Fužine Blues Read online

  But not so spiritual that he actually went to sleep. It was a bit hard, after all, so that for some time he spun around like a chicken on a spit. Then he had a clever thought. He remembered that the girl was going to sell the ampoule and give the dosh to him, which meant that the ampoule was actually his, and he could do what he wanted with it. All very logical, if you can’t sleep. He decided to break open the ampoule, there and then, and swallow whatever was inside it. He probably didn’t know what it was. Probably didn’t care too much. But the trouble was, he was already pretty pissed, he’d picked the skirt up in some disco, after all, and they’d been drinking all evening. So that when he broke the ampoule open — in the dark and in a hurry — he cut his hands badly and blood started to spurt all over the place.

  Fuck me, I could just picture it when Iršič told me. But that wasn’t all. As the blood ran from his hands his spiritual side suddenly came to the fore. It came to him in a flash just how grateful this lassie was to him, because he was such a good person. He was such a very good person, to rescue the poor soul from the cold streets, bring her into the warmth, give her his bed and lie down on the parquet, like some kind of saint. Even better than a saint, for fuck’s sake, like Christ himself. And then, smashed and spiritual as he was, it came into his head that he was Christ. That, I don’t know, he’d risen from the dead or something.

  Well, then things went on as you might expect. He stripped down to his underpants and started to smear blood all over himself, so that he ended up looking like he’d just been dragged from the cross. And as the climax to the whole affair he decides to wake the girl and tell her the good news that Christ has risen... I tried to imagine how it was for the poor bitch to wake up in the middle of the night in a dark room and find some naked guy, covered in blood, hanging over her and blood spurting everywhere.

  Iršič jumped several feet in the air when he heard the shriek. He goes running in and the girl’s squeezed into the corner, wrapped in a blanket, shaking and staring, and in such a state of shock that she couldn’t scream any more. And this fucker Janez, he’s trying as hard as he can to soothe her, that it’s alright, that everything’s hunky dory, that the world will be a different place from now on, a fucking paradise, milk and honey, and all the time he’s bleeding on the bed like a stuck pig.

  I tried to imagine what I’d do in such a situation. But I couldn’t quite. Apparently Iršič threw our Janez out of the flat in the middle of the night, with all his stuff, including his spiritual books, plus a couple of bandages for first aid. Clear thinking, I’d call that. I can just see the young bloke, slouching around Fužine all night, naked and euphoric, bleeding hands, looking for someone to tell the good news to. Then Iršič, who in any case looks half dead to the world all day, had to spend the whole night up with this girl, who daredn’t go to bed any more, trying to repair the damage, having to listen to tales from her very efficiently fucked-up life. Blessed are the poor in spirit. If I’d been in his place, I’d have definitely tried to comfort her with a bit of pussy stroking. Women go for that, even if they’re fucked up. Soon calms them down.

  Anyway, this blood was almost impossible to paint over. It kept showing up through the paint as if it really was Christ’s. Which it can’t have been, otherwise we’d have heard more about it.

  And now our benevolent Iršič judges this poor sod so harshly because of one comment on our southern cousins that he’s prepared to bugger up the sale of the flat. It’s good that the guy takes it as some sort of joke. Fucking strange one, but still a joke. I don’t know, maybe these louse farmers have some sort of thing between them, some other way of communicating than normal folk do.

  Then, thank god, we’re leaving. In the doorway the oddball turns round again.

  “Something else I wanted to ask,” he says, “I’ve got a dog, do you think it’d be a problem — with the neighbours, I mean?”

  Iršič shrugs.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he says, “I’ve only got a cat. I’ve never had any problems.”

  The oddball’s still looking round the flat.

  “Well, that’s okay then,” he says, absent-mindedly, “I’ve only got a cat as well.” He puts his hat on his head. Now Iršič is looking at me strangely, like he’s trying to find fault. As if I’m the one to blame. But what can you do? All sorts of people sell, all sorts of people buy, what can I do about it? The art is in getting the two together — one who wants to sell, one to buy — and striking a deal, so that money changes hands. “I’ll call you,” says the oddball. Yeh, okay, you call. Our lines are always open.

  The lift seems to take forever to travel down. That’s all I’d need, to get stuck between two floors. I think I’d go bonkers.

  * * *

  Will the scaly armadillo

  Find me where I’m hiding

  Pink Floyd, Julia Dream

  Jeeesus, u pičku materinu,I’m so fucking hung over, and I didn’t even drink all that much last night. Hey, if I really had knocked it back... nah, it’s all that fucking smoking, too many motherfucking fags. I mean this partying, middle of the week, like do I really need it?

  Dumb question that, girl.

  And it was really one stonking night, totally unreal. Rožca and Jaro and Mirsad smashed through the storeroom door at the Skalca club. Well sort of, you know, we somehow got into this corridor, and like there was another door, locked, much stronger than the first. They had a go at the lock, while me and Daša laughed and kept an eye out case anyone came. Laughing like crazy we was — there’s no fucking with Mirsad’s weed. We’re out in the corridor, you know, and inside there’s crates of beer and vino.

  “Be one hell of a sight better if we was inside and couldn’t get out, eh?” says Rožca. Thought I was gonna piss myself, really. “Miles better.” Haven’t a clue how we got out, I really don’t, but we somehow landed up at Valentino’s.

  “What the hell we doing here?” I was asking. Well, far as I recall — when I’m on Mirsad’s weed, which is real dangerous stuff, like time somehow seems to go more fast, you know? And stuff keeps on happening and you just dunno where you are, like. It’s wicked. Just good it wears off quickly as it starts. Decided to lay off in future, keep my head clear, you know, watch others losing it.

  “Valentino’s is the pits.”

  We all know it’s the pits, but we keep on coming. Maybe just ’cause Mirsad’s hoping that someone from Sulec ’ll turn up looking for a punch-up. Maybe some tough guy from the Štepanca estate, so as he can stick one on him. But not now, no time for that now.

  At first I didn’t notice that Daša was becoming kinda crazy, you know?Probably ’cause of the weed, but at first she’s cool, and then she’s like totally someone else. Franz Kafka, Metamorphosis. A real pest. Quarrels with Mirsad. Course. Then she starts her usual fun and games. He just leans against the wall with his beer, Mr Cool — oh yeh, just remembered, we stopped at a shop on Puharjeva for some beer — and she decides she really has to go and hide in some bush. Attention seeking, innit? Jebem joj mamicu,motherfucker, it really is so not interesting.

  Anyone offends her or such like, she always hides in the bushes and waits for someone to come and convince her how much we all love her. Just so she gets some attention. The girl is otherwise a good friend, you know, but when she’s stoned she really is a downer. I mean, what’s all that about, giving you a look like that and then disappearing into the dark? It was all the same to me, at least at the start. But then when no-one gave a toss, I started getting bored with those three wankers. They were all as pissed as newts, and the beer kept them high. But it really bugged me that Daša was making a tit of herself in front of them.

  “When did you get home last night?” asks ćale,chomping his fried eggs. It’s amazing how much my dad can put away. It’s so not good he’s on the afternoon shift so he’s here to hassle me. At leastmajka’s not around — gone to Velenje to baka’s, my gran’s. Took three days off to go and look after her — the old bat fell down the fucking stairs. Wh
en did I get home? Hey, better not ask. I’ll just stir this sugar into my tea, better not look up ’cause I’m feeling a bit queasy. Those eggs are not helping. And it’s better he don’t see how red my eyes are. Not that I’m scared of him, he’s okay, but it’s a drag, you know?

  “Why’s Mirsad being like that?” Daša asked me, behind the bushes. “Why’s he have to be like that? I haven’t done nothing to him and he’s really fucking me about.” And what did the guy do? Nothing really. Daša wanted to snog him the whole time, but he’d had enough after a while, you know? Understandable. Couples, really get on my tits, they’re going out together so they can’t party properly no more — either they’re crawling all over each other or at each other’s throats. Then one of them acts cool and the other’s all offended. Behind some fucking bush — I mean, hello!

  If she only knew what a total dickhead Mirsad is it might be different. What am I saying — she knows all too well. As if she don’t go for every fella she lays her eyes on, then she’s beating herself up saying how could I throw myself at such a total cretin. Last three weeks she’s had the hots for Mirsad and it must be all too clear what a totalpapak he is. I mean, hello, she’s actually known him for five years, but she never seems to work out what a fella’s really like until he really starts sniffing round her and then — five years, who cares? Then she farts about for a month and all of a sudden it’s like oh-so clear to her, you know? Then she moves onto the next idiot. I mean, really. When she finally finds one that’s reasonably normal it’ll be like a public holiday in Fužine, Daša’s Sexual Independence Day. Only she won’t.

  “I’m sixteen and I’m gonna dance all night,” ćaleteases, looking at me across the table, mamicu mu, old motherfucker. Whatever, though he’s bugging me I can’t help laughing a bit.

  But it’s school this afternoon, u pičku materinu, if that’s not too fucking much.

  “Why you going on about dancing, I told you I slept at Daša’s.” ]ale, ćale,why don’t you believe me? Your little princess? I’m not lying to you, honest. I wouldn’t be seen dead on the dance floor at Valentino’s, and I really did sleep at Daša’s. Eventually, you know? Well, Mirjana and I got there at five in the morning. We were so fucking done in. I was too tired to sleep, really. And then when I did manage to drift off, Daša woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep and watched me instead. And then in the middle of the night — middle of the fucking morning more like, I mean it was around six — she starts to howl “Mirjana! Mirjana!” and when we’re both awake she says “You know, Janina, you weren’t even breathing!” I mean, hello! Jebem ji mamicu, daft cow.

  Then I go for a shower. But when I turn it on, there’s just this glugging noise. This really is too fucking much. Two plastic thingies of water next to the loo, not much of a trade. But of course, I remember, the fucking caretaker put up some semi-literate notice in the corridor. Now all I need is to get the runs, like you do when you’re hung over, and be dancing around the loo every two hours, and have to wash away that disgusting alcoholic sewage. I’d probably fall in head first, my head’s banging so much.

  I kind of wash. Least the water freshens me up a bit. When I look at myself naked in the mirror I seem to have put weight on. This is definitely not good, my girl. Some of us are going to Piran, on the coast, in three weeks, and I look positively anaemic. All I need now is to get as fat as a pig. But what can I do if the old man’s a carnivore and there’s nothing but greasy pork on the table? Be a good idea if I went over to yoghurt and biscuits for a few weeks. Rather than listening to sarcy comments again.

  When I take the top off the deodorant and bring it near my armpit, I suddenly feel very sick. That fucking dickhead.

  We did go to Valentino’s in the end — course we did, though we kept acting as if it was a waste of time. Mirjana, Danila and Sanela were there. The music got on my tits, and on Mirjana’s, so we sat right at the back, as far as we could from the speakers, while the other three went for a dance and to see if they could maybe hook some fella. Specially Daša. I think she wanted to make Mirsad jealous, you know? And more.

  Mirjana was telling me about some people round Rusjanov way. Mirjana’s from Polje but she has some friends at Rusjanov — Trobevšek and so on. Some kind of friends. She told me what’d gone down. Her and Trobevšek’s birthdays are very close, so they said they’d organise a party together at her place that weekend. But then it turned out that she wouldn’t have the place to herself, so they’d have to call it off. Anyway, then Trobevšek sorted another place, some club down his end. Now listen to this: he said she could only invite three of her friends from Polje, not who she wanted, ’cause supposedly there just wasn’t enough room in this club. I mean, hello.

  Course, Mirjana really lost it. They had a big fight. Anyway, then she found out that she would have the flat to herself, only the next weekend, not the one she first thought. So she told that lot from Rusjanov to fuck themselves. Now she’s throwing her own party the next weekend. And she’s only gonna invite those who can’t go to Trobevšek’s do.

  “You come as well,” she said, kind of quiet as if it was some big secret. I didn’t say a word ’cause I was wondering how come I didn’t know nothing about Trobevšek’s party. After all I’m supposed to be friends with the Rusjanov crowd. I’m there nearly every week, at the Malibu or the Sombrero. We used to be even better friends when we bombed around on motorbikes together. That was before Krista moved to Šiška. And now they’re having a party and I know sweet FA about it.

  “You were a problem, you know,” said Mirjana, “he made it pretty clear that he didn’t want you there either,” she added, just to make sure that I was on her side.

  “He mentioned me by name, did he?” It was a pretty transparent trick, you know, looking for solidarity and all that, but it still had an effect. It hurt me a bit, you know? So what’s this all about?

  “The Rusjanov crowd can’t stand you,” said Mirjana.

  “Why the hell not?”

  Mirjana just grinned and looked at me. Something not clear to you? In fact it isn’t. OK, I really don’t go there as much as I used to. But when my best friend lived there I was there every day. And now I’m some kind of a cunt because I don’t go there so often or what? Now Mirjana’s grinning like she’s somehow in on it.

  “They can go and fuck themselves for all I care,” I said ’cause I didn’t want to seem all upset in front of her. Specially as she was acting as if she knew something I didn’t, you know? Fine, let her decide what she wants — I agree what a fucked up lot they are, or I have a go at her as well.

  “I think that’s exactly what’s wrong. They think you’ve got an attitude problem,” she said. Attitude problem? What’s she been watching?

  “Come again?”

  “I think they think you’re a bit full of yourself,” said Mirjana.

  Then the fucking discussion came to an end. Danila and Sanela came back from the dance floor. But not alone. Daša was still throwing herself about, but the other two had made a catch. Some catch, two weirdos. One of them seemed to have glued himself to Danila — which she clearly didn’t mind. He didn’t seem too bad, quite good looking, longish blond hair. The other one looked as if he was gonna to latch onto me. Mamicu mu. I really wasn’t up for this right now. What Mirjana said had really got me down, you know? So I’m a bit full of myself, am I? Great.

  It was partly my fault, really. When he first came to the table he said: “So, girls, what can I get you?” I should’ve kept quiet. But I’d just decided that maybe I’d have another beer before I went home. But I was skint. Here was my chance. So I said I’d have a beer.

  When he brought the round over to our corner, he plonked himself next to me. Where you from? Fužine. His face dropped a bit, though not as much as I’d hoped. Would’ve been great if he’d realised he’d served his purpose. He’d brought the beer and now he could well and truly fuck off. Do you come to Valentino’s often? I was at the Central the other night, but it’s so yuppyish and
full of old tarts trying to act cool. And the doormen got pretty heavy with us. Have you ever been in the Central? Hello, you’re joking or what? You’ve got really nice hair, I really like long, dark hair. Are you at that school on Aškerčeva? I’ve got a mate who went there but he’s in the army now. Want to come along to this party in Šiška? It’s really near. Wicked.

  I so fucking hate it when guys start fighting, but now I really wanted Mirsad and Jaro and Rožca to come and get heavy with these two yokels for hitting on the Fužine babes. At least this one of mine. But they didn’t. They just stood there grinning in the distance. I think Jaro was even pointing at us, a smirk on his face. Mamicu mu.

  And so we sat there and it was hot as a cunt and I was sweating like a pig from just one beer. Just hate that, sweat pouring down my face. On top of that, my T-shirt was starting to reek from that fucking deodorant. That wanker from Šiška was almost on top of me now, almost shoving into me. Him and the feeling of sickness from the heat and the beer and the fucking deodorant was all getting mixed up in one disgusting mess, and I really couldn’t take it no more. Said I had to go the loo. When I got there I nearly threw up.

  I just stared at the mirror, then I put the deodorant back in the cabinet, I couldn’t stand it. What a disgusting feeling. Better to stink all day. Should buy a new one. Now I remembered the feeling, what that dickhead reminded me of. Who else but Gordan, another wanker from Rusjanov, fuck him.

  Gordan. Krista and I were best friends then. We were always together. And Gordan, that fucking moron, was the only one who almost came between us. But not ’cause we were both in love with him. In your dreams. But ’cause at some party when I was pissed I was making out with him. She knew what a cretin he was, but she didn’t warn me, she just watched us as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. But I mean fuck it, how was I supposed to know? He wasn’t from our crowd, how I was to know who brought him, maybe that dickhead Trobevšek. Think he was from Novo Polje or some such. Anyway, not only that, but we agreed to meet the next day in the Sombrero.