Best European Fiction 2011

by Aleksandar Hemon

  Before me, there were other boyfriends and girlfriends. Dozens, of all sorts. Maybe even black ones. Or a pair of twins, who took turns. Maybe some of the girls were actually boys anyway. I’ve seen pictures but it’s hard to tell who or what these people are. They look pretty ordinary and rather indifferent: they could be her teachers, neighbors, brothers and sisters, or pasted-in cutouts from magazines, for all I know. They don’t seem the least bit concerned, bothered, or distressed about posing. They don’t need to make themselves pretty for her. Or maybe they too are blind. It’s hard to tell when they’re fixed on paper, when you can’t see them dance, eat, or walk.

  I don’t know if she was born blind or if she got sick, or if she was in some kind of an accident. She never bothered to explain and the right moment to ask never seemed to come. Now, after four years, it’s sort of too late—it would be too delicate to bring it up. Sometimes I could swear there must have been a time when her eyes worked—when I talk colors she pouts her lips as if she knows exactly what I’m talking about. But whenever I see her hen-dance again, I’m back to square one.

  Most days, most of the time, my girlfriend stays at home. She likes to cook. She can tell how long something’s been frying by the way it smells. They say when you’re disabled your other senses get super-developed. When Gandhi was on that hunger strike for thirteen weeks, halfway through he started levitating spontaneously. People would come to him and ask him questions, like what they were thinking about, or what they had in their pockets. If it was food he always knew exactly what it was. My girlfriend’s like that. That’s why I wear one of her dresses, rub her cold cream into my face, and use her toothbrush whenever I decide to spend my office day watching her from the corner by the window.

  When they hear my girlfriend is blind, people usually think right away about all the downsides of dating a blind person, like missing out on some of the best parts of being in a relationship—the exchange of meaningful looks, the foreplay of signals, the silent innuendo. I tell them we skipped that stage anyway. We met at a Halloween party. She was dressed as Daredevil, a visually impaired superhero, and I played along. The next day when I woke up next to her and she wouldn’t drop the act, I figured what the hell. It’s not like she’s missing a limb. We kept in touch over the phone, I got used to her voice. We went for long walks, then a couple of concerts, but the thing really took off when we started going to the movies. Three shows later we were living together.

  Even though she can’t see herself, my girlfriend likes to make herself up when we go out. Sometimes I get a feeling she’s flirting with other men, but I suppose I’m just being paranoid. Most of the time her eyes are as clear as bottled water and never wander around in their sockets—but what do I know.

  Sometimes she asks me if I would stay with her if she got paralyzed, or got some rare tropical disease that would make her sleep all the time. Although I can’t really imagine how she’d ever get herself into that kind of situation, I always say yes, and I mean it. My girlfriend is really good-looking; I’d be with her even if she was missing a limb.

  The other day I found this story about a guy whose faith in God was restored when a blind man made him draw a cathedral. This story got me really excited; I thought reading it to my girlfriend might bring back our sex life. When we got into bed I took the book out, read the story to her slowly, sensually, and then asked her if she, too, wanted me to draw her a cathedral. In my hand I had a pen and on my lap a piece of thick paper that I’d prepared.

  But my girlfriend, she just laughed—louder than I’d ever heard her laugh. She took my hand gently and with it drew the most perfect cathedral I’ve ever seen.

  TRANSLATED FROM CROATIAN BY THE AUTHOR

  [BULGARIA]

  ALEK POPOV

  Plumbers

  Ich komm zum Glück / aus Osnabrück

  The story unfolds in Osnabrück, a middle-sized German town in Lower Saxony, not far from the border with Holland. Dolph and Heidi are in the dining room of their spacious home on Lührmannstrasse. It is Sunday afternoon, sometime in the near future. The couple has been married for twenty-seven years, but have no children, or at least nothing indicates the presence of children. Dolph has just finished reading in the paper that, according to the latest sociological surveys, Osnabrück is the happiest town in Germany. He reads the news again, aloud.

  “What does that mean exactly?” Heidi lifts her head. Her gray hair is cut in a severe bob. She has a thin straight nose and pale green eyes. Her breasts are still firm.

  “It means, I suppose, that people living here feel happy,” Dolph explains, adding with a sneer, “more than elsewhere in Germany.”

  “I wonder,” starts Heidi, “which is the unhappiest place in Germany?”

  “They don’t say, probably because they don’t want to ruin the real estate market…”

  “Interesting. Do you think prices here are going to go up?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, yes, I wouldn’t be…” Dolph rubs his hands together in delight.

  Dolph is tall, dried out rather than thin, his jaw prominent and rectangular, same as his glasses. Dolph works in the agricultural division of the City Council. Over the years he’s risen from a common gardener to a position as manager. At this stage, we have no idea about Heidi’s occupation: could she simply be a housewife?

  “What could they all be so happy about? Our town is very ordinary, it’s not wealthy or even especially beautiful! It never gets very warm out even in summer, and it’s always raining. I would understand if it was the people of Munich or Baden-Baden, for example, or…”

  “But maybe that’s precisely the reason. Happiness is in ordinary things.”

  Dolph gets up, passes behind his wife, reaches out to touch her hair but at the last moment changes his mind and withdraws his hand. He walks to the glass door leading out to the terrace and opens it. He looks outside. The neighboring houses and buildings are submerged in greenery, their balconies covered in flowers, their front lawns freshly mown. The air is full of the soft hissing of sprinklers. Birds are chirping. Dolph doesn’t notice any of this, however; he has ears only for the moans coming from the house next door. There can be no doubt about the nature of these sounds. The moans are interspersed with outright cries that seem to reach higher and higher registers of pleasure, almost to the threshold of pain. Noises of this nature are a rarity in this neighborhood. In fact, Dolph realizes that this is the first time in his life he’s ever overheard anything like this. The shock he feels is compounded by the knowledge Dr. Zeller had left that very same morning on a fishing trip with equipment and provisions for at least two days. Dolph had seen him go. He slams the terrace door shut and turns around to confirm with one quick look that Heidi too has heard the entire concert.

  Her lips form an inexorable question: “How long has it been since we did it?”

  “It’s been some time.” He tries the light approach, inside already preparing his defense, running like a hunted animal. “Three, four weeks, something like that…”

  “It’s been three years!” She accentuates every syllable.

  “You’re joking.”

  “Why should I joke about it?” Her expression confirms that it would be pointless to argue.

  “Three years!” He waves his arm in an especially irritating theatrical manner. “You’re certain about that? It doesn’t feel like three years—maybe we have different ways of perceiving time. Maybe to you three months simply feel like three years, and vice versa. Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle.”

  “No, there’s a verifiable criterion here. Every year I purchase a new vibrator. I have acquired three since you last touched me. Every new one I buy is bigger than the last, too. I’m not attacking you. It is a simple matter of desire. I can’t be mad at you for not wanting me.”

  A heavy silence follows.

  “I’m not seeing anyone else…But do you want a divorce?”

  “Why? As far as I’m concerned, it’s the same everywhere
.”

  “What do you mean everywhere?”

  “Don’t forget that women tell each other things. Inge, for example, told me that she and Karl haven’t had sex for two years. Other couples say the same. Yes, Inge Zauer, precisely! I’m surprised too. They always looked so devoted to each other. So deeply in love…Remember the last time we saw them, we wondered how they managed it?”

  “How many vibrators does she own?”

  “She doesn’t need them anymore.”

  “Has she found herself a lover? Poor Karl.”

  “Why would she do something like that to herself and her family? No, she’s gone and joined the ‘Matrimonial-Aid Program’—the so-called ‘Plumbers.’ I would have thought you’d know about it, it’s a program run by the City Council.”

  “But I’m only responsible for gardening.”

  “Frau Müller is the coordinator, Johan’s wife, from the Green Party, the one who was elected last year. The project’s been running for a year already. If I find out you knew all about it and didn’t tell me!”

  “I swear, this is the first I’ve heard of it!”

  “The program consists of a group of men invited by the local Health and Well-being Commission. They have temporary worker status and their task is to service female citizens in need of sexual attention. No, they are not male prostitutes! Don’t be so crude! It’s a social project—the service is free except for a symbolic consumer tax of one euro, with all other expenses covered by the Council budget.”

  “This is some kind of a joke, isn’t it?”

  “On the contrary, I don’t know if similar programs have been started elsewhere, but if you think about it, this probably has something to do with the high level of happiness reported in our town.”

  “Perversion! Not only that, but a waste of Council funds! No wonder they’re keeping it a secret.”

  “It’s not a secret, it’s simply not advertised. It’s an intimate matter, after all.”

  “Very intimate, I see! You call, they come, they service you. It’s exactly like calling someone to fix the pipes. Are they Polish?”

  “Polish? How did you come up with that? I think they’re from the Balkans.”

  “Primitives, then! That’s what women like, of course.”

  “I agree it sounds a bit shocking at first. But if you think about it calmly, it’s perfectly logical. If you look beyond the emotional stereotypes, which in practice cause nothing but trauma…”

  “Never! Maybe I’m not some champion cocksman, but this is beyond the pale—you might as well spit on me here and now. Never! Find yourself an honest-to-goodness lover if you need it so bad. Just don’t let me know anything about it! I’d divorce you in a second.”

  “Pathetic hypocrite!” she hisses.

  And now some days have passed. It seems that Dolph has accepted the new situation. He appears to be perfectly composed and in control, despite that slight nervous tic in the left corner of his mouth, which, the marriage therapist has assured him, is completely normal. Being civilized doesn’t mean being a robot, nobody expects him to act like a machine. Machines break down, which can be dangerous. On the other hand, people suffer, which can only be cathartic. Suffering is a normal human reaction.

  And so, they are in the living room. Dolph rocks gently in his rocking chair with a glass in his hand. Opposite him, not so comfortably accommodated, sits a young, rather dark man, dressed neatly in a black suit, a white shirt, and no tie. He also holds a glass in his hand. The glasses are full of schnapps—a warm, homely drink which helps remove the barriers between people. The man is almost two heads shorter than Dolph, but is otherwise healthy and muscular. His name is Mr. Plumber. He speaks correct but inelegant German with a strong accent.

  The two enjoy the following conversation:

  “Herr Plumber, I wonder, what’s the word for plumber in your native language?”

  “Plumber.”

  “Ah, so even your name means plumber?”

  “Yes, that’s correct, Plumber.”

  “What an incredible coincidence. Did you know that they call people in your line of work ‘Plumbers,’ here? Plumbers! A bit rude, but quite appropriate, don’t you think? So—where are you from, Herr Plumber?”

  “From Bulgaria. There’s a city called Sliven, that’s where I’m from.”

  “Isn’t it interesting, how over the years the actual work changes, but the names of the professions remain? Perhaps you have an ancestor who was actually a plumber?”

  “Maybe a distant great-grandfather. My grandfather was a forester.”

  “Ah, a colleague of mine then. I am also in the green business. And what does your father do? Excuse my curiosity, but I’d like to get to know you better, under the circumstances. Considering what’s about to happen, I think this is only normal.”

  “No problem, my father made charcoal.”

  “An ancient trade. Might I ask why you are not continuing in this noble family tradition?”

  “It’s quite simple. There’s no more raw material to make charcoal. The woods are completely gone.”

  “Oh, so your grandfather wasn’t vigilant enough.”

  “On the contrary, he wouldn’t let anyone else but my father’s family cut the wood. But everything ends one day. So here I am.”

  Heidi enters, wearing a black see-through nightgown. “I’m ready.”

  Plumber rises to his feet. “I’m ready too.”

  Dolph turns the glass between his fingers nervously. “Is it really all so urgent? I have the right to learn one or two things after all.”

  “Naturally,” she says, trying to calm him down, “we’re in no hurry.”

  Heidi sits on the armrest of the sofa, discreetly baring her knee. Dolph shoots a disapproving look in her direction, shakes his head, and continues:

  “Are you married, Herr Plumber, do you have children?”

  “Yes, I have a wife and four children.”

  “Four no less! Not that I’m surprised. Is your wife acquainted with the nature of your occupation here?”

  “She doesn’t mind, if that’s what you’re asking. As long as I send home the euros.”

  “You seem to be the responsible type, Herr Plumber. Again, excuse my curiosity, but how did you manage to come by this position? Was it because you were seen to fill a certain quota, or did you win some kind of competition? How was the selection organized, exactly?”

  “It wasn’t at all simple. One needs to satisfy numerous requirements. My two older brothers were disqualified. Maybe the third would have been selected but he has two more years to serve in prison. Plus, he’s uneducated, and we all had to take extensive language tests.”

  “One last question: How many times a day do you find yourself servicing the pipes of our fair housewives?”

  “Now how is that any of your business?” Heidi chips in nervously.

  “I don’t mind. On average ten times a day, except Sunday, unless there’s emergency duty. Of course, there are days when it’s quieter. Maybe there’s just less interest on certain days, or the men here get more active once in a while. I don’t know.”

  “One thing I don’t understand, how do you manage to get it up every time? Aren’t there glitches sometimes?”

  “I see what you’re trying to do! You’re unfair!” shouts Heidi.

  “Yes, it’s happened, two, maybe three times. I’m not a machine after all. I call a colleague to replace me. There’s always someone on emergency duty. It’s normal.”

  “Normal? You call this normal? Are you hearing this? You’re going to let yourself be seduced by this Balkan barbarian, by this monkey, by this bull who gets it up for everyone in town? You’re going to give your body to this man? Give your…”

  “Please excuse us, Herr Plumber, I’m so embarrassed.” Heidi wrings her hands in desperation. “I feel like I’m listening to my great-grandmother. I thought we had agreed.”

  “Please don’t worry, ma’am, I’ve passed through extensive psychological
training. Many husbands react similarly. It’s quite normal. The opposite reaction would be rather disturbing.”

  “You’re really too kind. Dolphy, why don’t you go and have a beer with Karl, that would be for the best, don’t you think? But only if you want to—I’m not asking you to leave. Inge’s told me that Karl is often present when her plumber calls, and even holds her hand. I think, though, that that would be a bit much.”

  Heidi and Plumber walk into the bedroom. Dolph is left alone. The bed starts to shake. Heidi’s moans fill the air and they bear a striking resemblance to those of Andrelle next door.

  Ironically, this is Dolph’s most sacred sexual fantasy. How many times has he masturbated to the daydream that some stranger is having his way with his wife while he sits nearby, holding her hand? But now, when it’s really happening, he feels nothing but helpless rage. The shaking intensifies and so do the moans. Dolph claps his hands. “Bravo! Bravo! It almost resembles an orgasm, darling! It sounds very authentic! You’re such a fine actress. You can’t fool me, though! I know you don’t feel anything. You’re completely frigid! How many years did I waste trying to do you some good! In the end, I threw up my hands, I gave up! It’s like pouring water into a broken jug—pointless. You’re wasting your energy, Herr Plumber, she doesn’t feel anything! Nothing!”

  Heidi starts screaming. Dolph covers his ears and flees the house. Outside, it’s just stopped raining. Thick white mist is rising from the moist ground. Dolph wanders through the haze until he reaches the playground, where Karl Zauer, Inge’s husband, and Pastor Farb are playing pétanque. The game is a recent fad, undoubtedly imported from France. At first received with skepticism, it accumulated quite a few, mostly male aficionados over the years. Karl is slightly younger than Dolph. Farb and Dolph are the same age; they may even have attended the same school. Farb has now won several games, which means that Karl has to make a trip to the supermarket to buy beer. Dolph and Farb are soon alone on the playground, an island in the white mist.