Hair Everywhere

by Istros Books

  HAIR EVERYWHERE

  TEA TULIĆ

  Translated from the Croatian by Coral Petkovich

  English language edition first published by Istros Books London, United Kingdom www.istrosbooks.com

  Originally published in Croatian as Kosa posvuda, 2011

  © Tea Tulić, 2011

  The right of Tea Tulić to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  Translation © Coral Petkovich

  Cover design: Davor Pukljak, www.frontispis.hr

  ISBN:

  978-1-908236-31-9 (printed edition)

  978-1-908236-41-8 (e-book)

  This book is supported by the Croatian Ministry of Culture and the City of Rijeka

  To the girl who wanted to understand foreign languages

  Special thanks for this book goes to Daša Drndić and James Hopkin

  Tea Tulić

  Crisps

  One morning I got out of bed and went to buy some crisps. I slid down the banisters right down to the big legs stretched out on the ground floor. Mr Neighbour from the third floor was sitting motionless, leaning against the wall. I jumped over his legs and went to the shop. When I came back to the building again, with a half-empty packet of crisps in my hand, there were people in white coats standing over the neighbour. Near the big legs on the floor, I saw a hat full of thick dark-red blood. I didn’t run up the steps. I went up quietly, dragging my hand along the rail.

  ‘Drunk again, poor man!’ Grandma was standing in the kitchen stirring her burnt minestrone soup.

  Mr Neighbour had missed the steps this time, and his chance for a new day.

  Mum

  On the day Grandma did not die, Mum had an unusual headache. Her eye began to run away to the left. My brother took her to Emergency. He came back home without her.

  Mum is a strong person with small bones. She has been in hospital twice before. One time she had peed out a stone, the other time, a stray child.

  On the day Grandma did not die, I went shopping. Books, balms, bath things. I wore week-old dampness in my hair. I passed the square where, a few days before, a handsome young man breathed his last. They say he was a sportsman. A good student. Not aggressive. He was beaten to death. I wondered how it sounds to foreigners, our word for death: Smrt

  The Neighbourhood

  In the neighbourhood of gaudy façades, prize-­winning gardens hide cold benches. Under the benches, warm yellow, white and black dogs growl. They bark at strange noises. Mouthpieces for their masters. They don’t allow anyone to park in their space. They don’t like those whose grandfathers don’t inhabit the local cemetery. Unkempt trees make them angry, and purple mulberries that stick to passing feet. They are restless, and they piss on their own flowers.

  Anxiety

  ‘I’m afraid,’ says Mum, ‘I’m afraid I messed up my eye. Two days before pay day I ran out of eyeliner so I used the ink from my pen. Do you think…’

  ‘I’m afraid too, but not of the ink,’ I answer.

  ‘They didn’t find the Patch, don’t worry.’

  She calls the bloody cloth “The Patch”. I imagine “the Patch” is like Mars, big enough to wander through space by itself. And everything is fine as long as it wanders.

  Tea

  This is red tea from the House of Green Tea. It will chase the snake from your stomach. It is expensive. I put it in the bag together with the white chocolate and go towards the parking lot. People never think about how they have taken someone else’s space, when they park their cars. They are all in a hurry and haven’t got time to consider the fair play of their parking. In the same way, they walk quickly and get in the way of other pedestrians.

  When I get home, I’ll eat soup and a steak. Then I’ll change into my pyjamas and make the tea. I’ll add three small spoonfuls of raw sugar. When I sit in front of the television, and the cup is half empty, I’ll be watching the adverts. I’ll hide one eye in the zebra-striped pillow.

  I know that’s how it will be because I have already tried it. That tea.

  Nurses (Don’t Know)

  No one knows why Mum is in the hospital. That’s why we run up and down the stairs. Upstairs there are only nurses. They have special white clogs and mascara on their eyes. They have no information. They don’t even have plastic cups.

  ‘The doctor went downstairs just now,’ they say.

  No one else is running up and down the stairs, except us. Down­stairs there is a coffee machine. Downstairs there is a smell of soup. There are no doctors downstairs. For days there haven’t been any.

  Grandma vomited last night. I wish she hadn’t. It made me vomit too.

  Passion Flower

  The passion flower is a creeper with flowers like space stations. My friend whose children have nice names sells it to me. She tells me how this plant helps her sister to deal with a terrible boss and a lazy husband. In its liquid form it costs less.

  When I drink a capful of this brown liquid, the snake in my stomach vanishes, but nausea comes instead.

  Grandma

  Grandma tells me to pull out the green cash-box where she has put her banknotes. We have to check that they are still valid. We are especially worried about the biggest ones.

  In the meantime, she needs to be changed so that she is not wet. My sister takes off three pairs of tights, while I hold her. The banknotes are still current, Grandma is dry and we jiggle the little boxes with gold clinking inside them. There are three gold chains with pendants. One for Mum, one for my sister and the third for me. Grandma meant me to have the one made with links. It’s yellow, like her urine in the plastic bucket.

  My brother won’t get anything. He’s a male.

  New Year’s Eve

  Mum is home. They let her come home to celebrate New Year’s Eve. But her head is very painful at home too. Under a artificial pine tree a plastic Jesus holds his arms out wide, towards the plaster models of sheep. A plaster Saint Mary stares without eyes at the little plastic Jesus; as she stands besides her husband who has no upper arms. Underneath them is moss. Under the moss are faces of the dead on the obituary page.

  We don’t turn on the little lamps on the artificial tree.

  We wait for the fireworks to finish.

  Today blood dripped from my bottom. It would be better if it had not. Now I have to be even more worried.

  Group Photographs

  There is one photograph. On it are Grandad, Grandma, Mum and her sisters. Mum has a grey-black, thick cotton dress and blond highlights. Grandad is sitting in the middle with his palms on his thighs.

  There is another photograph, again with Mum and her sisters. This time with their husbands. The aunts are red in the face and wearing blouses with shoulder pads. Their husbands are wearing colourful cardigans.

  There is a third photograph. We are in this photograph. The grandchildren. Our faces are serious, and our hair half-combed.

  We sent all three photographs to the uncle who lives in Canada, in a house with a pool. While we were getting ready to be photographed, someone said to Mum:

  ‘Don’t put so much make up on, he will think we are doing well and he won’t send us any money!’

  I believed that if we were beautiful enough, uncle would frame the photograph, put it above the fireplace and think of us often.

  Room Number 57

  Room Number 57 is at the top of a well-lit, small building. Smiling nurses often come into this room. They ask Mum if she needs anything. She tells them to put a chicken drumstick and some green salad into the drip.

  I go into Room Number 57 and say:

  ‘Good day.’

  Huddled under the sheet, Mum is lying closest to the window. There is a blue
stamp on the sheet.

  ‘You look as pale as death!’

  She stares at me, sits up in bed and pulls a big cosmetic bag from the small bedside table:

  ‘Sit down.’

  I look at her made-up blue eye. The other one is covered with gauze. With a soft brush she puts powder on my face:

  ‘There, now you are pretty.’

  I go home looking pretty and think to myself how the numbers of the room, five and seven, equal twelve, and one plus two equals three.

  I’m sure that the number three means something good, according to numerology.

  The Brooch

  Mum and Dad used to work a lot. Especially Mum. Sometimes Dad would take us to her workplace and she would serve us cups of milk froth. Sometimes we shared her smiles with people who ordered beer or coins for the pinball machine.

  Once it was my birthday. I ran into the apartment, threw my school bag on the floor and came across Mum sleeping in the bedroom. It was midday. And sunny. And my birthday! I pulled Mum’s leg, took off her stocking. Pushed my hair into her nose! She mumbled with her eyes still closed:

  ‘Your present is in the bag.’

  In the pocket of the big soft bag I found a brooch. A black and white porcelain face: Half sad, half joyful. I pinned it to my denim jacket and went outside into the street.

  One little cloud was urinating.

  Grandma (Holds the Strings)

  ‘I’ll pay for my funeral myself. I want you to dress me that day in the clothes I’ve prepared. It’s all there, in the bag. And the slippers are new. See, the bag is next to the bedside table.’

  Next to the bedside table is the bag. Next to the bag is a plastic bucket. Next to the plastic bucket, am I.

  ‘When I die you must inform my doctor and the priest. I have a necklace too, but I’m afraid the gravediggers will steal it. I just need to save enough for the gravestone; you know, I won’t last much longer.’

  ‘How long do I need to keep paying for Mass when that happens?’

  ‘Once a year is enough.’

  Grandma does not want to give her organs to any­one. She does not want to be cremated. Her coffin must be suitably solid and impenetrable. Because of all those worms.

  Invisible

  In kindergarten I was not allowed into the kitchen for the little girls. They cooked air in there, in little pots. I used to draw blue watercolour cars. When we went out into the playground in the afternoons, I secretly listened to the invisible beings who lived in the trees. Then after a time, the other children began to listen to them too. Afterwards we told one another what we had heard. That was how I became visible. It’s a pity I didn’t do that as soon as I came to the kindergarten. Then they would have let me cook in the little pots, too. I would not have been drawing blue watercolour cars, instead I would have mixed sunlight in the bowl with a whisk and afterwards I would have used this, instead of spit, to make cakes out of earth. The cakes made of earth would grow big enough to feed all the hungry black people. The black people would be happy. They would write a letter to Mum, telling her how well she had brought up her daughter.

  Shopping

  Buy tiramisu for Mum. Do they have tiramisu?

  ‘Do you have tiramisu?’

  It looks very dry.

  ‘How much does it cost? One piece, please. Thank you. Goodbye.’

  It’s a very light cake. Hold it on your hand. It won’t fall. Go to the left. No. The kiosk is to the right. Buy Mum a voucher for her mobile phone. So that she can call you if she wants a piece of cheesecake.

  ‘One voucher for the mobile phone, please. The cheapest one. Do you have any others? I’ll take the other one.’

  Tiramisu is good. Something sweet is good for the nerves. And buy coffee! Cappuccino for Mum. A double macchiato for the lady whose bed is next to hers. That lady loves to talk. She gave Mum a pear because it’s good for digestion. The vending machine gives you change. There isn’t an option for double macchiato. I’ll tell the lady there wasn’t any double macchiato. Did it throw out a spoon? Yes. Put the change in my pocket next to the voucher for the mobile phone, in one hand the macchiato and the cappuccino, in the other hand the tiramisu. It’s on the vending machine. How can you describe the way a hospital smells? It isn’t just the smell of medicine.

  He said tumour. And that he doesn’t know the details.

  ‘Mrs, there wasn’t any double macchiato. Here’s your change. Mum, the froth on the cappuccino isn’t very good. The froth is pretty poor and your chair is squeaking. Here’s the tiramisu as well. Mrs, do you maybe have a spoon, so that Mum can eat her cake?’

  The spoon. When Mum has finished eating, I have to wash the spoon. Afterwards the lady will tell Mum she has a very well brought-up daughter. Mum’s happiness will make the tumour smaller. Or not. He said they don’t know if they can get rid of it.

  ‘Mum, is the tiramisu too dry for you?’

  Before he called me into the office, I looked at the linocut. A house with a well, in a frame. Before he called me into the office, I asked myself who was the author of the piece of work hanging in the hospital corridor. Before he called me into the office, I put my hands on the snake in my stomach.

  Tumour.

  Doctor, don’t look at the floor.

  Spells

  I sit in the train and journey towards the South. That’s where the woman lives whose fault it is that Mum is in hospital for the third time. The lady who works by day in the bank, and removes spells at night, told me this. She said Mum’s eyes were like buttons in this woman’s hands. I stick my head out of the window while I travel. I’m careful not to hit the overhead transmission line. I’ve been travelling for a long time. My hands are dirty, from the red plush and the folding table. I come out of an unending tunnel and the hills turn into mountains. Brick houses hurry by in the opposite direction. After them, dogs and sheep. After that, I pee in the toilet. I spill urine on the railway tracks. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I practice my introductory speech.

  That woman put a spell on our family because she was jealous when Dad married Mum. Maybe her jealousy no longer exists but the spell remains. I tell her everything, and afterwards beg her to leave us alone. This surprises her. She is angry. Her hair is badly dyed. She says I am inventing it all. No, Mrs, I am not inventing anything, I am just imagining.

  Thick Ankles

  One of our neighbours has always been fat and old. And her children were always old. Grandma sent me to buy bread for that neighbour who lives on the first floor, and salami and frankfurters. It was hard for her to walk, because of her thick ankles. Her apartment smelt of stewed beef. And frankfurters. When she was even older, she accused me of stealing her post. I said:

  ‘The postman doesn’t leave your pension in the letter box!’

  Another woman in our neighbourhood had no teeth, and her apartment was no bigger than our kitchen. She had a medium­-sized mongrel dog. I used to take him for a walk every day. Her apartment smelt of cardboard. Piles of clothes were strewn everywhere. It was hard for her to walk because she too had thick ankles. I said to the people in the park:

  ‘This is my dog! He’s a good dog.’

  My friend’s Grandma always knew everything about everyone. She broke her hip in the bathtub, lay in bed and made lots of telephone calls and watched tele­vision. Since she died, she knows even more.

  She had very, very thick ankles.

  In my immediate family no one has ankles like that.

  Blessed Assumption

  I liked to spend part of my summer holidays in front of the house. Lots of children lived nearby, so I could choose my own friends. The friends I chose used to go to a building with big brown doors every Saturday morning. I would stay outside; until one day I went after them.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked my best friend.

  ‘With you.’

  ‘We’re going to Sunday School.’

  ‘Can I go too?’

  Inside that building it was wonderful. S
o wonderful that I went there every Saturday after that. They told me the building was called the Church of the Blessed Assumption. And that Blessed Assumption means something invisible lifts you up high into the sky. Magical!

  After that I stopped going to folk-dancing classes at school.

  Other Types of Tea

  These are two different kinds of tea from the House of Green Tea. One is for Mum. The other for me. Eight treasures of Shaolin. Eight pearls of health. I buy it also because its name transports me to eastern monasteries. I shan’t buy tea in filter bags any longer. They contain only dust.

  In the big market place, stuffed with people and different kinds of yoghurts, I buy cheese. Only people, of all the mammals in the world, consume milk and milk products after they grow up. And all those people are here, in the queue in front of me, buying plastic necessities reduced by forty per cent. I don’t buy any chewy sweets. They contain only codes for something I don’t understand.

  Decision

  First I tell Dad, and then my brother. Dad gets sick. We decide not to say anything to Mum, Grandma or my sisters. At least until Mum gets better. Then they can be cross with us as much as they like.

  The Two of Them

  ‘Where have you been, it’s nearly five o’clock?’

  ‘I was playing in front of the school.’

  My sister is often goalkeeper. And attacker. And a striker. So she needs new trainers every three months. She sits dirty and sweaty on Mum’s bed.

  ‘Did you do your homework?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Hah, you’ll be in trouble!’

  ‘Mum… when will you come out of hospital?’

  ‘Next week, I’m going to the school to parents’ evening.’

  ‘How will she go to the school with those bottles hanging off her? Everyone will laugh at me,’ my sister whispers to Dad as we leave.