But why won’t you accept these children as your own, as your kin, at least you could do that, Lujo tried. I like them, the same as I like anyone, but they can’t be my children because they’re not like me. Do you hear how they speak? Do think your children would speak like that, in that language? That, Lujo, is not our language, and they are not our words, just as this is not our home, but it is theirs. That’s how it is. I can’t accept others’ children as my own because these children are staying here, here on their wooden floors, in their country, and we’ll be going back to our home. What would I want with such children when I got home? And what do I want with these children if I never go home? Be reasonable, they’re no replacement for one’s home.
Lujo clasped his hands together as if about to beg her for something important, and then he slowly opened his fingers, one by one falling away and into the abyss. They intertwined under Lujo’s chin, and Nana Erika was sure he would never again ask her for something she couldn’t do for him, nor would he ever lie to her again. Lujo, promise me something, please. We’re already old, and I can barely walk and who knows what else awaits us. So promise me that every year we’ll celebrate Christmas and that you’ll never trick me and pretend you’ve forgotten.
That evening at the head of table sat Nana Erika and her Lujo. Around them were strangers. Nana Erika looked at her Lujo, and the strangers looked at their full plates. Nothing was forgotten and nothing was missing. Not even the tinsel. She knew her Lujo would be there to support her when she asked them who and what they were and why they keep saying they’re her children and grandchildren when they well know that Erika and Lujo don’t have any children because who would bring children into the world in such times. She was so happy, singing in full voice How far is it to Bethlehem? Not that far, filling with holiness the festive hour.
It was then I longed for Babylonian women
A black car pulled up in front of Mary Kentucky’s house. A man in a bellboy uniform got out of the car, glanced around nervously, whispered something to the driver, who we can’t see from here, and ran across the lawn. He skipped along on his tiptoes, as if a lover were chasing him across a meadow or the ground beneath his feet were a minefield. He pressed the buzzer, holding his finger there until Mary Kentucky appeared at the door, and then almost slid under her armpit and scampered inside. He sat down on a small three-legged stool, took a hankie from his pocket, wiped his forehead, and let out a sigh of relief. Mary Kentucky rolled her eyes, clicked her tongue twice, and walked her walk into the kitchen.
A guy came out in a vest and boxer shorts decorated with little blue saxophones, hundreds of little blue saxophones. Omer! he was surprised, what are you doing here, you’ll lose your job. Omer raised his hand like he was stopping a train: wait! . . . Wait what, I busted my balls getting you that job! Omer looked up, and calmly, as if in slow motion, got up from the stool, straightened, the whole time looking the guy in his boxers straight in the eye: Osman, I have to inform you that our father is dying. Osman leaned on the doorjamb like someone choosing between apathy and surprise: where’s he dying, bro? . . . What do you mean where’s he dying, in the hospital in Crkvice . . . In Crkvice, Osman repeated, although he knew well where it was, they had grown up a hundred meters from the hospital, but it had been so long since he had thought of either Crkvice or the local hospital that it was as if something precious and personal had surfaced from a great depth, bathing him in light, leaving the story about his father completely to the side. Later he would come to believe that his father had sent him the word, Crkvice, as his last bequest.
Omer skipped back over the lawn the same way he came, climbed into the car, and left Osman to try and convince Mary Kentucky that their father really was dying and that he needed a thousand dollars to fly to Bosnia and see him for the last time, to bury him and lay chrysanthemums on his grave. The chrysanthemums were the critical detail because they might just soften Mary up; they’ll seem more real to her than the death of a man she didn’t know existed, and she’ll hand over the money, the last thousand dollars of her savings, which had practically melted since Osman appeared in her life two years ago. Mary Kentucky was a checkout girl at the supermarket and all her life had dreamed of becoming a country singer. She’d scraped the money together to record her first album, written her own songs, and dreamed of getting out of that small Alabama town for someplace better, someplace where she would forget her past life and finally become someone who only shops at the supermarket.
Osman gave Mary a hug, they were standing there on the lawn and she was crying, he tried to comfort her, at his feet two suitcases, in his pocket a round-trip plane ticket for Europe. A month at the most, he told her, but she wasn’t sure whether to believe him. Somewhere deep inside, Mary Kentucky sensed that Osman didn’t actually love her and was only with her because of her money and her house, and that some day he simply wouldn’t come home. He’d vanish without saying goodbye, he’d return to his Europe, because sooner or later the war would be over, or he’d find some other girl who’ll also have money and a house, but the house will be bigger and she’ll have more money, or, as opposed to Mary, he’ll actually be in love with her. The mere thought of all this made Mary Kentucky weep. While Osman slept, she’d clean his white socks, his precious white socks that he wore when he went to play soccer with other Europeans, and afterward they’d be so dirty you couldn’t put them in the washing machine, so she’d scour them forever with a brush and she’d weep, because one day these socks wouldn’t be here, and neither would Osman. Afterward she’d kiss his sleeping forehead, and he’d frown, smack his sleeping lips, and turn over. Standing there on the lawn, all this raced through the heart and mind of Mary Kentucky, and she couldn’t stop her weeping. Osman was anxious; he was in a hurry and still had to stop by the hotel and say goodbye to his brother, but he can’t go until she’s stopped her crying. He can’t leave her like this.
Omer looked at his watch for the third time. His brother had said he was on his way forty minutes ago, and he still hadn’t arrived. Whenever Osman was late or vanished for a few hours or days, Omer would nearly have a panic attack. If it hadn’t been for his brother, he would have never made it to America. He would have probably stayed on in Sarajevo until he got killed or some great force had lifted him from where he stood, but he would never have gone this far, never all the way to Alabama. You have the heart of a hawk, he the heart of a pigeon. You’re twins, but it’s as if you’re not brothers, that’s what his father had said back when they were fifteen-year-olds off to school in Sarajevo, and ever since, Omer had been an eternal burden for Osman, a precious piece of cargo borne on the road to happiness, a reason for everyone to forgive his stronger brother his idiocies and incivility, because to have Omer in your life was like having four hands instead of two and two heads instead of one, and all the while two hands twiddled their thumbs and only a single head did the thinking. Osman’s every trait was reflected in Omer like in a mirror, a copied image, but turned the other way around. Osman was decisive about succeeding in life, Omer eternally scared that nothing would roll his way; Osman believed everyone had their uses, Omer scared that everyone had it in for him; when they went to the movies, scenes Osman found funny would bring Omer to tears; Osman loved women, Omer preferred men . . . And of course, Osman had found Mary Kentucky, and Mary Kentucky had got Omer the job at the hotel.
Osman left his things in the taxi and ran inside the hotel. Omer opened the doors of the elevator and Osman stepped in, the hotel had six floors, a minute to the top and the same back down to the bottom, they hugged, everything okay? Osman nodded, I’ll miss you, Omer looked at him angrily, say hi to father for me if you see him alive, and the elevator was again on the ground floor.
His brother was at the exit when Omer broke hotel rules and hollered: bring me back something from Zenica. The reception clerk roused himself as if pricked by a needle, the gentleman reading the paper in a leather armchair glanced up at the bellboy, the little boy playing with a mo
del Volkswagen Bug froze . . . The sounds they heard from the liveried young man formed words they would never be capable of repeating or recognizing, not even on a quiz show for the million-dollar question. Osman pretended he didn’t hear anything and got into the taxi, the gentleman in the armchair returned to his paper, the little boy to his car, only the reception clerk kept his eyes pinned on Omer whose own eyes shone like glycerin, as if angels with cameras were clicking away with their flashes right in front of him.
The plane flew to Chicago, then Osman changed for Paris, then again for Zagreb. He sat in the empty airport hall, looking out through the glass at airplanes in the rain and tiny blond stewardesses, their umbrellas plastered in advertising slogans. He had no need for words of comfort, but had he sought them, he wouldn’t have found words more consoling than those written on the yellow, blue, and red umbrellas: a little white birdie boasted – it’s quiet and warm under her wings, Colibri Airlines. Osman was sleepy but afraid of closing his eyes in an empty hall that could suddenly fill with people whose every eye would be on him. He thought about his brother and about Mary Kentucky. The two of them would be lost if he didn’t come back. It’s weird to be so important to someone in life, yet not feel the slightest responsibility, not be in the least proud that you’re their first and last hope. Omer was Osman’s twin brother, but you couldn’t say the same in the other direction. The stronger brother had been born so the eldest would have someone to guide him in life, just as the war had only erupted so Osman would go to America and save Mary Kentucky, who if it hadn’t been for the war would have remained a lost soul, even if she had realized her dream and become a singer. Her singing was damn awful, but in the whole of Alabama there wasn’t a soul who would tell her that because there wasn’t anyone willing to listen to her until Osman came along and became her shoulder to cry on and ear to burn. He bitterly regretted being the one who could fill hearts and guarantee a peaceful sleep, and wished that at least sometime he might get to be a Mary or an Omer to someone, to be loved, powerless, and pathetic, someone who is helped because he knows how help is sought.
Two hours passed before the first passengers for Sarajevo started arriving. Osman didn’t want to look at them. He didn’t want to recognize anyone, or anyone to recognize him. It pays to remain anonymous when you’re on an unwanted journey; it’s not a return home anyway, and he’s not going to Sarajevo to establish just how much he isn’t from there anymore, he’s going because his father is dying, sick and old, and you can’t let yourself get too cut up, but he is dying and a son should see his father one last time, bury him as God commands, and then leave again, the same way he’d arrived, as a foreigner. He reached into his jacket pocket for his passport, a compact American passport in which not even his family name was written how he had written it his whole life, from the time he had gone to school. This family name was proof he didn’t have to recognize anyone here and that no one should recognize him. The Croatian customs officer bowed to him courteously, and it was then he remembered how once, long ago, at the entrance to Maksimir Stadium before a Dinamo–Čelik game, a cop had sucker punched him just because he had a Čelik scarf on. That couldn’t happen now. They don’t beat up Americans around here, thought Osman, and he doesn’t even have that Čelik scarf anymore. He can hardly remember what it looked like, just that it was black and red.
On the seat across from him there was a girl with a Walkman on, next to her a bright green carry-on with Benetton written on it. She closed her eyes, rocking discreetly to the rhythm of the invisible music. The music wasn’t inaudible though, a distant melody made its way to Osman’s ears, but apart from what you could see on her face it definitely was invisible. She had short red hair and one of those noses you would say was ugly if you looked at it in isolation from the whole, too wide and totally masculine, by no stretch the nose of a beauty. Her lips were also a bit big, and her auricles uneven, but Osman thought he was looking at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He stared at her, trying to catch every movement on her face, like a man who had made a long journey north wanting to see a deer, though a deer hadn’t appeared for years, and he’d set up camp there in the north, and one day a deer appeared, but by that time he had already headed south, reconciled to the fact he was never going to see one.
The loudspeaker announced a half-hour delay on the flight to Sarajevo and Osman heaved a sigh of relief because the redhead didn’t open her eyes. If she’d opened them he’d have had to stop staring. The corners of her mouth twitched, invisible muscles in her cheeks playing with her, and she frowned in rhythm, God only knows what rhythm, but it definitely wasn’t country. Osman again remembered Mary Kentucky, good old Mary, who was sure to be sitting at the kitchen table weeping. She would never see this because she doesn’t have the right eyes, doesn’t matter that she’s a woman, she doesn’t have eyes that could see a redhead about to set off for Sarajevo, a woman who would today be the most beautiful in the city, and tomorrow and every other day too, maybe forever, the redhead in Sarajevo, beneath the white roofs of a city that was in flames the last time he saw it, and beneath which he, Osman, would never again set foot, not even today because he’d take a bus straight to Zenica, or ever again because that’s the way he wanted it, such was his fate and his passport, American, and he needed to act accordingly, his loyalties clear when the government recommended American citizens not travel someplace because of a war. He was already sure the redhead was from Sarajevo and was going home. The beautiful and irregular face isn’t one for other cities, that’s how it seemed to Osman; such a face can only be Sarajevan.
The voice from the loudspeaker announced the flight and Osman thought: time to go, beautiful. The redhead opened her eyes, catching his glance with her green eyes and reaching for her little suitcase. If she’d only known what he was thinking she’d have said something reproving, but she didn’t say anything, she just left. Though he didn’t need it anymore Osman took out his passport, and then his plane ticket; the most important stage in his journey was over. Everything that happened from now on would be just the orderly closure of duties life had set down for him.
His dead father was waiting for him in Zenica. He was laid out on the red floor of the house, surrounded by women with their heads covered, all kneeling, quietly speaking the words of a prayer. Osman stopped and immediately wanted to take a step backward, but he thought: hey, c’mon, that’s my father, I’m his son, and he moved forward. The women didn’t interrupt their prayer, I can’t go in now, he stepped back, banging into the door, a whispered sorry escaping his lips. Luckily there was no one there except his dead father and the women at prayer, and perhaps God.
Without tears he buried his father. He lowered the coffin into the grave with the hand closest to his heart, trying to remain as invisible as possible as the priest bade farewell to the deceased. Later a few people he didn’t know offered him their hands and left without having looked him in the eye. He returned again to his father’s house, which smelled of winter, old shoes, and Preference cards. He sat on the sofa, held his face in his hands, and long and slow dragged his fingers down toward his chin. When his middle fingers made it to the jawline, it was all over.
He locked the house and left the keys with a neighbor. The house needed to be sold, but he didn’t know how you went about this sort of thing anymore, and didn’t actually care about the money. He couldn’t go back to Alabama with money in his pocket. If he’d already renounced his former life, he couldn’t now return to his new one with earnings from his father’s death. Hamid, the neighbor, asked what he was supposed to be guarding the house from, and until when. Osman said he didn’t know, Hamid shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing much to be said or debated; silence is probably best when you don’t know what more to say.
Passing by the stadium Osman heard the voices from the bingo hall. There was a time when the Zenica bingo hall was the biggest in Yugoslavia. Every first of the month the miners and railway workers would come and burn through their pay pa
ckets in a matter of hours. Osman went in and bought three cards: one for him, one for the redhead, and one for fate. He ordered a double rakia, sat at a table, took out a pen, and rolled up the sleeves of his suit jacket. If one of the three cards comes up trumps, he’ll tear up his plane ticket, throw his passport in the Bosna, and go back to Sarajevo and find the redhead. He’ll never think of his brother and Mary Kentucky again. That’s what he decided, convinced it was his human and divine right, that no one could stop him and that he wasn’t doing anything wrong because it was all up to chance, and chance is neither good nor evil, chance can’t put you in the dock, just like no one can indict a man who accidentally gets in the way of a bullet, leaving behind a widow and three kids.
The fatso caller drew the balls from the barrel and read out the numbers. Osman’s own card and the card of fate remained unmarked, but the redhead’s numbers kept coming up. Osman felt a booming in his head, the kind of excitement you feel before a final spectacular jump, he was already in love, the redhead wasn’t only the most beautiful woman in the airport waiting area, now she was his. He imagined his arrival in Sarajevo, knocking on her door and their embrace, one she would welcome as perfectly normal, because without a word or a memory she would know who he was, why he had come, and what he was meant to be in her life. He’d crossed all the numbers on her card bar one, but the caller didn’t call it out. The next one wasn’t hers either, nor the one after that, nor the third, fourth, fifth, six, or seventh. . . Osman reconciled himself to his bad luck as fast as he had accepted the good, the excitement disappearing from his stomach, which was already stone cold, like it had been over his father’s grave. He waited for someone to finally shout bingo!
Mama Leone Page 22
