Life Deluxe (5 page)

Natalie walked out and met Viktor by the gate. He almost looked like a dwarf in the front seat of his X6. Just as he rolled up the driveway, a green Volvo crawled up behind him. For a brief second, she thought Viktor’d been stupid enough to bring a friend. But then the car disappeared off into the darkness of the street.

Parked in the garage were Dad’s two cars, Mom’s Renault Clio, and Natalie’s own Golf that’d been a present on her eighteenth birthday. Viktor had to park outside in the driveway. The wheels crunched on the gravel. He lifted one hand from the wheel and waved to her.

Mom met them in the entranceway. She was dressed in a pair of black slacks and a sheer blouse from Dries Van Noten that was almost completely see-through. Her belt was from Gucci with a G-shaped buckle.

She approached Viktor. Put on her happiest face. Her broadest smile. Purred in her Serbian accent.

“Hi there, Viktor. It is nice to meet you. We hear soooo much about you.”

She leaned forward. Her face against Viktor’s face. Her mouth by Viktor’s cheek. He hesitated for a second too long, unfamiliar with the greeting ceremony. But he got it at last. Almost kissed Mom the right way—it should’ve been two kisses on the right cheek, but it’d have to do.

They went into Dad’s library.

Radovan was sitting in his leather armchair as usual. Dark blue blazer. Light corduroy pants. Gold cufflinks with the family’s symbol on them—Dad’d designed it himself—a curlicue K with three royal crowns above it. Their family crest now.

There was dark wallpaper in the library. Bookshelves along the walls. On the walls, above the shelves: framed maps, paintings, and icons. Europe and the Balkans. The lovely blue Danube. The battle at Kosovo Polje. The Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. History’s heroes. A portrait of Karađorđe. The holy Sava. Most of all—maps of Serbia and Montenegro.

Mom almost pushed Natalie into the room, one hand on her lower back. Dad rose when he saw Viktor.

“So, you’re my daughter’s boyfriend?” Dad shook his hand.

“Sweet library,” Viktor said.

Radovan sat down in his armchair again. Didn’t respond. Just picked up the bottle that was placed on the side table and poured out two glasses.
Rakia
—as expected.

“Have a seat. It’ll be a little while before dinner is ready.”

That was Dad’s way of saying that Mom could go back out into the kitchen and continue prepping.

Viktor sat down in the other armchair. Straight-backed, almost leaning forward slightly. He looked attentive, ready.

Natalie turned around. Closed her eyes briefly.

Walked out.

Dad liked good food. He and Mom’d visited her in Paris over a long weekend. On Saturday they’d rented a car and driven to the Champagne district. In the afternoon they checked into a hotel in a small village with an authentic feel to it. A wooden reception desk, an old hotel porter in a white shirt and black vest with a broad moustache. The rooms were small with red wall-to-wall carpeting and creaky beds. The view: miles and miles of vineyards stretched out.

Dad’d knocked on the door and poked his head in. Said in Serbian, “Froggy. We’re eating. I made a reservation eight weeks ago. The food is pretty good, I hear.”

“Eight weeks ago? That sounds totally crazy.”

“Hold that thought until you try the food.” Dad smiled and winked at her.

Afterward Natalie looked up the restaurant. She found it in the
Guide Michelin
—it had three stars and was ranked as the best place in all of Champagne. Louise, who she shared an apartment with in Paris, just shrieked when she heard about it. “Oh my god! That’s, like, so cool! Next time you just have to let me come.”

Mom finished preparing the food. The meze dishes were served on square platters.
Burek, peĉena
, sausage, the smoked, air-dried beef. The
kajmac-cheese
in a glass bowl. It smelled like
ajvar
and
vegeta
seasoning, but that was always the way Mom’s food smelled. Natalie’d missed her cooking. In Paris, she hard-lined the LCHF diet—low carb high fat, which, in France, mostly meant
chèvre chaud
and lamb cutlets. It’s not like Mom always cooked according to traditional recipes. She often used recipes from
The Naked Chef
or some health food cookbook. But when Dad ate with them, he wanted food that he was certain he would like.

Mom sent Natalie out to the dining room with napkins. White, pressed, with the family crest embroidered on them. They were to be folded like cones and placed in the crystal glasses, which also had the family crest engraved on them. She could do it blindfolded.

She went back into the kitchen.

“I’m so happy you’re home again,” Mom said.

“I know. You say that every day.”

“Yes, but I feel it today especially, when we’re cooking this kind of food and eating in the dining room and everything.”

Natalie sat down on a stool. It had hinges in its middle so that it could be folded up to become a short ladder.

“Is he a good guy?” Mom asked.

“Viktor?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He’s okay. But we’re not getting married or anything. And anyway, we can’t talk about him now when he’s here.”

“He doesn’t understand Serbian, does he? And you know we just want the best for you.”

The door opened. Dad and Viktor walked into the kitchen.

Natalie tried to read Viktor’s face.

A half an hour later. The meze plates’d been carried out. Natalie was helping Mom in the kitchen. The first half’d gone well. Viktor’d told them a little about himself: about his business with cars and boats. His plans for the future. It felt okay: Dad wasn’t interrogating him Guantánamo style, took it easy instead. Mom mostly asked about his parents and siblings.

Viktor was a good talker. Natalie was usually impressed by him. That was one of the things she liked about Viktor—he could talk to anyone. It helped him in his business. And it helped him when he ended up in trouble. And it didn’t hurt that he looked good—he was a beefier version of Bradley Cooper, one of her fave actors. She and he were suited for each other. They shared views on a lot of things: the need for a plush financial situation, an appropriate attitude toward strangers and the State, the right social circle. Viktor seemed like a guy on the rise—she hoped.

He prattled on. Fired off sharp comments about his business—stuff that, with any luck, would impress Dad. He tried to ask counterquestions, acted interested in Mom and Dad’s newly remodeled kitchen, their summer home in Serbia, the nice silver cutlery with the family crest engraved on it—maybe he’d prepared.

The main course was served. Pork belly, onions,
sremska
, fried potatoes.

Radovan raised his wineglass. “Viktor, my friend. Do you know what the difference is between a Swedish and a Serbian pork belly?”

Viktor shook his head, tried to look genuinely interested.

“We don’t put beer in our food.”

“All right, but it looks good all the same.”

“I can promise you that is it is. Because that’s the way it is with us Serbs. We don’t have anything against taking a shot or drinking fine alcohol. But we don’t
need
it. It’s not something we have to dump into every dish in order for it to taste good. Do you understand?”

Viktor kept his wineglass raised. “Sounds interesting.”

Dad didn’t say anything, but he kept holding his wineglass in his hand.

Natalie waited. Microseconds as long as minutes. She looked down at the pork belly.

Dad’s voice broke the gridlock, “All right then, cheers. And once again, welcome to our home.”

An hour and a half later. Dinner was over. The dessert:
baklava, schlag
, and cake’d been eaten. Coffee’d been drunk. The cognac, Hennessy XO: drained from the glasses.

It was time. Viktor’s smile muscles were probably sore by now.

Natalie wanted to go out tonight. Maybe sleep over at Viktor’s place after. Or rather: she would be allowed to leave with Viktor only if Dad was satisfied.

They rose from the table. Natalie eyed Dad the whole time. His dinosaur movements. Slow and goal-oriented, the head living a life of its own: it swung back and forth—right, left, left, right—even though the rest of the body was still. She tried to meet his eyes. Get a pleased expression. A wink. A nod.

Nothing. Why did he have to play this game?

They were standing in the hall, ready to put their jackets on. Their coats were hanging behind some drapery.

Natalie didn’t plan on folding. If Dad didn’t want her to go with Viktor, he’d have to say it straight out. Viktor’s jacket rustled, a black North Face, so thick and downy that it could probably handle fifty below. Natalie slipped her feet into her Uggs. Then she put on her rabbit fur vest—it was warm, but probably not half as warm as Viktor’s Michelin coat.

Mom prattled on: about what road was best for them to drive, when they were going to see each other tomorrow, how nice it’d been to meet Viktor.

Dad remained silent. He stood, just watching them. Waiting.

Viktor opened the door. Cold air blew in.

A car rolled past out on the street—it may have been the same green Volvo that she’d seen earlier.

They took a step out through the door. She was standing with her side to the door. Half her body in the light from home and the other half outside. She saw Dad out of the corner of her eye. She turned around. Looked at him head on.

“See you tomorrow,” Mom said.

“I’ll call. Love you,” Natalie said.

Radovan took a step forward. He leaned out through the door. His torso out in the cold. A thin cloud of steam rose from his mouth.

“Viktor.”

Viktor turned to him.

“Drive carefully,” Dad said.

Natalie smiled inside. They walked toward Viktor’s car.

The street was quiet.

Jorge was sitting in an armchair. Eyeing the place—his own digs. His café—
his
.

Him: a dude who ran this place.

Him: a dude who
owned
something.

At the same time: still shadyish.

Dig it. J-boy: Chillentuna’s ghetto Latino
numero uno
, ex-coke king with a reputation—was sitting on an ordinary fucking business. Worked an ordinary fucking gig. Paid a protection fee like an ordinary fucking bar Sven.

He saw his face reflected in the windows facing out toward the street. The closely cropped, curly hair was smoothed back. The five o’clock shadow looked good. Dark, sharp, well-plucked eyebrows, but above them: wrinkles. He must’ve gotten those in the pen. Or else it was the sun in Thailand that’d carved the lines into his forehead.

He remembered what he’d looked like during the year after his prison break. The memory still made him grin. The escape with a capital E: a magical attack on the Swedish corrections machine, a
blatte
display with class, a clear signal to all the brothas on the inside:
Yes, we can
. Jorge Royale: the
blatte
who fucked the screws straight up the dirty, salsa-style. The homebody who busted out of Österåker with the help of a few bed sheets and a hook made from a basketball hoop. The
blatte
who’d disappeared without a trace. Slam dunk—took his bow and split.
Hasta luego
, Big Brother.

Back then: the man, the myth. The legend.

Nowadays: that was all a long time ago. He’d lived on the lam. Sweden’s Most Wanted, like a fucking murderer. Remade himself. Rocked a new look—
el zambo macanudo
. Nigga Jorge in the free world. Tricked his old homeboys, tricked the pigs, tricked a whole bunch of family. But hadn’t tricked the Yugos. Mrado Slovovic, Mr. R’s piece-of-shit slugger,
had found him, pounded him real good. But they didn’t win. Jorge rose from the ashes and shook Stockholm like a storm.

And then: he’d jumped ship, gone to Thailand to get away from it all. But in the end, he came home again—he didn’t really know why. Maybe it just got too boring.

The authorities collared him. What’d he expected? To live on the lam for the rest of his life? Only white-collar criminals and old Nazis who’d changed their names and bought houses in Buenos Aires did shit like that.