by Miha Mazzini
He came up with a way to survive the week.
"Alfonz, can I have a drop of schnapps?"
Alfonz gave him a surprised look. To be honest he had been expecting the question all along, but somehow not from Raf.
He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a bottle. He gave it to Raf, who after taking a sip from it passed it on to Max, who passed it back to its owner. After this little circle they all kept coughing and clearing their throats whilst praising the strength and power of the drink. Alfonz beamed. Even Samo could not resist it after such praise and he started looking towards the clear liquid with desire in his eyes. Max offered it to him immediately. Samo made a few attempts at refusal, mentioning sportsmen and the sporting spirit but in the end they all concluded that, fuck it, this was a holiday and they all ended up having another sip.
The conversation returned to women and Max gave the bottle to Alfonz and asked him to put it away. Only little boys get drunk as soon as they leave home, he said. He did not mention the experience that had taught him this lesson. They had been driving to the theatre and after only ten kilometres he was deadly drunk, five kilometres later he was in a coma out of which he awakened only once, in the middle of the performance, when he had a strong attack of vomiting. His father wrapped a belt round his hand – he would never forget how slowly and with what pleasure he did it - and beat him senseless. During the beating he taught him the meaning of appearances and public behaviour, which was basically the same thing. He said he had had to learn everything himself, build himself into a successful man, whereas Max was lucky enough to have somebody who would cram all this wisdom into his head quite early on in his life and for free. At the end he added that he did not mind his son drinking as long as he looked sober. Max remembered that and always stuck to it.
"That," said Max, "that we’ve just seen, is a Russian nightclub-dancer type. I can remember..."
Raf's thoughts went back to the stain which was beginning to really bother him. He started thinking about coincidence and fate, but at the end he decided that all these high-flying words were just an excuse to recall the image of the girl.
Long, thick, oh how thick! black hair, a navy blue polo shirt, white trousers. To be more exact, stained white trousers. Who dresses in white for a journey these days, except someone - a navy blue and white combination? - who has never seen the sea before and is trying to dress in the way they think one should dress for the sea. In an experienced and appropriate manner? What's the matter with me, he said to himself. I'm getting really fed up with myself.
Max was pontificating about nightclubs and dancers and about his erotic experiences of both and Raf was relieved. The girl was forgotten. And he was again surprised at his feeling of unease about gossiping about a girl he had never seen before and probably would never see again.
But then again, an island... Deserted and isolated. If she stays for a whole week then maybe ...
"How big was the island did you say?" he interrupted Max, who did not seem to mind in spite of being in the middle of bringing two Russian dancers to their second consecutive orgasm.
"It's not that small. An hour's walk from one side to the other. The village is on one side and our villa on the other."
Raf nodded.
"Is that all? Is there nothing else on the island?"
"My old man told me they opened a new campsite halfway between the village and the villa earlier this year."
A campsite? Was she a holidaymaker? Hm...
Max went on:
"But it's a bit early in the season. There shouldn't be too many people about, which suits us perfectly. At least nobody will interfere and..."
That special laugh.
"... they won't hear our screams!"
Laughter.
"And how big is the village?" asked Raf.
"Hell, what do I know," answered Max. "I've never been there before. My old man says it's very shabby, twenty or thirty houses, a shop and a monument. Wilderness, I tell you."
"What, no bar?" said Alfonz with real surprise. Each day he had commuted to the school from the hills, from a village which probably was not much bigger than the one on the island but which still had a bar, whose owner was his dad. On paper and in name anyway. He was always moving from table to table and back to the bar with a tea-towel over his arm, chatting to the customers, while Alfonz's mother did all the work.
"My old man said that the shop is both a shop and a bar."
It was surprising how many times in these last four years Max had mentioned his father. Contemptuously, but nevertheless. Raf had seen him only once, in passing, in a black BMW waiting for Max in front of the school. And that was also the only time when Max did not make any comment about every girl who happened to be passing. He just quickly, with his head slightly bowed, hurried to the car, opened the door and climbed in.
"OK, the main thing is that there is somewhere we can buy booze. I've only got five litres with me."
Alfonz waved towards his rucksack.
"It's my birthday tomorrow," he added sheepishly.
"Oh, congratulations," said Max, "we'll drink to your health." And finished the conversation.
Raf looked at Alfonz, thinking how little he knew him after four years. He was equipped with endless supplies of money, on which even Max himself had to rely, being completely dependent on his father's good will which was very changeable; it seemed very generous, with periods of stinginess or, as Max would explain: "The old man remembered how poor he was at my age again."
Alfonz's parents had obviously never been poor. But still, why would somebody with all that money always wear the same set of clothes. Even here, on the boat: trousers in a hunter's sort of brown made from wide-ribbed corduroy and a checked shirt, as opposed to everybody else's jeans and T-shirt. In the winter, he wore a flannel checked shirt and over it - when it was very cold - a thick Aran cardigan. Raf imagined him in the snow: hidden in his cardigan, wading through deep fresh snow in the woods. Even though his village was often snowed in, Alfonz never missed school, which showed amazing determination. Why then did he have to be Max's hanger-on? He had more brains, determination and money. The only thing in which Max was superior was simple chit-chat. Alfonz was very quiet and he made rather desperate attempts to be liked, badly timed and awkward. He even laughed at jokes too loudly and with a delay of just a second. And to top it all, when drunk or under an attack of friendliness, Max always quite haphazardly called him either "sad Alfonz" or "serious Alfonz". Raf never found Alfonz really sad, just down in the dumps.
Samo got up and stretched.
"I'm going to the toilet," he said and went.
*
Samo stepped into the corridor, smelt the stench and changed his mind. He would last until they docked. With every kilometre further from home the toilets got dirtier and dirtier. Instead, he turned towards the deserted restaurant from which came the sounds of local songs. The waiter could not be seen anywhere - he was probably dozing under the bar. Samo turned towards the opposite side of the boat and caught a glimpse of a man's foot.
On a muscular leg.
Samo stepped outside and leant on the rail. A quick look from under the eyelids. Hm, the guy was posing. He confirmed it by putting his hand under his head to show off his biceps.
The sleeping man then twitched as if in a nightmare and flexed his body. His muscles bulged.
Samo spat into the sea.
*
Raf waited for Samo to return and then went to the toilet. He muttered something about the drink which always made him go and made the effort to slowly move behind the corner.
The girl had to be there somewhere. On the top deck again?
He climbed the stairs but could not find her and came down again.
He saw her at the back, leaning against the rail. She was staring at the wake stretching behind the boat, widening into a slightly wrinkled surface of perfect blue.
Raf stopped a few metres behind her, not knowing what to do. Behind his
back he could hear the roaring engines making an almighty noise, which seemed to spray out of some sort of an air vent between him and the cabin.
"Hi," he said finally and thought she had not heard him. But before he could repeat the word she nodded without turning around.
Raf stood there, embarrassed. He looked back quickly to make sure none of his comrades were in sight.
"Are you staying on the island for long?"
She nodded again. He started feeling like a fool.
"The whole week?"
The anger which took hold of him only lasted a moment, but was therefore all the stronger.
"Well, if you decide to look at me, you know where to find me!" he hissed, turned round and walked off.
He noticed a nod with the corner of his eye.
*
The cassette player switched itself off with a click. Ana untangled the earphones from her hair and put them back into her bag. She turned and had a good look around. The parents on the stern were still trying to catch their children, but there was nobody near her. She just managed to catch a glimpse of one of those boys who had earlier sat on the bow before he disappeared round the corner. She could not be sure but she thought it was probably the bony one who looked different from the others. A pity that he had not walked past her.
During the last piece of music, the one with the faster rhythm, she thought she could sense somebody watching her. A passing feeling, which proved to be wrong.
Another half hour till landing. She tried to imagine her uncle from the photos her mother had shown her. They were all pretty old so her uncle must be well over sixty. Two months with an old man! She was bound to have to listen to him talking about the past day after day.
*
Max was the next to go to the toilet. He took a long time and suddenly the cynical voice inside Raf's had recognised the truth. Max was lying. Raf got up and did not care what his friends thought. Without looking at them, he went off. He slowly approached the corridor leading towards the toilet. No sound, apart from the roar of the engines, to which he had grown completely accustomed, and the music which reached him in intervals.
He stepped forward and peeped through the stairs leading to the upper deck.
Max and the girl were talking.
What else could he have expected from him? From that bastard. He just had to chat up every woman who crossed his path. From whichever direction she came. However old she was or how she looked, he did not care. This was someone who would work his way round the whole crowd, not choose just one or two women. Someone who could not even order a drink in a bar or buy cigarettes at a newsagents without trying to interfere with the waitress or the shop assistant. Someone who lied to every woman’s face and told her how beautiful and clever she was - in short she was the most unique fusion of the two qualities in one body. How could women enjoy listening to such blatant lies?
He gripped the rail, wanting to break it. What did he do that was wrong? And what was Max doing that was right? He had never believed his stories about all the adventures and successes, but now... What were those magic words which you have to use to start a conversation? How could you just come, say something and immediately start chatting? Why did he always fail?
He put his forehead on the cool metal and felt like crying. He could not look at them any longer.
He crossed the corridor and walked back on the other side.
*
"Hi," said Max.
"Hi," she answered.
"Are you staying on the island for long?" asked Max.
She nodded.
"The whole week?"
"More, two months."
"Two months? What will you do for that long, alone?
"I'm visiting my relatives."
"Well, if you get bored, come to the other side of the island, to the old villa, it's the only one there. Ask your relatives, they'll tell you where."
*
Alfonz nearly suffocated in the toilet. He did not really need to go but as all the others had been he had to. He found it strange that he did not meet Max and thought he must have gone back on the other side of the boat. He remembered the toilet in their own restaurant at home and felt almost homesick. He had had to scrub it out so many times that he could only hate it in a fed up sort of way. And therefore it seemed strange that here on a holiday in the middle of the sea, he did not recall his family but the toilet instead.
Back in the corridor, he slowly let his breath out and glanced into the restaurant. He was thirsty so he went in. He was just about to say hello, when he stopped himself - there was no one there. He leant on the bar and looked at the row of bottles on the ply-wood shelf under the mirror, covered with fly shit and other dirt and oddly stained at the edges as if it had been attacked by some strange fungi or mould. He nearly changed his mind and left before stopping himself. He had been shy all his life and this was his holiday away from the familiar. If he started shyly that was how he would carry on. He had come here for something different.
He cleared his throat.
He had to do it a few times before the waiter came in a crumpled black waistcoat and white shirt with rolled up sleeves, his arms so hairy that it looked as if he was wearing a tight fitting jumper.
The man did not say anything, just leant on the bar and looked through Alfonz with sleepy eyes.
"An orangeade, please." said Alfonz.
The waiter carried out his routine without looking at his customer: he reached under the bar, opened the bottle, put it firmly onto the lino on top of the bar and added a glass, covered with white spots.
Alfonz paid and took the bottle.
"Sorry, but this is warm, could I have a cold one?" he said.
The waiter looked him in the eyes for the first time.
"If there's something you don't like, go to another bar!"
Alfonz was just about to turn round and ask where it was when he realised he had probably just been the victim of the waiter's sense of humour. There was nowhere else on the boat and for kilometres around it. They were where they were and they would just have to survive for a week.
He left his drink untouched and walked out. A strange thought came into his head, as if it was not his but as if somebody had whispered it to him. What if he went in the opposite direction and looked for that girl who had walked past earlier? No, he would not have the courage to talk to her, he just wanted to look at her again. He did not take the idea seriously, it seemed so strange and impossible.
He returned to the bow. Max still was not there. Where was he?
*
The siren went and Max returned. Raf refused to turn away from the outline of the island.
"Another ten minutes," said Samo.
"I've already got a date with the skirt," said Max.
Raf felt he could kill him. Squeeze his neck and keep squeezing until the words stopped coming.
"Really?" said Samo, provoking a new monologue. Alfonz just nodded sadly.
Raf started pulling their rucksacks from under the benches and handing them out in a deliberately rough manner. Alfonz, whilst explaining how he had wrapped each bottle in several layers of newspaper, still asked for care to be taken.
Raf did not listen. He was still thinking about the magic words. How could women be so stupid? How can they fall for such bullshit and ignore an honest and well meaning guy, who did not see them only as an easy lay? But maybe that was the reason? a sharp voice whispered inside, more than surpassing its normal daily quota.
*
"Hey, what's that?" Samo exclaimed with surprise and pointed with his finger.
They could now make out the village, the tree covered ridge surrounding it on all sides and even the little figures in the harbour, on the right hand-side of which there stood a tank.
"A tank!" breathed Max. "These peasants have got a tank!"
Then he added:
"The monument. That's the monument my old man was talking about! Bloody hell, this lot really are behind the times!"
>
Then he spoke with real enthusiasm:
"They've even got monuments! Just think, ha!"
*
The ramp clanked against the large paving stones in the harbour.
The motorcyclist was revving up his engine and Raf promised himself that at the first opportunity he would check whether this long procedure really was necessary for those heavy bikes to take off, and why the ever so clever Japanese had yet not come up with a revolutionary patent which would enable a bike to drive off after just one turn of the engine.
The village was a real Mediterranean one. Stone houses - there could not be more than thirty - red tiles, decorated chimneys. The villagers gathered by the harbour, waiting for the event of the day. First, with a turn of their heads, they accompanied the motorcyclist, who drove for twenty metres, stopped, found a sign pointing in the direction of the campsite and then spent another few minutes turning the handle before he could take off again, leaving a big cloud of dust behind him.
On the bench in the middle of the square sat the pensioners, with their characteristic caps and deeply tanned faces, who turned back towards the ferry again even before the dust had subsided.
Raf saw the girl. She was standing next to an old man who had to use all his strength to unload her heavy suitcase. Raf felt a sudden desire to help but he resisted it.
The lorry drove to an entrance next to the pensioners and some villagers unloaded the last few boxes from under the tarpaulin. The driver started up the engine and drove back onto the boat, which then blasted its horn and pulled away. The schoolfriends stood alone in the middle of the square with the departing villagers giving them curious looks. The families were walking towards the campsite through the falling dust.
The pensioners were still watching the newcomers with indifference.
"Well," said Max, "let's buy the booze. There's the shop!"
They walked over to the entrance through which the shop owner was still carrying the boxes and on the way politely greeted the pensioners who murmured something in reply.