“I don’t know, either. But if there’s one thing that works properly in this town, it’s the mail,” said Sobotka to soothe him.
“I work. I deliver bills. But nobody waits for the postman anymore, Mr. Engineer. I’ve always comported myself professionally, but I’ve also always been glad to see someone waiting for their mail. But now it’s like I’m a parasite, like the bank’s sending me. This has to stay between us because I’m a civil servant. I don’t want it to seem like the state’s whining and doesn’t know what to do and ponders its meaninglessness. I usually don’t talk like this, but I can’t help it. Because I think I’ll never deliver this many letters ever again. I have given you these letters because I’m compelled to, just so there’s some meaning left. Now it’s up to you. And what I told you, that should stay between us.”
“It will. I promise.”
“There you go. And I’m glad about the factory,” said Youry the Mailman, and left.
Sobotka entered the house and opened the most recent letter, sent two months earlier:
I’m the only person who still writes letters. I don’t know anyone else who does. I write them since you have no email address. I don’t know if you have any address at all; actually, I don’t know if you even exist anymore. I never hear from you, but you should write, fathers usually do, at least as a function—you are a function I imagine as a living body, but the function is actually more important than the body, at least to me, because I can’t even remember what you look like anymore, I’m not sure I do. The images of people have all jumbled in my mind and we didn’t bring any pictures with us in our hurry. Mom thought we’d be back in fifteen days. I only remember you waving there by the bus, a man in a trench coat, waving, a sad man in a sad trench coat, yellowish like a leaf on the ground. You are the man in the trench coat, faces change; I remember when the face of the man in the trench coat started to fade. Every time I’d see a man in a trench coat that was yellowish like a leaf on the ground, his face would appear later in my dreams and memories instead of yours, the face of a random passerby, the face of a dismal man leering at me with lust on the street, like he’s leering at a high school girl who’s staring at him. One of them fucked me once in a public bathroom, I let him. It was disgustingly exciting.
Oh no, this one’s as crazy as her old man, thought Sobotka. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and lit a cigarette. Now what? It would be better for Slavko not to read this. He must have felt something, not accepting his mail. Sobotka kept on:
I wonder why I’m writing. I’m writing because I know you won’t read it, so I can tell you everything. You don’t exist, you’re like God. You’re only an address, tucked away on a geographical map in a territory jotted with tiny borders. Nothing but an address, you’re a father, a shell, an empty place where letters are transmitted, an address, an enigma, a father, a real one, not like these fake fathers I fuck by accident. Oh, don’t worry, I’ve learned how to use condoms, it’s just that sometimes . . . never mind. But let me tell you about my studies—surely that’s what you’re most anxious to hear about—they’re coming along, they’re coming along just fine, don’t you worry, Dad, both of my majors, our language and theirs. I’m all about languages, what else? There are no solid points in my life, I think that’s definitive for me. I have no property, and I think that when you’ve got no property, you can’t work with math, although I used to be really good at it. Mom used to say, you got that from him. I really hated it when she said that, you’re so disgusting with your math. Mom used to brag about the math; I guess she thought it was the same as being smart, but when you’ve got nothing, there’s no point to working with numbers, you should understand that—maybe you don’t because you’re a mathematician. You used to own something, I guess, so this principle is instilled in your mind, you must be counting into the void, you probably don’t even read. I’ve thought about mathematicians, I’ve studied that particular species, fucked them, they were pitifully grateful, but I’m all about languages. You know, they can’t believe I’m real, I’m celestial to them, that’s a good thing; I’ll marry a mathematician when I no longer have a place to go, before I kill myself or simply walk away, so make sure I’m not there and that I’m not out of order.
“Damn, she’s completely insane, even more than he is,” said Sobotka aloud.
He stood up and looked out the window at nothing in particular. He was disturbed, he thought of his daughters and all that had happened. He went to the pantry and poured himself rakija.
He returned to the table, and the letter:
Once, when I was at the hospital, okay, to be frank, in an asylum. . .
“There she goes,” said Sobotka. “For fuck’s sake!”
. . . I was with a mathematician. What a relationship, see-through, made of nothing, ah, he even fell in love with nothing, I felt so sorry for him. The guy was into higher math, loved zero, my zero, a quasi-zero that multiplies by zero. He loved, a strange young man, actually an old man . . . he was young but old, which really is the worst part. But this guy had an excuse, a genetic one, he was going extinct like Leopardi, getting old a little bit faster, living in faster time. You’re not interested in this? But hey, I can write whatever I please, Daddy-O, because you don’t exist, although I learned to write with you, by writing to you, that is, to me inside of you, Daddy-O. And I learned there’s no sentence without me, there is no book without me, because you know I enrolled at this university to write. I was planning on writing poetry, only poetry, and it turns out I’m writing letters, letters to you, you who have been fucking me up for years now. And you’re not there, you’re so poetic, like a trench coat, like bus windows, like dirty plush seats, my darling, I love you so much, Daddy-O.
“This is fucking awful,” muttered Sobotka.
You’re so wonderful, wonderful. You’re wonderful like failure, like the most wonderful failure, like the pleasure of failing, like a model, like nothing. You are my style, there’s a song that goes something like that, of course, what else are songs supposed to be about if not you, my dad. Oh, I can’t live without you, ah, help me, help me, you old function, don’t stagger, don’t limp, don’t screw around, be it, Daddy-O, don’t fuck around, be it, untouchable, be it, be it, at least feign, reign, you feigning godhead. Fatherhead, that’s you. Is that a word? Fatherhead. I’ve never heard it before. A fake godhead. It places you right where you are and shouldn’t exist. There is no fatherhead. But there is fatherhead. He’s the only one, as far as I could see. My daddy. My fatherhead. What else should I tell you? You’re the reason for my rapture, you might not even know. How could you, when you don’t read? But my book was published, a book-book. Do you know what a book is, you goddamn mathematician? My book was published and it happens to be about you, about me and the leftover of leftovers. Critics-critics write about it and they nicely praise-praise it. I’ve become a waitress, an exposer and blamer, that’s the news, the book-book. I should’ve started the letter with it but I didn’t because I’m a waitress, ha ha, who’s not out from the order, you motherfucker!
The letter ended there. It was signed: Nedra.
18
HE DIDN’T RECOGNIZE them until he got closer to the entrance and heard Kardan’s voice. He needed a little time to catch his breath. There were three other guys with Kardan. A black Audi was parked on the side of the road.
“These men want to talk to the director with no appointment,” said the watchman in alarm.
“Whoa! Wait, we know each other,” said Kardan. “What’s new with you, kid?”
Erol was thrown off balance for a second; voices from his past had the power to bring everything back. He nearly fell for it and was a kid again.
“What do you want?” asked Erol sharply.
“Oh, come on, you’re not even gonna say hi? Did all this self-management go to your head?” said Kardan, slapping Erol arrogantly on the back.
Erol felt cold inside and his
shivering turned into a strong desire to punch Kardan in his leering face. But they were definitely armed, he knew.
“You read the newspapers too much,” said Erol through clenched teeth.
“We read too much? You got a lot of likes so we thought we’d come take a look.”
“So what do you want?”
“You do know that this factory was supposed to be Ragan’s?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Erol.
“First of all, it would’ve been polite to ask. Second of all, you bringing communism back to this place is something we can’t let happen as a matter of principle.”
“And a matter of money,” added one of Kardan’s pals, setting off laughter.
“What communism? We’re restoring the factory, what’s wrong with that?” said Erol.
“No entrance fee. That’s what’s wrong.”
Sobotka also appeared at the gate just then, along with a few workers.
“Something going on here?” asked Sobotka.
“No, we’re just seeing how everything’s coming along.”
Sobotka looked at Erol.
“They’re Ragan’s men,” Erol said.
The workers standing next to Sobotka seemed to move away slightly.
“What do you want?” said Sobotka.
Kardan lit a cigarette and said, “To talk to Mr. Manager. Just to make his acquaintance.”
“He’s not here.”
“An old trick.”
“This won’t get you inside,” said Sobotka.
Erol thought what a weighty sentence this was, but he couldn’t come up with a lighter one. He looked around. The workers around Sobotka—four of them—now seemed to be standing firmly again. He looked at Kardan and his men. What were they going to do?
Kardan was silent for a moment before saying, “Protecting your little Mr. Manager?”
“This is the factory entrance. This is where the workers enter,” said Sobotka.
Kardan laughed forcibly. “The workers, eh? A force to be reckoned with.” He studied Sobotka for a while before studying all of them. “Full of yourselves? We’ll sweep the floor with you.”
Then he turned and headed to the car, his shoulders twitching as if his trench coat were uncomfortable.
• • •
Erol was standing in a room where folk music was streaming around him. Actually, he’d just entered. He somehow found himself there—at least, that was how he felt, as if he’d dropped into the scene. A man with a patch over one eye told him, “Your father’s in there.” He was referring to the next room, where the music was coming from. Erol walked in the way a movie camera would enter, he surveyed everything like the Terminator. And then, in this hall, at the table on a raised platform, the same one where the bride, the groom, the best man, and the maid of honor usually sit, he saw his mother, who looked tired, as if she really was really sleepy. Next to her sat Ragan, who looked at him like the most obliging waiter and told him, “My son, my boy, my scion, my child.”
Erol took a step back, as if trying to avoid a stench coming his way.
“I’m glad you came. As well you should have,” said Ragan. “I’m your father, and it’s not every day that your father dies.”
He said this and then started dying, with pathos, as if imitating paintings depicting Christ. He pretended being feeble, the victim; he was dying while trying to compel Erol to show his love. And Erol did show it by leaning over the dying man, at one horrible moment, and receiving a kiss on the lips.
Erol woke up trying to catch his breath. He felt as if he were choking, as if his lungs were filled with smoke, his mind racing the whole time, You are not my father, you are not my father.
Then he got up, went to the bathroom, and washed his face. He examined his face in the mirror.
• • •
“Hey, these guys are armed,” said Nikola.
“Okay, I’m on my way,” said Oleg. “I’ll find men for that.”
“It’s not just them,” said Nikola. “Our guys are, too.”
“Ours?”
“The workers.”
“Really?”
“Sobotka’s and Erol’s men, they went home to grab their guns. Apparently they have them. No idea where they got them from—the war, I guess.”
“Right, been there, done that. Did you give them permission?”
“Yes. I mean, if they’d asked I would have. But this was their initiative. What was I to say? If they’d let the men in, the thugs would have humiliated me or blackmailed me or whatever. This way, the bad guys are gone. But I don’t think they, the bad guys, can give way, either, now. They have their reputation to consider.”
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
After this conversation, Nikola fidgeted with his phone and came across Šeila’s number again. What am I doing? he said to himself. She’s the last person I need now.
He hadn’t mentioned anything about her to Oleg. He kept this story for himself, although he felt a bit guilty for not mentioning the American to Oleg.
Why? he wondered. Am I protecting her, or what?
• • •
Sobotka was sitting at a table. On it lay a gun and a sheet of paper. He stared at the paper, edging closer to it, leaning over it like he was about to pounce on an enemy. The paper had “Dear daughter” written on it, and more was needed.
Dear daughter,
I’ve been crazy, all these years.
That’s why I haven’t answered your letters or read them.
I
Sobotka knew it was no good, so he crumpled the paper, got up, and brought over more paper.
Dear daughter,
I’ve been having some psychological problems, for quite a few years now, I don’t know if you’ve heard. Maybe you shouldn’t insult me like you did. I know you are angry, but I haven’t had things easy, either.
Sobotka looked at what he’d written. What he wanted to do was pacify the situation so she could respond with a normal letter that he could then read to Slavko. Sobotka had to admit to himself, however, that the whole plan was somewhat dizzying. But what else could he have come up with? There was no point in showing Slavko the letters, but if he received a nicer one, could he perhaps read it to him in a soothing voice?
He was hoping Youry the Mailman would not run into Slavko and ask him if he’d received the letters. In that case, he’d have to calm them both down separately. Slavko would be furious and Youry the Mailman would probably want his letters back.
For a second, he thought about how this would look from an outside perspective: a man sitting at the table, writing a letter to someone else’s daughter, afraid of the mailman. Ugh, he thought, it’s as if all of these lunatics have pulled me into their madness.
But he needed to do something. He couldn’t just read the letters and put them away in a drawer. This daughter of Slavko’s was not doing well, she might even kill herself. If she only realized what kind of psychological state her father was in, maybe then she wouldn’t feel so bad or hate him so much.
Maybe.
Sobotka stared straight ahead. He could not believe he hadn’t thought of this years ago.
He grabbed some beer from the fridge and drank down the whole glass, slowly.
My dear daughter,
I don’t know why I haven’t written to you sooner. That time when I visited you, everything was wrong; I couldn’t talk to you at all, nothing felt right, not who I was or who your mom was, or who we all were. I came home a man crushed, I almost really did kill myself, that’s how terrifying everything was. Then somehow I decided to forget about it, that seemed the only way to keep myself in one piece. Okay, maybe not in one piece, because I blotted you out of my mind; that isn’t being in one piece, that’s like when you turn off the light in one part of your house and then it stays dark. I’m saying
, not in one piece, but at least alive. That was my way of keeping myself sane, I realize this now. I realize it now because there is an even tougher case in front of me. It’s Slavko, you may remember him. You weren’t as small as Viktoria then. You probably remember a lot more; you’re probably more upset and in more pain, so that’s why you resent me more. There, so you know that’s how it happened, that I put things out of my mind just to survive. It wasn’t a decision, at least not a conscious one, things simply happened that way, like a sort of necessity, as if the brain had a mind of its own and blew a few fuses, like when a system overloads. My explanation is very technical. Don’t hold that against me, but that’s how I see it—as if I overloaded and my brain shut down certain parts to prevent everything from going up in flames. Now I see what this was like for Slavko—he blew even more fuses, probably one of the main ones. But okay, that’s not important. Please don’t hold this digression against me, but it’s a way I’m able to explain things to myself, too; until now I, myself, hadn’t understood why I haven’t been writing to you, everything was in the dark for me, and only now did I see this when I told his daughter. . . . Okay, that’s not important, this is difficult to explain, but in a nutshell—his daughter is very angry with him, so somehow I realized you could be angry, and how that would look, sure, she’s headstrong just like him, but, to keep this short, I realize now that I’m not so very different, even for me, who thought I was so normal. But everyone blew a fuse, everyone has a few rooms still in the dark, we’re all a bit crazy from what happened yet never passed. Just because something happened doesn’t mean it is over. Time goes on, they say, but what’s time got to do with the fact that some things are stuck, frozen, it’s only us who leave, move on through time, but the things remain, they stay stuck, and you have to go back to the past, like in a dream, to touch them, to unfreeze them like the machines in the factory. Some things work themselves out, but those are the things of forgetting, the ones you’re able to forget. How can I possibly forget you or you forget me? No way. I want to reach back and touch you at that moment in the past when we went our separate ways, where you stand at a crossroads, frozen, so that you can begin moving forward, because I’ve begun to move, and I’d like to be alive again for you.
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