‘How are you?’ Suzana greeted him, smiling from ear to ear.
‘Uf, just choking slightly,’ he coughed.
‘Ha, you were too thirsty for beer,’ grinned Suzana.
‘I’d say it was more that a certain sentence proved rather difficult to digest,’ he corrected her.
‘And which sentence would that be?’
‘Oh it doesn’t matter . . . the main thing is that I’m safe now.’ He looked back just in case, and was pleased to see that Katja had found a new Metelkova victim.
‘This is Mini,’ Suzana said, introducing the friend who was sat beside her.
The two of them shook hands, and Matjaž could not resist blurting out something stupid. ‘Is it hard, being Mini?’
‘No, why?’ wondered the reasonably attractive young woman with pale skin, thick black hair and a fringe.
‘Well, I bet all the boys at school wanted to race and play with Mini, then as you got older I bet there was a queue of boys wanting a ride,’ Matjaž explained, in all sincerity.
She laughed. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard that one.’
‘It definitely won’t be the last,’ he said directly.
‘Why?’ asked the young woman, surprised.
‘Because your parents clearly didn’t love you,’ he continued, already tiring of it.
‘You’re mean,’ she said, pretending to be upset.
Meanwhile, Suzana had caught sight of some people whom she hadn’t seen ‘for centuries’, and marched over to them. She always bumped into people she knew – and people she didn’t, too – whom she hadn’t seen ‘for centuries’. Matjaž didn’t envy her social obligations, he was happy that he could carry on winding up the pretty girl. When he’d eased off the jokes, Mini asked him what it was like being a photographer.
‘How do you mean?’ he asked her.
‘Do you enjoy your job?’ she asked him, seriously.
‘Of course I do, otherwise I wouldn’t do it,’ he answered her.
‘So you only do things that you enjoy?’ Mini asked, trying to be provocative.
‘Exactly. Don’t you?’
‘No,’ she replied sparingly.
‘Why not?
‘Because life’s a serious thing sometimes,’ she said with particular pathos, like a person whose life experiences – perhaps several years living in Darfur – had already taught them a thing or two.
‘Aah,’ Matjaž said, pretending to be enlightened. ‘Life really is a big word not to be joked about.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ opposed Mini. She had correctly detected a pinch of sarcasm in his statement, and it offended her.
‘Of course not,’ Matjaž replied, persisting with his ironic tone. ‘And you’re absolutely right. Life is sometimes a seriously serious thing, which demands one sacrifice after another from mankind, even causing wrinkled foreheads and raised eyebrows. In Africa they’re hungry, in South East Asia they’re victims of tsunamis, there are earthquakes in Haiti and political prisoners in China. Life really is just one big hardship.’
‘Don’t judge people for caring about others!’ she snapped at him angrily.
Matjaž looked tiredly into her big blue eyes and shook his head. ‘No, darling, you think about others in order to feel better about yourself.’ With that he stood up and left. He had soon purposefully forgotten about the conversation and instead focused his attention on other people – like Maki and Simon from his secondary school, who were trying to roll a spliff. While doing so they discussed the one thing that really stumped them about weed: they understood how it was grown, they could imagine how it was distributed, too, but who was it that produced those little papers that they were wrapping it in? Where were those trees grown? How was paper actually made? The Chinese had invented paper way back . . . what was the difference between making these little papers for rolling, and paper for writing? Would it be possible to print books on tobacco paper? Maki and Simon developed whole theories on this, even questioning whether or not the Bible could be printed on the little papers – in the end they agreed that it probably could be, but you would have to print on just one side, because the papers were so transparent you wouldn’t be able to read it if the print were on both sides. But who even read the Bible these days, anyway . . . When they got stuck into the issue of filters and how they were made, Matjaž realized that he had to say goodbye and find more stimulating company. ‘Why are you leaving, mate?’ Maki called after him. ‘Do you know if you need gas to make filters?’
Matjaž decided to ignore the question. Luckily, Suzana came up to him at just that moment and asked discreetly, ‘Why did you walk away from Mini?’
‘Yeah, I had other social obligations.’
‘I know, but Mini really likes you.’
‘Really?’ He was astonished. ‘Sometimes it really surprises me, how much humiliation women will put up with – it’s almost worthy of admiration.’
‘Would you please stop making generalizations? Although she’s clearly pretty crazy, because she’s asked me to give you her phone number,’ she said, pressing a piece of paper with a phone number on it into his hand.
‘And what should I do with this?’
‘I’m not sure what you do with a phone number,’ she replied curtly. ‘Make a note of it or give her a call sometime? Mini’s a great girl!’ Suzana said, convincingly.
‘Mini is above all an incredibly stupid girl,’ Matjaž corrected her.
‘So what!’ retorted Suzana, as if to say that those two things weren’t mutually exclusive.
Matjaž thought for a moment and said, ‘OK fine, but then what? I’m here because I’m clever, she’s here because she likes to listen to clever people.’
‘She’s unbelievably stupid!’ he said to Aleksander over the phone.
‘But she’s pretty, you say? Is she pretty in an average way or really pretty, more sexy, more classic? Describe her to me . . .’ his friend said excitedly.
‘Erm, I’m not sure about those sorts of details. I’d say that there’s an elegance about her, and she has a nice face. More of a classic beauty. Not enough to be truly beautiful. You know what I mean: symmetrical face, a strong nose, not crooked, big bright eyes and fairly full lips and a decent smile.’
‘What about her figure?’
‘Not sure about that. She was sitting down, so I couldn’t judge. But given how self-obsessed she is, I’d imagine that she’s quite slim, likes to work out, probably runs, eats nuts and raw vegetables, so her figure must be in pretty good shape,’ Matjaž ruminated.
‘Hm, but is she really young, though?’ Aleksander enquired.
‘Yeah, she’s about twenty-five. At least as far as her body is concerned; in terms of her head, I dread to think!’
‘Leave her head to one side for now. What’s important is that she’s young, after that it hardly matters what she’s like and how much she works out . . .’ he said expertly.
‘That’s the plan, yeah, to forget about what’s on the inside and focus on the exterior. If only she wouldn’t talk so much,’ he said, deep in thought.
‘You’re right, the only reason men manage to retain more dignity is because they don’t usually prattle on like women do,’ said Aleksander. ‘In any case, I look forward to the update.’
‘You’ll get one.’
‘Where are you taking her?’
‘To the Spanish restaurant.’
‘Ooh, close to home – smart, smart!’ sniggered his friend, and then they quickly said goodbye.
And so they went, Mini and Matjaž, for a late lunch on Sunday. Before the wine had even arrived at the table, Matjaž found out that Mini was a humanitarian; in the sense that she respected the work of Brangelina, who set a good example with their actions, and in today’s world setting an example was important. In her free time she liked to watch House, even though she found Dr House a bit arrogant; she liked the series Castle even better because she found it relaxing. She didn’t watch the news because it stressed
her out, she didn’t read The Lady because it was a stupid magazine; instead, she bought The Economist, because it was like a window on the world. Mini took a slight breath so that they could order the main course, but soon enough picked up where she had left off.
She didn’t believe in female emancipation because she thought it had turned men into wimps; she wanted a real man, the kind who knew how to look after his woman, who knew how to enthral, captivate, charm and protect her above all others. On the other hand, it didn’t seem right to her that women earned less; she herself was underpaid as a freelance journalist. But what could we do, that’s the way of the world, shameless and cruel, which is why a bit of good humour and positive energy doesn’t go amiss. That was why she was very mindful of the colour of her clothes. ‘You wouldn’t believe how the colours you wear influence your mood and the moods of those around you. It’s crazy, honestly!’ she said, pointing to her current choice – red.
‘I can see you’re somewhat alarmed, yeah,’ Matjaž said dully, and signalled to the waiter to bring him another glass of wine. Mini, not noticing the weary look on her date’s face, carried on.
Obviously, she didn’t believe in horoscopes, she continued while chewing on her salad, but sometimes she read them and sometimes they were actually true. Just this Friday she had read that if Libra coincided with the moon ‘or what was it again?’ she could meet someone with whom she would have a long future. She gave him a knowing look, and Matjaž could hardly keep himself from spitting out his mouthful of bife de chorizo. Instead, he looked up again to the ceiling for help. Mini ignored his sigh and overlooked his expression, to try and keep things in line with her horoscope prediction, and went on. She’d like to get married, but not just yet. Again she looked at Matjaž with intent, and he could only cough. She’d like to have children, just two (because she’d still like to have other things in life), but not just yet. She directed yet another provocative look at Matjaž, who in turn looked towards the waiter. She was still young, she continued, she was twenty-six and you have to think carefully about such serious matters before you make any decisions. Because it’s a cruel world and – as she knew from personal experience – acts of kindness are rarely met with gratitude. She smiled at him. ‘Don’t you think?’
As evening drew nearer, Matjaž’s head began to spin from Mini’s vast number of predictions and analyses of the past and future – of men and women, good and bad, thoughts and words, and from environmental awareness to the rights of sexual and racial minorities. After this barrage he was so tired of the woman that he couldn’t even bring himself to say goodbye politely, although he had promised himself that this time he wouldn’t break away with his usual savagery. When they left the restaurant he just said, tiredly, ‘Well, see you!’
‘Are we saying goodbye so quickly? Was it something I said?’ she reacted playfully.
‘No, no, it’s not you, I’m the problem. For a start, I don’t recycle and I don’t believe in recycling. Secondly, I’m reluctant to wear bright colours, and even less to think about food in terms of colour. I hate yoga, I don’t like Brangelina, humanitarians or not, and above all I can’t stand horoscopes. And, most importantly, I would like to have children immediately and get married right away, but these things must be considered seriously so that fateful mistakes aren’t made. All the more so in this cruel world, where the only thing we can rely on is a partner and their unconditional love.’
‘But I can be unconditional,’ Mini said pleadingly, while tears of humiliation began to gather in the corners of her eyes.
Matjaž smiled. ‘I don’t doubt that. As I said, there’s a whole list of reasons.’
‘I don’t understand women like that,’ said Karla as she lit a cigarette. Their balcony was ideal for lazy Sundays with friends. She added contemplatively, ‘Why do they need to put the world to rights over just one lunch?’
‘It’s true, they could at least keep something back until the second time around,’ Aleksander agreed, as he mixed a gin and tonic.
‘The main reason the world’s in crisis, I think, is because it’s constantly being saved over one lunch or another,’ she continued, thinking aloud.
‘Or over drinks in the evening,’ her husband added.
Matjaž just stared resignedly into the distance and sipped his drink. He’d now calmed down after the lunch debacle and was enjoying the mild spring evening.
‘You’re miles away . . .’ said Aleksander, who was a little worried about his friend after hearing about his afternoon with Mini; even he still dreaded meeting another woman like that.
‘No, no, you’re not going to get any more cruel comments from me. I’m just surrendering myself to your nice balcony, the nice evening, and I’m not going to think about anything else. At least nothing serious,’ he said calmly.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Karla. ‘Let’s leave the world to chance and put our troubles to one side, for today at least!’
‘And which troubles are bothering you, may I ask?’ Aleksander said sharply.
‘I’m married to you,’ she smiled at him mischievously. Matjaž gave her a nod, but Aleksander decided he wasn’t going to rise to their remarks.
Smiling, they raised their glasses so that the chink sounded softly out into the night. ‘To the world!’
THE JOURNEY TO JAJCE
Melita
On the way to Zagreb he was thinking about how he ought to be a bit more careful about late-night decisions made over fine liquor. If he had been a little bit more on guard, a bit more discerning, today he would not have been one of twenty or so passengers – of a predominantly pensioner persuasion – on a coach from Ljubljana to Jajce, Bosnia. He could have quite easily carried on until the end of May in Ljubljana, gone out for the odd beer, hung out with Jernej and his Metelkova crowd down by the river down at Trnovo, where they’d try to forget that their teenage years were never coming back. Although then they did sometimes miraculously come back, just through the sounds of familiar songs: Radiohead’s ‘Creep’, the Beatles’ ‘In My Life’, the Rolling Stones’ ‘Time Is on My Side’ and so on. Yesterday, when Aleksander’s father had suggested that Matjaž accompany him on an excursion, it had seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Now he was regretting it. To put it briefly, devotees of the former Yugoslavia, Tito’s Yugoslavia, were travelling to the place where it all began. These things often happen: one minute you’ve come over to help move a fridge, and the next thing you know you’re on the road to Jajce.
Everything could have turned out fine, as well, if only Dušan’s enthusiasm, his stories of his time in the Yugoslav army (as though it were the most romantic and comedic of adventures) and his doses of authentic Serbian dunja, had petered out in his sleep. But no, in all the excitement he just had to go and call his boss to convince her that a report on a journey like this, to celebrate the anniversary of Tito’s birthday on the 25th May, would be one of the most-read articles in internet newspaper history. Of course he did convince her, and in truth it wasn’t that difficult because for some unknown reason his words carried weight with her. Now he was disappointed that he didn’t have a more competent editor who would realize that trips like this did not warrant expenses in a time of austerity. Where are the financial cuts and the frugal editors when you need them?
He looked over to his right, where Dušan was now sitting and snoring. He should have known, as soon as Aleksander emphatically declined his father’s invitation, as soon as he saw the look of despair on Aleksander’s mum’s face – she had already heard the old stories of socialist Yugoslavia five hundred or so times. He should have known better. He realized now that those raised eyebrows were a warning sign, telling him that on no account should he go – or else he’d regret it.
But Dušan had been so convincing, slipping into Serbo-Croat as he spoke, ‘Listen, Matjaž my boy, this will be a great trip. You can relax a bit, after slaving away at work so much. And fantastic company, too. Well, if they – what’s their names – Alber
t and his wife, they might bother you a bit with all their knowledge of the Partisan resistance, but you’ll love the rest of the gang. I’m telling you, povem ti, just great people, but you’ll learn something, too, you can tell the kids what it was all like.’ When he had noticed that Matjaž wasn’t particularly interested in Yugonostalgia, he quickly added, ‘And you know how they like to eat over there! Sausages, čevapčiči, little pies, they’re out of this world, really authentic. And oh my God, the quince brandy they have! You wouldn’t believe it, gah! But no, you’re not made of strong enough stuff for that; you don’t have the right constitution, you’re not hard enough – are you, my dear Slovene?’
Aleksander had clutched his head at this point. This is how his dad would get Matjaž – no one was going to tell him that he didn’t have the constitution for dunja. He’d been working on his constitution for dunja his whole life.
And so, Matjaž thought, here he was – thanks to his own wretched alcoholic pride. Just to prove to this retired lover of Partisan war films, of the five-pointed star and ‘brotherhood and unity’, that he was hard. Matjaž took a sharp intake of breath as a robust man with thick, dark hair and a round, friendly face tapped him on the shoulder across the bus’s central aisle.
‘I’ve not seen you here before, young man.’
‘No, this is my first time,’ he smiled reservedly.
‘Bravo! There’s no need to fear the future with young people like you!’ his fellow traveller nodded, satisfied.
Matjaž was just able to hold his tongue in time before asking how exactly his departure for Jajce inspired hope in the future. Some future! Maybe his journey to Jajce would pave the way for precarious employment opportunities in the public sector, or lower unemployment and put an end to rising levels of poverty. But Matjaž felt that the man to whom he was speaking didn’t deserve his bitterness; he only had himself to blame for letting Dušan bring him along on this adventure.
‘Albert,’ said the man, as if he’d read his mind, and offered his hand.
Jela Krecic Page 9