Best European Fiction 2012

by Aleksandar Hemon

  All right. So why am I complaining? (I’m WHINING, to be honest, but you haven’t heard anything yet because we’re still at the beginning of the story.) I should say right away that I’m not sure. It’s quite possible I simply can’t express it—I rarely have to express things like this, all on my own. And perhaps I don’t know exactly how I feel. I’m hardly one of those professional writers who can churn out a column a day. Nor have I ever written any letters to the editor, though I’d have a thing or two to say like everyone else—I just haven’t got the time. I keep a diary that I write in when I get around to it, and once or twice a year I write a letter to someone or other. I’m not even an actress, really. I’m a CHARACTER. Are characters allowed to complain? I guess most things are allowed, these days.

  I’ll get right to the thick of things, I guess, because I can’t keep track of where they begin and where they end. My life is a tangle. So let me start with the situation at home. I mean the home in the serial, which is mostly where I live. Way back in Episode 53—just to remind you, because I easily forget old episodes myself, and also for those who hate soap operas and have never seen the show—my TV-father was nominated for mayor. And was elected in Episode 55. Since then it’s been impossible to talk to him. He’s all wrapped up in being a politician. I can’t tell you how much he gets on my nerves with his fake patience, persistent smile, and his constant squint when I’m telling him something. He says he understands EVERYTHING! Even without words—he’s a master of empathy! What a superman! Not to mention that I now have to schedule any talk with him via you-know-who—Juliana. Though, to be fair, she’s changed a lot, starting as early as Episode 70. That surprised us all. At first Juliana was just an ambitious secretary who used any means necessary to get herself more money, and through money, influence (or vice versa). But when she accomplished what she was striving for, something in her changed fundamentally, which you might have noticed in the famous scene where she talks to herself in the mirror. She began to reflect on the meaning of life! She reads a lot and has deep and meaningful thoughts. No one expected this change in the slightest, not even the producer. As it turns out, Juliana is the only character who’s really able to listen. Rushed productions can be like that.

  Where was I? Oh yes, my father—he rarely appears in scenes with his family. And when he does, he puts on that slick, mock-calm voice, always with the same intonation, and the first and almost only thing he says is: “So what seems to be the problem? We can sort it out, let’s just be rational.” Ugh, I really get furious when I hear that! My father drives me up the wall.

  My brother and I still put ourselves through it, though, unlike Mother, who gave up long ago—she burns through money, has one boyfriend after another, a girl or two as well, and drinks more and more. Father assumes the pose of a patient listener (the preparations for this waste half an hour of shooting time!), then he just stares for an endless minute, or a minute and a half, mostly at my brother Mario and me, “listening” in silence the whole time until he’s sure we’ve run out of steam, only to say, in the end, “I’ll have a think. Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted out.” Always the same phrase over and over again!

  It must drive the audience around the bend too. But the producer sticks to this phrase and won’t allow anyone to do so much as complain, let alone rebel and demand a change. When we finally have the next “appointment” with our father he politely asks us to refresh his memory: “What were we talking about again last time?” And when we’ve told him, he says, “Sorry, I’m just a bit too busy. Of course I remember. Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted out.”

  In Episode 71 my brother Mario got into an accident in his Porsche and for the next seven episodes kept us guessing as to whether or not he was going to wake up out of his coma. Before the crash he’d been up to everything you expect from someone with that mindset: he broke up with his girlfriend (who I knew from Oriental Studies; I helped her join the cast because her parents had also been ruined), got into a fight in a bar, and drank and snorted all the time. The shots of the speeding ambulance were intercut with three or four living-room and swimming-pool scenes. Mario survived, woke up in the best clinic in the world, and resolved to change his life radically. He saw the accident as a “sign from God,” as he told the nurse, who he married in the next episode and now has two children with—a boy and a girl. I just want to say that I’ve realized how important symmetry is for this story. It looks like I’m learning to write after all. Who would have thought!

  Anyway, Mario started work in one of Father’s firms and, unsurprisingly, began easing himself into politics. All these things happened terribly quickly, I don’t know exactly how long it took, but it was fifteen episodes at the most. Now, from today’s perspective, it seems to me that my brother has always been like he is now. He’s so taken up by himself and his business that we hardly ever see each other—except when he has to lecture me about a boyfriend who’s “below our level” or will “ravage our finances,” and when, once a week on average, he has to declare: “It’s about time you grew up and decided what you’re going to do with your life.” Oh no, just like Dad! He keeps repeating the same phrase over and over.

  Now back to me a bit. Mariana can’t grow up and really decide what she’s going to do with her life. If she did, the character of my brother would be seriously threatened. The producer keeps postponing my maturity because Mario, in so-called private life, is his boyfriend! He’s madly in love. I overheard it when he confided in our stylist and told her he couldn’t live without Mario, he’d kill himself if their relationship failed, etc. So here I am, it’s almost Episode 180, I do all sorts of shit, get myself into crazy relationships, have one part of my body pierced after another—not to mention all the tattoos; I spend money like it’s going out of style, go home less and less, and never before noon; then I sleep until evening, go out clubbing late at night, and that’s it. In other words, my character is stuck in a rut just so that Mario can develop. As my father Nenad’s boss said: “Life just ain’t fair.”

  But changes can still happen when you do everything to prevent them. Life has its own script. You see, when our producer’s wife found out about his affair with Mario she got over the “shock” with suspicious ease and immediately began blackmailing her husband: either he put her boyfriend into the show or she’d file for divorce and take the house! That sure kicked his ass into gear! It’s amazing how quickly the tables can turn—everything is easy when it has to be.

  It’s obvious that if she initiated divorce proceedings she’d get more, much more out of her husband, given society’s attitude toward gay couples, even though researchers claim that opposition is on the wane. Every society prides itself on being free of prejudice and holds aloft the banner of Justice, as tattered as it may be. But the unwritten laws are still there. The producer knows he’d be up shit creek—and penniless. So that’s how the show suddenly got a new character in the person of Emil, who went on to become Mariana’s great love, or rather mine. The producer had to see to it that Emil stayed in the show through till the end, otherwise—his wife put her foot down—it was good-bye to the houses, cars, and bank accounts. Thanks to Emil I stayed too, I only just scraped by, because there were already whispers in the dressing room that I’d soon jump off the top of one of Father’s buildings.

  Emil and I love each other with a vengeance. Our love scenes last up to seven minutes! He doesn’t have a family—or, to be exact, his parents divorced long ago and each emigrated to a distant country with a new partner. He hasn’t been in touch with them for years, and his being an only child only strengthens our relationship further. My family went nuts in Episode 188 when I announced that I wanted to marry him.

  “That’s absolutely reckless and irresponsible! Can’t you see he’s just a lazy bum who wants to get his paws on our money?” my father Max said. “That’s right!” Mario chimed in. “That guy of yours is a longhair—he’s into music! What are you going to
live on? Have you bothered to ask yourself that, or are you counting on our assets?” My mother Orleana, as usual, took a good swallow of whiskey and lit a long cigarette before saying anything. Then she launched into a long monologue about how she’d asked around about Emil and found out that before me he’d been seeing a rich girl who he jilted when her father went bankrupt. In the interim, she inhaled before continuing, he’d had one lover after another, so many that Emil lost track himself. She barely made it to her closing statement—“He’s just a grubby little gold-digger!”—because twice during her monologue she had to pour herself some more whiskey. (Not juice or water with food coloring, but real whiskey.)

  This scene of our broken family coming together will be in Episode 189. The producer wasted no time. He found a powerful backer in the upper circles of society—who knows how—there are all sorts of rumors but I don’t want to talk about things I’m not sure about. Some say it cost him a lot of money, others claim he hooked up with a gay clique. Whatever really happened, he managed to arrange it so that he would be able to keep almost all his money if it came to a divorce. After having protected himself in this way he rushed down to tell his wife and Emil. He yelled and screamed so much that the audio engineer, who happened to be at their house at the time, heard it all. I think he was fixing the stereo in the massage room, perhaps six doors down from the living room. That same day the engineer passed on the gossip to the whole Always and Forever team, and since then—the day before yesterday—all us characters have been scared out of our minds.

  If Mario’s hired killer manages to weed Emil out of the serial, several of us are bound to end up without work. Because that sort of tragedy will probably drive me to the top of one of Dad’s buildings—and you know the rest. Emil’s former girlfriend, who used her connections to hound him throughout the storyline, will then no doubt drop out of the script. The big question is what will become of my mother Orleana, who happens to be best friends with the producer’s wife. There are too many dramas in our show already for anyone to worry about her personal problems. She had to have her stomach pumped several times in a relatively short span of time—be it due to alcohol or pills or a mixture of both. The simple truth is that all the good suicide scenarios have been used up. My father Max even came out with a new phrase: “Damn it, if you don’t change your attitude soon, I don’t know what will become of you!”

  Things are pretty desperate at my real home. You’ve probably realized by now that we’re all living on just my pay. My father Nenad has completely withdrawn into himself—he comes home late, sometimes he skips a night and only comes back after two days, and our neighbor Goca once found him—entirely by accident—watching my show in a café near the zipper workshop. My mother’s stopped leaving the house at all. Until now she at least went to her therapy sessions and largely cooperated in the treatment of her agoraphobia—or so her doctor said. She was able to go down to the store and to her friend’s place, which is several streets from our building—albeit under medication, though the doctor said even that was an improvement. But then she had a total meltdown. Now she sits in front of the TV all day and only turns it off when it’s time for the show with me, her daughter Mariana, to come on. My sister is still holding up pretty well, at least compared to the others. She took on a job at the Orlando School of Foreign Languages (I was about to say “of Executive Escorts”), which she initially declined when the lady manager pointed out that the pay wasn’t much but she’d develop useful contacts with VIPs. She didn’t have much choice. So now she’s investing in her wardrobe for a few months—long enough so that the clients don’t see her in the same clothes twice. She promised she’d support us later if we don’t find a new character for me.

  Let me get to the point.

  I want to keep my story short, but you’ll appreciate that I had to tell you all this so you could understand what I’m trying to say. It’s so damn complicated that I can hardly get my head around it myself. When I settle down, and I guess that will happen one day, I’ll write a whole book about it, like normal people do. But until then I want you to grasp at least the basics of the plot.

  The gist of it is that instead of falling into some kind of depression myself when I found out about Emil’s fate, I somehow calmed down. It’s strange, terribly strange. I just can’t explain it, and that’s what worries me. It’s not just that I felt this inner calm that I hadn’t ever known before, but it gave me a real boost too—absolutely incredible! For the first time since I had to drop out of uni, the words “So what?” came out. My voice was flat. Finally things no longer depended on me. Not that they ever really did, if you’ve followed the story, but I had to live believing that I was important. Now I don’t have to anymore.

  I don’t know where to go from here. I’m not used to this sort of serenity. Is it a health issue or a serious illness that might not manifest itself until later? Do you need pills for it? The problem is that I don’t feel any problem. Can you live life like this? I don’t know.

  I keep on saying “I don’t know,” I realize, but I really and truly don’t know. Nor do I understand why I’ve forced myself to tell you all this when I don’t feel like it at all. I think I know what you’re going to say, what everyone says these days: “Let’s wait and see.” No one has time for anyone, and everything gets put off into the indefinite future. That way no one can accuse you of having bad intentions. But honestly, I hope the story will go on. I don’t know why—I just feel there will always be a “to be continued.” Isn’t that the way of the world?

  In tomorrow’s episode—I’m letting the cat out of the bag here—my father Max will say: “I’ve done all I could, and it’s all been pointless. Now it’s up to you to sort things out!” My brother Mario nods victoriously in approval. You can imagine the rest. But here I am, going out walking and enjoying the morning sun. It’s September, I haven’t mentioned that: the mornings are crisp—just right—the days not too hot, and the nights are pleasant for sitting in the garden. Shooting is in the afternoons, and afterward I go down to the quay. I’ve already met a few of the regulars out walking and we have a nice chat. Soon I’ll be able to spend as much time there as I like. I wouldn’t be surprised if I forget that the show ever existed.

  The river is a marvel. Water, as such. When you look at it—it’s enough just to look at it, you don’t have to touch it—you sort of gather yourself and become one again without the slightest effort. It’s soothing. It’s scary just how soothing it is. I’m afraid of being happy with such simple things. Then again, “afraid” isn’t the right word. How could I be afraid in my words and in life? Anyway: let’s wait and see.

  TRANSLATED FROM SERBIAN BY WILL FIRTH

  home

  [LIECHTENSTEIN]

  PATRICK BOLTSHAUSER

  Tomorrow It’s Deggendorf

  The train stops and you get off. Nothing else you can do, end of the line. Your suitcase is heavy. Sort of like back then, you think to yourself, when I went away. The station has hardly changed since those days. Twenty-five years and nothing different worth talking about. Same scene every visit. A bar for lost souls, a kiosk that usually—like now—is of no help at all to passengers because it’s never open during the hours it says it is, and a public john where the same—even if they’re not the same, you think to yourself—the same pearls of wisdom are plastered on the once-white tiles over the urinals. Such as ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL, or I CAN’T GET NO SATISFACTION, or the ultimate in classic latrine humor, at least in the Men’s, which leads directly to the question, what’s on the wall in the Ladies’, not this gem for sure: DON’T LOOK AT THE WORDS THAT BEFORE YOU STAND. BEHOLD THE JOKE THAT’S IN YOUR HAND!

  Your suitcase isn’t the same and you ask yourself, How many suitcases have I ridden to death since then? But it’s a suitcase that contains basically everything you own, just like when you first headed out into the big wide world—you can’t help letting your thought
s connect with what twists your mouth into a slight sneer, though that’s something you can’t see because there isn’t any mirror, none over the sink you’re washing your hands in, the same way you did back then and the routine’s been the same ever since. You give in to that sneering smile for a moment, feel the abyss lurking behind it, and go out. You pop into the ladies’ john, not really voyeurism on your mind but—as the current lingo puts it—“Gender Studies,” comparative latrine linguistics, and you’re blocked by a kid running at you to hug you, only half succeeding, at hip level, and so you discover to your embarrassment that your fly’s open.

  “Uncle, Uncle, we’ve come to pick you up! In our new car!” You’re too taken by surprise to say anything or do anything, no affectionate gesture, no stroking the kid’s curly, reddish blond hair, and you can’t even pull your zipper up gracefully, so you just stand there, immobile, like a pillar of salt; then the kid takes your hand and shows you the way to your brother.

  It’s the first time Robert has picked you up at the station, and he hadn’t prepared you for this premiere. And so the last time you talked to him on the phone you’d only given him the bus’s approximate time of arrival, the bus that—as usual—was to bring you from the train station. He must have gone ahead and figured out which train hooked up with the bus you said you’d take, which isn’t a problem thanks to the Web, but it was nevertheless a tricky move you wouldn’t have expected from him. And so now here he is, arms folded, and with an expression on his face that’s hard to read, and you ask yourself, Do I detect a trace of brotherly pride there? Your greeting is, as usual, a mutual nod of the head, as if there were no other way to do it, since of course your hands are occupied by your suitcase and the kid’s hand, and your brother’s hands aren’t available because they’re folded over his chest. You get no answer to your question, What have you done to deserve this honor? but instead you get a heads-up that your fly’s open.