Here we go, here we go, here we go. It’s gonna be a fuckin’ great match.

  Then it goes on just as you’d want it to.

  Ours are on the ball, they’ve got the wind in their sails now. Čeh, Udovič. The ball’s hardly ever in our fuckin’ half. About ten minutes later, Zahovič again, brilliant stuff, hey! Shite, no go. You haven’t got a hope in hell Yugos. Fuck it, Stojković is tryin’ somethin’ over there. Dunno why he’s botherin’, he hasn’t got a hope. Booo. The other half of the bar are almost in tears. Right before the end another chance. We’re right in front of their goal.

  “Kick it, kick the fucker,” yells Vasja. Flint is staring into space. Irena looks even less involved. The first goal woke ’er up a bit, then she started to lose interest again.

  One-nil to Slovenia. One-fuckin’-nil at half-time. Just don’t let ’em screw up in the second half. Wonder what’s happenin’ in the bettin’ shop?

  * * *

  I don’t quite get what’s happening here. I’ve always hated this kind of thing — me getting it on with someone like that, forget it. Get away from me. But now I really dunno what’s happening. Maybe because of all that sympathy for Daša crying. I feel a bit tearful myself. And all because of that wanker Mirsad. I dunno, in any normal situation Daša’s tearful snotty kisses would get on my tits. But now they don’t at all. I said I’d do anything to stop her snivelling. Yeh, anything, though I didn’t have this in mind. In fact, I didn’t have anything particular in mind, I just said it. Now I’d really like to do something. I’ve got a lump in my throat. When she gives me another kiss right on the mouth I open my lips and kiss her back. Dunno what’s got into me. Come on, Daša, stop it. I mean, hello, we’re kissing each other here. It’s totally weird. I’ve never kissed another girl on the mouth. Okay, stop it now Daša, that’s enough now.

  Dunno how to describe what I felt when my tongue brushed against hers, it was so strange. I mean, I’ve snogged often enough, it’s part of the game if you’re normal. But I’ve never felt anything like this before. Hey, Daša, stop it now. You’re breaking my heart. Stop crying, Daša, I mean it, stop crying. This is so totally weird. If Mirsad could see this. Hey, that’s a good idea. If Mirsad could see us now. I mean, that would be really wicked.

&
nbsp; All of a sudden my hand reaches out, then stops. What’s got into me? Hang on, you can’t do that. I was going to put my hand on her breast. Hang on a moment, girl. Kissing’s one thing, this is something else entirely. Friends kiss each other, they don’t go grabbing each other’s tits. I mean, I’m not a lezzy. If only Mirsad could see us. I dunno, we’ll see what happens. We’ll see. I put my hand on her breast. Daša moves slightly, but she don’t pull away, she leaves it where it is. I stroke her breasts.

  * * *

  Fuck me, I look back to Ščinkovec’s table where they’re yellin’ louder than any other Slovenes here. Even Flint looks round to see if anythin’ needs sortin’ out. A chance for a little bit of recreation.

  Ščinkovec gets up from the table. He goes across the room to the bar, under the telly. There’s the guy there that was givin’ ’im grief earlier. Next to ’im is Pašković, another neighbour of mine. He’s cheerin’ for Yugo, naturally. Ha. What the fuck has he got to say to ’im at a time like this? Good job I’m near enough to hear.

  “Hey, Mirković my old mate!” shouts Ščinkovec. “Don’t be offended about before, we’re all friends here — Slovenia, Yugoslavia, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

  Mirković looks round, Pašković as well, and the other guy who’s standin’ next to Pašković — fuck me, he looks a mean customer. If I was Ščinkovec I wouldn’t mess with ’im.

  “Who’s going to get offended, mate, we screwed you, you screwed us, now we all understand each other,” shouts Ščinkovec. “I’m no nationalist. Here, let me get you another.”

  Those three don’t look too well pleased. I fuckin’ would if someone offered me a beer. But fuck it, they’re not one-nil up. Maybe it’s a bit hard to understand how they’re feelin’ now. Ščinkovec makes as if to slap Mirković on the shoulder. Mirković doesn’t move an inch. But the evil-lookin’ one sittin’ opposite ’im is glarin’.

  Then he makes a move. Oops. He plants himself in front of Ščinkovec.

  “Listen, you ape,” he says, “you expect me to give you two thousand fucking marks? Do you?”

  Fuck me, don’t say Ščinkovec is mixed up in Mafia business now, I’d never ’ve expected that.

  “Don’t bother about that, forget about it,” shouts Ščinkovec. “Forget the marks. I’m paying, do you hear?” But the tough guy’s not listening. He points his finger at Ščinkovec’s chest.

  “The fuck you are,” he says. His eyes are wild, narrow, and he glares through the slits at Ščinkovec as if he had shite under his nose. Fuckin’ hell. Now Pašković is tryin’ to calm ’im down, but he ain’t doin’ too good a job. Ščinkovec is lookin’ a bit less enthusiastic than he was a few minutes back. No need to lose your fuckin’ cool, Yugos, if your lot are no longer a match for ours. No sweat, it’s just a little sportin’ encounter. It ain’t Ščinkovec’s fault, little loser that he is.

  But I don’t really give a shit. Let’s go outside for a spot of fresh air. It’s hotter than a cunt in here. If they’re gonna start somethin’ it can be without me. I’d rather get out the way. It’s nothin’ to do with me.

  “Shall we go out a bit?” I say to the others.

  Trič is standin’ on the table, sawin’ at a guitar.

  she swore in Ukrainian, fuck this, threw both ’er hands in the air and sat on the floor

  When we go out, the air’s so fresh I take a nice deep breath. Man, it was so fuckin’ hot in there. And smokey. And sweaty, somethin’ terrible. Good fuckin’ thing there ain’t too many evenings like that. Far too stressful. It’s good out here. Least I’m startin’ to cool down.

  A few others have come out. There’s hardly anyone at the tables out here, they were all inside. I look inside again. Ščinkovec is with his crew, lookin’ like a whipped dog. The other four are talkin’, he’s turned more towards the telly. Fuck knows what’s eatin’ ’im. But it’s his own fault, had to go stickin’ his neck out.

  “Hey,” says Vasja, so I have to look. He’s pointin’ towards the concrete plant holders at the end of the path. I see there’s somethin’ dark lyin’ on the ground. “Look at that. Do you know who it is?”

  Yeh, why do folk have to go pokin’ there noses in?

  Zlato the tramp.

  Zlato the foreign legionnaire. In shorts, with an ammunition belt and a sailor’s top. Crew cut, round head, unshaven, deep tan as if he’s been on a sunbed. Deep lines on his face. Zlato, the tramp. A legend. Leanin’ against the plant holder, snoozin’.

  “Haven’t seen him around for ages,” says Bertl, goin’ up to ’im. We all wander over and stand round Zlato. He’s sound asleep. Doesn’t give a shit. We start to laugh. I mean, look at ’im, the fuckin’ world’s fallin’ apart around ’im, there’s firecrackers rainin’ down and he’s dead to the world. He doesn’t give a monkey’s. Quite right, too. He’s got it all sorted. He’s got a network of sponsors who he tells about his adventures in the foreign legion. The stories are more and more way out. One’s about how they got attacked by these Arabs, when they were defendin’ some oasis in the desert. Another’s about how they came away from some fuckin’ mess with a crate of gold bars. And another about Korea, or one of those fuckin’ oriental places. How he’d taken his belt and knife and chucked ’em in the captain’s face — some Serb Četnik — and said he weren’t willin’ to slaughter women and children no more. The captain said, fine, we’ll shoot you. And Zlato said, go on then. And they’d stared at each other, eye to eye. Then the captain said, okay, back to Seoul with you, a military tribunal. And Zlato said, okay, I’m goin’. And he pissed off. And so on and so on. Who wouldn’t give a beer for a story like that?

  Zlato wakes up. When he sees us he blinks a bit confused, like. Then he drags himself up a bit, so he’s more sittin’ than lyin’. Then he starts to rub that round, brown nut of his. His hands are worn, his fingers fat.

  “Must have dozed off,” he says. He’s still strokin’ his head, then he grins. He’s a bit pissed, you can see that. When he grins like that you know he’s got to be pissed.

  “The guy’s immortal,” I say to Flint. He nods. Zlato looks up at me.

  “Croak, croak!” he croaks pointin’ at me. “What you yellin’ about?”

  I can’t help but grin again. Real classic Zlato that. Next thing, he’ll start tellin’ all the others they’re parrots. That’s Zlato for you. Then he’s suddenly all serious. He bangs his head with his hand.

  “Ain’t it footie today?” he shouts. “What’s the time?”

  “Nearly nine,” says Bertl, takin’ a ciggy out.

  “Bugger it!” shouts Zlato. “It’s already started!” He looks round in panic, as if to say what now, then he suddenly stops. He peers up at us. “Did you see the footie?” he asks, careful like.

  “We did,” I say.

  “What’s the score?”

  “Six-nil to Yugoslavia at half-time,” says Trič. He’s tryin’ not to smile, he looks at us and we all stay dead serious.

  “Ohhh!” groans Zlato, slappin’ his knees and lookin’ at the sky. “I knew it! Ohhh! I knew it! Bloody fuckin’ shit!”

  We all burst out laughin’, we can’t hold it in any longer, it’s just too much. I have to bend over I’m laughin’ so much. This Zlato’s quite a guy. Okay, not exactly someone for youngsters to look up to. I wouldn’t wanna become some sort of role model in my old age. But anyway.

  Where’s Irena?

  Irena’s not standin’ near Zlato. She’s gone!

  Flint is naked, he’s banging his face with the tin and beer’s running down it I need some vision of the future not just any old shite Irena

  Yeh.

  Irena’s not far off. She’s standin’ over there. She just didn’t come over to Zlato. She did come out, but when we came over here she stopped by the shop window and started lookin’ in. Clothes shop. Okay, cool, she’s still with us.

  Trič and Flint and Vasja and Bertl are still pissin’ ’emselves. But that’s not that wonderful. Irena’s fuckin’ bored. />
  Shite, it wasn’t meant to be like this. I invited her. This is not good. I’m a fuckin’ bad host.

  Irena’s bored. I’m still grinnin’, but thoughts are shootin’ through my head. Various ones. The four guys are havin’ fun, the chick ain’t.

  I mean, it’s okay if they’re havin’ fun. Won’t do any harm if I leave ’em for a bit. They know how to entertain ’emselves, don’t they?

  Yeh, Zlato’s standin’ behind the concrete plant holders and flappin’ his wings. Trič and Flint and Vasja and Bertl are clappin’. They won’t run out of laughs. Zlato strikes a bodybuilder’s pose and shows the tattoo on his right arm

  I go up to Irena.

  “What you lookin’ at?” She points at the shop window, at a thin jumper hangin’ there. Dark grey.

  “Nice top,” she says. Fuck it, I invite ’er to a party and she’s lookin at jumpers.

  “You bored?” I ask. Irena still stares at the display. Then she slowly shrugs.

  “I am a bit.”

  “Listen,” I say, but I dunno whether to ask her, dunno if it’s a good idea or not — “What if we were to leave all these football freaks and go up to my flat for a bit, eh?”

  She gives me a sideways glance.

  “Ah-ha,” she says. “And what would we do there?”

  Oh Irena, whatever your heart desires, of course.

  “I could put a bit of music on,” I say. She’s looking at me rather strict like, ’er chin slightly raised. “And we could talk a bit.” Women like talkin’. “We could talk about where the last fifteen years ’ve gone, about folk we know, about work…”

  Then I suddenly realise. No, she’s not lookin’ at strict at all. She’s lookin’naughty. She’s givin’ me a naughty look over that raised chin of ’ers. Fuck me. Wey-hey. Irena, that look, enough to drive a guy crazy. You’re lookin’ a bit naughty. Ah-hah. Yeh, well, okay. Whatever you want, Irena.