Best European Fiction 2012

by Aleksandar Hemon

  I’m giving you these instructions because we have just found out, and I’m crushed by this, my children, that we won’t be able to join you again for at least several weeks. I’ll send you some money. Dress yourselves neatly. The instructions for the washing machine are somewhere in the basement, I hope that, even if the pages are stuck together because of the damp, you’ll manage to read them, separate the colors first of all and put the detergent in the right compartment. In the kitchen, you’ll find a recipe book, there’s a measurement chart at the back, a spoon, if I recall correctly, must hold about fifteen, twenty grams, look in your science books, you can easily convert grams and centiliters. Farewell my little children, it pains me to leave you, I would like so much to be able to feed you, clothe you, and look after you, fate is a fickle thing. Sending you billions of kisses. My husband would also like to express himself now.

  Without a break, Monsieur Morceau’s voice: I hope you’re sleeping well. I’m proud at the thought that you all know how to cope and that you will finally be able to live alone and without problems like grown-ups. You children really do help make your caretakers’ lives so much simpler, I must thank you and I can only tell you to carry on. In this way you will make us happy and you’ll remain very good children. Don’t say bad words, don’t do naughty things. Your hands must be clean, nails white. Take care of one another. Discipline is unique to humanity.

  Here his voice breaks off and we carry on with our day. A question that bothers us: what use is an adult? They are always so remote, and we don’t really care about them, but can we exist without them, how to manage it, dear headmasters, our windows remain closed, we don’t feel at home, we can’t sleep unless we light all the lamps, shame that you couldn’t say how long we’d have to wait to finally be mature and complete, we don’t want to be small any longer, there are too many things we lack. We believe we’re all going to blow away without a grown-up to hold us, without anyone to tie us down, to ballast us, weight us, peg us, fasten us, guide us, screw us down, drive us in, nail us down, surround us, and contain us.

  The postmen bring the mail and in the middle is a letter from the headmistress. On the envelope she has written: this letter will be read aloud by the oldest among you. And so our eldest deciphers the letter:

  My children, she begins, how are you my little ones. I hope that you feel well and that you are taking the time to enjoy yourselves a little besides your studies. I don’t dare imagine how much your appearance has changed nor how many centimeters of skin are now showing at the bottom of your trousers. Your ankles must be showing, it’s certainly ugly, please don’t delay going to a shop if you have the chance. I’m sending you cash. I’m thinking nonstop about the meals that you could make yourselves, I’m setting aside recipes for you, though one day I’ll be back to indulge your digestive systems and give your bodies what they might be lacking. But I am absolutely certain that you can be self-sufficient, thankfully there are so many of you, whether or not Monsieur Morceau and myself are in charge of you doesn’t really make much of a difference, you never want for anything, you budget for yourselves what’s necessary, perhaps you don’t even feel this absence which is crucifying me, yes my poor children, I am in tatters because I no longer have my chicks, I am out in winter with no coat, my mind is cold and shivering, I think endlessly of the happiness of bringing you into the refectory, it’s good to make you obey, to hold you in my hands, to know that you are mine and that you live under my wing, your thoughts are open to me and you always give me everything, all that you are, completely, because you are my children and I am your headmistress who keeps you under her protection and who will no longer let you go, no, never, no matter what happens. I insist so much on that because the times are difficult, we are still detained and for the time being I don’t see any possibility of returning to join you again. While waiting, do keep sitting up straight in your chairs, don’t bring shame to those who gave their lives for yours, you aren’t hunchbacks, you aren’t rolled up like little snails, don’t forget your backbones, hold yourselves up proudly. I send my thoughts to all of you, from the biggest to the least-developed of you, I care about every hair on your heads. Note that I’ve intentionally employed a complex vocabulary in order that you can doubly profit from my letter. Don’t forget the postscript. More kisses than ever, your sorry headmistress, Madame Morceau.

  Postscript: my children, you are the salt of the earth, you are the compost, the leaven, you are divine goodness. Grow and multiply and don’t forget, before going to sleep at night, that Madame and Monsieur Morceau were your guides in childhood. Your beloved headmaster, Monsieur Morceau.

  We know that we’ll do what we have to. We still cry our eyes out of course, but our noses are blown and we’ll soon be able to laugh without showing our glottis and tongue. At mealtimes we force ourselves to stay until every dish is empty. We know that the headmasters would like to see us at midday, all of us seated as we are, amid the tinkling of the dinner service, we never lick our knives, we swallow cauliflower and so on without fail, but my God if only Monsieur Morceau could come back soon to make conversation at the table, it’s a desert between us and we’re bored to death, and if Madame Morceau could only come back too to take responsibility for the never-ending choices we have to make, so we could have fun again, that she could decide for us where to go when we go out for a walk or in which place to take refuge when we get caught in a storm, which shirt it’s better to wear, whether we should put on socks or not, if it’s time for a bath, what time to set the alarm clock, and how to grow up, how to react, what to think, what temptations to avoid, and on what to model our lives.

  Someone came by one Sunday, a fax arrived somewhere else, it seems there was an error, it’s addressed to us. Here’s what we read on the pages: my children, as we are well aware, you are living where we no longer do. Please believe that we think about it at least as much as you do. We have tried to do what we could in this world. Please behave like adults, you are becoming young people, the knowledge is comforting, continue to grow and mature without creating problems for us. Think carefully about it. Choose your job according to your abilities. Refrain from smoking and getting into drugs. The blood that stains your linen is a sign of creation. You needn’t be concerned about it. The sap flooding you when you wake up is nothing to worry about either, your bodies have grown up, your faces have become fine and mobile, the skin at your armpits is curling. Learn how to shave well and fight against perspiration so as to be welcomed within society. Resolve your Oedipus complexes. Laugh and speak with caution. Instinct is a bad counselor. Discipline your minds. How is it that you aren’t more confident? You ought to be able to solve an equation with three unknowns and to fill out a tax form. At your ages one forges ahead, one no longer lets oneself be led astray by hang-ups and anxieties. You are going to start families and carry children at your breast. Avoid if you can duplicating our mistakes, if you see them coming. We did our best, but perfection isn’t human. My children, we must say it, this will be our last contact, we are going to lose sight of you permanently in a short while. We don’t know what you are, we don’t see what connects us, and you aren’t far from speaking a language that is alien to us. We had planned on having children of a different caliber, ladies and gentlemen, it seems strange to us that you are sleeping in our rooms, to think of your lives surprises us, we are puzzled, in fact, you aren’t acting according to our wishes, some among you are still sticking your fingers in your nose, at night you make use of your hands in a way that embarrasses us, and we don’t approve of the paths you’re following. For what are you using the blood we’ve kept in your veins for the past thousand years? How can you inhabit bodies that disconcert us so? You are kilometers away and your voices are unrecognizable to us. We are forced to say it, we feel no closer than to ghosts or specters. You have taken our time, we devoted ourselves to you, you are grain that blows away. From now on it makes no difference to us to know that you’re alive. In conc
lusion, be aware that tomorrow we die, please come to our graves, water the plants with care, rake the earth as necessary. Keep your tears inside, you are in any case tied to us for all time.

  The fax concludes with those words. We understand that this is the moment, we must leave today. In the street we move forward, tall but empty inside, we make our way, all of us together, one body, which must separate.

  TRANSLATED FROM FRENCH BY URSULA MEANY SCOTT

  [UNITED KINGDOM: SCOTLAND]

  DONAL MCLAUGHLIN

  enough to make your heart

  SEASON 1971–72

  1.

  It felt like Christmas had come early. First Liam knew, his da was tugging his toe.

  “Surprise, son!” he whispered. “Get up ’n’ get on you quick! We’re going to the football!”

  “What, Parkhead?”

  Liam could hear himself how excited he sounded.

  “Naw, they’re away this week in Dundee. C’mon, get up ’n’ get on you like a good youngfella. We need to leave soon—”

  Liam waited for the door to shut, then jumped out. Sean & wee Cahal, he could see, were out for the count still. Room was that cold, he was hugging himself as he hopped round, looking out his clothes. Even pulling them on, he was shivering.

  He hoped to God his mum had the fire lit.

  Sure enough: she was kneeling in front of the fire, a big double-page out of the paper up against it, when Liam got downstairs. The British Army is smaller than it used to be, the huge big advert read, but so is the world.

  There was a hint of a heat if ye went close.

  “Mornin, Mum.”

  “Mornin, son.”

  The trick wi the paper was a good one. Liam loved the way it turned gold as the flame started to take. You’d to watch it didn’t catch just. Soldier wi the helmet was in big trouble if that happened.

  His mum & dad were talking bout how come he was going to see Celtic.

  “Bring your boy,” Mr. McCool had said, his da was saying. “He’ll be company for my boy, sure—”

  “It’s not fair taking one ’n’ not the other but, Liam,” his mum objected.

  “I can take Sean another time,” his da said just.

  “See ’n’ enjoy yourself anyway, son!” his mum said as they left. She slipped him a new 5p.

  It felt strange: heading out wi none of the rest of them up yet. Felt great but too: him & his da, the two Liams, heading off together.

  They took the big green Zephyr and parked behind the Hibs.

  Liam—wee Liam—had never been in a bar before. It was mainly empty tables, wi empty & half-full tumblers & ashtrays in front of people but, where there was people. One or two seemed to know his da.

  “Pint of cordial, Liam?”

  “Aye, John, please!”

  Barman’d started to make it before he’d even asked.

  Orange went in first. Liam watched the colour change as blackcurrant was added.

  “Lemonade for the boy, maybe?”

  “Aye, give him a bottle of mineral, John, thanks. What do you say to Mr. Higgins, son?”

  “Thank you.”

  The bar was beginning to fill. Some of the other men had Irish accents too. His da & him weren’t the only ones. Some of the other men said aye, they were going to the football, they weren’t all but. Ye could see themmins that weren’t wished they were.

  Was a good while before anyone Liam’s age appeared. When they did, they crowded round a table across the room.

  “Gaun over ’n’ join them,” his da kept saying. Liam wouldn’t but. Not when he didn’t know a single one.

  He played wi his tooth that was coming out instead. Was still playing wi it, his tongue footering away, when the McCools turned up. That youngfella was over to the others like a shot.

  Suddenly they were bundling onto the bus. One minute his da was going to the toilet & not wanting to be on his own, Liam went with him; the next, they were bundling on.

  “Come on, O’Donnell! Trust you—always bloody last! Can ye no hurry up thon father o yours, son? What kinda example’s thon to set the boy, O’D?”

  There was a buzz about the bus as they left. Liam recognised the obvious bits of where they lived in Scotland, but not much more but. He asked his da how long it would be. His da didn’t know. The man across the aisle didn’t either. He leant across, all kind: “We’ve left in plenty of time anyhow, son. Don’t be frettin.” The man laughed. “Yir daddy here might even have time for a pint!”

  “What—you don’t drink? Pioneer, are you?” Liam heard as he drifted off in his own imagination.

  “That you playing wi that tooth again?”

  Liam nodded.

  “Want me to pull it?”

  He nodded again.

  His da’s finger & thumb went into his mouth. Liam ignored the yellow colour—tried to, anyhow—’n’ the taste ’n’ smell of it. His da rocked the tooth. Liam could feel it resisting.

  “It’s not ready to come out yet, son, ’n’ I don’t want to force it. I’ll try again later.”

  Liam sat there just ’n’ wriggled ’n’ wriggled it, his face against the cold of the window sometimes. It got to the point the poem he’d learned in St. Eugene’s wouldn’t give him peace. The wobbly-tooth one—

  They were crossing a river when a man appeared. He stood over them wi a cap full of toty bits of paper, folded up tight. It was the sweep, the boy said.

  “Final score, is it?” his da asked.

  “Naw, first goal-scorer for a change—”

  “You choose, Liam. Let you choose—”

  “That your boy?”

  “Aye—my eldest. He’s Liam, too.”

  “Pleased to meet you, son. What age are you?”

  “Ten!”

  “Ten?”

  “Eleven in March, he’ll be. For secondary in the autumn.”

  “Many others ye got?”

  “Six. Another two weeboys and four weegirls.”

  “Jaysus, man!”

  His da opened his ticket ’n’ humphed.

  The man laughed. “Who’ve ye got?”

  “Evan Williams!”

  “The goalie! Ah well—ye never know. Maybe it’ll be an o.g. D’ye want another one to be in wi a chance?”

  “Not wi luck like that I don’t!”

  We HATE Ran-gers ’n’ we HATE Ran-gers

  Singing had started already.

  “Don’t know what’s brought that on!” his da said. Then but, he spotted the boys at the lights.

  We are the Ran-gers HAT-ERS!

  The Wranglers ones leapt out of their seats. Charged across the aisle to give the Proddies the vicky. Scary, it was. Specially when them other boys laid into the glass wi their fists. Least, over in Derry, the soldiers waved back if you waved nice.

  Soon, the singing was that loud ye’d’ve thought the match had started.

  “Mon the Cellic!”

  Most of them said the name lik it had no T in it.

  Before long, they were giving it all the grand-old-team-to-play-fors. For once, they kept up wi each other.

  WHEN—ye KNOW—the HIStorY—

  Liam knew the words ’n’ all. Was too shy to join in but.

  enough to make your heart go oh OH oh OH

  His da wasn’t. Looked at him as if to say, Wha’s wrong wi ye?

  ANimals SAY

  WHAAAT the HELL do we CAARE

  His da fancied himself as a singer.

  a SHOW

  ’n’ the GLASgow CELlic will be THERRR.

  Singing was frightnin enough now, would be worse still at the ground but. Ye’d to wonder why the other team showed up even—

  The roars
o’ them—

  Liam always thought it felt lik, sounded lik, they could kill someone.

  Eventually, they gave their so-called singing a rest, thank God. Kinda roads they were on, there was no one to taunt anyhow. At most, they brandished their flags ’n’ scarves at other supporters’ buses. All the ORANGE BASTARDS got shouted, whether it was Rangers buses or not.

  “Aye, they’re not the only ones, sure,” his da explained. “Some of them wee teams are just as bad—”

  Mr. McCool came up to speak to his da.

  “Have ye met my Kevin yet, son?”

  His da said he hadn’t.

  “Away up ’n’ introduce yourself. He’ll be delighted to meet you.”

  When Liam wasn’t for moving, his da said his tooth was bothering him.

  “Never mind—the Tic’ll take your mind off it. We’re goney stuff these boys theday, son! Where’s your scarf anyway?”

  “Not got one.”

  “Not got one? Ye want to get yir daddy to get you one!” Mr. McCool turned to his da. “Ye should get him one, Liam. All the other young fellas have them—”

  “Who d’ye think Big Jock’ll pick theday, son?”

  Liam panicked. How has he supposed to know?

  His da said something for him again.

  “Who’s your favourite player then?”

  That was easy. Lennox. Bobby Lennox. Ever since the double he got against Falkirk. Wee Jinky was a close second. The rings he dribbled round folk.

  “And can ye name me your favourite eleven?”

  Liam couldn’t.

  “That boy o’ mine can. Obsessed, he is. Nothin appears in the papers he doesn’t cut out. You should ask him to let you see his scrapbooks, son!” The man turned back to his da. “I get him the catalogues wi the wallpaper samples from my work ’n’ he sticks in everything he finds. I’ll get you one, too, son, ’n’ give it to yir da here to give to ye.”