Fužine Blues Read online

  Then I’m wanderin’ in the bushes, the trees somewhere there in front, the river must be there somewhere. The ground must be here somewere, there’s certainly no-one around. They’re all watchin’ the game. Firecrackers. I hear firecrackers. They’re startin’ again. But kind of far off, like. They won’t reach me. There’s no way they’ll reach me.

  And — I hope that it’s crystal clear to everyone that this won’t lead anywhere.

  My back’s against a tree. Pressed against a tree. There’s water runnin’in front of me. I hear the river, the Ljubljanica, I smell it. There might be some ducks of some kind round here. Yeh, wouldn’t be surprised. I just hope none’ll peck me there in But this damn fuckin’ ringin’. And these bastard trees. Lined up by the water as if they’re waitin’ for inspection. Or as if they’re formin’ a defensive line. To stop the water overflowin’. To stop Golovec comin’ over. Why the fuck would Golovec want to come over? What is there on this side for it to like? Just trees standin’ here tryin’ to make some kind of boundary in the middle of fuck all. It’s as if I can feel ’em, feel ’em with my eyes closed, as if they’re starin’ at me. Why am I here? Why aren’t I watchin’ the match like normal folk? Like Trič. Like Bertl. Like Vasja. Who’e ever heard anythin’ like it? Trees lookin’ at you. Trees stand there and they don’t give a shit, birds shiftin’ about on their eggs, they let the wind rustle their leaves and drive me barmy. Fuck it, I can’t cool my head down. My blood’s poundin’. It’s throbbin’. I’ve really had a skinful. If I lean it back it doesn’t help, I just feel this slimy tree, feel how the dampness of it goes through my T-shirt onto my back. I’m wet and I don’t feel any better. No better. As if my eyes are on fire. Fuck it.

  There’s somethin’ in the air, a kind of stifled noise.

  No, I’m not gonna open my eyes. Maybe the trees have moved. Yeh, course, what else? The motherfuckers have moved. But I’m not gonna open my eyes. This bastard ringin’, I can’t hear anythin’ else, nothin’ else. Course, I can feel how they’re walkin’. They’re goin’ so slow. You can feel ’em through the air. Maybe the ground’s movin’ beneath the grass, gentle like, so you can hardly tell. There’s no point openin’ my eyes. The sky’s so fuckin’ low, so low even though it’s summer. And there should be stars. As if it wants to rub itself against the sharp points of the branches. Bugger the sky. It wants to hold me down, between the ground and the trees and the river. There’ll be no way up. But what the fuck. There’s no point.

  I close my ears, too. Motherfuckin’ bastards. But it doesn’t help much. And these fuckin’ trees. Now they’re circlin’ me, ploddin’ round me, I can feel ’em. Their looks go right through my clothes and my skin and my bones. They’re walkin’ slowly, you can feel it in the ground. Shite. What do the motherfuckers want? What do you want, you bastards? Piss off out of it. Don’t you dare come any nearer. You haven’t a clue! You just don’t get it. Why the fuck’re you starin’ at me, as if you want somethin’? Go home, there’s nothin’ to see here. I’m done here, it’s over. Fertig. Finito. That’s it. Yeh, I had quite a story, you wouldn’t credit it, mate. Are trees male or female? It’s over now. The End.

  Don’t you dare come any closer. IRENA! You never fuckin’ told me why you looked at me like that up at the Piran church. What was goin’ through your head? There was so much in mine. Was it really that funny to you that I went for Humar ’cos he was botherin’ you, or what? Irena Humar. And you never told me what you were dreamin’ that time I held your hand on the train. Didn’t you feel anythin’? It ain’t possible. I’ve been dreamin’ about it for fifteen years. You never told me… BUT HOW IS A MAN SUPPOSED TO THINK IF THERE’S THIS FUCKIN’ RINGIN’ IN HIS HEAD THE WHOLE TIME? Getting’ louder all the fuckin’ time. Fuck me, a bloke’s entitled to a little bit of peace. I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME ANY CLOSER! Don’t think I don’t know — they’re getting’ closer and closer. I’m not stupid. I’m not. I don’t want to look at you. I can’t take this bastard slurpin’ noise from the grass. You trees are fuckin’ heavy, I know what, hundred tons, sinkin’ into the soggy ground as you stomp about. If you weren’t so heavy the river would’ve washed you away long ago. Like massive crosses, wanderin’ around. What’s this now? DON’T GAWP AT ME! I should be gawpin’ at you. I’m here — someone out for a walk. When folks go for a walk they stare at trees. Or at crosses, or whatever you are. Not the other way round. That’s just not on. Exactly, yeh. All this shite. Stupid fucker. Fuck it, Irena, you never told me just what a stupid fucker I am. Sorry — you did tell me, but not clear enough, though you knew well enough. It’s your fault, you cunt from Polje, all this shite and nonsense and “Is this yours?” is your fault — did you think that’d open my eyes, rather than givin’ me the clout I deserved so I could feel all this shite and you were spoilin’ me and givin’ me looks and lettin’ me dream it’s your fault you cunt why oh why oh WHY are you comin’ so close to me you pricks! they’re standin’ almost right in front of me on that hill after I said so nicely not to come near don’t fuckin’ imagine I dunno what you’re up to I can read you like a book your intentions are crystal clear like the sky over Prematura Irena for fuck’s sake you could’ve said what a total fuckin’ idiot I was but you never even tried to make me see I never noticed that you even fuckin’ tried WHAT’S THIS NOW I can’t take this that you’re loomin’ over me and now you’d like to act like patronisin’ crosses where the fuck do you think you’re stretchin’ out this hand you must weigh at least two hundred fuckin’ kilos and what do you think you’re playin’ at do you think you’re gonna put it on my shoulder or what I couldn’t stand it my shoulder’d be crushed fuckin’ Jesus as soon as I raise this bastard paw you all fuckin’ take off somewhere so I can’t see you no more can’t open my gob fuck you wouldn’t dream you wouldn’t dream how you try to say somethin’

  “Excuse me

  * * *

  Don’t say nothin’

  This is for real

  Peter Gabriel, Digging in the Dirt

  My fucking heart’s pounding like it’s gonna jump right out. I mean, fuck Mirsad, if Dunja could see us now, or Mirjana, or Samira. If Krista could see us now she’d think we’d totally lost it. She’d think we were completely off our trolleys. It’d be like totally crazy, you know? My head’s ringing. Daša can’t never say nothing. She won’t. She can never tell no-one. This is totally crazy.

  It seems to have lasted an eternity. It seems that at least half an hour’s gone by. How do I know, I don’t have much sense of time. But when I catch sight of my cup of chocolate out the corner of my eye I see there’s a thin skin of cold cream on it. Daša and me are snogging, I never thought you could snog someone for so long without getting pissed off with it. I’m stroking her breasts, her ribs, her stomach, her thighs and she’s doing it to me. Yeh, she’s doing it to me. It feels sooo good. I love you Daša. Come on, stop crying. I love you. I’d do anything for you to stop. Though I dunno if she’s still crying or not. I just know she’s really warm and soft and she smells nice and I really like stroking her. I don’t even want to know if she’s still crying. I hope she is, ’cause I’d like to keep on stroking her to make her stop.

  When she moves her face away from mine for a moment and looks me in the eye, I see she’s not actually crying no more. Her eyes are still wet, her lips are wet, but her eyes are no longer red, she’s giving me a funny look, she’s got a funny look on her face. Dunno what exactly. As if she’s kind of studying me, you know? As if there’s something she can’t quite grasp, but she hopes I’ll give her a clue. She’s stopped crying. Why’s she stopped crying? That means we’ll have to stop.

  My hand’s on her waist. Why’s she stopped crying? Just a bit more, just so we’re sure. My hand’s on her waist. With one finger I feel her skin beneath her T-shirt. She’s soft. Let’s just try. Ever so slowly I move my hand up under her T-shirt, I move my hand up her back. It’s so wide and smooth and warm. My hand slides over it easy, it’s so smooth. When I press my hand against it
that weird feeling comes back. Daša, come on, this feeling’s too awful to let it last long. Come on, squeeze up to me, we’ll wait. Maybe it’ll pass. Or maybe not. Or it will. I’m stroking her back, my hand’s going up and down, then I feel hers, suddenly her hand’s at the front, not the back, she slides it up and reaches for my tits. Touches my bra. That’s not good. That’s not a step forward. She won’t dare to open it. I lower my shoulder and reach back with my hand under my T-shirt and undo my bra so it’s hanging off my shoulders. Daša suddenly starts to shake, so that I have to hug her again and squeeze her to me.

  “What are you doing, Janina?” she groans, as if it’s real bad. Ha. She says that to me. When it was her that did it first.

  It goes on and on. Goes on forever, do besvesti.Dunno how it manages to happen so slow, but it goes on and on, traje i traje, like forever, and it’s such a wicked feeling. We’re not in no hurry, we’re just being gentle with each other. But then, after a while, we’ve both taken off most of our clothes, to make more room for being gentle like, more skin. Daša has incredible skin, so smooth, not one spot. It’s great stroking her. I’ve got some, which I’m a bit embarrassed about. But not in front of her. I can trust her not to go blabbing about it. She’s my friend. I’m wet between the legs, like a fucking fountain, jebo mater I’ve never been this fucking wet in my life, everything’s buzzing down there, I really need Daša to do something, but I dunno what, I daren’t touch her between the legs, we’re not like that, we just stroke and comfort each other. How can I show her I want her to touch me? HOW?

  I’ve got to touch her.

  I raise myself a little and say:

  “Lie on the bed, Daša, ne boj se, don’t be afraid. Smiri se. Shhh.”

  My voice is croaky, I didn’t know it was like that, I need to clear my throat.

  She says

  “Janina, why are you talking Serbian?”

  ’cause I’m Janina, you know, not some fucking Angelica. Jebo te, right this moment it’s so fucking important, is it?

  Then the riddle gets solved and you push me up to this:

  my mouth’s full of saliva, like I’ve bitten into some bitter herb or juniper berries. My mouth’s like a broken branch, like a wet stone. It’s suddenly warm and thick, it tastes of spinach. The whole world is dim, like wet smoke, like someone pissing on a fire. Such a weird evening this, so weird. Daša opens her legs wider, so that my head between them and my stretched out body take on an alien form. Like a cross, you know? It’s so crazy. Daša lies there like a corpse. Just a little. Just a little more. You’ll come out for me. There’ll be no limits for us. Fuck limits. Fuck ’em. Fuck Daša. Angelica. That’s not me.

  Altogether it doesn’t last any longer than half an hour, then it’s all over, although it’s not, it’s never really over. I’m stretched out on my back, the skin on my stomach is wet. It’s strange. On the one hand very calm, really nice like we’ve climbed up a very high hill and we’re now on our way down, the hard work behind us and we can go and enjoy ourselves now. The end. We were good. On the other hand I’m speeding, totally high, very clear, a slight burning in my stomach — no idea from what. It was so nice. We calmed ourselves down. Okay, maybe more than that Dunja, Mirjana, Samira…This is crazy. I mean, it was totally crazy. Fucking off the wall. Daša can never tell no-one. Daša won’t tell no-one. That’d be like very heavy shit. Calm down. Just calm down.

  Daša lies next to me on her side, turned away from me, her arse trembling slightly. She’s got a nice arse. Not that I’m all that interested, you know? But Mirsad doesn’t know what he’s missing. She’s whimpering again, I know she is. I know she’s thinking of Mirsad. There’s just no helping some people.

  Anyway, fuck it, the fact is I’ll never be such good friends with Daša as I was with Krista.

  Firecrackers are raining down outside. That’s the sixth fucking time this evening, jebo mater, I somehow managed to register that during all that kissing. Six volleys, each of them pretty long. This one goes on particularly long. Six goals. A lot for one game. I’ve no idea who won. And I don’t really give a toss.

  Be the end of the school year soon. Must improve my grades. I’ve got to, so I don’t fuck up the summer. I’ve got to, so I can go down to the coast with the others. I’ve got a lot of studying to do. Then it’ll be easier. Study and study and study. What’ll I do with my life then?

  Aw, fuck it.

  A National and Linguistic Patchwork

  Matej Bogataj

  Andrej E. Skubic is one of the rising stars of Slovene fiction. His first novel, Bitter Honey (Grenki med), won two awards: for best first novel at the annual book fair and the “Kresnik” prize for novel of the year. One of the reasons is that his writing has obviously excavated its way into the new social situation marked by globalisation, multi-culturality, mixed nationality and urbanisation. Writing about the latter could in some senses be described as a new phenomenon in Slovene literature, which has in recent years been the subject of much debate and polemics. Of course, one has to talk about something and what is probably involved here is a change of mindset, for in earlier periods there were definitely some urban writers, but their approach to urban life was completely different. We are familiar with portrayals of urban life from the pre- and post-War eras, for example in the writing of Miran Jarc and Mira Mihelič, while the narratives of Peter Božič or Lojze Kovačič also take place in towns, but in the Sixties, so that the small town environment is characterised not by the disco or ‘alternative’ bar, but by socialist cafes and shabby temporary residences or, at best, sleazy bars with bad service, the gathering places of the lumpenproletariat. Skubic is thus one of highest profile writers portraying the new, fast, unpredictable and changing face of the urban environment and the position in it of the individual on the cusp of the new millennium — plus all that goes with it, such as the transition from schnapps to drugs, from jazz to techno and ‘turbofolk’, as well as the diversification of sexual practice and a kind of new romanticism — shown above all through descriptions of the social margins. Let us not forget that the downtrodden and the excluded have long been the privileged vessels of beautiful souls which, the dirtier the mess that surrounds them and in which they are submerged, the brighter they shine.

  In most of his work, Skubic deals with the social and mental margins, so that it is neither surprising nor coincidental that his prose continually addresses the problem of the divide between the local and the foreign. This tension between the familiar, the warmth and security with which we identify, and the danger of the unknown ‘out there’ is also a frequent theme of Drago Jančar’s stories, such as the novelMocking Lust (Posmehljivo poželenje), in which the hero, when finally returning to his homeland, feels his heart flutter at the image of the church on the hill, that typical, clichéd, easily-recognised Slovene motif; or he finds himself in a foreign metropolis, where he is seduced by a lady of the night and dragged into an apartment where he is robbed and then, snivelling, calls his mother for help. Facing the world at large is common enough in Slovene prose: not only the daring and juicy erotic submersions and raids on the genitalia from Andrej Morovič’s collections Divers (Potapljači) and Parachutists (Padalci), but also Polona Glavan’s Night in Europe (Noč v Evropi), a novel about InterRail travellers, a new, unscrupulous and nomadic generation. At the end of the latter prose omnibus, a collection of fragments from a journey showing what happens to various unconnected individuals on a train, all set off optimistically for a bright new future. The last few sentences of the novel indicate that this is a victorious generation before which the whole world will bend its knee. It seems that Skubic’s short story I’m not getting on that train (Nočem s tem vlakom)from the collectionMadhouse (Norišnica, 2004) is a direct response to Glavan’s novel, is in fact locked in an intertextual clinch with it: Vladimir, a retired teacher and, over-portly even in his own estimation, so much so that it must be true, travels by train, but to him only strange things happen, from a dead pigeon that accompan
ies him from one European capital to another, to the smoked sausage that he whips out in front of the conductor or indeed anybody else every time a painful, hallucinatory encounter happens, or when the whole affair could develop into a more enticing, erotic adventure.

  On the other hand, Skubic’s prose works away at the local and the domestic, digging into the most characteristic cultural intersections in order to move them away from the most stereotyped and judgemental viewpoint. Thus the novel Bitter Honey(1999) presents a group of foreigners — translators and language revisers — in Ljubljana, plus a heroine who has a cracked, schizophrenic identity, offering us both locals (Slovene readers themselves) and an international group of individuals who are willing to accept that the borders of their world are the borders of their language and thus go as marginals to the edge of their empire, as in Ovid’s Ex Ponto, an unattractive transfer to the edge of Europe. And yet the city that they experience is at the same time the Ljubljana we know from stories that are actually in circulation and accounts of titillating but verifiable events, although not exactly as described here. Bitter Honey is a translation novel not only because it deals with individuals from that profession — a large number of the characters are translators for a firm operating between English and Slovene — but also because much of its linguistic substance is based on misunderstanding, on what is lost or gained in translation, either through simple error, or literal translation, or on different mentalities coming together and bouncing off each other, all of which are perceived through language, and so the circle is complete.

  The very title of the novel Fužine Blues (Fužinski bluz, 2001) plays with both the marginal and the local: Fužine is first of all a large housing estate on the edge of Ljubljana, where in the 1970s workers from the other republics of the then Yugoslavia were given council flats leading, it is said, to certain conflicts, some of them amusing in a way and some of them less so. Thus it came to be said — and widely believed, not without a hint of malice — that at first the inhabitants of the new blocks of flats threw their bathtubs out of the bathrooms to make room for their farm animals; and there is a joke about Fužine, in which this guy, boasting in front of his relatives, says the flat is great but that every time he goes to take a drink from the well he bangs his head on the lid. At the same time, the Slovene word bluz not only refers to the lament-prone music, but is also short for the verb bluziti, which means to act confused, out of it, slightly mad — especially in reference to those who are a little crazy from grief or from narcotic substances; it conjures up a sentiment, a way of feeling the world.