Fužine Blues Read online

  “His neighbour.” I’m getting annoyed that we have to go into such detail. Romana, a much more important question than why I have to go to see himis how something like this came about in the first place. What’s happening with this department is bordering on the criminal. They all complain about lack of space — but none of them have to hold written exams outside, on the terrace. Except for Rodošek’s department. And at least a quarter of the rooms in the faculty are empty half the time anyway. Although notreally. Oh no, there are lectures taking place, it only seems that they are empty. But don’t tell anyone that’s how things are, because if anyone thought that a room was not being used to full capacity it may be taken away. And what then?

  When Rodošek told me what was going on — well, it’s hard to believe.

  “Do you ever see Zaman otherwise?” Romana asks.

  “Not enough to know that he had remarried...”

  That was something I couldn’t know. We haven’t seen each other for fifteen years. Since I moved out of the house, in fact. We haven’t seen each other since then.

  And seeing that he was supposed to be the guilty one. Stupid. Why him? Obnoxious as he was. Goran couldn’t stand the sight of him. But the at beginning he’d thought it was great to have him as a neighbour, someone from his field. That’s what he said at the time.

  How stupid. Well, in principle there was nothing wrong with it, if a lab assistant thought that he and an assistant professor — later an associate professor — of inorganic chemistry were close colleagues. From the same field. And at the end of the day they were. Experts, boys together. When we had a barbecue in the garden they were both overflowing with wisdom. One more than the other. The lab assistant more than the professor, then vice versa. It was quite amusing to see them compete. Jolanda, Adam’s wife, and I could only look at each other and roll our eyes.

  It was different when the coals had died down and the chops had been eaten and we had drunk several litres of the wine Adam had brought from Štajerska. Then Adam started to have a go at me. So, how are things Mrs Scientist, he began. Just waiting for my reaction. Which was never long in coming. Well, almost never.

  You think your chemicalknowledge is somehow different from ours, I said to him. It seems that you natural scientists know the least about science. About the nature of science. About what science is at any particular phase of human development. Just look at Copernicus.

  I’m not saying that weknow for sure, he said. But in our case a paradigm is replaced when a better one comes along. In the humanities, a number of theories can exist simultaneously. Not because they are all good, but because no single one can win. There’s no basis for judging them, because they don’t depend on evidence. It’s just hot air, like religion. And with you it’s so different? He had me worked up already. Read Aristotle, read Popper, read... I felt like a Christian missionary forced to debate with the leader of some primitive tribe the appropriateness of consuming the enemy’s brains, while he argues that that is the only way in which the enemy’s courage and strength can be transferred to him. So obvious, and yet so difficult to get through. And that’s what I was, according to Adam, a missionary for some eccentric religion. If he was having the discussion with the leader of the cannibals he would make clear to him that consuming the brains of defeated enemies would lead to Creutzfeldt Jakob disease. Shall I prove it to you? Here, I have a chart showing how it spreads...

  During this phase Goran was no longer amused, he just used to stare at us.

  Well, at the beginning he intervened with the occasional comment — of course, yes but, naturally — but we easily ignored him. It wasn’t easy for him. On the one hand, he felt a kind of solidarity with Adam: it’s chemistry isn’t it, and boys together, what do women know about what’s important? Admirable, male solidarity. On the other hand, as I became increasingly red in the face and my voice started to shake — how Ihate it when someone reduces me to that, and few ever did, apart from Adam, who was so chillingly persistent — well, as a guy, he eventually began to feel he somehow ought to defend his woman, as some other guy was harassing her, wasn’t he? He would insert some short comment in the style of to truly explain a poem requires knowledge, or but in chemistry one and one is always two, nothing else.

  Human intelligence and social affairs cannot be dealt with digitally, like a biochemical mechanism, I growled, the mechanism is too complex, you’ve already got chaos theory, and you need new concepts. Ah ha, replied Adam, you’ve hit upon chaos theory! If ninety per cent of the people who talk about chaos theory knew what they were talking about then it wouldn’t be such a New Age hit. By now, Goran was simply glaring at us with intense dislike. We had eluded him, gone to some other place. He looked towards Jolanda, who was calmly listening, but not taking part. A pharmacist. She didn’t like arguing.

  It was so much better between Goran and I when there was no-one around to drag us into this kind of debate. There was never any question of Goran being jealous of my profession. He was wonderfully unpeturbed by it. If he ever made fun of the title of one of my papers he did it very naturally, in a relaxed way, like when I teased him about his poking around under the bonnet of the car. And how much we had to say to each other. He knew how to listen to all my grumbling, ruminating, panic attacks, outbursts of anger. A doctor of psychology would not be so capable. And how well he could recount things. Stories from work. Stories about his father. About myfather and mother. We talked about films, about food and wine, politics, dogs, religion, plans for the house, music, about — even the weather, anything that was of interest at that moment. About that which wasn’t at all interesting, but which could becomeinteresting. And so it became, as soon as we began to talk about it.

  But we never talked about science. No wonder he got confused when he listened to us.

  And with you lot it’s so different? I asked excitedly. What about medicine, homeopathy, acupuncture — aren’t those different theories existing simultaneously? That’s not a good example, he replied coolly and inclined his glass. Medicine is right and the other two are simply worthless, because they do not deal with evidence that can be refuted. Simple. But they work, I said. Of course they don’t work, he said. Have you ever seen them work? Or just read in the paper? Alongside the news that American scientists have exceeded the speed of light or that the Ljubljana Ripper has left a severed head in front of the police station?

  Adam had only one greater predilection than inveighing against the humanities — inveighing against superstitions. Against urban myths, as he called them. No doubt due to the English books he was in the habit of reading to pass the time. He was very fond of talking about one of his colleagues, a young research assistant who was, although a natural scientist, obviously somewhat confused, at least according to Adam’s standards. If I think back to when he first told this story, the scene, I remember it so clearly that even today I could still act it out almost word for word. And how well I recall Adam’s role, regally confident like some scribe surrounded by epigones.

  The four of us are sitting on the patio, drinking beer. It’s late Saturday afternoon. The discussion is still on firm ground. Goran is still in a good mood, or rather is alreadyin a good mood as it’s his second or even third beer. That’s to say, he’s in that intermediate, happiest phase. Jolanda is stretched out in a hammock. Adam is leaning lazily on one arm, which rests on the table, half lying there and talking:

  “His hobby is investigating spontaneous combustion. You know, that celebrated phenomenon when people suddenly, without warning, catch fire and burn, and nothing remains of them except a scorched patch on the floor.”

  I sometimes wished Adam himself would combust, leaving behind only a scorched patch on the floor. I think it would be a good lesson for him, teach him to appreciate the non-scientific side of life. But knowing my luck, it would be more likely to happen to me than to him. Which would still be a great shock to Adam, but I wouldn’t get much out of it.

  “He records TV documentaries and col
lects newspaper cuttings and police reports, and intends to write a book about it one day. He has a friend in America whom he corresponds with constantly and they’re doing parallel research, each collecting all the material available at his end and informing the other if he finds anything new. Anyway, one day he’s at home when the phone rings and it’s his friend from America. And he tells him that an extremely bizarre thing has just happened...” At this point he is interrupted by a snort of laughter from Goran. The rest of us, who are also inclined to laugh, frown at Goran.

  “I know what you’re going to say, self-combustion, I can already see it” laughs Goran.

  “Don’t laugh,” protests Adam, whose lips are almost forming a smile, “this is a sad story...” But we are already laughing, if not at his story then at Goran, who is evidently enjoying himself so much that it’s infectious.

  “PLEASE! CUT IT OUT! You’ll ruin my story. What are you laughing at? YOU’LL RUIN IT!”

  “Alright, alright,” says Goran making a serious face for a moment, then he bursts out laughing again, before calming down a little.

  “His friend told him that a really bizarre thing had just happened. He had come home from work and found that his mother had spontaneously combusted. He’d found a scorched mess on the kitchen floor and her slippers next to it.”

  We all laughed until the tears flowed. Adam was happy with the result of his story. The things some people are prepared to believe, eh?And what bothered me most was why the slippers had remained untouched. Were they made of asbestos or what? What a sad scenario.

  “There was quite a lot of backbiting when he remarried,” says Romana. “He was already well past sixty and she was... how old? Around thirty, I think.”

  “I think he got divorced not long after I left the neighbourhood,” I say. “Why was it such a problem that she was younger?”

  “I think she was one of his research students.”

  “I think that she was grown up enough to know what she was doing,” I replied.

  Why am I defending him? Which woman could know in advance with Adam what she was doing? Even I was never really able to see through him completely. He knew how to spring surprises.

  I was supposed to go and ask him about a load of manure for the garden we were buying together. He evidently had, as he always had, a contact of some kind in Štajerska. We had agreed. Come at two tomorrow. He knew I was coming.

  I saw that the patio doors were open, so I came whistling across the garden, through the gate and towards the house, when I saw something moving in the window. A shadow. When I get close it seems there is something large and white flashing across the window. When I get nearer I look more closely, I stop, God knows why, so as not to attract attention. Once again, something white flashes by: a woman I don’t recognise. Naked as the day she was born. And after her rushes Adam, in a genuine Adam costume — not the euphemistic kind sketched by Renaissance painters, but the real thing, standing bravely erect. I can’t be sure, and probably never will be, whether he didn’t wink at me as he rushed past. Whether he saw me or not.

  Adam was chasing a strange woman round the apartment. I thought I would have to lean on the wall, that I would collapse among the narcissi and impatiens beneath the cherry tree. I wondered if there was any way it could be Jolanda, maybe I hadn’t seen very clearly. Impossible. I knew very well that Jolanda had gone to some event arranged by Bayer in Switzerland, because she hated such work-related trips and always complained when she had to go on one.

  I stood beside the wall next to the window for what seemed like an age. I hadn’t got a clue what to do. Eventually, when it seemed the danger was probably past, I cautiously, as quietly and quickly as I could, crept out of the garden, back on to my home territory and inside. I wanted to make myself a coffee. Somehow I never got round to it, but wandered pointlessly around the flat. Goran wasn’t at home.

  Who should I tell? Jolanda? How could I? We’d never actually been that close. Neighbours, basically. We’d never had any heated discussions like Adam and I. In any case,how? Do I invite her for a coffee? Mention it in passing over the garden fence? Drop a hint when we’re talking about the garden? No, no, out of the question — impossible, absurd. What about Goran? No way. Things were tense enough as it was. We had entered that phase when he’d already made it pretty clear he suspected something improper was cooking between me and Adam. Not that he said anythingdirectly. He couldn’t have. As soon as he said anything specific, out loud, he’d realise immediately how ridiculous he was being. You’re sleeping with Adam, you quarrel like lovers. Come on. If he’d said something like that, the absurdity of it would be apparent immediately.

  How could I say anything to him about something of a sexual nature connected with Adam? My dear, I saw our neighbour naked, chasing round the flat after his lover. He winked at me. Hey, perhaps you’re having wet dreams. That idiot with a doctorate? Are you sure he’s not after you? Or your alter ego? He’d look at me like

  Never. Could I say anything to Adam? By the way, I saw you through the window chasing some pretty girl round the living room. A colleague from work perhaps? And while we’re on the subject, what the hell do you think you’re doing winking at me when you’re after someone else? That’s really

  In the end I didn’t say a word to anyone. That was easiest, but also the most — Because of that, because of these damned secrets I was so vilely, so unwittingly dragged into, because of these secrets

  What will happen when I appear at his door again today? I’ll probably go twice round the house and peer into the garden to see if I can see anything suspicious. Once bitten, twice shy. That’s just asinine! cried the wise poet and lover of the Slovene language, Oton Župančič. But what did he know, his neighbour never staged a performance in which he sped round the room with an erection — as might happen to me today, when I have another appointment,at five. Oh yes, Mrs Višnar, we’ve revived an old hit in order to test the current relevance or universality of its theme. Yes.

  I’ll ring the bell and hover in front of the door. I’ll peer through the cellar window. And then footsteps. Footsteps and a shadow in the hall.

  Soon, he’ll open the door and squirt me with champagne.

  * * *

  Fuck me, what a life.

  The sun’s startin’ to burn, it’s hot as fuck in here. I’m half crazy from dreamin’, my mouth’s like an elephant’s arsehole. When I open my eyes I can only stare ahead at the telly. It’s off, and I can’t move my arm to reach the remote. The video display’s blinkin’ — it’s two in the afternoon.

  What kind of discussion’s that? What is science and fuck knows what else. Who gives a fuck when there’s a cold beer on the table?

  What this world needs is a bit more mindless violence, I’m tellin’ you.

  It’s clear I’ll have to get up — I need a piss and if I don’t do somethin’ about it I’ll piss myself right here and now. My legs are like jelly. It’s fuckin’ hopeless.

  Boozin’ on my own! Okay, I don’t do it all that often, just sometimes it works out like that. If there’s Formula One on. You can’t watch it without a drink. And it’s got its pluses, that kind of drinkin’ — you’ve got your couch, remote in your hand, change channels when you want, open a bottle when you want, doze off just where you are, nobody’s gonna kick you out onto the street. The cold street. No such luck.This fuckin’ heat.

  But it has its down side too. For a kick off, you look like a total wanker. Second, you end up talkin’ to yerself. And in the end you kind of forget what you were on about, what you just said, and then, I dunno, you wanna beat yerself up. Just in case, so you don’t get too cocky. Fuck it. Definite down side.

  My piss when it comes out is dark yellow, like that English beer those pricks in the Cutty Sark chuck down their necks. And it fuckin’ reeks. I can hardly wait for it to finish. So I can lean over the tap and drink some water, cold water, just water. That never dries up.

  Then I turn on the tap and — it just gurg
les. Grrhh. Hrrr.

  I look at it. For fuck’s sake. And what about the fuckin’ cistern? When I flush it kind of spurts out, nearly knocks me over, magnificent, like Niagara Falls in slow motion, spray and everythin’, and then slowly, slowly down — glup, it’s sucked inside the bowl and — nothin’. Silence, like the grave. Silence. The cistern stays empty.

  Fuckin’ water mains, fuckin’ heatin’ plant. Fuck the water company and the fuckin’ heatin’ plant and that fuckin’ poofta of a caretaker and all the fuckin’ Yugos. Cunts.

  In the fridge — no bottled water. How could I have any bottled water? From when? I slug down all the milk, three gulps. Should I open a beer? That’d be a bit much. I’ve just got up. Though thinkin’ about it, it is after two and that’s... No, okay! I’m sweatin’ from every pore, the sun’s started to burn its way into the flat, my head’s spinnin’ and I’m supposed to open a beer? It’ll finish me off.

  Pfff. What is science? What did I like at school? I went to school as well, you know? I dreamt somethin’ about Bertl yesterday, if I remember right. And Flint. And Vasja. And Trič. And about Irena. I went to school then. Chemistry was alright. Among other things, we learnt about fermentation, alcohol. What a fuckin’ day. Have I got enough energy to get on the phone? That’d be a fuckin’ major project. Those kind of things interested me. That’s reallyimportant information. Interestin’, relevant, topical. How the hell are you to know what a barman’s tryin’ to foist on you. To begin with, which of ’em are still at their old address? It’s more than ten years. Who’d have all the phone numbers? We didn’t get as far as nitroglycerine. Not then or later. Maybe we will do some time. Then we’ll spring into action. Yeh, if it’s the real fuckin’ thing. Not some fuckin’ poem la di da, and fuck knows what else.

  Got to eat somethin’.

  I sit at the table with some bread and marge and tinned meat and pickled mushrooms, and my mouth’s still so parched I can hardly chew the bastard bread. But at least the old brain’s still workin’. There’s a plan formin’. A strategy.