Coming

by Andrej Nikolaidis

  ‘You have no idea,’ she snorted and demonstratively relieved me of her company. I wouldn’t want to sound pretentious, but I’m pretty sure I managed to drive her to tears.

  Half an hour later I was in the boat, passing what remained of the petrol station. Pasha had done me a favour: I now knew that Lazar lived in one of the stilt houses on Saltern Canal and had done so ever since coming to Ulcinj.

  The canal had once been navigable. When King Nicholas of Montenegro captured Ulcinj, he named the canal Port Milena in honour of his wife. Princely sailboats would moor there. The establishment of the nearby salt works turned the canal into a giant fish pond because the salt it released into the water attracted the fish. Dozens of stilt houses sprang up on the canal; local fisherfolk would lower nets into the water, and when they raised them again they were full of catch. Later the canal devolved into a cesspool because the houses which grew up all around discharged their sewage straight into it. Soon there were no more fish in the canal. The people left too. Punting on the canal had once been a favourite pastime of the Montenegrin royal family. Now going to the canal meant venturing deep into a marsh.

  My trusty boat cut the calm water, which was topped with floating pieces of furniture from submerged houses. Two crows were riding on the carcass of a cow and blithely pecking at its entrails. Drowned people drifted past, too, their bodies grotesquely rounded like blow-up dolls. I pulled my scarf over my face and tried not to inhale the stench. Whenever the boat bumped into them I’d use the oar to push aside those bodies – their hearts now home to beetles and worms, not love – and then continued on my way. Just like a slice of bread always falls butter-side down, drowned people always float with their face in the water, it occurred to me.

  I paddled along the former boulevard leading to Velika Plaža. The roof of a truck protruded from the water in the parking lot in front of the shopping centre. There had been no power in the region for weeks. The metal lamp-posts swayed in the wind. The billboards still announced summer fun: a buxom singer performed on a terrace by the sea, a tanned brunette advertised sun cream promising protection from skin cancer, and there was a new line of fruit ice cream which took care of your children’s teeth. I passed abandoned auto repair shops and bakeries. Restaurant terraces where cheerful tourists had bobbed and skipped to folk dances from home were now swimming pools for ducks.

  Large snowflakes descended silently from the dark sky. It was frigid in the marsh, the kind of damp cold which really gets into your bones. People kept saying this was the cold of the End, but I remember well the cold of the beginning, from my childhood. On the coldest of winter days, when the salt works’ canals turned to ice, I’d go there to hunt ducks. I’d creep through the snow-covered dunes and, small as I was, hide in the reeds around the edges of the frozen ponds. I tied rags or strips of hessian around my boots. That allowed me to run on the ice and gave me a decisive advantage – it made the hunt possible in the first place. A duck on the ice is slow. It has trouble taking off because it needs a run-up, which is difficult on the ice, and its clumsy legs let it down. A duck on the ice is like Ollie in the Laurel and Hardy films: fat and ungainly. It falls over a few times before getting the forward motion needed to take off, and that gave me the chance to reach it and kill it with my stick. I remember the duck would sometimes get airborne, and then I’d hit it with my stick like a baseball player slams the ball.

  A lamp was on in one of the stilt houses – like a lighthouse showing me the way, I thought. I turned off the motor, trying to sneak up on Lazar unnoticed.

  I found father and son there in the small, cluttered space, huddled up to an old woodstove. The old man was sitting in an ancient armchair with springs sticking out, one of those communist replicas of 1950s American design which were once used to furnish hotels on the coast.

  He sat there calmly, like Abraham Lincoln in his Washington memorial.

  ‘He’s blind and deaf – he has been for twenty years,’ Lazar said in a low voice.

  But the old man was nodding to a rhythm only he could hear.

  ‘I know who you are, and I know why you’ve come,’ Lazar whispered. ‘I’ve been expecting you. The police or someone else. As soon as I killed them I knew I’d be punished. I’m not afraid of punishment. Look where I live and how I live. Punish me – it’ll be my salvation.’

  I sat down on a stool close to the stove to warm my frozen toes. I pulled the bottle out of my coat pocket and took a good swig.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ I demanded.

  ‘The real truth, sir, is that I don’t know. Back then I thought I knew: I was furious and felt I had to kill them all that instant. But when I look back at what I did, and I have time to look back at my actions – what else is there to do here? – I realise I didn’t have a reason. At least none which people would understand.’

  ‘Still, if we tried, you’d be surprised what I can understand,’ I encouraged him.

  He explained that he’d come to Ulcinj from Vojvodina in northern Serbia, where he’d lived with his family and his father.

  ‘It feels like he’s always been old,’ he said, pointing at his father. ‘Look at him: can you believe he was once young?!’

  Back home, in the plains of Central Europe, Lazar had been a repair man: people would call him, and he’d go and get their things running again.

  ‘It was an honest job, but honest jobs don’t earn much money. I got used to poverty, and I always knew I’d die poor. But my family wanted more, so I became the scapegoat for their miserable lives, as they called them. Have you ever felt the contempt of your own children?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what it’s like when your children say to your face that you’re a loser, a coward, a weakling, a sucker? That your father is an old vampire who refuses to die and make us happy? For days on end, even on Sundays, I’d be rushing from house to house, eternally tired and dirty, but that wasn’t good enough for them. No sirree, they always wanted more. My father and I became unwelcome in our own home – the house I’d built with my own hands.

  ‘That’s why we left. I’d heard there was a lot of building going on in Montenegro on the coast and that tradesmen were in demand, so we moved here. And it worked out: I got a job at a building site. We were doing well, me and the old man. Until I took a fall from the scaffolding. Now I’m lame in one leg and drag it behind me like a club-foot. There are lots of strapping young men looking for work, so who needs an old limper?

  ‘Just when I thought I couldn’t earn a crust here any more – just when it looked like the two of us would have to hit the road again – the Vukotićs gave me a job. Madam Vukotić opened the gate and immediately took pity on me. She asked me inside, gave me a good meal, and I started work there the very next day. She was a kind woman, Senka – soft-hearted, and that went to her head. It’s not good to pity people. Don’t mind me saying so, but you look like someone who understands that. It’s not good even to pity oneself. I’m inclined to self-pity, you see, and that’s really made my life hell. It’s a great evil: I’ve killed people, but I still feel sorry for myself.

  ‘We moved into this stilt house here. How should I put it – it’s not exactly five-star luxury, but at least it’s rent-free. My pay at the Vukotićs’ was substantial. We lacked nothing, and we two old boys could have gone on like that for years. But I kept thinking about my wife and children and the house, as much as I tried not to; every night my thoughts flew back to Vojvodina and I’d cry the whole night through when I thought what grief and injustice had befallen me. It was driving me nuts, and I started drinking and gambling at the Lonely Hearts…You know how it is: when you gamble drunk you lose, and then you need another drink.

  ‘My pay at the Vukotićs’ was good, like I said. But I needed more, and the Vukotićs had enough. I thought I could take from them without them noticing. A little for them was a lot for me.

  ‘So I stole from them. Nothing big, you know: a tenner or twenty from the purse Senka used to leave on the kitchen table when she came back fr
om shopping and went up to her room to get changed. A vase or two, or a piece of jewellery.

  ‘One day when I was painting the tool shed Senka brought me out a cold glass of lemonade. And then she said nonchalantly, like just in passing: “I’d ask you not to steal from us any more.” She didn’t wait for an answer but simply turned and went back into the house.

  ‘That night I thought I’d die of shame. There was no one for me to confide in, so I sat here with my deaf father almost through till dawn, even though he was mostly sleeping in his armchair like he’s drowsing now, and wrung out my heart. I’d become a good-for-nothing in the eyes of the people who’d been so good to me, people whose kindness meant we still had work and a roof over our heads and weren’t forced to wander the world in misery as a cripple and a geriatric.

  ‘I tried to apologise to Senka and promised it wouldn’t happen again. She told me with a compassion which hurt, as if I was a lowly creature crawling the earth, that no explanation was needed and that she knew very well what extremes people can be driven to by poverty. She said she didn’t hold anything against me and that, as far as she was concerned, nothing had happened: “We’ve taken you in and decided to help you – we’ll give you another chance.”

  ‘But not one month had passed, and I took to stealing again. The Lonely Hearts may be the cheapest bar in town but it was still too expensive for me. This time Senka invited me into the house, served me some chocolate cake, and then raked me over the coals in front of the whole family: although they’d already forgiven me once, I kept on stealing from them. They were disappointed, she said, but they realised I had it hard and knew I’d have nowhere to go if they gave up on me, so they wouldn’t send me away. But I should be aware that it was truly deplorable how low I’d fallen – those were the words she used.

  ‘Instead of vexation and regret, this time I felt anger. When they saw me out into the garden and Senka gave me instructions for mowing the lawn, I was brimming with hatred towards her. Yes, they’d helped me when I was in a tight spot. But did that give them the right to humiliate me, what’s more in front of the children? I often told stories to them about the olden days and they seemed truly happy listening to them. What would the children think of me now? My transgression is one thing. Please punish me, Madam Vukotić – I seethed inside as I turned on the lawnmower, but don’t put me down in front of the children. Perhaps you think I’m so wretched that I don’t even deserve punishment. Is that what you want to say, that even punishment is too good for me? Don’t those who are punished, even those who are punished most harshly (especially them!) warrant a modicum of respect? Don’t those who are punished at least regain their dignity in the end? Isn’t it a terrible crime to rob the punished of their human dignity, bigger by all means than the one I committed in stealing? Did you employ me to work for you, Madam Vukotić, or for you to practise your kindliness on me? When I trudge off home in the evenings, do you stand in front of the mirror and admire your own virtue?’ Lazar foamed with rage, squirming in his chair.

  ‘I kept on working as best I could. I pruned the orchard, hoed the garden, repaired the water heaters and pipes, but I was determined not to put up with any more humiliation. For days on end I quietly practised a speech to give to Senka, one she’d have to listen to. Oh yes: no one would interrupt Lazar mid-sentence any more. You have my gratitude but that doesn’t mean you can look down on me. I work for you, but I’m not a lesser human being, I was going to tell her.

  ‘One day I was in the tool shed making a new handle for the axe, when she popped in to look for an improvised watering can. “Madam Vukotić –,” I spoke in as decisive a voice as I could muster. “Not now, Lazar!” she snuffed, rummaging on the shelf. Fed up with everything and white-hot with anger, I stormed up to her and grabbed her by the arm. She wheeled around abruptly: I felt her sweet breath on my face, and the tips of her large breasts brushed me.

  ‘She hadn’t expected this. For the first time since we’d known each other it wasn’t pity she felt. I could see fear in her eyes. What now? What’s he going to do to me? she was thinking.

  ‘For a few seconds I stood before her, proud, enjoying that superiority. Then she pushed me aside, moved away, and declared in that same condescending, matronly tone, which drives me mad even now when I think about it, that her husband wouldn’t find out what had just happened. I should be ashamed of myself. She hadn’t expected this from me, but she’d forgive me one more time. As she left, she added: “You don’t need to worry about your job. You’re a walking disaster – you don’t need punishment when you’ve got yourself.”

  ‘I left their property, determined never to go back again. I sat and drank at the Lonely Hearts until evening, muttering to myself: Lazar may be poor, but he still has pride. He’ll make sure no lady looks down on him again.

  ‘Drunk, humiliated and livid with rage, I went back up the hill to their property. I had the key to the gate, so I entered the grounds without being seen. I took my tools from the shed: knife, spade and axe. I put my work gloves on. When I look back at that night, I don’t think I intended to kill anyone. I just wanted respect. But why then did I put the gloves on, you may ask? I have no answer to that, at least none people would understand. I rang the doorbell, determined to speak my mind to Senka, say thank-you for her kindness and leave with my head held high.

  ‘I had to ring three times before she came down and opened the door. As soon as she saw me, the browbeating began: I’d really gone too far now. Did I know what time it was? I couldn’t wake them this late, and I was drunk as well. She told me to go home and sleep it off, and they’d decide what to do with me the next day. I tried to speak, but she went on and on, bombarding me with words which came down on my head like a hammer.

  ‘I shut my eyes and swung the axe,’ he said.

  ‘But the children and her husband: why them?’ I asked.

  ‘They were woken by the noise. If only I’d killed her with the first blow…But she staggered and knocked over the vase before falling to the floor. It smashed damn loudly, like a gunshot. That’s what woke them. It’s all because of the vase that they’re now dead.

  ‘Pavle was at the stairs and saw me kill her. He went for the shotgun. I had no choice. I had to go all the way and get rid of them all,’ he said calmly. ‘I’m pedantic – when I start a job I always finish it. Then I removed all the traces, or so I thought. I threw the knife into the marsh. Only then, drunk with alcohol and blood, did I realise that I’d forgotten the axe. Since then I’ve been living in anticipation of the police coming to get me.

  ‘It was hardest with Helena. I’d got on with her the best, and I’ll miss her the most. I took her to the couch and switched on the television for her. She liked watching programmes about animals. I sat down beside her and, to tell you the truth, I started to cry,’ Lazar said.

  I lit a cigarette and knocked back a good swig from my bottle. I looked at the old man. He muttered in his sleep and his dry lips moved quickly. It looked like he was praying.

  ‘Are you going to take me to the police station now?’ Lazar asked.

  ‘She was right,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That woman, Senka – she was right: we don’t need punishment when we’ve got ourselves.’

  On the way out I turned to look at them once more: the killer and his old father by the stove. ‘How much money did you take from the safe?’ I asked.

  ‘What safe?’ Lazar replied, startled, as if shaken from deep thought. ‘The Vukotićs were prudent: they kept their money in the bank. If there was a safe in the house, I didn’t know about it.’

  I got back into the boat and left the marsh as quickly as I could. Like people say, trouble never comes alone. As if the cold and the snow blowing in my face weren’t enough to make me miserable, I’d run out of whisky. I disembarked at the town council building’s parking lot, broke into the first café and deposited a bottle of Jameson in my coat pocket. I stood in the dark, leaning against the bar, calmly wa
tching Christmas turn the streets white. Many people had turned off the lights in their houses. They stood at the windows waiting, or knelt by their beds and prayed for mercy. Maybe they lay with the blankets over their heads and talked about the past. I went round behind the bar, poured myself a drink and switched on the radio. A witty DJ put on the Sex Pistols and Johnny Rotten screamed No Future. I looked at my face in the mirror and sent myself a sincere, warm smile. Fucking hell, those were good times, I sighed.

  Then my phone rang and shattered my moment of nostalgia like a harbinger of doom. Dragan Vukotić still wanted to avenge his dead brother. What should I tell him – that I had Lazar, and he was longing to be punished? That I had an excellent story with just one unresolved detail: a safe, whose existence I couldn’t vouch for because the house had burned down? No thanks, I thought, and hurled the phone out into the snow. I went outside. A howling came from the maternity hospital: a dog had been shut inside and now stood in the dark amongst the empty cradles yowling for someone, anyone, to come.

  A group of nuns stood at the traffic lights and called on the occasional passers-by to embrace Christianity. ‘Accept Jesus now, the End is nigh!’ they shouted. It was like when market stallholders yell, It’s all gotta go! The group had a well-defined division of labour: some did the hard sell for salvation while the others sang. Their song brought a lot of things home to me, like that they’d actually had no choice but to join the monastery. They certainly wouldn’t have made it as a rock band, I told them.

  ‘You mean you don’t believe even today?!’ I was asked by the most inquisitive – or maybe the stupidest.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘but you know how it is: I will as soon as I get cancer.’

  Our parting feelings for each other couldn’t exactly have been called love. Each of them spat after me three times and then hurriedly crossed themselves. Dealing with an old-fashioned gentleman like me is one thing, I thought, but what are they going to do about these fellows who are at least as fervent as them? Six bearded men strode angrily towards them, gesticulating aggressively and going ballistic with umbrage.