We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day

by Ivana Bodrozic

  “Please don’t be offended; I know I promised to talk with you, but as you can see, so much has happened in the meanwhile, that simply isn’t possible now.” The decisive tone in her voice was firm.

  “So I thought,” nodded Nora, looking deep into her and unsettling Brigita’s poise.

  “Sorry, I’m really in a hurry.” She tried to slip by Nora, who hadn’t budged. “Will you let me pass?” Brigita was getting nervous.

  “Will you tell me what you know?” She answered the question with a question.

  “Young lady, I know what everyone else knows; please, find someone else,” she almost snapped at her. At that moment Velimirović came over, introducing even denser and more suffocating air to the space among the three.

  “Oh, you’re here, too,” he said to Nora. She merely nodded, clutching her cell phone in hand.

  “Come now, no need for this to be awkward; you are very unprofessional.” Brigita was visibly irate at Nora’s stubborn blocking of the door, keeping her from passing.

  “Well, I guess you all are professionals.” Nora enunciated slowly, looking at Brigita and then at Velimirović. “You’ve always been professionals,” she said.

  “Hey, get Zvonko; we have a problem here at the door.” Brigita called to the deputy to summon security.

  “No problem.” Nora stepped back with a smile. “No need. We’ll be professional; thank you, Zvonko,” she said to the man twice her size who was lumbering her way. She turned and went out into the street. Her cell phone almost fell from her hand as she sprinted to the hotel.

  20.

  Synchro

  I came to carry you

  to the homes of my ancestors

  to tell you there is no night

  you should give up

  desire is hunger is fire

  now (fall 2010)

  A young nun was sitting on a stool out by the entrance to the general hospital, strumming a guitar. The Messiah will come. In front of her stood two more nuns, thrilling aggressively to God’s mercy. With them in their circle were a dozen middle-aged women, hopping from foot to foot with the cold, and a man in a public works uniform who was going from one to the next, offering them chocolates from a box. They took the chocolates, but since they were singing and being filmed for a local TV crew, they didn’t put the chocolates into their mouths but instead held them behind their backs until they melted in their fingers. Later they licked their fingers on the sly. Up on the second floor, closer to God, where the inharmonious strains of the poorly written songs, unrealistic hopes, and tacky melodies reached, was the ward for gynecology and obstetrics. Another man in the group outside, the leader of the national Initiative for Life, stepped forward, military style, and barked into his megaphone:

  “And I am especially glad that your city has joined our initiative with the goal of forcing the hospital to cease offering abortions; we hope the mothers will understand that what they are carrying under their heart is alive, our brother or sister, and we love them and want them!” At this point applause erupted among those who were gathered, while only a dozen feet above them the ward’s head nurse looked down at them and silently closed the window.

  Nora was on her way back to the hotel from the assembly, back to the chaos of her room, holding her cell phone all the while. With no plan. An icy wind blasted her in the face. Wasn’t there a kind of cake called “Icy Wind”? Her tears chilled her red cheeks and left dark tracks down them. She did the only thing she could do on such a day and the first thing she’d wanted to do as soon as she woke up.

  “Hello?” He sounded as if he’d been watching his cell phone the whole time.

  “Hey, hi. Nora here. Sorry to bother you.” She couldn’t come up with anything better.

  “Are you okay?” he interrupted, concerned.

  “Well, not really, but well, maybe I’ll leave here today . . . I don’t know, they stole my laptop.” She spoke jerkily, trying to sound almost cheery while there was a lump rolling around in her throat, as she tried to smile, hating the corners of her mouth as they kept slipping downwards.

  “Nora, tell me, where are you?” His voice was firm and calm.

  “I’m here by the hospital; I’m watching them pray on their rosaries for the unborn brothers and sisters.” She meant to sound sarcastic, just to change the subject.

  “Wait there, please, one minute. Okay?”

  “Fine,” she said softly and swallowed a mountain. Shouts reached her.

  “And one more thing,” declared the leader, inspired by the Holy Spirit, feeling the traditional Christian anguish of persecution after the nurse closed the window. “I am particularly moved to see you gathered here, brothers and sisters, in this very city that during Yugoslavia was the main center for the deliberate termination of pregnancies. Parents from all parts of the country came here to abort their children. Many have said that the horrors of the war are a direct consequence of that sad reality.”

  Visible on the faces of those gathered was approval for this terrible and logical notion, mixed with cloying horror.

  “The Initiative for Life will bring the great light of hope to this people; every act of goodness is returned in kind.” Nora felt as if she were watching them from another planet. She hoped the curses of the devout hadn’t reach the second floor, blaming women for wars, for all the evils of the world, the plagues of locusts and everything the good Lord God would soon be raining down upon us. Again the strains rang out of the hollow melodies, destroying the very meaning of music and prayer, without a shred of understanding or talent for life, born or unborn. The white Corsa pulled over to the side of the road, and Marko opened the door and did what he could to catch Nora’s eye. She sat in the passenger seat, staring in front of her, terrified by what would happen once their eyes met. When she muffled the sounds by shutting the door, she dropped her head and her hair slid over her cheeks, hiding the blush that was climbing up her throat, impinging on her chin, ears, and cheekbones. Marko turned toward her, waiting for the curtains to rise. She rubbed her face and pushed aside her hair, and then she dropped her hands into her lap, staring at the red backs of her hands on her knees. He reached over to her chin and slowly turned her face to him. With his thumbs he smoothed away the traces of the black, salt-strewn streets under her eyes, erased all the pavement and potholes, brought back the woods. The moment she looked at him everything was flooded, the bridges and city, the devastated buildings and the bones deep underground; the interior of the car gradually filled with water, the houses were inundated, the red roof tiles floated up and away on the green surface of the river with those green eyes. When he released her after an entire eternity from his arms, the waters ebbed, leaving behind things, thousands and thousands of small and large things along the shore tangled up in the bare branches that were still hanging menacingly over them. Nora wiped her face with a tissue, and Marko said:

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” she asked without any anxiety.

  “To pick up your things at the hotel.”

  Nora nodded and buckled her seatbelt.

  ÄÄÄ

  Just a couple of years for us

  it swells like hope, like sea, like speech

  like movement, like dawn, like child, like blood

  like desire between us

  it swells like pain

  and gnaws everything before our eyes

  love me like you’ve never loved

  “Come in.” He unlocked the door and pointed her toward the small hallway. The space was unexpectedly light and orderly, full of wooden bookshelves with books and CD holders. The apartment had two small rooms; the hall led into the living room and then the dining area, which was next to the kitchen. The walls were white, except one, light green, which separated the living room from the bedroom. On it were posters by Danijel Žeželj; that was all. Marko set Nora’s backpack down in the hall
, took her coat, and pointed her toward the dining-room table with two chairs.

  “Sit down; I’ll make us some coffee.” He ducked behind the kitchen wall, and Nora had a look around the room. She felt comfortable; there was nothing superfluous. Warm colors and straight lines. On the table was a book, open, facedown. She picked it up.

  Beasts love the fatherland

  Beasts are the real liberators, unsurpassed revolutionaries

  Beasts give the last drop of their blood

  for the fatherland

  Beasts howl until they are hoarse for the fatherland

  Beasts claw at you, dig in talons, rip open throats

  if you didn’t carry the flag you’re in for a dead man’s shroud

  Beasts suck out your blood if you aren’t in the chorus, in the first trench

  As soon as war breaks out beasts blow up

  moral, law, conscience

  Beasts know god forgives them all they do

  Beasts love the fatherland and serve it loyally

  Beasts are holy liberators

  So for their reward they seek all the power and all the wealth.

  She put down the book. The words took her to pieces inside and then put her back together again.

  “Milk?”

  Marko peered around the wall.

  “Hmmm?” It wasn’t easy for her to make her way back.

  “Milk?” he asked.

  “This poetry is amazing.” She looked at him, glassy-eyed. Marko frowned, and then he realized she was referring to the book on the table.

  “Ah—Idrizi, a Kosovar poet; brilliant,” he said with respect.

  “Where do you get books like this?” asked Nora.

  “Well . . . there are people I talk to. Not many, they’d all fit on one bus, but luckily there are a few. If you like . . . take it, I’ll get another copy.”

  “Yes, yes, to decontaminate from last night’s reading.” Nora smiled.

  “Oh, yes, that was definitely hard-core,” he agreed. “But, milk?” He smiled.

  “Sure, sure . . .”

  Soon he appeared with two cups, set one down in front of her, and took the other seat. The afternoon was quiet, as if somebody had withdrawn all the sounds from the room except for the soft sound of Chet Baker’s trumpet coming from Marko’s laptop—but that sound was distinct, separate from all others. It didn’t disturb the silence. For a time they sipped their coffee, exchanging occasional glances.

  “Will you tell me what happened?” he said, finally. For a time she was quiet.

  “Uh, I don’t know where to begin.” She knew exactly what he was asking of her, but she still hadn’t told anyone what happened, and everything was linked to everything else. It always is; nothing ever starts with now. It never starts with one event; there is no cause and effect, there is cause, cause, cause, and a few more times like that, and then effect. And then again. And that deeper logic that governs things, that brought them to this quiet room for confessions.

  “Okay,” she said and pulled her hair scrunchy off her wrist. She drew her hair into a ponytail, sat up straight, and planted her elbows on the table. She ran her fingers over the edges of the volume of poetry. She looked at him sideways.

  “My father was murdered,” she said for the first time. Marko nodded, saying nothing, letting her go on. “I never learned who did it to him or who ordered it; I know that some were involved who are still in power today, but there’s no proof. I think Ilinčić was one. I think this is why he had my room turned upside down. I think they are all somehow embroiled in this and that there’s no way to stand up to the alliance of all these criminals and the people in government. I think all this together has something to do with the mayor’s murder, but I haven’t been able to get to the bottom of how. I think they are all the same people.” Her voice was muted and deep. “Mainly, I want to find out what happened. I want to know who it was.” They looked at each other for a fraction of a second, as if the image had frozen, then blurred, and then sharpened again. Something was happening with space, time, air; something had begun to grow between them, like the sea, like dawn, and eroded everything before their eyes. Words fell short, but words were all they had just then.

  “I’ll tell you everything I know.” Marko, too, was saying these words for the first time. He reached for his cigarettes on the table, but he didn’t take them out, he just spun the pack in his fingers.

  “I was a reservist. I was Velimirović’s bodyguard,” he said slowly, to the end, quiet and braced for any reaction. “I was at the pit when the massacre happened. I wanted to kill myself afterward. I didn’t, but I was no longer alive. I was eighteen then, and I knew nothing about anything; I thought I’d save my mother, and I thought I was supposed to defend my homeland. Both of those things were illusions. I can’t change that, unfortunately, and if I could, I’d trade places with the people who were killed that night . . . or with your father. If only I could.” He looked at her, his eyes red; he didn’t cover his face, he wept soundlessly. “Until now I’ve never found anyone I cared to tell these things to. Nobody with whom I’d be less alone. I know far too much.” He took a deep breath and paused. Tears streamed down Nora’s face. Everything was wrong. Marko went on.

  “What I know about your father I overheard one evening during some so-called negotiations. Ilinčić was definitely one of the people who ordered it, and Velimirović and his crew were grateful to him for doing it. Nobody wanted to stop the war. See? Nobody who could have. He was killed by someone who was a kid like me. Washed out and fucked over. I didn’t know that at the time, and I saved the kid’s life; later he went right on doing more of the same . . . Killing. I saw him this morning in the city. It’s likely that he has something to do with what happened last night, quite likely. There you have it.” Nora dropped her head into her hands; her shoulders shook; in her thoughts surfaced the reptilian eyes and the cherry cordial, and a toast with the man who’d murdered her father. When she pulled herself together, they could look longer at each other for the first time. In the midst of the desert where they’d been sitting for years, each in isolation—roasting by day, whipped by frigid winds at night, in the middle of nowhere, hoping for nothing—now they’d met. Their hands were close, lying on the table, only inches apart, although those inches were the longest journey anyone had ever travelled. First he touched the joints of her fingers along the edge of her palm, and then he took her hand in his. The first touch in life.

  ÄÄÄ

  You are all my pain

  you are all my pain

  you are all my pain

  you are all my pain

  you are all my pain

  you are all my pain

  you are all my pain

  She started awake in the middle of the night. The window curtains were parted, and a milky yellow light shone into the room; she couldn’t remember right away where she was. To the left of her body the warmth hit her, and when she turned, she saw his sleeping face. Relaxed. Peaceful. Without deep creases and tightly pressed lips, nearly unrecognizable. Momentarily she remembered everything. How she was sitting in the chair and how he reached for her. How he sat on the bed and how she sat in his lap. How the colors in the room began to melt and how they talked, from the beginning. When they were twelve and the world was different, when the clouds were white and low, and when there was promise. And how the desert was deaf and endless, and how solitude became precious. Then they did everything, from the beginning, all for the first time, they grew up together while he squeezed her around the throat till she was dizzy and then kissed her, they threatened each other, growled, sobbed, hit, and then stroked all the bruises with reverence. For hours. Nothing held back; they recast all the familiar words, took into their mouths all the banished and dirty words and tamed them and made them intimate. They overstepped, were son and daughter to each other, lovers, parents, all ways
. They went back to all the places they’d met and had each other there, especially in the most terrible places, on the icy, bare ground, in the night. Grass began to grow. They went as far as they could go, to the very rim of the ravine, to a total possession that freed, and spoke of a child. In choppy sentences. So tiny, adorable, the bravest. Lively and smart. The most beloved. About a possible moment of redemption. They began resembling each other in the dark, traded eyes and mouths, mingled and fell asleep that way. She woke in the middle of the night. She went to the window and sat in the chair. In the glass she saw the reflection of her face, merging with the face of her father. Everything came back to her in a flash. How she’d given up on herself in order to be good, how she’d sobbed into her pillow, and how she filled in the hole. How, when she buried her father, she buried her mother, too, and how she had always been alone. Alone and good. And how badly she hated herself for wanting to live, and how she didn’t have the knack. For living. And how never had she been able to budge the stone slab until this evening. It was heavy and cumbersome because the pit was omnipotent. It greedily guzzled love, promises, a young and lively boy, Marko’s bottomless devotion. And nothing was enough for her; the pit was bottomless and more powerful than everything. He woke up not long after her. He rose quietly and hugged her from behind. Nora was across the river.

  “Hey,” he whispered and kissed her by her ear.

  “You’ll have to help me,” she said to the window.

  “I’ll help you, whatever it takes; say the word.”

  “He can’t—I want him gone; he doesn’t deserve another day,” she said coldly.

  “Who are you talking about, Nora?”