Fužine Blues Read online

  Let’s say, what if we… give it a go. Let’s say we call Vasja first. Still got his number. About six months ago he said he was still in Gameljne. Also said he saw some of the others sometimes. That he and Trič even worked at the same place for a while, couple of years ago. That’d be a very good start, very productive.

  Plan B. Can’t get Vasja. What then? No problem. I look for Flint’s parents’ number in the directory, the one in Šiška. I call, apologise, I’m an old friend of their son’s. Ultra polite: on which number could I reach good old Sandi?

  Maybe Flint has Trič’s number? Or someone else’s?

  What about Irena?

  Irena — I’d call ’er last. When I’d already sorted the others, who can make it, who can’t. Hey baby, listen, all the old gang ’ll be here. What’s more, I’d give ’er permission to ring all the other chicks — Marta, Sandra, Suzana, anyone who comes to mind. Right at the end — I’d be a bit more together by then. Then I’ll have to be — have to be charm itself, sharp, witty, but dignified and serious. Now I’m in no fuckin’ state to ring the speakin’ clock. Now I’m so —

  It’ll get better.

  When I’ve finished eatin’ I slouch in front of the telly and light a ciggy. I feel kind of okay. It’ll be alright. Don’t push it. Now I really think I could maybe handle a cold beer. Now I’ve eaten. I’ll have to put the blinds down on the balcony. But not yet. Not just yet. Let’s have a bit of light. When the sun’s far round enough to shine across the balcony onto the window — then — then

  What’s on the telly?

  Fuck the telly! The grand plan! Come on. Need to get ready — pen and paper, for writin’ numbers down. Come on! The plan. What about booze? Okay, I’ve got some in, but not enough. I’m a bit short of beer. Some grappa wouldn’t be bad if someone brought it. Check, go through the list. Of course Irena won’t need to bring anythin’. Women get free entrance. The only condition is that they’re on their own.

  Vasja! Vasja, drummer of the century. Legend of the Ljubljana hardcore scene. Our big concert — hardcore thrash speed death metal festival in Logatec. Lower or Upper Logatec, who gives a shite. The first and only concert of the legendary Rat Generation. A totally freaked out afternoon. It was all over before evenin’, when the locals shoved half the bands onto a bus, almost enough to tip it over. No taste, these fuckin’ yokels.

  Vasja and me had been chuckin’ it down from the start of the concert. We were supposed to be on eighth or ninth, quite late. And they’d closed the only bar in Logatec an hour before the concert to stop the young hooligans gettin’ ratted. But that didn’t phase us. We had a half litre of grappa and two litres of wine with us. So we lay there on this pile of wood and watched the skirts goin’ by. And made the odd comment. Vasja whistled now and then, but that seemed a bit crude to me.

  When I first went for a slash behind a tree I saw there was gonna be a fuck up. Saw it even more when Vasja went. Vasja could barely stand, almost keeled over when he got up. The cunt couldn’t hold his drink like the rest of us. When he didn’t have a thrash metal career and dreadlocks he stayed at home like a good boy with his schoolbooks and spent his pocket money in Italy and Austria on albums by Celtic Frost and Sodom and Kreator and Amebix. Didn’t piss away the change on a bottle in the park. Now, when his five moments of rocker’s fame was about to happen, this. Disgraceful.

  When some guy from the organisers in specs and tracksuit and black Motorhead T-shirt came to tell us we were on next we were fucked. Vasja was sprawled on the ground and just grinned when I tried to pick ’im up. Trič the guitarist was holdin’ his head. And there was no fuckin’ sign of Šaranović, the bass player.

  Tell the next lot to go on instead of us we said to the guy, we’ve got to put the finishin’ touches to our routines and all.

  Then Trič got to work. He got Vasja up, booted ’im in the arse and then made ’im run to a tree at the end of the field and back. And again. Then five quick slaps in the mush. Then through it all again, five or six times. Meanwhile, I was lookin’ for Šaranović. He was standin’ with a few tarts, a dead serious expression on his face, explainin’ just how cool he was. If he was tellin’ ’em how cool he’d be up on stage that’s a right laugh. He was more or less present at about two or three rehearsals.

  When Trič and Vasja came back, Vasja was lookin’ as sick as a parrot, but at least he was standin’ and not swayin’ too much. Kind of encouragin’, though then when we were waitin’ for the band that’d gone on instead of us to finish he asked some babe next to ’im to slap ’im a couple of times. But she didn’t want to, just stared at ’im. Another peasant, no finesse.

  Finally we were on. It was a fuckin’ weird combination of alcohol, adrenaline and god knows what hormones. Funny thing was, once I was on stage I lost the nerves that’d been keepin’ me together before. Instead, I was runnin’ on pure grappa. In place of a stage they’d got some fuckin’ trailer with one side let down. There was only about a foot between the drums and the edge. I just stood there, didn’t even realise the other three’d started playin’. I had my back to the crowd, but somethin’ told me I’d fall off if I tried to turn round.

  We really let it fuckin’ rip. Trič was hackin’ away like crazy and I was watchin’ his fingers to see what he was playin’ so I knew what to sing, ’cos Vasja was kickin’ up such a god almighty racket on the drums that I’d no idea where the fuck we were. No wonder Šaranović was havin’ such problems, standin’ on the other side. For a while he tried to look across at what Trič was doin’, then he just sat down on an amp and did somethin’ on the bass. Every now and then he stopped playin’ and just listened till he was back up to speed. I yelled into the mike so that nobody could say later I hadn’t given it my all. But I still had my back to the audience. When it was over I daren’t move ’cos of them drums. I said to Trič I’m plonkin’ myself down right here.

  Later I remember some friend said we were the most interestin’ band at the festival.

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice. Fuck, I haven’t spoken to anyone’s mother on the phone since I don’t know when.

  “Hello, is Vasja there?”

  “Hello. Who is that?” God, some people are hard work. The guy’s well past thirty and she wants to know who’s callin’.

  “I’m sorry, this is Peter, I’m a friend of your son’s.”

  She’s quiet for a moment and then she says:

  “My son is three year’s old. If you’re his friend, I’m calling the police.”

  At first I just don’t get it, and then I start to laugh out of embarrassment. How fuckin’ thick can I get? The woman on the end chuckles a bit in solidarity.

  “Then you’re not Vasja’s mother,” I say, when it seems to me that this gigglin’ into the phone won’t be enough to dig me out of the hole I’ve dug with any kind of dignity.

  “No, I’m not,” she says and also stops laughin’ out of solidarity.

  “Then you must be his girlfriend... or wife.”

  “His wife. Vasja’s not home, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah, I was a good friend of his at one time, you know?” I need to repair things a bit. “We played in a band together.”

  “A band? Is that, er...” She thinks a bit, then says: “No, I know.”

  Not very talkative, this one. ‘No. I know.’ What kind of answer’s that?

  How long ’ve you and Vasja been married?

  Maybe she’ll thaw a bit.

  “It’ll be eight years now.”

  Eight years? Is it possible she’s some tart we got together in the park with? Would it be alright to ask ’er name now? After all, she asked me. God knows.

  “So where is Vasja?” I bleat. I dunno, I’m too shagged out and hung over to get into some social experiment.

  “I don’t know, I’m afraid.” She sounds a bit tetchy. It suddenly strikes me what time it is. Three o’clock. It never occurred to me he might be at work. If he’s got a job of some kind. But she said no, she doesn’t know. Work’
s finished, if that’s where he was, she doesn’t know where he is. Probably drinkin’ somewhere. Why else would she sound so tetchy? I feel an urge to grin again, but I dunno why. I’m still so hung over it suddenly seems the world around me is takin’ some sort of shape again. Solid borders, defined boundaries. It suddenly seems that I can even feel some sort of position here, in this situation. Hey, Vasja’s not dumb enough to tell his wife where he’s drinkin’. So she could go there and hassle ’im.

  All the same, I feel a strong desire not to put the poor dear down, but to talk with ’er a bit more.

  “Do you know what a good drummer your hubby was in his time?” I ask. “Is he still involved in music?”

  “Not much,” she ways, then falls quiet. Fuckin’ hell, has she got somethin’ against me, or what? Anyway, then she says: “Sometimes he sings in the shower.”

  I start to grin, though this time it’s me who’s showin’ solidarity.

  “That’s old Vasja,” I say, although it sounds dumb even to me. Why the hell am I talkin’ to ’er, anyway? If Vasja doesn’t think it’s worth tellin’ ’er where he is, why should I bother with ’er? She’s probably as ugly as she is disagreeable. Okay, singin’ in the shower, that was friendly enough. But how am I supposed to build on that, to carry on? I don’t give a toss about their shower. I don’t even give a toss about my shower when there’s water in it. I don’t give a shite about showers normally.

  “So you’ve got a three-year-old boy?” I say, sort of at random. What a stupid fuckin’ conversation!

  “Three and a half.”

  “Listen love, Mrs Vasja, can you tell Vasja I called? Pero, from the band, he’ll remember. The number’s one-four-zero...”

  When she’s writin’ it down it suddenly comes to me she may have Trič’s number. It might be written down in some book by the phone. But I’m wastin’ my time.

  “I don’t know any Trič,” she says.

  “No?”

  “Neither that one nor any other.”

  Okay, for a minute I think of mentionin’ an address book by the phone. They might not even have one, Vasja wasn’t quite the type for address books.

  Fuckin’ hell. When I finally hang up I wanna cry. What a mornin’. What an idiotic conversation. How the fuck are we gonna get anywhere like this?

  But alright, at least I’ve achieved somethin’... I gave my phone number. Vasja’s bound to call.

  What the hell. Okay, time for plan B. Flint.

  Before I try to call Flint I go and get myself a beer. I’m gonna need it. Basically, I’m quite okay, but I’m thirsty as fuck... I’m gonna have to go to the shop. Summat to eat. Or shall I go to Jurman’s? Order a pizza or whatever — or go to the shop... I dunno, sausage, liver, somethin’ like that. Gotta have somethin’.

  Beer in hand and the directory, I sit on the floor next to the front door. I put the phone down next to me, on the rug. God, this rug’s fuckin’ filthy. It’d be nice to get the vacuum out again. What the fuck am I sayin’, nice — it’d be hygienic. How could I shag Irena, for example, on this? She’d be out of here like a shot, naked on all fours, as soon as she got close enough to the rug to see how filthy it was.

  Well, we wouldn’t do it on ...

  What the fuck, Pero, you’re fantasisin’ again.

  “Yes?” A woman’s voice again. Definitely mum this time. Flint lives — or at least he used to — with his folks in a one-bedroom flat. Nobody’d marry ’im, not even some tart he picked up off the streets.

  “Hello, Peter Sokič here,” I say. I’m already learnin’. “Could I speak to Sandi?”

  Silence at the other end. Fuckin’ silence, doesn’t look good at all. Have I called the wrong number?

  Still silence. Hello, I only wanna know if Sandi’s at home. Silence, silence. So fuckin’ uncooperative. Come on, woman, say somethin’. Anythin’ — of course, naturally, sure. Speak. Work with me here. Just silence.

  This is gettin’ ridiculous. Come on, woman, say somethin’. Tell me where to go, whatever.

  “Hello?” I say. The woman at the other end clears ’er throat, but ’er voice sounds somehow heavy, hard. But at least it’s a sound, though the voice is different, thicker.

  “Who did you say you were?”

  This is gettin’ even crazier. It feels even dumber when I repeat my name.

  “Sandi,” says the woman, and ’er voice really is different, really strange. “Sandi... Didn’t you know? Sandi has been dead for five years.”

  Fuckin’ hell. That’s so...

  My heart suddenly feels very heavy and it starts to beat hard and hollow. As if the devil ’imself was tweakin’ it. I dunno if I’m imaginin’ it or what but my ears seem to be ringin’. Such a weird, hollow noise. Like in a tunnel. Like in some fuckin’ tunnel.

  “Sandi,” I say, and it suddenly seems as if my voice is strange too. It can’t be true.

  “It’s already five years since...” says his mum, and it strikes me then she’s probably cryin’. That’s probably why ’er voice is strange. But me, no, I’m not cryin’. My voice is just like that because some bloody great weight has rolled on it and won’t fuckin’ shift. I haven’t got a clue what to say.

  Luckily, I don’t have to say anythin’. She starts tellin’ me off ’er own bat. Flint, sorry Sandi, was hit by a car five years ago. Killed instantly. It was night. He was comin’ back from somewhere, some party, middle of the night. In the middle of the road, he’d gone past the crossin’, he stopped at a traffic island, and instead of waitin’ he just went. It was the middle of the night. There was hardly any traffic but he stepped straight in front of a car. He was thrown eighty metres. Flew right across the junction.

  His mum and dad were asleep. They called ’em in the mornin’ when they’d already had breakfast and were almost on their way to work. They’d sat and ate their breakfast, bread and fish spread and yoghurt. His dad had coffee too, I remember. They’d had their breakfast and they had no idea their son was no longer alive. That it was their first mornin’ without Flint, sorry, without Sandi.

  And there’s an empty room in their flat.

  Flint. That time.

  That time we met up in the Figovec bar, then we went on to Soteska where we were meetin’ some of the others. In Soteska there was a whole gang of leather, iron and heavy boots. Hey, we’re gonna break a few heads today.

  I ordered a vodka ’cos I was feelin’ nervous. It was one hell of a night. Flint was the heavy one, the main man, he’d been around a couple of years more than me, he had authority.

  “Be careful you don’t get pissed,” he warned me. Listen to ’im, tellin’ me not to drink. I only ordered one vodka to calm my nerves. Got to get the old circulation goin’ a bit, haven’t I? I just hope I won’t need it as an anaesthetic, if they split my head open.

  We went on from there to Knaflov. On the way a couple of other groups joined us. There were about fifty of us, in full battle dress. We turned into Knaflov from Titova. That’s our territory, round Figovec. The pretty boys will come in from the other side, from the Horse’s Tail. This was never actually said, but it was clear to everyone.

  At the end of Knaflov there was a short meetin’. Final discussion. Almost time. Everyone ready? Flint was wavin’ some rubber piping — a heavy length of rubber he’d picked up god knows where, he was workin’ in some kind of workshop at the time, I think. Totally useless as a weapon, of course, but it looked like a truncheon. Looked like he was gonna conduct with it or somethin’. Just rush ’em, lads. If we go for ’em we’ll wipe the floor with ’em. Then we can hunt some of ’em down and give ’em a damn good kickin’.

  Eight o’clock sharp, into action. Here we go. We go down Knaflov. Get to the middle and look down the end — nobody. Soddin’ pooftas, where the fuck are you?

  Stop in the middle, under the big tree. Revise the plan. Shall we go to the Horse’s Tail? Pick ’em off one by one? It’s their own fault if they haven’t got together. We had a date, gang against gang. Sho
uld we split up? One lot go down Wolfova, one down Čopova. Whoever sees ’em first attack, the others get ’em from behind. But what if that first lot gets flattened before the other lot attack from behind? Some of ours’d get ripped apart on the street.

  There was no need for any discussion. Suddenly there were signs of somethin’ happenin’ at the entrance to the Horse’s Tail. Action! It’s okay, they’re on their way, just five minutes late. The pretty boys’ watches are a bit behind. Would you like a few thumps, gentlemen? No problem, we serve everythin’, take care of everythin’. What will you have?

  Fuck action plans, fuck organisation. The first in line were some fifteen-year-old punks. Stone ’em! howls some Tarzan, who looks about thirteen. All of a sudden they had stones in their hands, for fuck’s sake, some had even brought granite cobbles from somewhere in Soteska, I’d not even seen ’em before. Chaaarge, the fifteen-year-olds shrieked, so that even I started to panic a bit as stones went flyin’ through the air. The group comin’ in froze, turned and started to rush back the way they’d come as soon as the first stones landed. But there was a problem, the entrance is a narrow one, so there was quite a bottleneck. Most of ’em managed to skedaddle, but the rest fell straight into the hands of our front line. When I got there, there was fuck all left to do. One of ’em had lost his shoes, they were lyin’ in the middle of the alley, and was pinned to the wall while a horde of punks made mincemeat of ’im. Flint was tryin’ to get to ’im with his rubber pipe, but couldn’t make it. Then Tarzan picks up one of the shoes and starts to hit the guy on the head with it — his own shoe. Another one shot from the alley at such breakneck speed that he almost went under a car. Most of ’em gathered outside the entrance to the alley but they didn’t dare come towards us. It was too light and the people standin’ around the Horse’s Tail were lookin’ daggers. The pretty boys had scattered, there were one or two here and there, lookin’ innocent, like we’ve no idea what’s goin’ on here. Flint was standin’ on the pavement, castin’ nasty looks here and there, holdin’ his rubber pipe but hidden, so that any passin’ cop wouldn’t see it. Flint, the main event organiser.