Jela Krecic

by None Like Her (retail) (epub)

  ‘On Thursday,’ exhaled Peter quickly, as if he had to satisfy his passengers as soon as possible. He took a breath and carried on. ‘So yes, Thursday, not too early as it will probably have been a wild night with Elvis’ – he giggled and winked at Anica – ‘we’ll head back to Ljubljana, probably around ten. Full of memories and experiences.’ Matjaž could only think that he added that last cliché to apologize for talking and probably for his own existence, too.

  ‘Any other questions?’ he asked with a pristine smile. The table shook their heads like obedient school children, Peter stood up and added, ‘Well, it’ll be time for us to be on our way soon!’ With a smile full of teeth, he left.

  Matjaž didn’t fancy dinner. He was sick of travelling, sick of the laughing Peter, and was even starting to tire of Dušan’s ability to talk non-stop and comment on places that they drove past, getting Matjaž to take photos of them because it was, after all, a historical region and a historical excursion. When he failed to convince the photographer that there were photo opportunities everywhere, he brought out stories of Second World War battles, interpreting strategic Partisan decisions on one side and those of the Nazis on the other. He had ideas about how events at the Battle of the Neretva could have been better executed, and at the Drina, and so on. Even if Matjaž changed the topic for a moment to ask after Aleksander, his wife and family, Dušan immediately found a way back to the Balkan front. No, Matjaž concluded, he could not survive one more meal with these people.

  He considered going into town and finding something to eat there, but in truth he didn’t really fancy it. They said it was only about five minutes’ walk to the centre, but Matjaž didn’t wish to uncover the charms of this historical place by himself. And besides, all towns were the same at night anyway. He looked at his phone and discovered that Aleksander had sent him a provocative text message, asking how it was going. He replied to this provocation with ‘I’m balls-deep in the Balkans.’

  He was getting irritated that he couldn’t decide what to do with himself, whether he wanted to be alone in his room or whether he’d prefer company, when he heard voices on the neighbouring balcony. It was a mother and daughter, and Matjaž immediately deduced it must be Nada and Melita. He stepped on to his own small balcony so that he could overhear more easily.

  ‘You’re not wearing that, is that clear? You’re too young, and even if you weren’t it would still be inappropriate.’

  ‘You don’t have a clue what people dress like these days,’ he heard the girl’s voice reply.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me that people today dress like prostitutes, wearing clothes that clearly only serve one purpose.’

  ‘What purpose?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean. The one that you are too young for.’

  ‘You wanna take a look at what you’re wearing! That clearly only serves one purpose, too.’

  The girl had clearly pushed her mother way too far. ‘Silence! Enough of your backchat. You’re not going to dinner dressed like that!’

  ‘Fine, I won’t go to dinner then!’

  The mother lowered her voice a notch and said, ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘Fine!’ yelled the unruly teenager, as her mother closed the door behind her.

  Then the balcony doors opened and made Matjaž jump. Melita was similarly startled when she saw him sitting there.

  ‘Nice dress,’ Matjaž blurted out, when he saw the far-too-short mini-dress for himself, paired with laddered tights that exposed her attractive, slender legs. A piece of fishnet clothing, which she’d put on over a skin-tight top, once again revealed more than it concealed.

  ‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said bitterly, pulling her top down as if doing so would lessen her exposure. She lit herself a cigarette. They smoked in silence for several long seconds and looked out into the moderately clear sky, which was surrendering to the darkness with every passing moment.

  ‘So, how’s things?’ Matjaž asked, trying to initiate contact, but Melita didn’t feel like answering his clichéd question. Desperately, he tried to rescue the situation. ‘I’m Matjaž’.

  ‘Melita’ she said quietly, but in a more reconciliatory tone. She even looked at him briefly, before once again showing him her beautiful profile. She puffed skilfully on her cigarette and went on, ‘They still treat me like a child all the time, like a little girl even, as if I have no say in anything. Of course I wanted to stay at home; it’d be a break, three days of freedom, but she dragged me here! Here! What am I supposed to do here with you pensioners . . .

  ‘Ahem,’ coughed Matjaž.

  ‘I mean, with you oldies . . .’ Melita tried to take back what she’d said.

  ‘A-hem!’ Matjaž coughed even more forcefully.

  ‘You know what I mean, you, the generation of ’68.’

  ‘I know, it’s pointless,’ he eventually said. ‘Carry on . . .’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if I haven’t been with men as old as you. I’ve been with a lot with different guys already, quite a few of them, but she still treats me like a little girl. If only she knew!’

  ‘She almost certainly does know, but she pretends that she doesn’t. That way she can preserve her illusion of you. You can’t resent your parents for simply not wanting to know.’

  ‘What she really wants is to preserve the illusion of herself, to pretend that she’s still young and that she has a young daughter who doesn’t think about sex under any circumstances.’ Melita blew out a deep breath of cigarette smoke and continued, ‘AVNOJ means so much to her, and my dad always brought her here, so obviously I won’t go home and leave her here. But, really, she came here to hit on guys the same age as her – or even older.’ With that she looked at Matjaž, unimpressed.

  ‘And when you try to do the same, she won’t let you,’ he said, quite at ease.

  ‘Exactly,’ she agreed feistily. Immediately afterwards she burst out, ‘No hang on, what are you trying to say, dumbass?’

  ‘Well, sorry, but women never wear clothes like that just for themselves.’ He nodded towards her dress.

  ‘That’s not true!’ yelled Melita childishly.

  ‘And then they furiously deny it, of course,’ smiled Matjaž.

  ‘Chauvinist pig! Why can’t a woman look nice and be desirable just for herself, or just because she is confident enough and comfortable with who she is.’

  ‘I’m not saying that she shouldn’t, I’m not saying that she can’t, but normally she isn’t. Like with you, you didn’t wear that out of respect for yourself, I’m convinced. If nothing else you wore it for your mum, just to provoke her!’

  ‘Seriously?’ She feigned indignation, and in her defiance her woman’s face revealed the girl within once again. ‘I can’t believe I’m even talking to such a moron.’

  ‘Of course you are, because then at least I can admire you,’ Matjaž calmly replied, his statement confusing Melita for a moment.

  ‘Oh it’s like that, is it . . . So why didn’t you say so?’ she remarked, lowering her voice.

  ‘I didn’t say anything of the sort, it’s just you who has a bit of a guilty conscience because you’re still bothered by your mum’s criticism, even though it’s exactly what you wanted,’ Matjaž said, almost monotone, and waited with interest to see how the girl would react.

  ‘Fuck it!’ she said, and left the balcony. Matjaž stayed on his and stared into the darkness. ‘Jajce is beautiful in the dark,’ he thought to himself. He lit another cigarette so that he could decide once and for all whether he was going to go to dinner or not. His own indecision was getting on his nerves. Just then the door of the neighbouring balcony opened once again and Melita appeared in a somewhat more conservative outfit, so she looked more like her own age.

  ‘Is that better?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘The previous version was better on so many levels, but if I’m honest you’re almost prettier than before in this variation.’

  ‘Thank you,�
� she said softly. ‘Let’s go to dinner. I’m starving.’ Now she had confused him, and he didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he replied.

  ‘Say “Yes, of course!”’ she smiled at him.

  In the restaurant of the incredibly run-down hotel the two of them sat at Nada’s table, where she was kept company by Peter and two other elderly women who Matjaž hadn’t noticed yet. ‘Oh how nice, you came then,’ Nada turned towards her daughter and softly stroked her long curly hair. Now in the light, Matjaž realized that Nada really was dressed rather provocatively in a tight dress, but he had to admit that she looked pretty good in it. If she used a little less make-up to cover up her wrinkles, she’d look much younger. The thought darted through his mind that so many older women made the mistake of applying too much make-up, and he immediately had another thought that maybe he could be some kind of style consultant and make-up artist for women of a certain age. He would explain to them how Photoshop is much more easy-going on the skin than make-up is.

  They introduced themselves. He also met Uršula and Ludovika, the best and oldest of friends, who like Albert and Dušan had both been coming to Jajce their whole life, for some forty years. ‘As schoolgirls we both made fun of it. When both of us became mothers we’d still talk sarcastically about the ritual,’ explained Uršula.

  Ludovika added, ‘It was a time for escape, for just the two of us.’

  ‘And as much as neither of us were ever party members’, Uršula said, picking up the story’s thread once again, ‘over the years we came to view it with a certain respect.’ She took her friend by the hand.

  ‘And you came here even after everything had collapsed – I mean, during the war here?’ Matjaž queried, somehow not grasping how Jajce had become a metaphor for female emancipation and some sort of respect as well.

  ‘During the war we didn’t come here, no,’ answered Ludovika.

  ‘But straight away, as soon as it was possible, we came back,’ Uršula continued.

  ‘I see, I see’, began Matjaž, ‘but what I was getting at was that the war exposed how Yugoslavia as a project was nevertheless misguided, that right from its very inception something was seriously wrong.’

  ‘What are you talking about, boy?’ came the voice of a slightly plump gentleman from the table behind them, whom Matjaž later discovered was called Svetozar. He had fought with the Partisans when he was still supposed to be a child, an experience that had clearly not impaired his excellent hearing. ‘Are you aware of how many people sacrificed themselves for freedom, how many people died, were injured, how many orphans were left after the war? And now you’re saying that everything was misguided from the start. Peter, I thought that only people who understood our cause came here!’ Svetozar said, turning to the organizer. Matjaž was just about to speak when from across the table Dušan stepped in, clearly under the impression that he was responsible for his co-passenger and everything that he said. ‘Zare, Zare, please, don’t listen to him. He’s still young, he doesn’t understand.’

  ‘Well, he should be quiet then!’ snapped Svetozar, and he turned back to his table.

  It was quiet at Matjaž’s table for a few moments. It was Ludovika who broke the awkward silence, when she turned to Matjaž and said quietly, ‘Me and Uršula never took this trip as something so political.’

  ‘Yes,’ her companion immediately stepped in. ‘For us it was more of a personal ritual.’

  Ludovika spoke up again. ‘A metaphor for youth. A metaphor for the good old days!’

  ‘Yes, the good old days.’ Nada gave a heavy sigh and raised her glass. They toasted the good old days, and Peter’s face, which previously had gone white from the potential conflict, was now showing a glistening smile.

  From this point everything ran without a hitch. Ludovika – or Vika, as everyone started calling her, following Uršula’s example – was thrilled to discover that Matjaž was a photographer. Her late husband had loved to take pictures and now her grandson loved to as well. ‘He’s really talented,’ she said.

  ‘Mischievous, but talented,’ Uršula had to utter.

  ‘Better that he’s creative rather than suspiciously quiet, like your Anabela!’ Vika protested.

  ‘At least Anabela doesn’t wet the bed!’ Her friend gave as good as she got.

  ‘Girls, girls!’ intervened Peter with a smile. ‘Let’s not fight over grandchildren now.’

  ‘Exactly – quiet or noisy, children are trouble!’ said Matjaž. Vika smiled and admitted that wine always brought out her lively temperament.

  Uršula returned her smile and lovingly patted her hand. ‘You know, little Vid really does take some nice pictures!’ Once again they were the best of friends.

  Nada dedicated most of the evening to Peter. Matjaž couldn’t hear them, but it was obvious that some sort of alliance was forming between them – if not more. This was the conclusion he reached after seeing how Nada enjoyed smiling and shrieking with laughter, how she ever-so-accidently brushed against him and how, as if that wasn’t enough, she spent the entire evening leaned towards him, whispering and then laughing again. Her mother’s coquettish behaviour with a much younger man clearly put Melita in a bad mood; once she had satisfied her healthy appetite and was no longer required to reply to the two elderly women, she furiously rolled her eyes.

  When the meal had officially come to an end, staff dragged a synthesizer, a guitar and a tamboura on to the improvised stage and started to play. It seemed to Matjaž to be a spontaneous reaction from the spirited Bosnian population, but he couldn’t be sure as the singers were actually reasonably in tune. They served up a series of Yugo-rock numbers, in a slightly more rudimentary format than the originals but this clearly didn’t bother those gathered around the ten tables, who soon started jumping up.

  ‘Look, Milica and Martin are already on their feet,’ said Matjaž, commenting on the dance-floor situation. Melita laughed when she saw that the pair had decided to dance the polka to the rock ballad Ružica si bila. ‘You see that chap? That’s Lojze, and now he’s trying to persuade his wife Anica . . . Is she going to accept?’ Matjaž paused for a moment. ‘Will she give herself up, will she let her husband, who she’s been with for a hundred years, get her on her feet one more time?’ He took to the role of commentator with greater enthusiasm.

  Melita sprang to his assistance. ‘No, it looks like Anica is tired, fed up maybe. No, now it’s clear that Anica is not going to dance.’

  Lojze turned around and approached another woman, whom Matjaž and Melita didn’t recognize, took a fairly awkward bow and gained her consent. ‘And how will Anica react to the new situation?’ asked Melita, searching for Matjažs nod of approval. When she received it, she continued, ‘As is typical in such situations, she’s going to reach for the classic solution, by which I mean I can see the table well enough to confirm that Anica has just poured herself another glass of wine.’

  ‘We can be sure it won’t be the last . . .’ added Matjaž, making Melita laugh. ‘And now she’s smiling,’ he commented. ‘Dušan and Albert have made her laugh – what did they just say to her? Did they just accuse the modest and pretty Anica of alcoholism, or sabotage even?’ He earned another laugh from Melita. ‘Meanwhile Lojze is dancing, he’s dancing well . . .’ he added.

  ‘Excuse me, Matjaž, I’m sensing activity on Anica’s table again,’ his co-commentator interrupted.

  ‘So there is.’ He focused on the new action. ‘Dušans standing up. Does this mean that he’s going to try and get Anica on her feet himself? Let’s wait a minute to see which direction this goes. Melita, I’m afraid it’s not looking likely. No, Dušan is heading this way, towards our commentary box. Will he manage to ask anyone to dance?’

  Dušan was actually walking towards their table, but he just gave them a friendly wave and then wound past them. ‘Nothing’s going to happen. No action for Dušan, it seems, he just went to powder his nose,’ said Melita, taking the initiative. In the
meantime, something unbelievable happened. Anica and Albert appeared on the dance floor.

  ‘I can’t believe it. We’ve got two new performers on the stage,’ began Matjaž.

  ‘On the dance floor’, corrected Melita, ‘although the basic information still holds.’

  Matjaž continued. ‘Here we have our two old friends, very interesting performers, Anica and Albert. But how long will they last together?’ he wondered.

  ‘And why on earth are those two together? Why did Anica give herself up to Albert, when she didn’t want to dance with her own husband?’ asked Melita, stepping up the tension.

  ‘Perhaps out of sympathy . . .’ Matjaž said, in his normal voice.

  ‘Out of sympathy?’ Melita looked at him questioningly, no longer with her commentator’s accent. They put down their imaginary microphones for a moment.

  ‘Yeah, Albert lost his wife this year,’ he told her, being serious again. Melita looked towards Albert with empathy.

  ‘They were very attached to one another,’ Matjaž added. ‘They were a couple for fifty years.’

  ‘Fifty years,’ repeated Melita, absorbed in thought.

  ‘Can you imagine that? I can’t. I really can’t, and I’m quite a bit older than you.’

  ‘Don’t you believe in true love?’ Melita asked him, with a naive and romantic enthusiasm.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I think I do, I just don’t believe that it can last so long. And then of course that makes you wonder if it was ever true love at all.’

  ‘I always thought that my parents would be together for ever,’ she sighed with a slight sadness. ‘They were a good match, I think. We used to have fun together . . .’

  ‘That’s what I mean, something always goes wrong,’ Matjaž added sadly.

  ‘Not always,’ Melita smiled, and pointed towards Milica and Martin, who were eagerly spinning each other around as if they were a small tornado set to wipe the remaining couples from the dance floor.