I’d had a feeling this might happen the whole time. There was no reason, I did nothing wrong, everything went like it was supposed to and then—it just fizzled. So predictable, like everything else in my life that had happened for no reason at all. Okay, the Serbs did their bit, but the real reason, tell me, is what? Ivan saw Igor and I weren’t talking, and, beaming, he said: “Thank God you’ve ditched him, another bamboo to your health?” He grinned and I merely nodded, smiled, and drank it down to the dregs.
I need air, I have to go, I don’t want to be here anymore, other people don’t interest me, all I care about is going home and crawling into bed. Home, I think, is where Mama is. On the way to the door I have to pass him and I look at him, long and hard; he only glances over at me like we’ve never met, like just a few days ago he didn’t have his hand in my shirt. The fresh air fills my lungs and at the same time it collides with something inside that wants out, nausea inches up my throat, but there it stays and chokes me. I’ve never drunk this much, I’ve always played at being tipsy so I’d look cool, but this is the real thing. I barely stagger over to a bench and plunk down. I’d like to see how long this lasts, but I can’t think, my head’s spinning, if only I could throw up. I can’t go up to the room like this, acid bubbles burning up in my throat, then down it goes, over and over, I don’t know if you can die from this, probably not, but that’s the way I feel. I sense somebody coming over, but I can’t tell who, and when I think they’re calling me a gush of vomit spews out and sprays all over my feet, the bench, my hair. I can’t focus on what’s happening around me, but I hear panicked shouts: “Geez, that’s you! We’ve been looking for you for half an hour. You’re drunk!” Like I don’t know, is what I’d like to say to Marina, but I can’t talk because I’m scared I’ll throw up again, I just look at her. Finally I muster the strength to say, “I can’t show up at my mother’s like this.” “Fucking shit, you sure are smashed,” observes her sister. I nod, what smells so bad, oh that’s my stinky hair. “Can you walk?” asks Marina. It will suffice to shake my head. The two of them consult and then her sister goes over to the phone booth. Marina rubs my back, standing as far away as she possibly can. I have been sitting for a whole century on this bench, Mama’s going to kill me, but anyway my life is shit so who gives a shit. After a century and a half up pulls a white car, Marina’s dad drives a car like that, and slowly (the thought takes twenty years to journey to my brain) I figure out that they called him to fetch us.
The first time in my life when I wanted to die of shame was when I threw dirt down from the balcony onto our neighbor Branka’s head just for the fun of it, and she came up, walked right into the apartment, and caught me with a clump of dirt in my hand. Otherwise I was famous for good behavior and being super polite. Now this was the second time, but the wave of shame was worse. When he got out of the car, first he looked me over carefully and I sank my chin as low as it could go. Then he shook his head a little, sighed, and came over. He looked me in the eyes and said, “Come on now, take it slow, we’ll have us a cup of coffee.” That was the last thing I’d expected him to say, my legs wobbled and I was scared, but when he said that and even seemed to be smiling gently, I went limp. He grabbed me around the waist and I wrapped my arms around his neck, became him, let go, and forgot myself. He almost lifted me up, he was strong, my head slumped onto his shoulder. I am such a little girl, all I know is how to prattle and clutch Papa’s hand. I feel tears, but who cares, I’m drunk, and when you’re drunk you can do whatever you feel like doing. “It’s okay,” he says to me softly, thinking I’m crying for the shame, but that’s not it now. I’m crying because it’s my father holding me. Papa. “Papa, Papa, what did you bring me?” The car still hadn’t pulled into the parking space in front of the building, but there it is, an olive-drab Yugo, brand-new. It’s the prettiest car I’ve ever seen except Uncle’s Mercedes. Papa gets out of the car, and I run into his arms and he hoists me up high, saying: “Who’s my little scoundrel?” “Me, me, what’ve you got for your scoundrel?” I answer and ask quick. Papa always has loose change in his pocket that he earns in tips on the night shift as the maître d’ at the hotel. “Here’s for ice cream!” He tucks the coins into my hand, and I race back to the building where my friends are playing Chinese jump rope. Whose turn is it, rock paper scissors, and Papa slips up behind me, thrusts in his hand like he’s offering a rock fist. The girls giggle, and then upstairs he goes, and, awed by his sparkle, Darija says, “You have such a super dad!” I’m proud the others can see.
Marina’s dad starts the car and we pull out of the parking lot. Our car is brand-new. It’s parked in the yard at Granny and Grandpa’s house, we’re washing it and I polish it with a chamois cloth. Only its lower sides, actually, because I’m still too small to reach all the way to the windows or roof. When we’re done, Papa opens all the doors to let the car air out and I ask whether I can sit for a minute at the wheel and play. The hand brake is on, the keys have been removed from the ignition, so Papa lets me, when I ask him he lets me do everything. The grown-ups sit in the yard, they eat watermelon, my brother weaves in and out on his pony bike while I drive the car. I press all the buttons I can reach, I say rrmm, rrmm, and when I press one a little drawer pops open. Inside there are candies, no, pills, or maybe they’re candies because they’re small and pink, my favorite color. I know I’m not supposed to take pills, but I’ll try just one, lick it, pills are always bitter, no one will notice. This one’s sweet, not too sweet but not bitter either so I pop one after another into my mouth until the silver foil with little holes is empty. I could use it as a hotel for ants maybe, but I’m feeling a little dozy. A nap would be nice. Suddenly everybody’s shouting, Papa’s holding me in his arms like he does when we come home after we’ve been out visiting, except he keeps saying, “Don’t go to sleep now, no sleeping!” I must’ve fallen asleep along the way, but we aren’t home. Something smells weird like a hospital and then that’s what it is, Papa isn’t holding me anymore but I’m lying on a big bed on little wheels, they’re pushing me on it, but he’s here. His eyes are so big until he disappears behind white doors, and I hear a voice I don’t know saying, “Now your tummy’s going to hurt just a little.” “That’s not a little, I want my papa,” I shout, he comes in. “Better if you’re not here,” I hear. “I wasn’t where I should’ve been,” says Papa. My hand is small because Papa’s two big hands wrap around it. Again I wake, now I’m already in my bed, Mama’s cuddling me and saying, “You gave us quite the fright, don’t you ever go doing that again. You ate Papa’s pills for his sinuses and the doctors had to take them out of your tummy.” “I thought they were candy. Do we still get to go to the beach?” I ask. “We do,” says Mama, “you and Željka.” My delight knows no bounds, not only because we’re going swimming but because we’ll all be going together. Seven of us pile into the Yugo. Željka and her mother, my mother and brother all sit in the backseat, my father drives, and Željka’s dad—I called him Uncle Whiskers for his thick black mustache that moved at times all by itself or so it seemed to me—sits in the passenger seat up front. I was long convinced there was a little animal living under his nose, and if I came too close it might poke me. And besides, I had a huge crush on Uncle Whiskers. I sat in his lap in the car because I was the smallest, and if a policeman showed up on the road, I’d slither down and hide by his feet. That was one of the most thrilling parts of the ride to the beach. The other, when we finally set off, all loaded down like that, was that everybody would wait for me to start singing Take you riding in my car, car, we’ll be going far, far; come along with me, me, to the deep blue sea, sea! and then they’d laugh, and I’d always sing it so I wouldn’t forget how it went. Papa’d drive me to the ballet at the city theater, he’d drive me to visit to Granny, he’d drive me to the hotel when he had something quick to take care of and I’d be with him the whole time, he could take me anywhere. At the duty-free shop at the hotel he’d buy me a piece of chocolate or popcorn in a little sac
k, he’d say hi to everybody, shake hands with them all, they’d smile at me, and I’d play with the change-making machine, I’d run my fingers over the billiard table, imagine parties, dresses, dancing. The last week of school, Papa says, “If you bring home a certificate with an ‘excellent’ for comportment I’ll take you out for a dish of ice cream as big as a house!” In my lap I clutch the sheet of paper with my name on it, I take care not to crumple it and wait for the waiter to bring it to me, four whole scoops. We sit on the terrace of the Hotel Danube, whoever walks by, Papa says, “She earned a certificate with an ‘excellent’ for comportment.” I can smell the Danube there in front of us, the sun refracts through the water into all possible shades of green, soon the regatta will begin, this is the nicest place in the world. Papa takes me to the dentist. He’s charming and handsome, he knows everybody and we never have to wait in line. He has little wrinkles around his eyes, that’s how much he laughs. In the morning Mama makes breakfast, she gets us ready for school, work, the day, all in a rush and she’s always hurrying. Papa takes the pot with the milk out of her hand and sets it on the table, then he grabs her by the hand like they’re going to dance and Mama wriggles free, she’s a little huffy, a little giggly, and says, “Come on, can’t you see how much I still have to do.” Off Papa goes to work, humming. He’s mostly at work, Mama works too but she’s at home more so when she says Papa will be taking us to school in the morning, we smile. Through my sleep I hear the alarm clock go off, but I can’t get up, I’m so sleepy. Papa lifts me up from bed and carries me to the bathroom sink and splashes me with water. My brother gets himself up and when we’re finally ready, off we go. It’s winter so no wonder it’s dark out, but only later do I see that nobody’s out and about. Even odder, when we get to school the school’s locked up, it’s still dark inside, there isn’t even a janitor around. Papa’s confused, we look at him, and when he rolls back his sleeve to check his watch, he mutters through his teeth, “Oh, hell, damn damn damn!!!” We begin to figure out he wound his watch wrong and it’s only ten to six. He looks at us, woeful, and says, “Nothing for it, home we go.” We walk through the dark, I hold his hand and he smokes and blows puffs of smoke. At home I crawl back into bed all dressed but I can’t fall asleep anymore because I feel so bad for Papa. I get up and go over to him, and he’s sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. “It’s going to be okay, Papa,” I tell him because I think that’s what you’re supposed to say at times like this. Papa’s face stretches into a broad grin, and he says, “Of course it will, Perka my sweet.” I laugh, because when he calls me Perka I know everything will be fine. On Sundays Papa has to go to a drill for reservists. Mama’s a little angry about it because he comes to dinner late, and a little tipsy. She and Željka’s mother talk about this between themselves, because Uncle Whiskers is at the drill too. When he comes back he’s always in a cheery mood, usually the two come back together and then they’re silly and tell jokes. That part is fun, I try to memorize the jokes so I can tell them myself, because I know they’ll laugh. The other day, when Uncle Grgo was here, I stood up on the chair, waved my arms around, and shouted, “No Albanian is going to be the boss in my house!” though I had no clue what it meant, or what Papa’s joke meant that I later re-told: “What has a thousand teeth and two balls? A shark. And what has a thousand balls and two teeth? The City of Vukovar Defense Council. Ha ha ha!” They gasped with laughter and said, “One day you’ll be an actress!”
Lots of things happened out in the yard at Granny’s house. In the summer, when my uncle came, they’d eat and drink out there, make plans, live. “Come on,” said Uncle, “stand there by the gate, we’ll take our picture. One of just us men.” They lined up, Grandpa, Uncle, Papa, and my brother, my aunt took the picture. I sat on the steps of the house and tapped the pavement with my new Puma sneakers, no one has sneakers like these, Papa brought them when he came back from Germany. My aunt turned around three times to glare at me, chilly and fierce, I was probably bugging her while she set up the Polaroid. This summer I saw one for the first time, where the picture pops right out of the camera, but I’d never ask, no way they’d let me hold it for a minute. The men were striking their pose, but my aunt suddenly turned to me and snapped: “Bitte!” I got all serious and felt my chin quiver, I hated that, but it always happened when someone shouted at me. I tried to catch Papa’s eye and when I did, I saw him look over at me and he said, “Perka, come here!” I thought he’d scold me, I already knew I’d start to cry, but he just pulled me to him and said, “Stand here in front of me.” He stroked my hair and exclaimed to the air, to no one in particular, “Well you sure can see by looking at her that she’s one of us!” The camera clicked and there I am standing forever next to him, his hand shielding me, and me staring boldly at the woman behind the Polaroid, no one can touch me. The photograph was quickly ready and it moved to the front-hall table by the phone, and later it was put in a frame. There it stood until the moment when a Chetnik came into the house after he slit Grandpa’s throat and said: “Hunt me down the others in this picture. All of them will end up like granddad here.”
Now everything goes dark. I don’t usually go there. I come to the brink, sniff the reek of death, stand for a minute or two, and run back. Tonight I’ll do it, I’ll go there and walk straight in and let it be the end of me. As I move closer I can already hear the words: “Lie down! lie down!! Motherfucking Ustasha!” He’s somewhere in the middle, his face is in the mud. He’s still not afraid, he knows something is ending now, but he doesn’t yet sense what. Until tonight he was wearing a national guard uniform and yellow boots, but now he’s burned all his documents and donned a white coat like lots of others at the hospital who aren’t really wounded. The Red Cross will come. But the ruse is pointless. Everybody knows him. He’s the maître d’ at the hotel, he’s on chatty terms with everybody, he’s always there when people sing, and if he can’t be the loudest, he gives it his level best, the veins bulge out on his neck. All his life he was doing favors for everybody and they did favors for him, the man with the most friends before, with the fewest friends now. He loved people, but he loved Croatia, too, and when things began unraveling, Granny and Grandpa fanned the flames. All the provocative songs. And he did love to sing. Then the political rallies, the new president, the quibbles over the Croatian flag. This rubbed some people the wrong way, many were bothered when they saw him walking, head held high, with his beautiful wife through town and how everybody opened their doors for him. But now it was their turn. The shaggy beasts. They saw it all from their lairs, from below ground, and bided their time. Now you’ll pay! He lifted his face up from the mud and saw one of his colleagues from work. He’d driven the man’s wife, when she went into labor, to the hospital in the middle of the night, and now the man was standing by an officer, pretending not to know him. Then he was smacked by a rifle butt and heard: “Lie down, Ustasha trash!” He lay there for an age like that. It’s cold on that cold ground, but they don’t feel it, they feel adrenaline, and now a little fear as well. The drunken hordes of evil, snotty, ragtag apparitions lurch around town on tanks, they sing There will be meat galore, we’ll be butchering Croats!, they heave corpses into the Danube where they once bathed their hot-headed youth. These are bogeymen from hell, only partly human, they have hands, feet, and limbs, but with their hands, feet, and limbs they just butcher, slash, rape, no one can tell where they’ve come from, some look a little bit like neighbors who used to invite us to their saints’ day parties. They leer with their rotten teeth, salute each other, gloat over mutilated bodies, guzzle brandy, there are women among them. How? How did they get here? It’s slowly getting dark, the day is short, what a shame it’s the last. People clamber out of the cellars, only half-alive, and with them are wan, sickly children, they’re already on their way to the normal world, only a few miles away.
Now the time has come for the disposition of all of those who remain. There’s a rumble in the distance, that’s buses on their way. A camp is w
here they’re headed. That’s what he and Uncle Whiskers say to each other with their eyes, lying side by side, no one hears them. “Move it, swine, in you go!” A gauntlet forms of baseball bats, hoes, chains, rifle butts, and all objects capable of this alternate function. “Right this way, gentlemen, who’ll go first?” They shield their heads with their arms, the blows rain down around them. An assortment of blows. Whacks, blows drawing blood, knocking the air out of the lungs, all kinds. Here’s the mayor, to see to protocol. Some already collapse, not too many, these are done for, the others watch, horrified. No need, at least they’re saved. Finally they’re all packed in. Five buses pull away. It’s difficult to see where they’re headed in a night so thick with death. It makes no difference, around them everything’s flat, crazy flat. They don’t drive far, this isn’t Serbia, it looks familiar. The Ovčara industrial farm, a unit of the Vupik agricultural complex for husbandry and pig farming. There are big farm buildings here with large metal sliding doors for storing field equipment and tools and smaller doors for people as well. For small people, ordinary people, like you and me. They take them down from the buses and have them run the gauntlet again. Go, go, Jovo, give ’em the once-over! They organize them by building, bus by bus, but not everybody. No, no, not you. They pull out ten men, these’ll be done by hand. Handiwork is always more valued, the assembly-line stuff is a breeze. A bullet to the brain, anybody can do that. But by hand, now for that you roll up your sleeves. You really dig in, put your heart in it, creativity, people will talk about it afterward. He’s frightened. He cries. Tears run down his cheeks but he doesn’t cry out loud, though what’s the point of hiding it, and anyway no one can hear. Everybody’s screaming so loudly, yelling for help, howling, the gunshots deafen. There are cameras here, too. Probably stolen, but that doesn’t diminish the technological sophistication. “Motherfucking battery’s dead, wait, Mile, for me to put in a fresh one.” Mile stops what he’s doing, drops his pistol to his side and waits for a new surge of energy so his glorious work can be captured for all time. “Done, shoot away!” Ten men stand in front of a building. The ten men think, let it be quick. One of them thinks of me. He thinks of Mama, my brother. Me again. There aren’t any clear thoughts here, it’s hard to maintain a flow, all the whooping, they smash, lop off fingers, shoot, stab, we’re fine, we’re in Zagreb, we’re far away. They butcher. Handiwork. Done. Thank God. The one who’s here to the end, he’ll have it worst. Another nine hours of killing to go, hardly a walk in the park, he’ll have to eat and drink something meanwhile, and maybe that will sustain him so he can be more effective. I’d like to think he was one of the first. But I know, what’s in my head is an American movie, this is a fairy tale, a soap opera, never, never, no matter how hard I try will I be able to imagine it. And I’ll try. My whole life I’ll try. Amen.
The Hotel Tito Page 12
