Since arriving she’d heard her parents’ breathing, seen the age spots on her father’s hands and his choking at lunch. Her mother’s face had an unhealthy complexion, or that’s just how it seemed to her; do you have any prescriptions, she asked, sweetheart, what’s with that, we’re not sick, her father replied, surprised. Astor was still lying there, his head again resting on his paws, looking sadly ahead, his eyes only flickering when someone made a sudden movement.
That morning they had breakfast together. Her father brought three soft-boiled eggs in porcelain eggcups. It was snowing outside. They sat at the table, covered with a cheery and colorful tablecloth decorated with motifs of harvest scenes. They lifted their spoons almost simultaneously, tapping the tips of their eggs. Three taps was enough to break the shell. Nine taps in a gentle morning snow that would blanket all the dust. They remained there in silence like people who from here on in would always, every morning, sit in silence together around the same table. All three were relieved to have quit their thinking, each for his own reason. Saying their goodbyes at the airport in Surčin, they will remember this breakfast. Maybe they should have talked after all. When the plane finally takes off, her father will hug her mother, wiping her tears away with his left arm, waving to Marina, who won’t see a thing, with his right. He’ll be waving to the plane that is Marina. In that instant Marina will think how Astor was missing from the breakfast scene, a sign and an explanation of the dream. She knew she’d never see him again.
That’s how it will be when she goes. Now she’s still here, looking at the veins popping out of her father’s neck as he tries to slurp up the contents of the egg. Only living creatures, precious creatures, could endure such torture while doing the ostensibly simplest things. He could smash the egg, be done with it, and eat in peace, a spoonful at a time, all the white and yellow. Later he would have forgotten all about it, but this way he’ll definitely remember, he definitely won’t forget slurping at the egg and the egg not wanting to come out. It could have all been so much simpler, done with so much less humor for those looking on. Marina wanted to laugh but didn’t want to break the silence of the morning. Both sky and clouds are gone now. Outside everything is snow-white like under the wing of a drunken angel.
Bethlehem isn’t far
Nana Erika is sleeping poorly. It’s almost Christmas, their first since coming to Zagreb, but she can’t go out to the market to buy butter for the cake, codfish, baking chocolate, a three-month-old suckling, dates, almonds, walnuts, tinsel, rose oil, that transparent plastic wrapping, and all the things she used to buy that meant winter was upon us, the snow quieting every voice, and a celebration was in order because we were still alive, we and all our loved ones, in the house in Bistrik, in Sarajevo, and all over the world wherever Potkubovšeks and their children might be. Nana can’t remember exactly when that time ended; the festivities and preparations, the fingers freezing under the weight of shopping bags, but it seemed to her long past, maybe a few lifetimes ago, because in this life, one she still remembers well, the war continued apace, and there was no market, no Christmas, no festivities, nor would there have been any today had they not moved to Zagreb, to this apartment from which Nana has never ventured out because her legs can no longer carry her, even the journey to the bathroom she can’t make alone.
It’s a big world out there and there are many Christians in it, too many for one to ever meet them all. Nana Erika had always known this, but how could a regular three-room apartment be so big that she doesn’t even know all the Christians within its walls? A strange girl brings her coffee and asks do you need anything, Nana? Then a kid, probably a high-school junior, pinches her cheek, puts his cold nose to her forehead, and says I’m frozen, Nana, it’s a thousand degrees below zero outside. Nana Erika just smiles, giving them the ready answer she gives everyone: yes, yes, my child, it’s all misery and woe. And then the girl, playing angry, says I didn’t ask you for the state of the nation, but if you needed anything.
Uncivilized are these young folk: You don’t who they are, let alone what they are, yet they pinch and tease you, talk to you when the mood strikes them, not even introducing themselves. It wasn’t like this in Nana Erika’s day. You knew the rules and your place. The first rule was that strangers – young, old, doesn’t matter – weren’t welcome in her house, and if you came knocking, you had to introduce yourself, announce your purpose, say whether you were a guest, the postman, or after a particular number or street. And now look; her Zagreb apartment is full of them. Maybe that’s the custom, the done thing here, she won’t protest if it is, but then they should tell her so, not leave her to linger alone among so many strangers.
Only Lujo’s her own. Sometimes late at night he comes to her, takes her hand and caresses it, like back when they locked eyes as kids at the source of the Bosna’s waters, and at such times Nana Erika discreetly, so no one hears, asks Lujo, for the life of me, who are all these people, all these young folk? Instead of telling her the truth, Lujo’s eyes well with tears and he grips her hand and starts fumbling. Nana Erika knows Lujo’s fumbling, they’ve been sixty years together, and she doesn’t miss a beat, but she doesn’t interrupt. She lets him go, every sentence leading him ever further into a lie: Rika dear, they’re our children and grandchildren, your Tvrtko and Katarina, and Klara and Josip. Don’t you remember: a big snow had fallen when Klara was born, and you and I had been in Teslić and were on our way home. The train was stuck the whole night and the telegram just said “Katarina’s given birth,” so we didn’t even know if it was a boy or girl. Do you remember us waiting the whole night through and the conductor bringing us tea and saying, “Fear not, madam, every train arrives sometime, and so shall this one too.”
Her Lujo is dear to her, but even so she can no longer forgive his not telling her the truth (what kind of truth might she dare not be told?), and as he moves to kiss her good night, she turns her cheek to him, like she has never done before, and he knows something’s not right with his Rika, he knows Rika doesn’t like it when they fumble their lies, least of all when they’re Lujo’s lies. What children, what grandchildren, who knows who they belong to and what they’re doing in her apartment, if this is indeed her apartment, and if you are allowed to have two apartments in your old age: one torched in the war, and a second here in Zagreb, a city she’s never even seen, yet where she now has an apartment. She would need to plumb the depths of her brain, not to mention her morality, to figure out whether this might be possible or allowed, or whether it’s something else. Maybe this isn’t her apartment, maybe she and Lujo are just staying with these young folk and their parents until the war is over, until they go home, draw down a loan, and roll up their sleeves to rebuild what is given to be rebuilt, starting life over from the beginning. But then why didn’t he just tell her this, that they were among strangers, she could deal with that, she’s dealt with worse things in life, but she can’t stand a lie.
All shall be revealed on Christmas Day, and that’s the day after tomorrow. Everyone will gather around the tree, it’s already decorated, when Nana Erika will ask them who they are and whose are they, and if she’s in their apartment or they’re in hers. They won’t be able to lie, there’ll be too many of them, and people don’t know how to all suddenly lie the same lie, and how would they dare lie beside a tree so decorated, on this a holy day when every dishonesty and hypocrisy, every dirty look and vile thought count a hundred times more and are entered somewhere in heaven’s ledger.
Nana Erika is sitting in the armchair in front of the television, her legs covered with a big Russian shawl. The shawl is black, scattered with whopping red roses, as whopping as her Lujo’s lies. She runs her hand slowly over the roses, caressing them, imagining they are the night sky above Treskavica light-years ago, the flowers in place of stars, the sky reflected in two mountain lakes as if in two eyes in which everything might drown. Nana Erika hasn’t forgotten anything; she remembers the roses instead of stars and the lakes on Treskavica, and
if she thought of Lujo’s words now, she’d burst into tears. You’ve forgotten this, you’ve forgotten that – she hasn’t forgotten anything under the sun, nothing worth remembering, not even those things it would have been better had never happened.
A boy stands in the doorway looking over at Nana Erika. She doesn’t let herself be thrown, though she knows the look he’s giving her, she just strokes her roses. Nana, let’s go have dinner, everyone’s at the table. Nana Erika lifts her head; her glasses on the tip of her nose, a whippet of anger would be enough for them to fall into her lap. But Nana Erika doesn’t get riled, she lets the boy take her hand and help her from the armchair; her legs feel the weight of her body, every bone bending, every muscle trembling, every vein trying to hold it all together. She had never been conscious of her body, hadn’t been aware of it carrying or moving her, but now she knows it well; Nana Erika and her body have finally become one, and she’s happy, because life’s not easy with your soul on one side and your flesh and bones on the other, always out of kilter. The boy led her step by step to the dining room; her shawl had slid to the floor, left lying in front of the armchair; how careless and sloppy, he’s not going to pick it up, that’s all right, someone will take care of it, someone will teach these children how to behave, even this one walking at her side; she’s not one for worrying the worries of others.
A grand long table covered with a white tablecloth. At its head sit Nana Erika and her Lujo, around the sides the strangers. There are more of them than usual. All look to the two of them; Lujo has rested his hand on hers, as if afraid of something, perhaps all these unfamiliar faces. It’s okay, Lujo, it’s okay, it’s our turn now, she whispers to him, and he squeezes her hand.
How far is it to Bethlehem? Not very far, sang Nana Erika. They should listen; they need to learn the song and how to sing. Tonight there shall be no lies, tonight, after the song it shall be known, who is father to whom, who son to whom, and what she and Lujo are doing there in Zagreb with this crowd. They all close their eyes and start singing, but they don’t know the words, and some of them don’t even know how to sing. Nana Erika picks up on that immediately; she’s got an ear for these sorts of things, for thirty years she sang in the Sarajevo Opera choir and from a hundred harmonic voices she knows who’s messing things up.
The song at an end, Nana Erika gently laid her head to her chest. Lujo shook her arm, but she didn’t wake. She hasn’t had enough sleep, he whispered as if apologizing. Everyone began nodding their heads to an invisible rhythm, staring at Nana with the same look she used to stare at her roses. It’s a shame Nana Erika couldn’t see this, because if she had, she would have recognized their eyes and maybe come around to the idea that Lujo hadn’t been lying after all, that everyone here really was a child or grandchild.
Merry Christmas, Nana, the girl was sitting on her bed offering her her hand. Christmas? What do you mean Christmas? We haven’t even had Christmas Eve. The girl laughed aloud: we have, we have, but you slept through it . . . Slept through it? Child, you don’t know me. Erika Potkubovšek never sleeps through Christmas Eve and don’t you be cheeky with me. We haven’t had Christmas Eve, and there’s no Christmas without Christmas Eve. The girl looked sheepish – and so she should have, caught lying like that – and left the room.
Rika, Merry Christmas, Lujo came over to her, the devil peeking out from behind his every word. Have you no shame, man? Nana Erika turned her back to him. She looked at the wall and waited for him to go. He said something else, but she wasn’t listening. Sometimes you have to forgive people the unforgivable. But they’re not just any old folk, they’re Rika and Lujo. In the thirties all Sarajevo turned its head when they walked the riverbank, there had never been such a couple, or so people said, and that’s no small thing; when you’re with someone for sixty years, there’s no suffering you haven’t endured together, no sin you haven’t forgiven them. In a marriage like this people become similar to God: mercy and forgiveness embodied and only thus can they be happy. Nana will forgive Lujo this lie too. How could she not forgive him his lies when he’s so certain he’s protecting her from what she is to discover on Christmas Day inquiring of everyone who and what they are.
That day and the entire night, and then the whole of the next day, Nana Erika kept her back turned to the world. She looked at the wall, sometimes she would fall asleep and doze for an hour or two until someone came by, but she wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t say a word. She was punishing Lujo and knew well how long the punishment must last. Long enough for Lujo to think she would never look at him again and he would forever see only her back.
Promise me something, Lujo, she finally spoke, having checked that they were alone. Promise me that tomorrow we’ll celebrate Christmas Eve, and that the day after tomorrow we’ll celebrate Christmas, and that all these people won’t addle our minds and muddle our feast days . . . Rika, all this I promise you, just don’t ever switch off again, and don’t ever turn your back to me. What a wretch I’d be without you, he said, framing her face in his hands and kissing her lips.
Nana Erika slept poorly because she spent the whole night worrying about butter for the cake, chocolate, codfish, decorating paper, and the suckling; who knows if there’ll still be young sucklings at the market or whether they’ll already be sold out, she thought, tossing and turning. And who’ll fetch everything when she can’t stand on her own two feet, and Lujo, well you know Lujo, he can’t even buy mincemeat at the butcher’s, let alone a suckling. She finally dozed a little in the dawn, but a girl woke her: Nana, it’s Christmas Eve today, isn’t it? Nana Erika caught a glimpse of mischief in her eyes. As if she were making sure that Nana knew about Christmas Eve and Christmas.
Nana Erika sits in her armchair in front of the television caressing the roses in their black sky. It’s a summer night above Treskavica, Lujo’s asleep in the cabin, but she can’t sleep because he kissed her for the first time today. Roses had appeared in the sky in place of stars and no one would ever see them except her. Warm, soft, and tender roses on a black sky blanketing her legs, warming them like it never had before.
The boy leads her step by step to the dining room. At the head of the table sit Nana Erika and Lujo, around the table the strangers. Lujo dear, do you know how many Christmas Eves this makes for us? But he just shrugs his shoulders, turns the ring on her finger with his thumb and index finger, and lets his gaze wander as if afraid the strangers might notice something; that they might see that even after so many years the two of them are still in love, and try and destroy or trample what they have. Nana Erika won’t let them though. She’ll ask them whose they are and who they are, and on Christmas Day they’ll have to tell her the truth because whoever dares lie on Christmas Day will burn in the eternal fires of hell.
How far is it to Bethlehem? Nana Erika begins the song, just Lujo accompanies her, the strangers remaining silent. They’re probably ashamed when they hear the song and it’s better they shut up and try to feel God’s voice in their hearts, a voice to kill every lie, cleanse them of every doubt and hatred and return to them the hope that not a single truth is ever spoken in vain, not even the truth they shall soon speak of themselves and their intentions toward Nana Erika and her Lujo.
The last verses of the song disappeared in that first phase of deep sleep. When her chin touched her chest, Lujo shouted Rika, wake up, Rika, it’s Christmas Eve, but sound asleep she didn’t hear him. She slept the sleep of the just, the sleep of children and those who have endured great suffering but haven’t done others the least harm.
Today is Christmas Day, isn’t that right, Rika? Lujo sounded lost; his voice was pleading, but Nana Erika couldn’t understand why, unless he’d forgotten you couldn’t have Christmas Day without Christmas Eve. People forget all kinds of things, but how could he forget Christmas Eve; it doesn’t matter, she’s here to remind him and protect him from wild thoughts and those who would take advantage of him; naïve is her Lujo, that’s how he’s been all these years and if it weren’t
for her, who knows what would have become of him and what they, these people whose names she doesn’t know, might have done to him. The world is full of Christians; she’ll think that every Christmas, but you don’t know their names.
No, Lujo dear, it’s Christmas Eve today, it’s not Christmas Day until tomorrow. Have you forgotten that they go in that order? said Nana Erika. Lujo lowered his head and let tears fall. What’s wrong old fella? she worried. It’s nothing. I just want to know if this is ever going to end . . . It will, it’ll end when we go back home, to our house, she smiled, putting her hand on his chest. Strong is her Lujo, he’s always been strong, so strong he could move a mountain if he wanted. It can’t end before then? Can’t it just end before then? . . . Of course it can’t, but you know what they say: sabur efendi, sabur, patience, good sir, patience, have patience and God shall have it too. We’ll go home . . . And if we don’t? . . . It can’t be that we don’t go home. Haven’t you noticed how they look at us here? How could we stay among these people, their names unknown to us. Yes, I know, you’re going to start saying they’re our children and grandchildren. I know why you say that. You say it to make it easier on me, that my heart endure and not break from the waiting, but your Rika’s heart won’t break before we go back to Sarajevo. Don’t you be afraid of a thing. With hope of home, the heart is strong and endures all. And quit that rubbish about our children and grandchildren. We don’t have any, we never had any. Really, who would have children in such times, who would live in fear of their son being killed by someone else’s son or having to pick him up off the sidewalk like you pick up tomatoes at the market because the plastic bag broke. We don’t have children or grandchildren and that’s a good thing too, because our suffering would be a hundred times greater if we did, and this way our only concern is going home and starting over, from the beginning. Fine, I know we won’t be starting over, we’re already old, but at least we’ll die in our own home, said Nana Erika, the tears frozen on Lujo’s face. He must know life isn’t easy, but that’s no reason for us to lie to each other and invent some other world where nothing is difficult. It’s a fine world, Nana Erika doesn’t think it’s not, but such a world has only one failing, a lone error, a single downside; it simply doesn’t exist. We can imagine one, but that doesn’t make it real.
Mama Leone Page 21
