Fužine Blues Page 5

  Trouble was, even the next day I didn’t work out what a total moron he was. We didn’t talk a lot, he was pretty quiet, you know — he was quiet even when there were others around, not just with me, when he wasn’t pissed, which suited me fine. At least he’s not one of those that keeps wanting to drag you off somewhere on your own. I’m going out with someone I want us to have a laugh with some others, not all that movies and romance and shit. I mean, that is so fucking boring, you know?

  Anyway, in the end I kind of worked out that the others liked taking the piss out of him. I didn’t really take much notice, didn’t realise why. But it was perhaps because every time he opened his trap he came out with something moronic. For instance, someone said they’d made a bit of money for the coast by appearing as an extra in a film. And that deadhead Gordan asked — and yeh, I know it’s stupid I didn’t notice at the time, but it’s always easier with hindsight — “Will it be in colour?” And the whole time Krista was giving me funny looks and I couldn’t understand why. Didn’t even ask me to go with her to the loo and warn me, in private like. I mean, you’d think you’re best friend ’d do that, wouldn’t you?

  And at the end, when it was almost ten, Gordan had even walked me home. I still thought he was alright at that point. But then, when we’d had a kiss in front of the entrance and he’d already turned to go back to the Sombrero, he said something that left me totally confused, and even in the lift I was still trying to work out whether it was something really cool and clever, just I was to dumb to understand, or complete brain-dead stupidity, you know? But fuck it, before the lift got to the eleventh floor I’d realised what a total moron he was. He’d said: “We’re alright together, aren’t we? Maybe we could go out together for a couple of months.”

  But the final straw came next day, when I saw Krista. She rang downstairs, then came up and asked: “We must get something straight: did you fuck Gordan?” I thought I was gonna have a stroke.

  “Then be ready for some funny looks in the Sombrero,” she said. “Gordan came back an hour after he’d left with you, saying that he’d shagged you in the underpass near the tobacco factory.”

  I was almost climbing the walls for about an hour before she managed to calm me down. That jerk. He’d go out with me — for a couple of months. Krista was grinning like crazy. She told me all about him, what a papak he was.

  Evidently he he’d been very much into drugs. He’d gone all hippy and when he met some of the crowd from Fužine he was like, wow, yeh, Fužine, known drugs centre and all that. Could anyone sell him a bit of grass? They all grinned at him and then Veljo brought him ten grammes of sage tea. Careful, he said, it’s not the best stuff, you’ve got to down a couple of beers first, then it’s like totally mega. He really went for it. He was hanging round the Sombrero reeking of burnt leaves. Best of all was that he really seemed to get high, he was staggering around and barking at people at the bus stop.

  Then some real shit went down at home. The thing was, he was stealing tablets from his mum, like everything from aspirin onwards, and putting them in matchboxes and writing on them LSD and ECSTASY and so on. Had a very impressive collection of hard drugs. Then one day his mum found them and called the police. I mean, he was crying his eyes out and trying to tell her they were just ordinary tablets. Course, she didn’t believe him — I mean, what’s better, to think your son’s a drug addict, or that he’s a total papak who writes acid on a box of aspirin? Whichever way, you’re fucked, you know? It was only when the police did an analysis and let her know it was all harmless that she calmed down and let him go out again.

  And I’d snogged someone like that. That was the worst. I felt like fucking throwing up, you know?

  From then on I decided I’d never make out with any fella until I knew something about him — who and what he was. Trouble is, when I’m pissed I don’t think straight no more, you know? So lately it probably looks as if I don’t want to snog no-one. Let them think what they want. Let them think I’m stuck up. They probably think that anyway.

  When I go back into the kitchen, ćale gets up from the table.

  “Stric Mladen is coming over to eat this evening,” he says. “We’re going to watch the match together at the Rosso Nero.”

  Something tenses inside me. Stric Mladen. My uncle’s coming round. Yeh, as soon as majka isn’t here, around comes stric Mladen and they’re out drinking. Can’t watch the game at home. All the better, far as I’m concerned. Better I stay home.

  “Hope you’ve recovered by then,” says ćale.

  2.

  Can’t last all morning at home — too many frisky people around, or rather one too many. Too many not enough hungover, you know? Get my school bag ready and go down an hour before I usually do. Eat a little, instead of lunch, so I feel a bit better. I’ll have something else later. I’ll see Daša at school, see how she is, and we’re gonna meet up later anyway, go out. For now I’ll just check out who’s outside, like. And I think the fresh air ’ll do me good, you know?

  A stroke of luck. Soon as I get down to the entrance I see Miran going past. Going to the flats next door. To his girlie, of course. They’re gonna skive off school together again.

  Soon as I shove the doors open I hiss at him. Here, man, so I’m not on my own.

  “Ciao bella,” he immediately makes one of his usual friendly, but rather stupid faces. Miran’s such a friendly guy. Mainly ’cause eighty per cent of the time he’s so stoned out his head that everything around him seems soft and cool, like. Looks a bit under the influence now, though not heavily, you know? Looks quite talkative.

  “Off to Samira’s?” I have to ask, just to be polite. What else can you do, shouting after someone else’s fella in front of the flats?

  “Yeh, Samira’s,” he says, but he slowly starts to drift in my direction. I lean against the iron railing and him against the pillar.Mamicu mu, he looks well stoned. Can’t even come to Samira’s for a romantic rendezvous without toking on a joint. Seems funny to me, you know? I need to rag him a bit about this.

  “Samira told me you’re really okay, you know,” I say. He looks at me so dumb I add: “Real gentle.”

  “Oh yeh,” he says, and gives me a strange look, as if he’s not quite sure what I’m up to here. But I only want to see how he reacts. “Yeh, I’m always like that,” he says. “I’m always gentle with the ladies. Can’t help it. It’s in my character. Anyway, it seems the right thing to me.”

  “Oh it is,” I say. “That’s real nice.” He’s still not sure whether I’m having him on or not. So in the end, gentle or not, he decides to go on the offensive.

  “You still without a bloke, then?” he asks, swaying a bit. Cheeky cunt, what’s it to him?

  “Yeh,” I reply. “But I get as much as I want.” Kind of nonchalant, as much as I can. Free as a bird and so on. “Got a couple of irons in the fire, you know,” I add quickly, without going too far. “Only as much as I need, though. Arsing about, you know? Don’t want anything too serious, like.” Then I quickly seize the initiative again. “Miran, you know what, I’ll be at home a couple of hours on my own this evening, the old man’s going with my uncle to watch the footie at the Rosso Nero. It’d be a laugh of you came round to mine instead of Samira’s. Make her a bit jealous, you know? She’s been breaking your balls a lot recently.”

  “To yours?” he blinks and stares. “Yeh, that’d be a good laugh.” Then he suddenly gets serious. Surely he hasn’t come down all of a sudden? “Nah, that wouldn’t be very nice. I don’t do things like that.” As he’s still looking at me I grin at him, then he asks by the by: “Why you say Samira’s breaking my balls?”

  Course, she hasn’t been. Not as much as she should. These gentle types need well and truly screwing, so they multiply, you know? I mean, if my fella walked around smashed all the time, so he could hardly string a few words together. That really is not so good. Her biggest problem’s that she can’t stop crawling all over him, so that he can hardly move an inch without her
. Though he seems okay with that. He seems cool with it — looks like a cat that likes being stroked. That’s her problem, that she don’t know how to be difficult. Not like Daša, for example.

  I remember how Samira fell for Trobevšek once. He pretended to be oh-so-nice at the beginning and she was in at the deep end. He even had to avoid her a bit, so she didn’t show him up, you know? And that’s how it went on for a month or two. Then out of the blue he went crazy, like. For her, I mean. Surprise to me, at least. Dunno what she did to win him over. I had my theories, you know, but anyway, I mean, it was hard to believe, she was only fifteen and she didn’t say anything. We were mates, she’d have said if she was doing anything with him. Some I wasn’t so close to were willing to tell me. Mirjana, for example. I’d only just got to know her when she came from Polje to the Malibu, I’d only seen her about five times and she says to me: “You know I shagged Rožca at the party on Friday?” I was gobsmacked. “My first time,” she went on, full of herself. “I was so pissed,” she added, as if to keep a bit of dignity, she wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t got tanked up first. “And,” I asked, “how was it?” “It was sooo good,” she said. Then she saw that I really wanted to hear more, no-one had ever really talked to me about it and I wanted to know what it was really like. “Would’ve been great if Rožca hadn’t been totally ratted and after half an hour rolling about he fell asleep on top of me. Otherwise, it was alright, you know, but he went at it so damn slow, as if he had to suss out every five minutes what he were actually up to.” That was when I decided I’d wait till I was sixteen before I shagged anyone, ’cause maybe by then I’d know someone a bit more normal who I could lose my cherry with.

  Where was I? Anyway, in the end, Trobevšek really fell for Samira, and for about three days they were a happy couple, like Hollywood, you know? Then Samira suddenly starts to look miserable. “I’ve had it up to here with him,” she says one day. “He slobbers like a dog when we kiss. And he shoves his tongue down my throat like he’s after choking me.” “Why don’t you give him the elbow?” I ask. And she says, typical Samira, “But I’ve put so much effort into him. He’s sweet, anyway. How can I give him the elbow when he’s so in love with me?” And so it went on. Another fucking two months, mamicu ji,until he gave her the elbow, accusing her of sleeping with Gordan. Yeh, the total moron. Now thatreally wasn’t true.

  That’s what I mean. Samira really doesn’t know how to mess anyone about. Miran can be totally high and she’ll just put up with it, you know, even give him more cash.

  “Is Samira still a virgin?” he suddenly asks. I’m gobsmacked. Where’s he got that from?

  “How the hell should I know?” I reply. “What does she say?”

  “Told me she was.”

  And we look at each other. My brain’s working overtime to see what I can say to take advantage of this, to fuck with his head a bit about coming up to mine. Not that I specially want to get him upstairs, just to see what he’d do. But I couldn’t say anything, there wasn’t time. The entrance door opened and Jaro peered out. In a tracksuit. Looked like shit. He held the door and leant out and looked around to see who was there.

  “Hi, Janina,” he said then. But only when he’d convinced himself there was no-one else more worthy of his fucking attention, like.

  Fuck him. When he’s sober he is so fucking not interesting.

  “You sober?” he asks me. As if I’d been so very pissed.

  “Are you?”

  Then he drags himself out and leans next to Miran.

  “Good job the cops didn’t get us all yesterday”, he says.

  “What were you up to?” The three of them vanished from Valentino’s last night and there was no sign of them when we went to Daša’s. Another reason why Daša’ll be totally pissed off today, Mirsad sneaking off like that without even a goodbye.

  “We met this Swede,” says Jaro, with a grin, all full of himself.

  “A Swede from Sweden, like?”

  “Yeh.”

  ”And?”

  “Went to the Ilirija for a swim.”

  You total cunts. Without us. To the Ilirija for a swim. That’s such a good laugh. We’ve already been there together. It was great. Over the wall, no-one sees you in the dark, then into the pool. Bit hard to convince guys when they’re pissed to look away while you strip and get in the water. Then it’s sooo wicked. The guys sniffed out another drink, a beer and a Stock someone had left on the bar or something. It would’ve been alright swimming yesterday, a bit cold maybe. At least enough to shake some sense into that pea brain from Šiška.

  “Without us,” I couldn’t help saying. Immediately regretted it. As if I was getting at him, or something, offended like.

  “Good job you didn’t come, the cops turned up.”

  Then he explained.

  Rožca, Mirsad and him were well out of it and were clumsy as hell when it came to the wall, they just couldn’t climb up. This Swede they’d found somewhere at Valentino’s — some young guy who’d come here to do a bit of research into the night life — was a real athlete and was up there in no time. He perched on the top and watched for a while as the cripples below threw themselves at the wall and fell about laughing. Then he lowered himself to the other side. Straight away there was shouting — stop! police! hands up! stop!Mamicu jim, the motherfuckers were already at the pool. Seems someone ’d complained the bar ’d been broken into, or something, you know?

  Those three immediately sobered up and shoutedRun Stefan, run then they fucked off straight back to Valentino’s. Brave lads. They left their Swedish friend to the police. That’s what Miran said.

  “Good we left him on his own, he could handle them much better than we could,” says Jaro.

  What a laugh, eh? They went back to Valentino’s for a beer, then back outside again, and they all felt sooo sorry, what’ll happen to Stefan now, will the cops deport him to Scandinavia? As if they were real cut up about it. Then all of a sudden, Stefan the Swede reappears. Your cops are crazy, he says. He’s soaking wet, the water’s streaming off him.

  What had happened was the cops had grabbed him and asked, what’re you doing here, Mr EU? And he’d said, nothing, I came for a swim. And they said, what, on your own? And he said, these friends he’d met, he wasn’t sure of their names, had said you could come here and swim at night. The police grinned at him and said, ah-ha, you’ve come for a swim, then? And he said, yeh. So they said, okay, swim. What, right now, he asked. Yeh, into the water with you.

  And he had to jump in with his clothes on. And swim. And when he’d done a length they asked him if it was alright. Yes, sir! Carry on then. So he swam another length, and another, and another. When it looked as if he’d drown — he still had his clothes and shoes on — they told him to get out, never let them set eyes on him again, ’cause he’d be straight down the nick, then straight back to Sweden and he’d be banned from Slovenia for the next five years.

  Crazy. But this Swede thought it was wicked, you know, big adventure. When he goes back to Stockholm he can tell everyone how he fought with Balkan paramilitaries in a public swimming pool in Ljubljana.

  “Good job he was Swedish,” says Miran. “If he was Iranian or some such they’d have tied a rock round his neck before they shoved him in.”

  “You think so?” says Jaro. “Then they’d have to pay to have the pool disinfected.”

  The door opens and I have to turn round to see if it’s anyone we know. Course it is — Dragana, in person. From the fifth floor. Wow, if only you could see her. She’s so tarted up, middle of the day, ready for school. She’s always sooo perfectly turned out. God only knows when some prince in shining armour will come riding out of the distance.

  “Hi,” she says. “How are you?”

  “Not so bad,” says Miran, squinting into the sun. He is though. The sun is up, the sky is blue, and he’s as stoned as a rabbit.

  “Where were you yesterday evening?” asks Jaro. Dragana laughs and flutters her eyelashe
s.

  “At home,” she says. “Had to be on my best behaviour. Family visit. My uncle.”

  Stric. Three cheers.

  Suddenly our neighbour, Ščinkovec, appears. Jaro and me say hello. Jaro even opens the door for him. He says hello and looks at me as he goes past. Well, mainly at my sise. Dunno why I wear these V-neck tops if the only ones who notice are geriatric old farts like Ščinkovec. He’s such a total cretin, such apapak. He’s a bigger fucking Yugo than the Serb lads. If I just think of a jerk like him ogling me and if I even think of him touching me I feel nauseous. Repulsive. Dunno why ćale was laughing about him today. I didn’t really listen to what he was saying, but I know he mentioned him.

  There you go, Dragana, three cheers for uncles. And stric Mladen is coming round to ours today.

  “Uncle Mladen’s coming round to ours today,” I tell Jaro, just to hear his reaction. “Him and my dad are going to watch the footie at the Rosso Nero.” I don’t have to wait. Jaro reacts exactly as I thought he would.

  “Your uncle’s gonna be in the Rosso Nero this evening?” he says. He suddenly looks a lot less dopey than he did before, you know?

  Dunno what Mirsad has told him about Mladen. Probably what a cool dude he is. A real cool dude, yeh. A small fish, though, otherwise he wouldn’t have bought a flat in Fužine. He’d have built a house somewhere out near Trzin. And that’s exactly what they like about him, that he’s not so far above them, he’s almost one of them.

  Stric Mladen. StricMladen. ]ale is not all that keen on him, on his younger brother. ]ale has no time for shady business. Probably don’t really know — and don’t want to know — what Mladen actuallydoes for a living. I don’t think he was all that happy when Mladen moved into the neighbourhood and he has to see him more often. And now maybe he has to know what he’s involved in. And I don’t like it either. Gives me the shivers like, when I see him.