The Wind and the Rain

by Martin O'Brien

The three of us are sat outside a cafe on a huge plaza. Unsurprisingly it is extremely busy here too. Tourists are milling about taking photos and local youths are congregating around a statue in the centre of the square. It is disorientating being amongst so many people. Janko tells me this place is called Campo Santo Stefano, I am eating ice cream but the two men are drinking coffee.

  “How old are you Ana?” Gunari says.

  “I’m eighteen years old, I’ll be nineteen in December.”

  “And what did you do?” Gunari says.

  “Don’t you know?” I reply, reading him for signals. He is as inscrutable as ever, his unnerving eyes don’t shift from mine. All I want to do is carry on eating this delicious ice cream. I chose the pistachio flavour. I’ve never had it before but the taste is a nutty delight.

  “I want you to tell us what you did and we can explain why we had to take you away,”

  “I did what I felt was right,”

  “We don’t doubt that, Schatzi. Tell us what happened three days ago,” Janko says.

  I examine both men but their faces are impassive. I finish the last of my ice cream, put the spoon down and I tell them my story.

  “My dad moved us to Ljubljana when I was a little girl as he wanted a better life for us. We used to live in a little village in the east of Slovenia near the Hungarian border called Mostje. That’s where I was born. Dad found it hard to find work in the local area. He used to travel to Maribor occasionally but it was so far from home. Finally, he got a job as a bus driver and we moved to Ljubljana. So we moved to the big city, to a little house not far from the train station.

  Dad always pushed me to educate myself, he said education is my passport to a brighter future. I’ve always worked hard at school, I had to work harder than other kids in my year. And all because I’m Roma. Roma kids are automatically put in the bottom classes in Yugoslavia, it’s what they do.

  I like going to school and learning and I was good too. I was easily the best at my school in languages and I enjoyed history lessons too. I chose all the language options - French, German, Italian and Russian. I even did extra classes in English on top and my dad paid for a tutor too.

  Even when he had spells out of work he paid for Mr Asanović to come round. Mr Asanović said I was his best student and that if I kept going at it I could get a top job. He said that Europe and the world are changing and that being able to speak a few different languages will help me.

  At my school most of the teachers were good but our head of year, Mr Mijatović, hated Roma kids. I heard him once tell a lad in my class, Roman, that he was a ‘typical thieving gypsy’. He said Roman had stolen Dejan’s dinner money but he hadn’t done anything, it was a girl called Alina. I saw her take it. She did it after we came back from the morning break and I saw Alina taking her hand out of Dejan’s coat pocket. She caught me looking and she ran off.

  I said “Mr Mijatović, I saw who took the money,”

  He looked at me and said, “No one likes a tell-tale Ana, especially when we know you’re defending him because he is your cousin,”. I said he isn’t my cousin and he laughed. Can you believe it? The teacher, he laughed at me for telling the truth. He didn’t believe me because of my background. I never once saw him give any praise to a Roma child. We were always being called into his office for things we hadn’t done.

  None of the other teachers even stood up for us or told him he was wrong. I suppose that’s how it is done in Yugoslavia. I decided to keep my head down and not engage with the teachers unless it was to do with school work. I was desperate to get out of school and go to university.

  I knew if I worked hard I would get the grades and if I did well I could even go to the University of Belgrade. That was my dream and I was determined to earn a place to go there. You know I love the Rocky films? I used to watch them all the time, they always used to show them on television on an evening and Dad would let me stay up late to watch them.

  My life was like the training bits, they call them a montage. Rocky does all the training and you only see little bits of it but you believe it all. You know that he wasn’t taking the easy way out but he pushed himself every day. That was like me, I studied so much. You’ve heard me, you know I speak excellent French. It’s the same for German and English. I love watching American movies. My dad takes me to the Vič cinema in town to see a film every month.

  By the time it came to my exams I was confident that I would obtain the grades I needed. I applied for the best universities in the country and I was hoping I could win a place on a great course. And you know what? I did it. My marks were ace.

  Then I started getting the rejection letters. The universities kept turning me down. The last one was Belgrade four days ago. And that was that. I didn’t know why it happened so I went to school three days ago to see Mr Mijatović. I was in his office with my mum and my French teacher was there too, Mrs Jarni.

  “You see Ana, certain eligibility criteria need to be fulfilled. Unfortunately, you didn’t meet the criteria,”

  “But my marks are better than everyone else’s on the course. Marko Robić is going to Novi Sad to study French and Italian and I’m better than him. Is it because he is a boy?”

  “Of course not, the Yugoslavian education ministry doesn’t discriminate on lines of gender, there are other things to consider,”

  “What am I not understanding?” I was choking up, “why can’t I go to university?”

  “Mrs Bihari,” he dismissed my questions and turned to my mum, “you must realise that this is a sensitive area. This country is built upon unity through diversity. Slovenes need to be represented at the major schools else we will be dominated by the Croats and the Serbs. We need top class Slovenes working for the public good. A broad church will ensure the future of our nation,”

  My mum eyed him in a strange way. She simply stood up and said “Come on Ana, we are going home,”

  “But mum,” I said, looking at Mrs Jarni to offer some support. She was looking at the floor. What a pathetic coward.

  We left the school and we were walking down the pavement on the way home. I was unable to stop crying and I was walking a few steps behind my mum.

  “Mum, what’s going on? Nothing is making any sense,”

  She stopped, turned around and placed her hands around my face.

  “Ana, you are old enough to understand how the world works. I won’t hide this from you. Simply, you are not going to university because you are Roma. There is no other reason. Only because your blood is Roma blood,”

  “But my grades? I worked twice as hard as everyone. How can that not be good enough?”

  “For our people, nothing will be good enough. These people are full of loathing, not only for the Roma but for everyone else in this sorry excuse for a nation. Actually Ana, it is more fear than loathing. They fear everything because it is all built on sand. But our blood is strong Ana. We will get through this together.”

  We walked home in silence holding hands.

  The way my mother spoke to me told me there was nothing we could do about it. Always the guilty. To be judged on nothing. To be Roma is to be guilty by default.

  So, I thought, as I’m already guilty I could take out my anger on someone who deserved it. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I mean, my life had been taken away from me. That’s how I felt. It’s how I still feel. It’s more a sense of loss now, rather than anger.

  I was heading home from the shop a couple of days ago and I saw him. Mr Mijatović. He was walking down the street with his granddaughter holding hands. This pretty little red-haired girl in a white dress holding a teddy bear and babbling to herself.

  As we approached each other he caught my gaze. And he smirked. My fists were balled up ready to punch him on the nose. Time seemed to slow and as we passed he sneered at me. Like I was a stray dog, not one of his best students. I was livid. I went home and stewed in my room. I shouted at Mum to keep out of my room.

  By the evening, I was even more upset at
what had happened in the last few days. I decided to take action. He had destroyed everything I had hoped for so it seemed only fair to destroy everything he had.

  I was laying in bed but I couldn’t sleep. The anger had a hold on my thoughts that I can’t explain. I checked my watch and it said it was past midnight. I got up, put on my clothes and left the house. At first, I walked around Bežigrad and my brain kept telling me to hurt him as he had hurt me.

  I knew I couldn’t damage him in the same way. He had the power and the money and the big house.

  That’s when the idea struck me.

  I should burn down Mr Mijatović’s house.

  So I went down the road to the petrol station on Dunajska cesta. I bought two jerry cans and filled them with petrol. The woman who served me looked bored and didn’t even question why a teenage girl needed two cans of petrol in the middle of the night.

  My mind was clearer than it had been since I was told I couldn’t go to university. I knew where he lived as it was right by my school in nearby Šiška. He lived in a big house with its own garden, rather than in one of the big apartment blocks that surrounded it.

  The house possessed a couple of balconies on either side, the house was painted white. I walked through the open front gate towards the front door.

  The night was still and very warm. I was sweating from lugging the cans across the city. I can see now that I’ve caused so much trouble but at that point in time, it felt like the most righteous thing I could do.

  So I started pouring petrol over the front door and the window ledges. When I was done I stood there and realised I had no way of actually setting it alight. I must be the worst fire-starter in Slovenia!

  And then, and then it’s one of those things you think is natural at the time but when you look back on it, it’s madness. On the bench next to the front door was a pack of matches. On the pack of matches was the logo of Zveza komunistov Slovenije, the local Communist party. It felt like an omen. It was proof that I was doing the right thing.

  I picked up the pack and pulled out a bunch of matches, struck them against the pack. I looked at the flame for a quick second then I threw the matches against the door. They hit the door silently but they were very effective. The door caught fire and began to creep around the edge of the frame.

  At first, I could only stand in the same spot, after a minute or two the heat and the noise of the flames against the wood began to rise and become unbearable to be near. So I walked back home and went to bed.

  I even managed to fall asleep. In the morning I went down for breakfast and told my mum what I had done. She didn’t say anything, I laid my head on her lap and she stroked my hair. It was hard to tell how she felt. She didn’t seem angry, she seemed almost resigned about it.

  I sat out in the garden for the rest of the morning and my Dad finally came back from his early shift. I heard him talking with Mum, I zoned out of listening to the conversation. My state of mind was placid and a funny lightheadedness kept me calm.

  Eventually, Dad came outside and sat with me on the grass. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and we simply sat there for a long time. How long? Who knows, maybe a couple of hours.

  He didn’t say anything to me. I don’t think he could find the right words to say. That day I tried working out why. Was he ashamed of me? Was he proud of me?

  He remained quiet and then said he had to make a phone call. I presume that was you guys. He must have had your number next to the Ghostbusters in his address book.

  Then a couple of days later I wake up to you guys abducting me and taking me for ice cream in Venice.

  Angels in Flaming Fire

  Tuesday, 25 June 1985

  “What happened to the teacher?” Janko asks, then motions to the waiter requesting the bill.

  “The last I heard was that he is in hospital at the moment. His wife too. I don’t know if they survived or not.” I reply. In yesterday’s newspaper, I read that the police believe the perpetrator could be tried for attempted murder. It’s very strange seeing yourself in the newspaper and knowing that you will soon be known as the ‘alleged suspect’.

  It’s hard to grasp what will happen when they find out it was me. The media and the police will be swarming all over my parents’ house. I hope Dad doesn’t lose his job because of me.

  “Come on Ana,” Gunari says, dropping some lira on the table, “let’s go for a walk to clear your head.”

  “Did I do the wrong thing?” I say, astonished by his non-reaction. An almost imperceptible smile crosses his lips.

  “You did what you thought was the right thing. Only God will be able to judge you when the time comes,”

  “I’m not sure I believe in God,” I reply. God has never been anywhere near my mind to be honest.

  “That’s because you were educated by those godless communists,” Janko advises in a rather admonishing tone.

  “Do you ever feel that you’re part of something bigger, Ana?” Gunari asks and keeps his eyes focusing on me despite us walking around the packed Venetian streets.

  “I don’t know, it’s not the kind of thing I think about,”

  “Sometimes you take a path, not knowing which direction it will take you. I rely on God to guide me down the righteous way,”

  “Does He talk to you?” I ask. Gunari ponders the question for so long he may have forgotten I am here. Or he’s having a private chat with God checking it’s alright to answer me.

  “No, he doesn’t talk to me. Sometimes I...when I’m on my own I enjoy going for walks and I talk. To myself,” Gunari finally says. Janko looks at me and winks, and I stifle a giggle, “It helps me gather my thoughts, it clears my head and I can feel His presence sometimes and it makes me feel tiny. And overawed too,”

  I’m not sure how to respond, I can’t believe this big, scary man could be scared of someone you can’t even see. I look at Janko to see his reaction, he moves towards me and puts his left arm around my shoulders

  “You will soon see Ana,” Janko whispers to me, “the world is bigger than you can ever imagine. And the people inhabiting this world are capable of things that you can scarcely comprehend,”

  “I know there are bad people around,”

  “We’re talking about people who are indescribably bad. Gunari and I disagree on the nature of these people and on the definition of evil. But what we don’t disagree on - and what your parents are in full agreement of - is on how to deal with bad people,”

  This conversation is weighing me down, I’m struck by the memory of my first swimming lesson when the water crashed over me and I would panic. I learnt then to focus and to conquer the rising anxiety. But I’m struggling now to push away this gnawing emptiness.

  Clearly, Janko and Gunari sense that I’m at a low point, they seem to be able to read me and that is unnerving me. Venice could be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, decaying but with a sense of history that seems to emanate out of the buildings and bridges. It is almost an entity in its own right, that all the people could disappear and the city would thrive without them.

  We continue to walk over bridges and across the city when we come out on a huge square which somehow seems to contain even more tourists per square metre. Collonaded, austere buildings surrounding the square and at the end of the square must be the biggest church in the world.

  I automatically walk towards it, entranced by its majesty. It pulls me in and I’m helplessly enthralled. The powerful lower section draws your eye but it’s the dome that sends my head spinning. Rising out of the immense structure, it is surely God himself piercing through the blue sky.

  The castle in Ljubljana was always my favourite building but this is something else. A building has never stirred my belly in this manner before. I could be in love. I don’t know how long I remain in its hypnotic presence, it could be minutes, it could be millennia.

  “What you see before you is San Marco Basilica,” Janko appears behind me and lays a hand on my neck, “People call i
t the Church of Gold because of the gold-tinted mosaics,”

  “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” I reply, unable to take my eyes away from it.

  “Personally, I prefer San Geremia, but it is an iconic church, I’ll grant you that Ana. It’s stood there for a thousand years, you can’t imagine it can you? Building something like this basilica in those days.”

  “Can I go inside?”

  “Of course, Gunari will show you around,”

  “Are you not coming in?”

  “No, I need to have a rest after all that walking. I’ll wait on the bench here for you both,”

  “OK Janko,” I turn round and spot Gunari a few yards away, “Hey Gunari, will you come into the church with me?” He nods and we cross the square to enter the church.

  We walk through the giant gates and I make a noise, halfway between a sigh and a yelp. Even Gunari takes an intake of breath, he makes the sign of the cross as we enter so I copy him and do it too.

  “I’ve never seen so much gold,” Gunari says, eyes raised to the ceiling. Janko was right about the gold mosaics. The intensity of them is incredible. I crane my neck to look at the stories in the windows lining above the ring of the dome. Men on a mission from God.

  I wander around the church trying to take it all in. The amount of time and money to create this structure. Janko is right - it is unbelievable.

  The people that built this must have been so committed to the project. I can’t get enough, I want to stay forever. I know it isn’t possible but I’m positive nothing can hurt me inside here protected by the saints on the walls and the massed pilgrims of the Christian world.

  For half an hour I inspect every part of the church, fascinated by the artworks and the scale. I look for Gunari and I see him near the altar knelt down in prayer, I approach him and I see his eyes are shut, I’m a bit uncomfortable watching him and I don’t want to interrupt.

  So I wait for a few more minutes and then I decide to sit beside him, I close my eyes and try to process everything that has happened in the last day or so. The witching hour departure from Yugoslavia to arriving in Venice. Is any of this real? What does the future hold for me now? I’ve never felt such a sense of dislocation. Being of Roma descent means you are often treated as the outsider. It’s always something you are conscious of but will this feeling remain forever?