“Erol, off to war again?”
“Well, I don’t know, I’ve heard all kinds of things . . .”
Sobotka used his hand to stop the young man who was championing higher pay, and told him, “I think I know you, too. Your father used to work with me, right?”
“Yes, he did. I’m Branoš.”
“Branoš, Arman’s son. I remember you hanging around during the strike. You brought us food, played the guitar.”
“Yeah, that was awesome hanging out with all of you then.”
“I can see some of it rubbed off on you.”
“You mean my thinking’s from then? Maybe,” said Branoš, smiling. “I’d almost forgotten all that.”
• • •
I, too, used to work at the factory. These days I’m out walking the dog. I walk the dog all the time and I’m fine. Can’t complain, there’s nobody to complain to because a complaint should be addressed to someone, and if there’s no one to hear me out, I can’t complain, nor do I care to complain to those who’d like me to, just so they can hear me complaining, because everyone has to complain about something and everybody has to get spat on, because they made us complain so much. I won’t, no way will I complain in vain since there’s nobody to hear it, so instead I’m cheerful. And I walk the dog, and I run with the dog, and I bound, and I whoop. The dog’s happy, I am glad for him, he’s genuinely happy, and when I see him happy, I’m happy, too. We’re two happy pals.
I often walk the dog around the factory. I dance and bound with my dog, my pal. You can’t find a truer pal in this land of bought-and-sold souls, whose lice make my body itch when I feel them all over, they make my ass and my brain itch when I feel them and then I don’t feel them; the lice, the souls and the demons of their victory over the other me, whom they routed, unlike the quirky-silly me, itching from their headless lice; I once saw a soldier who had them, the buddy of a dead man who killed himself to avoid the killing; my son, my child once born.
Walking on eggshells around it all, I’m watching; something’s swirling and sucking me in; Sobotka is bringing in people, dragging them around, buckling them up; they’re huffing and puffing into their hands, they’re sudden, it’s as if they aren’t drunk, or just a little drunk, I don’t drink, it’s bad for me so I avoid it, only the postman and I don’t drink around here, both of us are crazy; he hasn’t figured this out yet.
But Sobotka is buckling these people up and delivering them to the factory and it looks like they’re doing something that’s just plain weird. Maybe they’re stealing something or someone, that’s what I’ve been wondering, but they don’t strike me as the stealing kind. Stealing has been rare ever since the numbers showed up on the hill, right next to the sacred apparition; I went to see it after the death and there they were, the numbers, on the righthand side, nobody but me saw the numbers, just me, I was the only one who saw the numbers next to the sacred apparition, strange! But from a distance I’m keeping close watch on the men with Sobotka. My sight has become more acute ever since I started talking less, and I can see them clearly. They aren’t walking as if they’re stealing, they aren’t looking back at their souls, they aren’t stooped like they’ve lost their minds, no. They look like they are really doing something, standing tall, calling to each other like workers, clearing out the trash, cleaning up. They’re bundled up, wearing big gloves, covered in dust like abandoned cars. They look almost like the old days, which is so weird and makes me feel numb all over, and I don’t know why this terrifies me, but it terrifies me and sends me shivering, as if it’s summoning me and howling in the distance, calling me to a life so far away that it cracked wide open, a vast yawn, something long gone from the prevailing reality or the map of the world. There’s no hole there for shimmying up the rope, up there, down there, in-between, I don’t know, to the place where I left everything but myself and the dog. So I stop by the chain-link fence before and behind the world while they’re cheering alone in time; and with goose bumps rising like weeds I jut out like a bramble by the fence, and go numb until it’s too intense. Then I get up and go, because it’s time to walk the dog, that’s my job, my rhythm, my song.
• • •
Oleg started packing and Nikola perched on the antique settee, the almost-new genuine leather beneath him squeaking with his every move. Or was it leatherette, he wondered, his beer resting on a stout-legged coffee table. He was watching the TV in the living room, and he was warm. The cavernous manor, hats off to the landlord, had proper central heating.
After he finished watching a euphoric report on an independent winemaker hoping to export his products to Western markets, Nikola went over to Oleg and asked, “Can you explain to me, one more time, what’s up with the self-organization thing? Why run things this way?”
I told you already, thought Oleg, but you were probably buzzed on your pills.
“What do you mean, why? They self-organize! We’re clueless. And we can’t bring in somebody new to build a 1980s turbine, either. Nobody knows that stuff anymore! We’d have to go to him no matter what. So, this way or that, they’re in charge. Look, we’re relying on these people. And what did I do?”
Nikola could see on Oleg’s face that he was about to come up with the cleverest thing in the world, and maybe the funniest, too.
“I offered it to them as a privilege!” he said, throwing up his hands. “Self-organization! Freedom. Do it your way. Which means they matter, they’ll feel better. Besides, this way, they won’t think of me as a tycoon and a usurper.”
Oleg was choosing his words. He had to make sure it didn’t look as if he’d done this because he felt Nikola was incompetent. Which was mostly true. But he had to look after him.
“Hmm, but what if they start giving us a hard time? He hasn’t worked since socialism. He says he only knows the old ways, and if you let him organize according to what he knows . . .”
“I want him to feel comfortable on his own turf. I told him I’m in charge of the finances. Who cares how they divvy up the work among themselves? They used to have a director and were paid a salary before as well, so they will now again. But get this: they haven’t even seen the money yet and they’re already cleaning. That’s what we’re after. If he’s motivated, he’ll bring in more people. Where would we be without that? Should we keep track of whether they’re coming in on time?”
“I’m fine with that. But long-term—”
“Look, I know what I’m up to. If things get messy, we can always fall back on the Labor Law—today’s, know what I’m saying? But we need them on our side. We need enthusiastic men to do the job as if this were their own factory. They can think they’re managing themselves, whatever, who cares. You just have to supervise them, keep a polite distance, if there’s a need to intervene down the line . . . we’ll put our heads together.”
His idea was to give Nikola more of a sense of security, perhaps even a little élan, because he saw Nikola was feeling more depressed than usual. Oleg wasn’t surprised. The town didn’t really seem like a barrel of fun.
Nikola hadn’t expected he’d be feeling this dismal fear of being alone; something he hadn’t felt since childhood. As he watched Oleg’s fancy footwork, one part of his brain saw himself take his suitcase, pack to go with Oleg, and tell him, There, fucked up yet again.
But he couldn’t do that to Oleg, so, again, he sat down in front of the TV; coming up next was a report from Slobomir, a brand-new town.
The news truck was trundling through the wastelands, its windshield wipers on, and then it pulled up in front of a sign that said Slobomir.
“Expatriate Slobodan Miličević, who made his millions as a real estate broker in Chicago, came up with the idea of building a new town in his homeland.” At the same time as the voice-over, a man with long gray hair and a shovel laid the cornerstone before a crowd of people.
“This businessman is a prime example of a man who
built everything he has with his own two hands. Ten years ago he published his autobiography, How I Made It. A sequel, he says, is in the works.”
The reporter surveys the people in the crowd for their opinions. Nikola cracked open another beer. Someone in the crowd says, “Slobodan Miličević has already renovated several churches in the area, and we believe . . .”
“Why not build a town here? Everything will be close at hand.” Nikola used to work in television, so he knew all about what went on offscreen and with the editing. The reporter is talking to Slobodan Miličević, and his wife is standing next to him in front of the Slobomir sign “Slobomir will develop as a private town with a managing director. We’re building the first Disneyland east of Paris, the fourth in the world. The creative team in charge of the development plans for Slobomir has sketched a Disneyland theme park with eleven lakes across an area of some twenty-five acres. We’re planning to build a huge aquarium, marinas for yachts, and lagoons with magical boats, a zoo with local and wild animals, an array of entertainment rides and heated pools, shopping centers and a private university.”
“What will the population of Slobomir be, do you think?” asks the reporter.
“I’m thinking thirty to forty thousand people.”
The news truck pulls out of Slobomir, the wipers working while the reporter’s voice-over concludes, “As John Fitzgerald Kennedy would say, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country!’”
“It’s a shame you missed this report!” Nikola shouted to Oleg. “There are other people with ideas here.”
“Hey, Nikola, trust me why don’t you!” said Oleg, bringing a bottle of beer for himself. “This is not just an ‘idea.’”
“This guy here is totally in with the times. A private town!” He gave a reluctant laugh. “While we’re . . . set in our ways.”
“Hey, don’t lose faith in me. Let’s have one for the road!”
“Let’s. And don’t forget where you parked me.”
“Johnny B. Goode,” Oleg laughed, raising his glass, and threw one arm over Nikola’s shoulder. “And you will be the leader of a big old band.”
“Now you want us to sing, too?” said Nikola in an effort to remain glum.
Too bad the bastard was leaving; he loved this clown.
• • •
Sobotka walked out of the store with a bottle of rakija and approached the group that was hopping in the slush with a plastic bottle of wine.
He opened the rakija and took a swig, then offered the bottle to the lanky guy with the hangdog face and the cigarette, who seemed nearly sober.
“Come on, Sken, take one.”
Skender took a swig and said, “What’s up?”
“You’re not going to believe this, but something actually is.”
A sturdy guy with a potato-shaped red nose and husky voice joined in: “I’ve heard rumors, but they don’t believe me.”
“You’ve heard right.”
“If it ain’t a scam,” said Skender.
“We’ll see about that. I should say right now, we still haven’t seen the money. They say it’s coming. But we’re doing everything our way,” Sobotka said. “Why don’t you come by?”
“Sounds fishy to me. But I ain’t got nothing better to do.”
“I could come, too,” added the guy with the potato-shaped nose.
“You could, Zulko. Whoever wants to apply should come, and we’ll see.”
“Check out Mr. Crazy,” someone said. “Seems like he’s really into marching today.”
The man with the dog marched past the slippers shop. When he noticed them, he shifted direction so they were facing his back, and then shouted, as if he were selling something, “Cunt! Libera!”
He could still be heard as he turned the corner.
• • •
Gigo was a mid-rank functionary in the county administration. A reasonably cheerful man, if circumstances so dictated he wouldn’t hesitate to befriend someone on the spur of the moment. They spent twenty minutes at the desk. Oleg showed him his papers; Gigo invited him to lunch. They went to an old restaurant by a water mill, where they could hear the murmur of the water. Gigo was a regular there.
Oleg slotted him into the category of people who had nothing to hide because they believed in nothing. He knew the type—capable of forgetting what happened one day and treating it as something unrealistic the next.
Gigo was friendly, nodding as if agreeing with every thought Oleg offered.
Ever since he was a small-time Socialist Youth official, through his time as a mid-rank operative for one of the national parties during the war, all the way to his office in the county administration, Gigo followed every going trend as if it were the law. He’d read up on them in the newspapers he checked daily, watch a couple of TV news reports, and then mix it all up.
He was rational; he was said to be savvy about business.
“I’ve been told the state has plans for the factory,” said Oleg.
“I don’t know where that’s coming from. They’re dreaming, someone blurts out something, they wait. You can’t explain things to some people. There’s no state in the picture. What state? The state can’t do anything, that’s what the market is for. But people, especially the people here, since they fought in the war and all, think something’s here just because there are borders.”
“What was the war like around there? Nasty?”
“Not so bad. They’ve always been somewhat on the sidelines. In fact, that particular municipality, if you ask me . . . Can I be straight with you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“If you ask me, people there are a little strange. You’ll hear words there you won’t hear anywhere else. All sorts ended up hiding out in those mountains. Who knows what’s there? I don’t even think they do.”
“Okay, so there are Muslims, Catholics, Orthodox Christians, a bit of everything, that I do know.”
“Yes, but there are also other groups who identify themselves as, um . . . They say some of them have been in the mountains since the Roman Empire.”
“The Roman Empire?” This seemed a bit over the top for Oleg.
“I don’t know, man, a professor told me about them. I can’t even remember everything he said. All sorts seek shelter in the mountains while the new powers or new laws pass through the valleys. When the professor told me this, I remember thinking: I might just retreat to the mountains myself one day,” Gigo said with a laugh. “This is off the record, I’m just kidding.”
“This stays between us. I’m not one of those Facebook types. But, here, we’re setting this thing in motion. So just to be clear: if there’s any other policy or plan—”
“Waiting and waiting for investors to appear. No other policy.”
“All right, just so I know there’s support for this, and that politics won’t tangle up our business, right?”
“How could it when there’s no policy? Sorry, I’m a joker, as you know.”
“Okay,” said Oleg. “I’m not interested in ownership, a concession’s fine with me.”
“Fair enough. I can lobby for that. You can repay me for it but you don’t have to, that’s just how it is. All I ask from you is to talk to the press. We’ll have to sign the papers officially and invite someone from the central government for a splash of publicity. I’m here for you. Well, for people like you, since we’re being straight with each other.”
• • •
After a late lunch, under dim streetlights and through trodden snow, Nikola walked from the Hajduci restaurant to the grocery store. The group out in front of the store was now gone. We must have employed them all, he thought. Pity, he would have loved nothing more than to drink something in the middle of the street. Yes, you pretend to be a director when you’re actually a bum, he said to himself in a low dro
ne, sounding like the long-since disappointed father talking to the long-since indifferent son.
He sometimes used that voice to speak to himself; it was like malware surfacing in his system. This wasn’t his real father’s voice. It was the voice of a generic district judge, who had something to do with the way success was defined in his social circle. Yes, while his old friends used their iPhones to check in from ski resorts in the Alps and post pictures on Facebook, it was wiser for him to not get in touch from here because the only thing they could ask him was if he’d gone hiking all by himself like the Yeti.
Luckily, he’d promised to abstain from Facebook. “Forget about posting your location and pictures. That stuff is for suckers,” said Oleg.
“Okay.”
For some time he’d been feeling like he was merely adapting to resemble something he should have made of himself, something like “the old Nikola,” like “he’s still holding it together,” like a spokesperson.
He bought a six-pack at the store.
He drank at their rented manse, standing in front of the window and gazing out at the gas station, where there was activity in front of the café. He saw young men parking their dilapidated Audis and BMWs, getting out promptly with their hoods on, stretching and rolling their shoulders as if about to perform, and then entering the glass-walled café. From there, they eyed who stopped to fill up and who was passing by.
Then they pulled out of the parking lot, tires screeching, and headed to town, only to return some ten minutes later, having checked to be sure the gas station was the place to be. They got out of their cars again, rolling their shoulders as if about to perform. Sometimes a girl was with them, and Nikola first thought she was being looked after, surrounded by all the young men, and, later he thought she actually wasn’t. Because they hugged the girls the same way they rolled their shoulders—as if about to perform on an invisible stage.
He switched on the TV.
He watched a talk show that had the reek of a life lived in a stained sweatshirt worn only at home.
No-Signal Area Page 5
