“No?” Josip asked bitterly. “Okay, then, I’ll tell you. For one thing, he’s keen to recruit you for Ustaša. And for another, he’s keen on you.”
Andrej said nothing. He felt that Josip’s last comment wounded his dignity, somehow.
“So what did you and Schmitz quarrel about?” Andrej asked.
Josip shook his head. “We don’t have to discuss everything, my boy.”
He says “my boy,” just like Schmitz, Andrej thought to himself. Neither of them takes me seriously.
“Of course we don’t have to talk,” he said, piqued. “Although it’s not like we have anything better to do—this fishing isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.”
Josip nodded, stood up, and started packing in the rods.
“You’re right there. Sorry to have disappointed you. Let’s head back.”
The boat sailed eastward over the gray-blue water with two silent men on board. White fog thickened the air, so the town appeared only at the last moment. Andrej helped Josip moor the boat, and they said goodbye without much ceremony.
Josip was struck, as always, by the postman’s somewhat grotesque posture as he walked homeward along the quay until fading into the mist. Their outing had not been a success.
Josip could find his way home blindfolded, but even so, such dense fog was disconcerting. Nor could he hear anything: it was as though all the world’s sounds had been muted.
When he passed the Serbian Orthodox church, he felt the crunch of broken glass under his shoes. It was colored glass. The stained-glass windows had been smashed.
One block later, he saw that Kostić’s shop had been attacked as well. The racks had been demolished, the crates and chests wrecked. The produce lay scattered and squashed across the entire stoop. The pumpkins had been riddled with machine-gun bullets. All the windows had been broken, and upstairs, where the family lived, it looked like there had been a fire: every window had a black halo.
Goran Kostić came outside and distractedly tied on his apron. He bent over and started placing undamaged fruit into a small crate.
“Wait, let me help you,” Josip said, setting down his bag.
“Such beautiful fruit,” Kostić lamented. “Just look at these oranges. Better than the ones from Spain.”
“Let me help you,” Josip repeated, lining up a few still-intact crates. “Is your family all right?”
“Yes, yes. They’re all huddled in bed together.”
“I’m ashamed that this can happen in our country, Kostić. Leave that cauliflower, the oranges are worth more.”
While they were busy salvaging whatever they could, a pickup truck approached. In the bed was a group of armed men, including Marković.
“Just carry on, Kostić,” Josip whispered. “They won’t do anything while I’m here.”
“Bad idea, Tudjman!” Marković shouted.
“I thought I knew you,” Josip shouted back, “but I had no idea you’d terrorize innocent people.”
“Serbs!” Marković screamed. “They’ve got no business being here.”
“You’re an idiot,” Josip replied, holding a large pumpkin in front of his belly.
“I disagree,” another voice said. A door opened and Mario got out.
“You, too, Mario? Have you lost all sense of decency? Does your wife know you’re part of this?”
“She does, and she’s behind me one hundred percent. Save your decency for better times, Josip. We don’t want any Serbs in our town.”
“Pumpkins are just pumpkins!” Kostić wailed.
“Shut up,” Josip hissed at him, before shouting, “Who else was in on this?”
“I was,” said Schmitz, who leaned over to the open door so that Tudjman could see him clearly. He was wearing a white dress shirt and a purple woolen vest.
“And me, Mr. Tudjman,” said an indolent voice. The driver of the truck appeared from behind the vehicle. Josip recognized Horvat, the head of the consortium that had bought the funicular from the state. “You’d better go home now.”
“No,” Josip said, cradling the pumpkin as though it were a child, “I’m doing my civic duty by helping this man.”
Josip lost his job. The dismissal letter arrived by registered mail and Andrej stood by while he read it.
“What will you do now?” Andrej asked.
“I don’t know,” said Josip. “I’ve still got my pension, but that’s nothing much to speak of. I don’t know how I’ll survive without the funicular. I’ve done that work for more than twenty years.”
Andrej had resolved not to take any more money from Josip and had put off looking under that concrete block on the Zrinskog, but the temptation had been too much for him. And the money was there, wrapped tightly in plastic. At the time it seemed to him a good way to make Tudjman, who until now had avoided taking part in the national struggle, contribute to the cause. But now, seeing the predicament Tudjman was in, he felt guilty about it.
Tudjman bent over and patted Laika on the head.
“Everything will work out, girl,” he said.
Andrej folded his hands behind his back. This might be the last time he and Tudjman would stand here in the familiar office of the funicular station.
“There’s no one who can take over, either,” Tudjman said. “No one who knows the ropes. The funicular is doomed.”
“But you’ll still be able to make ends meet, won’t you?” Andrej asked.
“We’ll see,” Tudjman replied. “Katarina should really be moved to a different school. ‘Special education,’ you know. But that’s expensive.”
“I could lend you money,” Andrej blurted out.
“You want to lend me money?”
“Why not? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we are. But you should think of your own future. Your job at the postal service might come under threat one of these days.”
“I doubt it. I’m employed by the Yugoslavian state.”
“As long as it still exists.”
“No point in refusing, Josip,” Andrej said sternly, and started marching back and forth. “You are my friend and it’s my duty to help. There’s no avoiding it, for either of us.”
He had the thick wad of money from under the concrete block in his pants pocket, but his experience with Tudjman and that identified banknote had taught him not to make any rash moves.
“I’ll bring you four thousand dinars tomorrow,” he said.
“Andrej—I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay it …”
“Even if you never do,” he insisted, “we are friends.”
“Yes,” Tudjman sighed, “we’re friends.” He got up to hug him. “If you only knew how much this means to me. Thank you.”
Andrej embraced him, placing his hands on Tudjman’s broad back, something he had never done before.
“Everything will work out, you’ll see,” he whispered.
On his last day of work, Josip ate his sandwich, as usual, on the steps of the heroes’ monument, and reflected on his life.
He had not been exactly friendly to Andrej at the end of their fishing outing, and his offer made a real impression on him. One often assumed the best or the worst in someone, and it threw you off when they did the opposite. From Andrej, with his dishonest past and his egotistical lifestyle, he had never expected so much generosity. Whatever happened, he would not demand so much as another dinar from him. That was history. With the four thousand dinars Andrej had lent him he could, despite that last payment to the blackmailer and the loss of his job, make ends meet for a little while longer.
He mused on how it was possible that the men in his life turned out to be so much more reliable than the women and wondered if he himself had something to do with it, but he was at a loss for an answer.
Josip took one last look at the track that lay at his feet, at least his last as its chief operator. If he were ever to return, the funicular might be the same, but he would not. Down in the lower station he would remove his uniform a
nd hang it in the closet for the last time.
A low haze clung to the town, even though the sky itself was blue. Only the clock tower stuck out, the gilded numbers and hands of the clock gleaming in the sunlight. From under the cloud a cacophony of honking cars and blaring megaphones emerged, for there was a demonstration in progress against the declaration of the so-called Independent Serbian Republic of Krajina on Croatian territory. Whatever happens, Josip thought, this is and will always be my city.
He had little appetite, and he packed up what was left of his lunch. He could feed it to the rabbits on the way back down, as a sort of farewell present.
Josip stood up and looked around. His eyes settled on the spot of his and Jana’s first rendezvous, and he thought: at least they can’t take that away from me. He looked up at the bronze heroes, resolutely placed his cap on his head, and decided not to return it.
Josip got in and released the brakes for the last time. The cable car shifted into motion, and he began his descent into the fog, out of which the other car soon approached. He turned halfway and watched the unmanned car ascend until the haze that separated them obscured it from view.
For the first time in twenty years, he did not have to think about who would refill that car with water ballast.
Andrej was relieved to be able to give the money back to Josip. By adding an extra thousand dinars he had even done a good deed, and he felt he could now drop in on the Tudjmans again. Katarina, however, was no longer so keen on his company. Girls her age were fickle, just like Stéphanie of Monaco, who had once been his dream princess but was now carrying on with her bodyguards. Pop music blared from Katarina’s room, and she had no interest whatsoever in jigsaw puzzles. Equally disappointing was that Laika hardly seemed to recognize him anymore. She was, it appeared, oblivious to the fact that he had saved her life, and just lay there when he walked in. Tudjman—who it was all about, in fact—was almost never home. But his wife was, and her behavior became more and more peculiar.
“Tudjman isn’t here,” she said. “He’s elsewhere. He’s always elsewhere. Elsewhere is better, he thinks.”
And it wasn’t just that persistent use of the word “elsewhere,” which was out of place in her vocabulary. “Do you know how I wait for him every night, ever since our wedding night? Shall I tell you, great grenadier?”
And before Andrej could cut her off, she continued: “I receive him the way we learned it from our mothers, according to tradition. With my skirt pulled up in the front, the hem tucked behind my belt. In one hand a glass of wine, in the other a plate of olives. And a whip clenched between my teeth. That means: You are my lord and master, I offer you food and drink, take me, beat me, do with me what you will. This is how I have done it every night for the past forty years. But he does not want me. He has a whore in Zagreb, and he prefers to go there.”
“I’ll stop by again in a few days,” Andrej said.
From Katarina’s room came the thumping beat of New Kids on the Block. Ljubica stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray, put a hand on his arm, and whispered confidentially, “You know me as a decent married woman, Andrej. Always caring, always serene. But can you imagine how lonely I am sometimes?”
Serene was likewise a word that he would hardly expect from—or associate with—her, and Andrej wondered where she picked it up. He was anxious to leave.
“See you soon,” he said and was relieved she did not try to keep him from going.
They sat at the kitchen table in Andrej’s semi-basement apartment. Cellophane-wrapped calendars featuring his butterfly pictures were stacked on the table.
“I’ve lost my job,” Andrej said.
“How come?” Josip asked.
“Because the postal service no longer exists,” Andrej replied. “Belgrade has cut us off from the rest of the world.”
Croatia had declared independence and was therefore at war with Serbian-dominated Yugoslavia. Dubrovnik, Vukovar, Zadar, Gospić, and many other cities had been attacked; the Croatians, who had no army of their own, only a police force, were unable to offer any resistance. The United Nations remained neutral.
“So what now?”
Andrej shrugged his shoulders. “No idea. Die for the fatherland, maybe?”
“Foolish idea, my boy. The fatherland needs living men, not dead ones. Is there any more tea?”
“I’ll make a new pot,” Andrej said.
“Listen,” Josip said. “We’re in the same boat. Both of us without a job. You helped me, now I’ll help you. I can lend you some money.”
“You lend me money?” Andrej laughed. “Come on. So far you still owe me four thousand dinars.”
“I know. But if you get into dire straits …”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Josip. I want to help you, and don’t need help in return. How does your state pension stand, by the way?”
“Haven’t received anything in two months,” Tudjman conceded.
“That’s what I mean. Damn, I’m out of tea bags.”
“Reuse that one then,” Josip said. “It’s almost as good.”
The Yugoslavian fleet blocked all the Croatian harbors, including theirs. And while fishery was now more important than ever, no one dared go farther than a few hundred meters off the coast; rumors circulated of private boats being fired at near Karlobag, either as intimidation or simply for target practice. And since everyone recalled the attack on the Serbian marine recruits, it seemed wise to steer clear of the gray monsters that patrolled on the horizon. Low-flying MiGs screeched over the town on their way to Zadar or Dubrovnik. Croatia’s own improvised air force consisted of only a few repurposed Antonovs, which in peacetime had been used to fight forest fires.
New fighting units, usually with no more than thirty men each, were formed with fierce-sounding names like the Bulls or the Eagles.
For now, the town was spared, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the war reached them. And it would not be an occupation like with the Germans; this enemy was intent on driving them out of their homes for good. The wallflower of history was about to be raped.
Everything changed from one day to the next. Someone who had an income yesterday was unemployed today, consumer goods ran out, there was no more postal delivery, garbage was not picked up, buses stopped running, and the tourists stayed away.
On the other hand, everything stayed as it always was: the sea was still blue, the mountain range unspoiled and unchanging, the palm trees on the boulevard upright and tropical in their concrete planters. The pelicans, too, behaved as they always had, as did the stray cats and, as far as circumstances allowed, the people themselves.
It was the illusion of resilience that convinced the residents of the town that they would weather this one out, too, that their way of life could resist every menace the world might present them. But deep down, everyone was afraid.
If even the Romanesque cathedral of Zadar, a city not even two hours’ drive away and where many of the townspeople had family, could be destroyed by Serbian mortar fire, then it was not inconceivable that a bomb might fall on one’s own house here.
A strange atmosphere prevailed in the town. When people saw and greeted one another in public, for instance on the boulevard, they involuntarily wondered whether they would ever see the other one again. Such an everyday sight as children playing on the beach likewise raised the thought of whether it might be the last time. The light that summer seemed brighter than ever, as though each ordinary scene was intended to be imprinted in the townspeople’s memory. Life as they knew it could cease to exist, but this was hardly ever discussed, because everyone thought they were the only one who felt this way.
“You seem to know how it works,” Horvat said.
“Naturally,” Andrej replied as he uncoupled the hose from the water reservoir. It went without saying that he had learned how the funicular was operated from Josip Tudjman.
“The cable car will stay operational,” Horvat said when Andrej released the brake and the car
started its stately descent. “It’s not about profits, of course—there’s no tourism anymore, after all. It’s a matter of national importance.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?” Andrej asked, pulling down his cap a bit more tightly. He would not be given a new uniform, and the one Tudjman had left behind in the base station’s closet was of course too small. The cap was the spare one Ante Dragović had always worn as assistant operator, and it was so small that Andrej could hardly get it to stay on his head.
“Strategic considerations,” said the lieutenant of the militia, a stout man in an olive-green uniform jacket and black-and-gray camouflage pants. “In the event of the transport of troops and equipment.”
“And evacuation, should it be necessary,” Horvat added. “So we need a reliable man for this task.”
“I am a patriot,” Andrej replied and cautiously checked whether the car would brake automatically if the driver did not regulate the speed manually. This was indeed the case. When they reached the middle of the route the cars shuddered slightly as they made way for one another, like two courteous elderly gentlemen on a sidewalk, and sidled slowly past each other at the prescribed pace. The rabbits on either side of the rails looked surprised, perhaps because they had not seen the cars pass in more than a week, and in a rabbit’s life, a week is a long time.
“You must be prepared to report at any time of the day or night,” the lieutenant said sternly, as though Andrej’s apparent pleasure in running the funicular was cause for suspicion.
“Za dom spremni,” Andrej said, and tugged the yellow-banded cap, which sat atop his curls like an undersized halo, back down to ear level.
“As far as payment is concerned,” Horvat said, “you do understand that we cannot, under the present circumstances, offer you much. But once the war is over, you’ll be given a contract and a regular salary. My word of honor.”
“I am doing my duty for the fatherland,” Andrej said solemnly, and he began to brake in time to lead the car slowly and precisely under the eaves of the lower station, stopping just before it touched the bumpers, just as he had so often seen Tudjman do.
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