Best European Fiction 2013 (5 page)

The old man was exhaling into his wife’s hands to warm them up—the least he could do. Although it was cold in the car, the man in the suit had already begun to make himself a bit too comfortable; he’d dropped his suit jacket onto the floor, loosened his tie, unbuckled his belt, and even taken off the expensive watch that he’d been staring at so often in the dusky elevator light. Almost half-naked, he then leaned back, stretched out across the elevator’s door like a gatekeeper. They were all petrified, just waiting for his performance to end and the curtain to fall.

The following morning, the elevator finally moved up. As if some mysterious crown wheel had finally loosened, the elevator cut silently through a thick layer of air. At first, the passengers who were awake— or who were only half-asleep—thought that they were imagining things, that they were hallucinating, and that this meant they were on their last legs. Soon enough they realized that they were actually moving, but they couldn’t decide if the elevator was simply moving up to the next floor, where they were initially supposed to stop, or if it was headed for the very top of the skyscraper, or if perhaps it was about to drop back down into an eternal abyss. Regardless of what was happening—as the elevator rapidly accelerated—no one had any intention of detaching themselves from one another; their bodies were more or less glued together. Likewise, they had no intention of preparing themselves to make their long-awaited reentry into the civilized world with dignity. All they did was sit still, with no expectations at all, just sitting quietly and breathing heavily.

They only moved when the doors opened in front of them, but only to close their eyes, or cover them with whatever was at hand. An emergency team jumped right in, making sure everyone was okay. The passengers clung to the elevator’s walls as if caught on fish hooks and grabbed onto each other’s arms, making it difficult for the emergency team to coax them out onto stretchers. Even as they were exiting one by one, the paramedics couldn’t help but notice that the members of the now disbanded group were all trying to reach out to each other, perhaps waving weakly, as though hoping to schedule their next meeting as they passed each other in the hallway. Indeed, the presence of all these newcomers evoked a look of fear, uncertainty, and suspicion in the passengers’ eyes, as if the emergency crew had been sent with the express purpose of separating their little band from whatever invisible and mysterious feeling that their captivity had created, and which was now likely to be taken away from them.

When there was no one left in the elevator, and the ambulance sirens could no longer be heard, a lady with various soaps and detergents, a rag, a scrub brush, and a bucket full of water walked into the empty car. With her wet rag, she started to wipe away the thick, full lines of the drawings that covered the interior of the elevator like unobtrusive armor. Once she saw how tenacious the pencil marks were going to be, she tried to scrub them with her thick brush and some whitish powder. While bending over to rinse off her brush, she saw an old pair of glasses in the corner, seemingly abandoned, but she didn’t make any effort to pick them up.

TRANSLATED FROM MACEDONIAN BY NIKOLCHE MICKOSKI AND ELENA MITRESKA WEISS

[MONTENEGRO]

DRAGAN RADULOVIĆ

The Face

Winter in a seaside town like Budva has one advantage that makes all its shortcomings look ridiculous and insignificant—winter reduces people, things, and events to their true proportions, brings everything to light and makes it a topic of conversation. I know people who don’t like the winter, who are bored; but they don’t do anything to give meaning to their lives and instead wait for someone else to do it for them. Since that doesn’t happen, their time becomes hungry, and the emptiness in their lives grows until nothing can fill it anymore. Those people feel winter is merciless: in summer they manage to hide away, but in winter that becomes impossible, and they show themselves just the way they are—unfit for life.

In winter the men of Budva fish, booze and play cards, work on their houses, discuss politics, renovate bars and cafés, lend money and charge extortionate interest, seduce other men’s wives, and worry that their own might cuckold them … When you think about it, the “metropolis of Montenegrin tourism” only lives, in its own unique way, in winter. Whoever doesn’t fit into the rhythm of the town is condemned to vegetate on its margins—same as they would be anywhere else. But in order to fit in they first have to master a parlor game that people are very fond of in Budva: gossiping. They’re obliged to discover the attractive side of this sport and participate without worrying about the outcome. Petty souls see gossiping as something bad and unworthy, while connoisseurs of human values consider it an activity that brings people together and makes the town a more agreeable place to live. One local theoretician of winter social life, the freethinking Sniper, saw gossip as an inseparable part of the media landscape:

“Winter is a time when the men of Budva realize the ideal of direct democracy: everyone has a voice and the right to shape the sphere of public discourse through participation. And when they open the town television station everyone will get their own few minutes of fame on the screen,” he stated categorically.

Waiting for those promised few minutes, one harsh December evening I found myself in Budva’s best-known underground restaurant, Kod tužnog Tulipana (The Melancholic Tulip). Together with a few other card lovers I was playing round after exhausting round of Lora, drinking red wine, and waiting for the famous specialty of the house—Octopus Risotto in Mist. (Mists are actually extremely rare and short-lived in Budva, so this mist had nothing to do with the meteorological phenomenon; rather, it referred to the whitish film that covers people’s eyes when they get mindlessly drunk and pass out.) Malicious tongues claimed that the culinary skill of Tulip, the restaurateur, began and ended with this dish, and there was nothing apart from the mysterious name to distinguish it from any other risotto—but no one ever complained. On the contrary, since Tulip only prepared this dish once a year, it was a question of prestige for the people of Budva to be seen in his restaurant on the occasion.

All the tables were occupied that evening. I saw many familiar faces—the cream of local government, business, and the culture scene; there were also some people I didn’t know, ugly mugs who gave me a bad gut feeling. According to an established custom, dinner was served after midnight. As we ate we chatted casually, listened to the blues, and enjoyed the intimate, almost familial atmosphere of the restaurant—all up until one idiot (who Tulip then asked unambiguously to leave the premises) called on Gonzales to tell us all what happened to Geiger and why he died so suddenly.

As much as we adored gossiping about one another, there are some stories that one just does not tell: any inquiry about them is interpreted as an indecency, and the pryer loses his place in society and is branded untrustworthy. The story about what happened to Geiger had topped the town’s list of forbidden topics for several years. A fellow I know confided in me while we were fishing for mackerel off Sveti Nikola Island that he’d heard the tale from Gonzales, but he wouldn’t repeat it for me, even when I insisted. He said I wouldn’t believe him, and he couldn’t tell it well enough because he didn’t understand everything. And again, I know several people who got a fistful of salt in the ass for having hassled Gonzales; he kept a sawnoff double-barreled shotgun without a buttstock under the seat of his wheelchair (which was the basis of the morbid joke behind his nickname—he was anything but Speedy). One barrel of the shotgun had a buckshot cartridge and the other was loaded with coarsely ground salt: just which barrel he discharged depended on the type of idiot who was giving him a hard time.

The question about Geiger made Gonzales flinch in his wheelchair; he hissed several curses to himself and in the direction of the overly curious fool, but when he saw Tulip give the fellow his marching orders he acted as if he hadn’t heard and kept eating.

The evening went nicely, and when people were starting to go home, satisfied with Tulip’s risotto, Gonzales asked Tulip and me to help him to the toilet. He was an athlete at drinking but disabled when it came to negotiating the urinal. When he’d finished and wheeled himself back to the table, he ordered a bottle of wine and invited me to join him. Tulip was busy clearing away the cutlery, a drunk was snoring at the lowest point of the restaurant with his head on the table, and Gonzales filled our glasses and took a deep breath.

“Fucking jerks! As if they were really interested in what happened to Geiger—they don’t even deserve to hear his name!” Then he tilted his head to the side a little, gave me a probing glance through half-closed eyelids, as if he’d never seen me before, and asked:

“Does your brother stay in touch?”

“More or less,” I replied, realizing it would be best not to show how much I disliked talking about my brother.

“How long has he got left now?”

“Seven years.”

“What does he say? How are the jails in Australia? Does he have to kill kangaroos or make shoes for the Aborigines?”

“He doesn’t complain.”

Gonzales laughed. “A good guy, your brother. A bit of a hothead, and too harsh, but definitely good. We went to elementary school together, you know.”

“He told me about that,” I answered.

“What else did he tell you?”

“That if ever I needed anything, or got into any trouble, I could ask you for help.”

“And so you can, whatever it is. Just tell me, and I’ll sort it out.”

I nodded and muttered a scant “Thanks.”

“But you don’t get into trouble—they say you’re not like your brother at all …”

“No, I’m not,” I replied.

“What do you mean you’re not?” he asked.

“I don’t get into trouble and I’m not like my brother at all.” I probably repeated those words with a tinge of resentment in my voice, and Gonzales didn’t fail to notice.

“Hey, just a bit of fun, sonny—no hard feelings. I like to tease people. It’s all I’ve got left. And now pour us each another glass of wine and let’s bury the hatchet, all right?”

I nodded and did as he suggested. For a while we drank in silence, then he asked out of the blue:

“Are you also interested in what happened to Geiger?”

I felt awkward because, by asking that question, he was putting me into his category of fucking jerks, but I simply couldn’t say no. I was itching to find out, just like everyone else in Budva, so I aimed for the middle of the road:

“I’d like to hear, but if you don’t want to talk about it—just forget it.”

He withdrew into himself, evidently satisfied with the company he’d found, and showing no sign that my words had registered with him, and after a while he asked me what time it was.

“Ten past four,” I replied.

“Do you need to go home? Are you late for something?”

I shook my head.

“Good—” said Gonzales, “I’ll tell you what happened to Geiger. I feel like I need to tell someone tonight, and right now you’re my best choice.” He inhaled deeply several times, as deeply as he could, like a diver filling his lungs before the plunge. Then he reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew an almost new pack of cigarettes, took one out, and began:

“Geiger was in a particularly bad mood that evening. I could tell by his voice when he rang and suggested we meet at Kaktus Café. I was tired and not sure I really felt like going out at all; I’d spent the day trying to repair the boat’s motor. But in the end I decided to go out—I needed a bit of company. Geiger was sitting out on the terrace at a table next to a big cactus and sipping his whiskey; his mobile phone lay blinking with its green cyclops eye next to his pack of cigarettes. After we’d said hello he stewed in silence; he only waved to the waiter, and when the fellow finally lumbered up to the table he ordered ‘two doubles.’ I didn’t object, although I would have preferred a beer. But, ultimately, what did it matter? It didn’t make any difference what I got blasted on that night. Several attempts to engage in conversation with Geiger simply failed. Whatever I asked, he’d reply curtly and unwillingly, and when what I was saying didn’t demand a direct answer, he didn’t listen at all.

“‘Have you seen Kefir?’ I asked.

“‘I called him shortly after talking with you. He promised he’d come later.’

“Good, we’ll wait for him, I said to myself—maybe he’ll be less grumpy and more in the mood for a chat. I’d hold out for a bit longer, I thought, and then if Kefir still hadn’t arrived I’d go home for a bit of shut-eye. I felt weariness creeping over me and was starting to feel sick of it all. Just as I was beginning to sink into gloom and despondency, Kefir turned up at the gate and yelled jovially:

“‘Whereya been, ya freaks?’

“I couldn’t think of what to say back, but Geiger obliged:

“‘Up shit creek. Whereya been yourself, ya moron?’

“The question was part of the standard repartee and didn’t require an answer, so Kefir didn’t reply; he just said hello, looked at the table to see what we were drinking and, satisfied with what he saw, signaled to the waiter to repeat the order—this time with one more glass.

“Kefir’s arrival enlivened the conversation, if you could call it that at all, since he talked incessantly, while Geiger mumbled to himself and I expended the last of my energy trying to stay awake. And I definitely would have fallen asleep if there hadn’t suddenly been an uproar: a blockhead passing by our table with a few mugs of beer and a glass of tomato juice tripped on a bump in the floor, lost his balance, and spilled the drinks all over Geiger’s shirt and pants. Geiger didn’t quite realize what had happened at first, but when he saw the red stains on his clothes he smiled and slowly began to get up from the table with an expression on his face that seemed to say: Oh, never mind, these things happen: just apologize and everything’s fine.

“But Kefir and I knew very well what was brewing: Geiger had decided to beat the cretin up; he just didn’t want to frighten him with a yell and have him run away before he got his thrashing. We saw it coming: the cretin fumbled around at our feet, muttering a paltry apology, trying in vain to clean the blotches off Geiger’s pants with a tissue. Kefir held onto Geiger while I urged the poor fellow to move before it was too late. But he didn’t listen and bent down to reach the patches on Geiger’s lower trouser legs—just in the right position for Geiger to deliver a mighty kick in the head. We heard the sickening thud of the shoe connecting with his face. He recoiled and fell down on the floor, and the waiter reached for the phone to call the police. None of the cretin’s buddies showed any inclination to stand up for him. Kefir went up to the bar, paid the bill, and impressed upon the waiter that he keep this to himself. Then we left the café.