Best European Fiction 2013

by Unknown

  In winter the men of Budva fish, booze and play cards, work on their houses, discuss politics, renovate bars and cafés, lend money and charge extortionate interest, seduce other men’s wives, and worry that their own might cuckold them … When you think about it, the “metropolis of Montenegrin tourism” only lives, in its own unique way, in winter. Whoever doesn’t fit into the rhythm of the town is condemned to vegetate on its margins—same as they would be anywhere else. But in order to fit in they first have to master a parlor game that people are very fond of in Budva: gossiping. They’re obliged to discover the attractive side of this sport and participate without worrying about the outcome. Petty souls see gossiping as something bad and unworthy, while connoisseurs of human values consider it an activity that brings people together and makes the town a more agreeable place to live. One local theoretician of winter social life, the freethinking Sniper, saw gossip as an inseparable part of the media landscape:

  “Winter is a time when the men of Budva realize the ideal of direct democracy: everyone has a voice and the right to shape the sphere of public discourse through participation. And when they open the town television station everyone will get their own few minutes of fame on the screen,” he stated categorically.

  Waiting for those promised few minutes, one harsh December evening I found myself in Budva’s best-known underground restaurant, Kod tužnog Tulipana (The Melancholic Tulip). Together with a few other card lovers I was playing round after exhausting round of Lora, drinking red wine, and waiting for the famous specialty of the house—Octopus Risotto in Mist. (Mists are actually extremely rare and short-lived in Budva, so this mist had nothing to do with the meteorological phenomenon; rather, it referred to the whitish film that covers people’s eyes when they get mindlessly drunk and pass out.) Malicious tongues claimed that the culinary skill of Tulip, the restaurateur, began and ended with this dish, and there was nothing apart from the mysterious name to distinguish it from any other risotto—but no one ever complained. On the contrary, since Tulip only prepared this dish once a year, it was a question of prestige for the people of Budva to be seen in his restaurant on the occasion.

  All the tables were occupied that evening. I saw many familiar faces—the cream of local government, business, and the culture scene; there were also some people I didn’t know, ugly mugs who gave me a bad gut feeling. According to an established custom, dinner was served after midnight. As we ate we chatted casually, listened to the blues, and enjoyed the intimate, almost familial atmosphere of the restaurant—all up until one idiot (who Tulip then asked unambiguously to leave the premises) called on Gonzales to tell us all what happened to Geiger and why he died so suddenly.

  As much as we adored gossiping about one another, there are some stories that one just does not tell: any inquiry about them is interpreted as an indecency, and the pryer loses his place in society and is branded untrustworthy. The story about what happened to Geiger had topped the town’s list of forbidden topics for several years. A fellow I know confided in me while we were fishing for mackerel off Sveti Nikola Island that he’d heard the tale from Gonzales, but he wouldn’t repeat it for me, even when I insisted. He said I wouldn’t believe him, and he couldn’t tell it well enough because he didn’t understand everything. And again, I know several people who got a fistful of salt in the ass for having hassled Gonzales; he kept a sawnoff double-barreled shotgun without a buttstock under the seat of his wheelchair (which was the basis of the morbid joke behind his nickname—he was anything but Speedy). One barrel of the shotgun had a buckshot cartridge and the other was loaded with coarsely ground salt: just which barrel he discharged depended on the type of idiot who was giving him a hard time.

  The question about Geiger made Gonzales flinch in his wheelchair; he hissed several curses to himself and in the direction of the overly curious fool, but when he saw Tulip give the fellow his marching orders he acted as if he hadn’t heard and kept eating.

  The evening went nicely, and when people were starting to go home, satisfied with Tulip’s risotto, Gonzales asked Tulip and me to help him to the toilet. He was an athlete at drinking but disabled when it came to negotiating the urinal. When he’d finished and wheeled himself back to the table, he ordered a bottle of wine and invited me to join him. Tulip was busy clearing away the cutlery, a drunk was snoring at the lowest point of the restaurant with his head on the table, and Gonzales filled our glasses and took a deep breath.

  “Fucking jerks! As if they were really interested in what happened to Geiger—they don’t even deserve to hear his name!” Then he tilted his head to the side a little, gave me a probing glance through half-closed eyelids, as if he’d never seen me before, and asked:

  “Does your brother stay in touch?”

  “More or less,” I replied, realizing it would be best not to show how much I disliked talking about my brother.

  “How long has he got left now?”

  “Seven years.”

  “What does he say? How are the jails in Australia? Does he have to kill kangaroos or make shoes for the Aborigines?”

  “He doesn’t complain.”

  Gonzales laughed. “A good guy, your brother. A bit of a hothead, and too harsh, but definitely good. We went to elementary school together, you know.”

  “He told me about that,” I answered.

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “That if ever I needed anything, or got into any trouble, I could ask you for help.”

  “And so you can, whatever it is. Just tell me, and I’ll sort it out.”

  I nodded and muttered a scant “Thanks.”

  “But you don’t get into trouble—they say you’re not like your brother at all …”

  “No, I’m not,” I replied.

  “What do you mean you’re not?” he asked.

  “I don’t get into trouble and I’m not like my brother at all.” I probably repeated those words with a tinge of resentment in my voice, and Gonzales didn’t fail to notice.

  “Hey, just a bit of fun, sonny—no hard feelings. I like to tease people. It’s all I’ve got left. And now pour us each another glass of wine and let’s bury the hatchet, all right?”

  I nodded and did as he suggested. For a while we drank in silence, then he asked out of the blue:

  “Are you also interested in what happened to Geiger?”

  I felt awkward because, by asking that question, he was putting me into his category of fucking jerks, but I simply couldn’t say no. I was itching to find out, just like everyone else in Budva, so I aimed for the middle of the road:

  “I’d like to hear, but if you don’t want to talk about it—just forget it.”

  He withdrew into himself, evidently satisfied with the company he’d found, and showing no sign that my words had registered with him, and after a while he asked me what time it was.

  “Ten past four,” I replied.

  “Do you need to go home? Are you late for something?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good—” said Gonzales, “I’ll tell you what happened to Geiger. I feel like I need to tell someone tonight, and right now you’re my best choice.” He inhaled deeply several times, as deeply as he could, like a diver filling his lungs before the plunge. Then he reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew an almost new pack of cigarettes, took one out, and began:

  “Geiger was in a particularly bad mood that evening. I could tell by his voice when he rang and suggested we meet at Kaktus Café. I was tired and not sure I really felt like going out at all; I’d spent the day trying to repair the boat’s motor. But in the end I decided to go out—I needed a bit of company. Geiger was sitting out on the terrace at a table next to a big cactus and sipping his whiskey; his mobile phone lay blinking with its green cyclops eye next to his pack of cigarettes. After we’d said hello he stewed in silence; he only waved to the waiter, and when the fellow finally lumbered up to the table he ordered ‘two doubles.’ I didn’t object, although I would have preferred a
beer. But, ultimately, what did it matter? It didn’t make any difference what I got blasted on that night. Several attempts to engage in conversation with Geiger simply failed. Whatever I asked, he’d reply curtly and unwillingly, and when what I was saying didn’t demand a direct answer, he didn’t listen at all.

  “‘Have you seen Kefir?’ I asked.

  “‘I called him shortly after talking with you. He promised he’d come later.’

  “Good, we’ll wait for him, I said to myself—maybe he’ll be less grumpy and more in the mood for a chat. I’d hold out for a bit longer, I thought, and then if Kefir still hadn’t arrived I’d go home for a bit of shut-eye. I felt weariness creeping over me and was starting to feel sick of it all. Just as I was beginning to sink into gloom and despondency, Kefir turned up at the gate and yelled jovially:

  “‘Whereya been, ya freaks?’

  “I couldn’t think of what to say back, but Geiger obliged:

  “‘Up shit creek. Whereya been yourself, ya moron?’

  “The question was part of the standard repartee and didn’t require an answer, so Kefir didn’t reply; he just said hello, looked at the table to see what we were drinking and, satisfied with what he saw, signaled to the waiter to repeat the order—this time with one more glass.

  “Kefir’s arrival enlivened the conversation, if you could call it that at all, since he talked incessantly, while Geiger mumbled to himself and I expended the last of my energy trying to stay awake. And I definitely would have fallen asleep if there hadn’t suddenly been an uproar: a blockhead passing by our table with a few mugs of beer and a glass of tomato juice tripped on a bump in the floor, lost his balance, and spilled the drinks all over Geiger’s shirt and pants. Geiger didn’t quite realize what had happened at first, but when he saw the red stains on his clothes he smiled and slowly began to get up from the table with an expression on his face that seemed to say: Oh, never mind, these things happen: just apologize and everything’s fine.

  “But Kefir and I knew very well what was brewing: Geiger had decided to beat the cretin up; he just didn’t want to frighten him with a yell and have him run away before he got his thrashing. We saw it coming: the cretin fumbled around at our feet, muttering a paltry apology, trying in vain to clean the blotches off Geiger’s pants with a tissue. Kefir held onto Geiger while I urged the poor fellow to move before it was too late. But he didn’t listen and bent down to reach the patches on Geiger’s lower trouser legs—just in the right position for Geiger to deliver a mighty kick in the head. We heard the sickening thud of the shoe connecting with his face. He recoiled and fell down on the floor, and the waiter reached for the phone to call the police. None of the cretin’s buddies showed any inclination to stand up for him. Kefir went up to the bar, paid the bill, and impressed upon the waiter that he keep this to himself. Then we left the café.

  “We loitered around town for a while and peeped into a few bars, but there were none that took our fancy. As glum and silent as Geiger had been earlier, he now chattered incessantly and laughed just for the sake of it. Kefir and I looked at him like he was loony at first, but soon we started laughing too, especially when he imitated the cretin bending down and fumbling with his tissue. All in all, it had been an eventful evening out.

  “It was getting toward the wee hours and we were tired of walking and complaining that none of us had come into town by car. Just as we were about to go our separate ways, Geiger suggested we spend the rest of the evening at his place.

  “‘But it’s late,’ Kefir objected.

  “‘Come off it—you call this late?’ Geiger argued.

  “‘Shall we?’ Kefir asked me, not wanting to decide.

  “‘If the idiot wants to listen to our whinging and has a bottle of whiskey on offer—I’d say we go!’ I resolved.

  “Every time I went to Geiger’s place I was surprised, as if I’d never seen it before. The space he lived in didn’t appeal to me at all. Back then I didn’t know why I felt so uncomfortable, and when I finally found out it was too late to do anything about it. Geiger had studied architecture and was one of the best students of his generation. People who understood the town’s needs predicted a successful career for him, but unfortunately nothing came of it. In the early nineties, every turd from Podgorica and Belgrade who’d made it rich had to have an apartment in Budva (it was a question of power!), yet the developers’ mafia didn’t find my friend a suitable associate. Once I asked him why, and he replied that their interests didn’t square with any serious definition of architecture. ‘Any silly bugger with a diploma can design those sterile holiday hovels,’ he spat, and added after a moment’s reflection: ‘I hate this town from the bottom of my heart, believe me, but I don’t hate it as much as they do!’

  “After his father’s death, Geiger sold off several plots of land and used the money to build a four-story building in the center of town. He designed it himself, in fact I think it was his only building. He used every square meter rationally: the first floor was reserved for commercial use, and the floors above accommodated offices and luxurious rental apartments, where his skill found its fullest expression. But his apartment at the top of the block confirmed a side of his personality that was completely incomprehensible to me and that I long considered the capriciousness of a wealthy man. This penthouse was a single, huge space of over one hundred square meters, with walls seven meters high. The kitchen installed in one corner was fully equipped and always immaculately clean, as if never used. The bathroom and toilet were housed in a rectangular room of dark glass at the other end of the main space. On the northern wall there hung six large graphics on one and the same theme—they showed different stages of the birth of a monster. They were repulsive and painful to look at but you couldn’t take your eyes off them. On the opposite wall were shelves crammed full of books from various fields, mostly architecture as you’d expect. Beneath the shelves were several armchairs, a richly inlaid mahogany table, and a stereo. In the middle of the penthouse stood a table of hewn stone, which, to be exact, was more like an altar than a desk or table. Five pillars were arranged in a circle around it and supported a dome, also made of stone, with an oculus one meter in diameter in the middle, directly above the table. It all looked stupid and useless to me, nothing but an ostentatious waste of living space. But now I’m convinced that Geiger had the house built for the sole purpose of erecting that dome on top of it.

  “Kefir and I slumped into the armchairs while Geiger pottered around at the fridge, trying to ferret a few ice cubes out of its innards. Presently he came up carrying a bottle of whiskey, a pot of ice, and three glasses. For an hour, or an hour and a half, we listened to music, Nick Cave and Swans, and smoked one joint after another. We talked about life, the universe, and everything to a constant flow of alcohol until one of the two idiots opened a Pandora’s box of questions—it must have been Kefir because he was browsing through the books in Geiger’s collection. One of the titles probably induced him to start a highly intellectual discussion on a metaphysical topic: Did evil exist in the world, and if so, what was its nature? Was it something fundamentally and substantially separate from good or just a paucity of good—when the quantity of good tends toward zero? If God was our guarantee for the existence of good (as the ancient books say), did evil also have an authorized representative on earth? If so, was this representative on a par with God? If not, if he was subordinate, was this because of his inability to create, given his limitedness, meaning he could only spoil what had already been created and turn things into their opposite? If that were the case, didn’t good ultimately have to give its prior consent for parts of creation to be unmade, which would clearly mean it was abandoning its prior nature? Or was that not necessarily so? So how much freedom of will was involved, and in what way?

  “The discussion gradually began to turn into a battle and they engaged in polemics about whether good could change its scope and quality or whether it was eternally immutable, unlike evil, which possessed the powe
r to grow and transform. Accordingly, if we note that evil has prevailed, that doesn’t mean good has diminished or disappeared—it remains constant—but only that evil has amplified its possibilities on an enormous scale and fully obscured good. But there’s another side to the coin: that which possesses the power to grow so quickly and completely conceal its real nature, without any visible trace to counter that impression, is, inevitably, quickly expended and vanishes. But the breaking down of demonic simulacra is a process that often lasts several human lives, so the ‘quickness’ of the process is no consolation.

  “I knew that evil is fascinating, can charm people, and is absolutely entertaining; I also knew it’s much more interesting than good, which can be so bland and banal as to make you sick; but I’d never thought about good and evil as seriously and with the passion that my friends did that evening. The matter is much simpler for me: I do good when I can and bad when I have to, which I suppose is a weak excuse, but I have no other, so it’ll have to do. The discussion they were having therefore didn’t interest me, and soon I didn’t understand anything they were saying anymore. Only later—to be exact: after Geiger bequeathed me his manuscripts and books—did I develop an interest, and then every new realization acquired in the light of what had occurred that evening only added to my anxiety and fear.

  “Geiger was quick-witted and excelled at debate, I knew that, so it greatly surprised me how well Kefir countered him, and on several occasions his clever remarks undermined Geiger’s argumentation. I could tell this by the way Geiger had to struggle to defend his position; Kefir would immediately see how flawed it was and shoot it full of holes. I tried to interrupt them but that proved impossible. The discussion was of great significance for them both, although the reason escaped my comprehension, and, realizing I could do nothing, I went out onto the terrace so at least I wouldn’t have to hear them anymore. I wondered if we’d made a mistake by not simply separating and going home to bed, or if at least I had, seeing as I needed to keep repairing the boat the next day, and being tired and drunk like this I’d sleep all day and everything I’d planned would come to nothing. But at one point there was quiet in the house and it drew me back inside. The two had finished philosophizing, so I could return. I heaved a sigh of relief.