Like it used to be
we trade our night
for someone else’s day
The doorknob to the room dated back to the hotel’s original inventory, brass and round. The door was opened by pressing the button in the middle of the knob. Halfway it went smoothly, and then jammed and took coaxing and jiggling to find just the right balance and open the door. There were two narrow beds in the room, and Nora, fully dressed, her shoes still on, flopped onto the one farther from the door. She lay on her side and stared at the other trimly made cot with its taut sheets. Then she stretched, reached out, and grabbed the pillow and pulled it to her, hugged it and plunged her nose into it. It had no smell at all, spongy, soft, impersonal hotel bedding. Outdoors, the evening was already settling, earlier and earlier these days, and the only sound coming through the wooden window frame was the beating of the wind and sloshing of waves on the broken remnants of a tugboat. The longer she lay in the condensing gloom that filled the room, the more difficult it would be, she knew, to get up and go out again. She lifted her head and switched on the little bedside lamp, but its wan yellow light only made the room feel more airless. She pulled her laptop from her backpack, opened it, and then remembered there was only Wi-Fi in the lobby and the restaurant. She typed a few notes to herself in an open document and then decided to go down to check her email. The hallways of the hotel were filled with a creepy silence; only when she’d moved deeper into the restaurant did she recognize the song coming from the dusty speakers as an Oliver Dragojević evergreen, with him singing, as ever, about boats and the sea. “I swear you look just like Oliver Dragojević,” her mother had told a man who actually was Oliver Dragojević, as her father was so fond of telling their friends while Nora’s mother blushed. And that happened right here, in the late eighties, while parties and concerts were still held on these premises, before the hotel became the headquarters for the new Serbian Krajina government. Nora’s mother was a big fan of Oliver’s, and her father decided to surprise her that night with tickets for his concert, to be held in the city’s big sports arena. They went to Hotel Danube for dinner before the concert, and while they were greeting friends, a man sat at the table next to theirs. Nora’s mother couldn’t take her eyes off him or contain her surprise, and when she saw he’d noticed her, she told him, “I swear you look just like Oliver Dragojević.” The man began to chuckle, along with the others at his table, and Nora’s father whispered to her that the man was, indeed, Oliver Dragojević. At the time she wanted to curl up and die, but later she always enjoyed hearing her husband tell the story. They’d had a wonderful evening, and there was nothing whatsoever to lead them to think that within two or three years’ time that whole life would be gone forever. Nora still enjoyed listening to her father in her thoughts, though the sound of his voice had grown quieter over the years, and the contours of his face were fading for her. Her memories had dwindled to flashes; his big hands, the image of which was still unusually sharp, the shape of his fingernails, the gray shocks of hair at his temples, fishing by the river, his gentle air of patience, rolling down the windows of their red Škoda, a hand raised in greeting. That was the last one. After that she saw his picture on television, the car wreck, the black body bag. The rest of what happened over those days she could only barely remember. Hardly anybody came to see them; there were only the occasional calls late at night that she was terrified to ask about and after which her mother retreated to the bathroom. And then came the real war, which became more and more real like a grimy cloud of dust, blanketing everything. Packing at night, a long trip on a bus, the fragrance of the sea. She allowed the sea fragrance to fill every hole in her memory; she gave up on her Slavonian accent and calling her friends “buds” and chose to tell everyone, instead, that she was from Omiš, so much closer to the coast than her real hometown but—like her hometown—a place refugees were streaming from. She became a Hajduk soccer fan, swam in the sea from May to October; soon she fit right in among the lithe, suntanned Dalmatians and, somehow, survived. Later she attended the university in Zagreb, where life was more bearable, and there she didn’t have to make any special efforts to fit in. Nora from Omiš who goes down to Dalmatia to see her mother. At first, when they’d only just come “down to Dalmatia,” her mother did whatever she could; she even went to the police a few times, hoping against hope that maybe the police stations in different parts of the country weren’t all linked. The inspector—who, the first time around, listened to her story with surprise and interest about how she’d had suspicions that her husband was killed by our side because he went up against them about the war, because he spoke publicly about the crimes happening in Osijek—pretended he’d never seen her before when he ran into her two days later on the street. She went back to the police station that day after he walked right by her, but the staffer at the front desk told her the inspector wasn’t there and wouldn’t be back that day. Not long after that they called her mother from Split and told her to watch out for herself and her daughter; she shouldn’t be putting them at risk. Every few years, with the changes in government, she’d try again, but every time, no matter how she went about it, she’d be faced with the same wall. She was reluctant to burden Nora. Though she could see that Nora saw and understood everything, they never spoke of it. Then she got her first dog and wandered off on longer and longer walks by the sea. They each managed by living in what each could handle; too great an intimacy would have undercut the monotony of their everyday lives, and losing the monotony would have made things unbearable. By the time Nora was fully independent, the distance between her and her mother had grown, and there was no longer a way back. The door had already long since been shut. All that was left was to feign an average existence, to turn herself into the Nora who studies, the Nora who works, the Nora who goes out with friends and gets into superficial relationships that never go on dangerously long. She succeeded in repressing all the names linked to what happened to her father, though they did occasionally resurface, when a political party needed to trot out the never-resolved incident. She shielded herself from thoughts about it, while doing everything—as if following the ABCs of textbook psychology—to bring herself back to it. She studied journalism, planned to work on research, took a job at a political weekly.
While she was doing what she could to access the Internet and read the emails from her editor, she noticed Josip Ilinčić sitting at one of the nearby tables, and it flashed through her mind that perhaps this was the very table where Oliver had sat. Over the last two decades everybody had come to think of Ilinčić as the local sheriff; evidence had never been put forth that he’d committed any crimes. He dabbled in all things war-related and the war’s aftermath. In the postwar years, the focus was on privatizing what had been public property. Through one of his more controversial moves he became proprietor of the Hotel Danube. He glanced over at her; nothing about her held his attention—or maybe, if only for a moment, the sight of the laptop on the table. Nora eyed his half profile: he was sitting there in a black leather jacket, a cell phone in each hand. On the table in front of him there was nothing but a glass of mineral water. She felt an inexplicable repulsion at the way he commanded the space around him. His legs were long and sprawling; the low armchair he was sitting in was too cramped for him. As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up from his two cell phones and eyed her over his eyeglasses. Nora didn’t flinch; she gave the slightest nod. Then she went back to the screen, which kept refusing the password. She looked around for the waiter. When he saw Nora gesturing, he rose sluggishly from the bar stool and ambled over at a lazy pace.
“Sorry; the password doesn’t seem to work for the Internet.”
He didn’t say a word, just sighed deeply.
“I tried several times,” continued Nora, “but it won’t take.”
“I’ll bring you another one,” he said reluctantly.
While the waiter was on his way back to the bar, Ilinčić, who was now watching Nora with intere
st, summoned him with the snap of his fingers, whispered something to him, and sent him off. The waiter disappeared behind the bar, and when he came back to Nora’s table he was noticeably more courteous.
“There; this should work,”—he put a slip of paper on the table— “and the boss wants to know what you’d like to drink.”
“Oh, nothing, thanks, no need. I just wanted to check my email; I’m about to leave.” She leaned forward as she spoke, with a grateful wave to the boss.
“A quick drink; come on . . . you don’t want to hurt his feelings,” insisted the waiter. Ilinčić was already on his way over to Nora’s table with a frozen smile.
“Please—I’m grateful for the offer, but no thanks.” Nora didn’t understand what he hoped to accomplish by insisting.
“Aren’t you our guest?” asked Ilinčić when he reached her table.
“Yes, but no need . . .”
“How long are you staying, if I may ask?” Ilinčić eyed her openly.
“Another day, maybe two,” she answered briefly.
He nodded without taking his eyes off of her, then he reached into an inside pocket, took out a laminated business card, and offered it to her. She took it, read the name and title, and then looked long at his face. There was something reptilian in his gaze. Long ago she’d read a book about the work of the brain and remembered the part about the difference between the brains of mammals and reptiles. The limbic part, key for emotions, was lacking in reptiles and was to blame for what humans called a “lack of affect.” The missing piece.
“And you are . . . a tourist?”
“A journalist,” she answered, and then extended her hand. “Nora Kirin.”
She hadn’t expected the transformation. Ilinčić pressed her hand, and there was still no sign of anything in his eyes, but his lips quivered strangely, and he tried to mask this by lickng them.
“From around here?” he blurted.
“No, from Omiš,” Nora answered evenly, feigning confusion. The last thing she needed was for him to tie her to Osijek.
“I see . . .” mumbled Ilinčić.
“Here we are, a little cherry cordial for the lady.” The waiter inserted himself into the narrow space between the two of them.
“Well, thank you.” Nora raised the glass and tossed it back. “I’m off to the poetry reading.” She slipped her laptop into her backpack and returned to her room, skipping steps. She couldn’t explain what had brought on such a feeling of discomfort that she’d fled without even checking her email. As soon as she shut the door behind her and was in her room, she turned on the shower and ran it for a long time; the water was only tepid, and under the light it looked yellower and yellower. The water pressure was so weak that after she’d showered she felt no better. Still, she decided to dress up a little for the poetry reading. She combed her hair, put on mascara and lipstick, replaced her loose black top with a tighter-fitting one. She felt anxious about parting with her laptop. Everything she had was on it. But she slipped it under the blanket—as if that would be of any help. She put on her coat in the hallway, and on her way out she peeked once more into the restaurant. Ilinčić was still sitting there with one cell phone to his ear and the other in his hand.
6.
She and he and he and I
we’re at the border
and there’s no way back
before (spring 2010)
When it was dark in the stairwell, he lingered by the front door of her apartment, listening for the sounds coming from within. His heart pounded in the dark, and he heard his temples drumming. No one passed that way for ten, fifteen minutes at a time, and in his thoughts he ran through the scenes from several days before on the other side of Kristina’s door, on the kitchen floor and in the hallway. He was focused on the one point in time and space from which his entire life, the reason for his existence, had crystalized. He framed each individual scene, broke them down into second-long segments, and then stretched each one to infinity. The whiteness of her skin, the lock of hair he brushed from her brow, her eyes moving under her lids as he entered her, over and over. That point became his center. Now he needed to push aside everything that was blocking his way to Kristina and the future that lay before them. He’d only seen her once since then, while she was getting out of her car out in front of the building, her hands full of shopping bags, fumbling with the belt of her coat. Their eyes met, and just at that moment Ante got out on the other side of the car. They didn’t greet each other, but he knew that this was because she wasn’t alone; he hadn’t lost hope. Yet. She was still on sick leave; he was worried that she’d never come back to teach him: the school year was almost over. At school he was at least able to see her every day, openly, soak in her every word and gesture, and nobody would think it strange. After all, that was why he was there in class, to see her and hear her. Now he was working to get to know the regular rhythm of Ante’s departures and arrivals. The sequence changed from day to day, but Ante never spent much time at the apartment. Most evenings he was out; he’d come back at different times, sometimes at midnight and sometimes at five in the morning. Dejan longed to visit her again, but he worried about endangering her; he assumed she was already in deep over her head with problems, especially thanks to his mother. The infamous Thompson concert was on that very evening, commemorating the founding of the First Brigade, which had started all of this. But, again, if it hadn’t been for him mustering the courage to visit her in her apartment, knowing she’d be alone, maybe none of this would have happened, maybe he never would have dared. Three floors above her he smoked by his window, and from his bedroom he watched the parking lot, expecting to see them come out of the door together at some point, get into their car, and leave for the concert. After a time, instead, he noticed a figure limping toward the car: Ante. He was alone; he got in and, without waiting for anybody, he drove off toward town. Dejan assumed he wouldn’t be back soon. He didn’t stop to think; he flew out into the hallway, grabbed his jacket for appearances’ sake. From the dining room, he heard:
“Where are you off to now?”
“Out,” he barked.
“Where are you going, Dejan?”
“Off for a walk, okay? Want to come along and hold my hand?” he snapped at his mother, although this wasn’t like him.
“Fine, son, no need to shout; do as you like! Just relax.”
Dejan was already out the door, skipped down to the ground floor, went out through the main entrance, and looked up. Olivera was in his room, in the same pose at the window where he’d been just minutes before. He knew. He circled around the building and came back in the door on the other side, climbing up the fire escape to the second floor. He didn’t turn on the light, but didn’t stand long in the dark this time. He knocked softly on the door, hoping she’d hear, maybe more feel than hear, and open the door before someone came along. He couldn’t hear anything from inside, but just as he raised his hand to knock once more, the door opened. He was allowed to enter without resistance. The apartment was a mess. Chairs were tipped over; he could feel shards of glass under his tennis shoes, the reek of alcohol from the rug and sofa. Kristina was sitting, curled up on an armchair, hugging her knees, her chin tucked behind them. The only light in the living room shone from the muted television, so her figure in the corner seemed tiny and childlike, her hair loose; of her face all he could see were her eyes peeking out over her knees. Shocked by the sight, Dejan sank slowly onto the sofa, fingering the wet stains, and didn’t dare come closer.
“What happened here?” he asked softly, after he’d mustered the courage to take her in with a look.
“I didn’t want to go to the concert,” she said calmly.
“So he trashed the apartment.”
“He’d have trashed it anyway,” she said with a bitter smile.
“Did he touch you—”
“No,” she said.
“You can’t go on like this.”
“Why did you come?” she asked him coldly. She stared past him, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She loathed herself for everything, especially for agreeing, at the meeting with Ilinčić, to him representing her if the investigation resulted in her suspension. She went along with the story that she was the victim of a resurgence of Serbian hostilities, even though she knew for a fact that this was the work of one crazy woman and several brainless, impressionable parents. Deep down she knew Ilinčić and his crowd were the ones who needed this story the most, and she could clearly see how such stories begin. On the other hand, Ante was drinking more and growing increasingly aggressive, and she hadn’t lifted a finger to help him. And moreover, she had a powerful desire to push him even deeper down than he’d ever been, to a place he’d never come back from. Most of all she hated herself because Dejan’s company felt so good, although she’d reached the point of nausea at least twice daily since that day.
“Kristina, I love you,” he said, his voice shaking.
“Come on—you ‘love’ me,” she shot back sarcastically. “You have no idea what you’re saying.” All her bitterness came pouring out against him, mostly because it could, but this didn’t sway him in the slightest.
“We have to get away from here together.” He could think of nothing else.
“But where? How? What would we do? Have you thought about that? Do you imagine he wouldn’t find me? Come on—this would be too much for him; he’d kill me for disgracing him like that. I can only hope the drinking kills him, somehow.”
Dejan hadn’t given much thought to all this; he felt something would turn up for resolving things, but only if they were together, and her mistrust hurt him. All his strength deserted him when she was so cold. He moved up to the edge of the sofa where he could reach her and took her hand. He was afraid she might push him away, but she made no effort to resist. He kissed her hands, then moved over to the armchair and, hugging her, he took her in his lap. Then everything was good; the sum of all forms of love and hate in their exchange was equal; they canceled each other out, and in the process they were able to approach—perhaps not together, but each separately—a place that drew them away from where they had just been.
We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day Page 6
