Battling Brexit

by Andrew Anzur Clement

  ***

  I walk down the uneven, broken sidewalk next to Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, really pissed off. I only got an eight out of twenty on the essay, even after I spent six hours hunt-and-peck typing it. I couldn’t show it to Hristijan because he went to bed. The Romanian lady who teaches Decision-Making in the EU gave me a firm dressing-down about how I don’t understand how elections to the European Parliament work, nor what the democratic deficit is, even though I sat through an entire lecture on the subject. You vote for the party not the person? Who knew? Not me, apparently. That’s the latest thing that doesn’t make any sense.

  I wait for the traffic light to change before I walk across the avenue that has a wide center divider with grass on it. I go down the main road of the ULB’s Solbosch campus, up the hill toward the bus stop that has the same name as my mom, intending to take bus seventy-one back to the residence to break the not exactly headline news to Hristijan that I suck at this.

  Someone brushes against me. I drop my books.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going,” he snaps.

  “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bump into you.” I turn to see this tall, thin guy dressed in a smock-like thing that has writing all over it. He has a hat with a really long visor on it attached to the smock with a chain. I’ve seen a few other people dressed like that. Curious, I reach out for the hat.

  He explodes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, touching that?” He advances on me.

  My training takes over; I put up my fists. Someone jumps in between us. He’s shorter and more thick-boned, and also older, maybe in his mid-twenties. He’s dressed in a smock and a cap, except his look like they’ve never been washed, ever. “Relax, Tone,” he says. “She’s new in town. I’m just showing her around.”

  He wasn’t, but I’m content to go with it, seeing how he called off this Tone guy, who looks down his nose at us.

  “I think I will leave you alone this time, čefur street rat. Too bad we won’t even be seeing you on Saint V’s Day this year.” He walks away.

  Last time I got into a fight with someone in Brussels I got arrested.

  “Thanks, seriously,” I say to the newcomer. “How did you know I’m new in town?”

  “Because, you’re not supposed to touch a guild member’s hat. There was no reason why Tone had to be a dipstick about it, though; even if he came here from Slovenia to study and he thinks that his uncle being some Slovenian government minister makes him someone.”

  “Tone?” The name sounds familiar. “I heard about him on campus radio. Good to know about the hats though. You’re a member of one of those guilds I heard about?”

  “Yep. Sure am. Want to see where we hang out?” He points past the canteen. “It’s just right up that way.”

  Hristijan would be furious, but Hristijan isn’t here.

  “Sure. Show me.”

  He leads me up a flight of steps to the edge of this huge parking lot made of gray pavers. There’s a bunch of grass off to the right. A really ugly black high-rise is on the other end. We turn to the right. There are these brightly colored cargo containers lined up along the nearer edge of the parking lot. A bunch of people in smocks with various logos and pins are hanging out in front of them.

  He leads me to one of the containers. It’s green. “Here, have a drink. He pours me some flat beer out of a watering can. “The name is Afrim, by the way.”

  “Elena Marković. You’re from Albania?” I ask in Albanian, judging by his name as I sip my beer. Afrim looks surprised. I almost spit my beer out as something lands right in front of me. It’s another guy in a smock, taller than Afrim, who looks almost the same age with more angular features. He just jumped down from the top of the cargo container, doing a flip and landing in a crouch, his hand on the pavers to steady him. He adjusts an incredibly dirty scarf from Zagreb’s Dinamo football club that he has tucked down his shirt. He stands up and speaks in Serbo-Croat.

  “Will you cut it out, Afrim? I keep telling you to quit bringing your non-member girlfriends up here.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” I say in Serbo-Croat.

  Afrim goes on in Albanian like I didn’t say anything. “Don’t mind my brother. He’s just more annoyed than normal right now because of the jerk you almost got in a fight with. He bankrupted our guild with the party we threw last week, only a couple months before Saint V’s Day. Then he changed his study course. Now Drago has to find some way of picking up the pieces.”

  My eyebrows go up in recognition. I turn to the guy who just jumped down from the top of the container. “You’re Drago? The new president of the Social and Political Sciences Guild? They were talking about you on the campus radio a few days ago.”

  He walks into the container. “Who actually listens to that? Get out of here. You’re wasting our beer.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Geez. You could try being less of a jerk. I’m trying to say ‘it’s nice to meet you.’”

  “Like I said, just ignore him,” says Afrim. “It’s fine about the beer, by the way. Jupiter always forgives the student guilds their bills.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “A Roman god forgives your beer bills?”

  Afrim picks up a red can with a bull on it, like he is trying not to laugh.

  “Jupiter, the beer brewery.”

  I hunch my shoulders.

  He sets the can back down. “You really are new to this place, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  He pauses for a second. I pick up the slack. “So you and your brother are from the former Yugoslavia?”

  “Yeah. To answer your Albanian question, we’re Kosovars, but my dad was from Zagreb. We’re here on our Croatian passports.”

  “So am I, a diplomatic one, actually.”

  “Wow. That’s impressive. How did that happen? And I assumed that because you speak Albanian that you’d be from Kosovo, Albania, or maybe Macedonia.”

  “Actually, I am from Macedonia. I’m also Bosnian and Croatian and I speak all the languages of the former Yugoslavia. Now I just wish I could get this European crap down.”

  “Okay, Now I am officially confused.”

  Drago is still watching from the entryway of the container. His eyes narrow on the medal that I have around my neck. His eyebrows go up in recognition, like he’s seen it before, even though my parents’ adventures were officially covered up. Then he massages the bridge of his nose, just like Hristijan tends to do. “So the rumors about your parents were true and you’re the Maršal now?”

  I nod. “Still feel like being rude to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh come on, Drago, admit it. This is cool,” his brother bugs him.

  Drago shrugs and walks back into the container. “Yeah, real cool.”

  Afrim turns away from the container. He points to the essay sticking out from my course syllabus. “Looks like you really are struggling.”

  “I am. I’ve been sent here to bring all of the former Yugoslavia into the EU, but my mentor says that in order to do that I have to learn to understand EU integration first.”

  Afrim emphasizes where his hat has two stars on it, along with a few other medal-like things. “I’m in my second year. Political Science with a concentration in EU studies. I could explain the basics if you want. It’s really all pretty simple, but the courses overcomplicate things a lot.”

  I don’t hesitate for a second. “Thanks. I think I’ll take you up on that.”

  Drago stews in his own juices inside the container as Afrim takes me around and introduces me to some of the other members of his guild. They are younger, closer to my age. I meet a few French-speaking Belgians and some people from Central European countries whose parents moved here when they were little, like I assume Drago and Afrim’s parents did. I wonder why the two of them look like they’re in their mid-twenties.

  I don’t go out of my way to tell anyone else who I am or why I’m here, but eventually word gets around. Someone from Campus Ra
dio shows up. He stands in front of the Social and Political Sciences Guild’s container and starts talking into a microphone.

  “It’s breaking news of the kind that normally doesn’t come to our campus. The granddaughter of Maršal Tito, the former dictator from what was once Yugoslavia, is here taking classes at the ULB. Rumor has it she has a mission to bring the rest of the former country into the European Union. Let’s see if we can ask her a few questions.”

  The guy with the microphone walks up, wearing a smock with what looks to be the logo of the Philosophy and Letters Faculty, if I’m reading it right. He sticks his microphone in my face. I stare at it like it’s a weird alien life form.

  “So Maršal Marković, what brings you to Brussels?”

  “Well, um, like you said, I’m supposed to shepherd the rest of the former Yugoslavia into the EU. But I’m still kind of in training and I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to go about it. I’ve been here just long enough to realize that the EU is really complex and it’s facing a lot of problems, but I look forward to helping to solve them.”

  “How long will you be staying?”

  “I’m not really sure about that either. But I can tell you that now that I’m here, I plan to be here a while.”

  “Are you planning to aid the EU integration process on the rest of the continent, or try to stop people like Nigel Farage and his UKIP party from ripping to rip the EU apart?”

  “What about the Islamic radicals up in Molenbeek?” another one of the students calls over.

  “Um, I’m not really sure who those people are, yet, but if they stand in my way I assure you I’ll try and stop them.”

  “Thanks for your time, Maršal.” The student reporter turns off the recorder and walks over to where I guess the radio studio is, in a nearby building. I go back to drinking beer and talking with Afrim.

  It takes about twenty minutes for a black sedan, with what I’ve learned are diplomatic plates, to come speeding into the parking lot. It stops. Hristijan gets out. He slams the door and looks really pissed off.

  I try to be nonchalant. “Um, hey, Hristijan, how did you find me here?”

  “The national radios of both the French- and the Flemish-speaking regions of Belgium picked up the story and reported that you don’t seem to know what you’re doing or what’s going on. They said that you seem more interested in partying with the ULB’s student guilds. I told you to stay away from them. You should be studying in a calm, focused environment instead of sitting here in this storage container getting half-drunk on flat beer.”

  I blow up at him. “All I’ve done for the past few months is sit in the residence and study to get nowhere. I can’t take it anymore.”

  Afrim raises an eyebrow. “Who is this jerk again?”

  “This is Hristijan, my mentor.”

  Afrim’s eyes go wide. “Hristijan, like, the Hristijan? Oh my God. This is incredible. Drago, stop brooding in there. Come out here and meet one of the guys who tried to stop the breakup of Yugoslavia.”

  I hear Drago’s voice from inside. “Yeah, until he didn’t stop it. Or the war in Kosovo. No matter what they may have done, it won’t bring our parents back.”

  Bring their parents back? Like they’re dead or something? I don’t have time to ask before Hristijan grabs me by the arm. “Come on, I’m taking you home.”

  “Bye, Maršal Elena, hope to see you again really soon,” Afrim calls after me.

  I’m put in the back seat of the car and taken back to the residence. This is ridiculous. I’m even more of a prisoner here than I was in the compound.

  ***

  Hristijan sits behind the desk in his office, glaring at me, as he talks on the phone.

  “I understand your concerns. The young Maršal simply did not understand what she was doing. She had no intention of violating the agreement her parents made with the United States. It will not happen again.”

  The person on the other end of the line goes on for a while before Hristijan talks again.

  “No. I assure you there is no need for the United States to re-evaluate its relationship with the states of the former Yugoslavia, or her parents. What happened was an accident; the French and Flemish radio stations have already been convinced to issue retractions. Her existence will continue to remain a secret from the public eye.”

  The voice on the phone talks again. Finally Hristijan says, “Thank you for your understanding, Madam Ambassador. Have a good day.”

  He hangs up the phone and glares at me. “That was the United States’ ambassador to Belgium. The Americans are not amused with the little interview you gave today. You know the terms by which your mother got the Americans to finally end the wars in the 1990s. They get all the credit and your parents’ existence has to remain an official secret. That means your position as the Maršal of Yugoslavia is too, even if it carries informal weight in some European circles. The Americans just threatened to cut off all aid to the Western Balkans over what you said. You can’t just go around telling people you’re the Maršal of Yugoslavia, let alone give interviews bragging about it.”

  I shake my head. “I know what my mom agreed to. I didn’t tell anyone anything. One of the guild members just sort of figured it out and then word got around. What was I going to do when asked, lie?”

  Hristijan purses his lips. “No, but you created the situation that allowed this to happen, which brings up another point. Why did you deliberately go against my instructions and get involved with the student guilds?”

  “I didn’t go against anything, it just kind of happened. One of the members even offered to help me with my studies.”

  “I can guess why he offered, too. Don’t let it ‘just happen’ again.”

  My temper goes off on Hristijan for the second time that day. “Why shouldn’t I? At least hanging out there beats sitting around here getting told how badly I understand everything.”

  “Apparently, you need someone to tell you. You may think that you’ve adapted well to life outside of the winery compound where you grew up, but you still have a lot to learn. I am trying to help you, even if you cannot see that. If I don’t keep you on a disciplined schedule, you will never learn what you need to know to avoid causing a major diplomatic incident, let alone to bring all of Yugoslavia back under one umbrella.”

  “All I did was give one interview for my university’s campus radio, and maybe the reason I’m not cut out for all this EU stuff is because I don’t need to learn it all to reunite Yugoslavia.”

  Hristijan huffs out a breath like he’s incensed. “The European Union is the world’s largest and most powerful supranational organization. Learning about it is an absolute must if you’re going to get the rest of the Balkans to accede.”

  “No. What I need to learn is the situation on the ground. That’s what Europe is: real connections between real people, not a bunch of Council regulations.”

  Hristijan rubs his forehead. “Actually, recent research indicates that transactionalist theories of European integration are not as viable as once thought when it comes to the creation of an affective solidaristic ident…”

  I throw my hands up and start yelling. “Now you sound like that short French woman who teaches the class on the crisis in the Euro area.”

  He keeps rubbing his forehead. “It’s called the Eurozone.”

  I keep going, just venting. “Seriously, I can speak nine languages and fight my way out of anything. I couldn’t even understand anything you were saying just now. What I do know is that it’s not right for you to tell me that I can’t even tell my friends what my deal is.”

  “Elena, you’re just frustrated. Go take some time to calm down.”

  I stomp to my room. After a few minutes I hear Lara step up to Hristijan’s office.

  “Trouble in paradise?”

  “I just don’t know how to get through to her, Lara. She’s hiding, acting out, rather than coming to grips with all she needs to learn. If she keeps this up I’ll be left with no
choice but to send her back to Macedonia, at least for now.”

  I pat Rada’s coat like it’s a security blanket, as she lies panting on the floor. I know I have to get serious about this—and apparently without pissing off the Americans with the fact of my existence. Hristijan has done what he can to teach me. It isn’t sinking in. Drago and Afrim already know what my deal is; it’s not like I can un-tell them. I have another idea in mind and Hristijan is going to hate it.

  Four:

  The Never-Ending Sacrifice

  Drago

  I look up, through the grimy glass window in a back room of the Gare Maritime, the ruined industrial train station that Afrim and I fixed up well enough to live in. That was almost fourteen years ago. We were still basically kids. I stare toward the canal, toward her part of the city: the center, not the ‘poor croissant,’ where we have lived since I was fourteen.

  My little brother, Afrim, is lying on his stomach on a mattress on the floor, using the one computer that we share and charge at the library while we’re at school. It occurs to me that he’s talking.

  “What?” I glance over at him.

  “Weren’t you listening?”

  “There’s a lot on my mind.”

  “There’s always a lot on your mind. Will you stop brooding, for once?”

  Spend two years as a child soldier, have your parents taken away from you by the same Albanian Muslim extremist who took you in as an instrument of revenge and you’d be brooding, too, I think to myself. Afrim went through all of that stuff with me, except the child soldier part. I sigh. “What is it, Afrim?”

  “Avdi came by earlier tonight. He told us not to stick around here on the first Friday of October. He wouldn’t say why; maybe something to do with the people al-Qadir is now affiliated with. It looks like we’ll just have to sleep in the guild’s cargo container that night.” Afrim pauses for a moment. “See? Avdi is still looking out for us.”

  Afrim is talking about the man who took us in and his radical Islamic benefactor. ‘Looking out for us’ may as well have huge air quotes around it. I want to drive my half-gloved fist into the wall, or shatter one of the windowpanes that aren’t already broken.