Summer! Summer at last. With all of its appurtenances, which declare a truce between people and nature and finally allow the stupid humans a sense of a gentler pace of life. For the first time in a long while he felt, without bitterness, that he was single and that at the same time he didn’t need anyone, that the world was entirely bearable and he was happy with his own solitary entity, indifferent to everything, even to itself.
In such a frame of mind, maybe he ought to call Sara and just ask to take her out for a coffee, some tea or even orange juice, although he didn’t really want any of that. For a moment he was tempted by the thought of two bodies silently, modestly losing themselves amid the grandeur of the city in summertime. Mainly it was because he knew that right now she was also alone in Ljubljana, because her darling Jaka was somewhere on a business trip. He’d been able to gather this from Aleksander and Karla, through passing remarks made in company or the odd phone call that had interrupted their socializing, always taken slightly more quietly than usual out of respect for him. But now the idea of calling her seemed a surreal and, in his current state, senseless act.
‘Why are you smiling like that?’ said Gabi, trying to be funny.
‘What’s it to you?’ he shot back at her.
‘Well excuse me for living!’
‘Never mind “excuse me”. Apologize to me,’ he said, using that old, dumb joke that earned a laugh from his colleagues, and prompted a more conciliatory look even from Gabi. Such was summer; people smiled at each other to confirm that they were not alone.
Women are OK, he thought, they’re very much OK, as long as they’re kept at a safe distance. And he was convinced that he was also OK with that safe distance. Until now, he’d always believed that OK entities were only rarely in tune with each other. Evidently, it often boils down to there being two types of ‘being OK’, which just don’t sit well together. Of course, she and he were in tune; they were sort of in tune in everything, and in some things very much so. It was a nice, rhythmic life when, now and again, the two of them locked into that joint rhythm.
It wasn’t that he felt he was missing anything now; it just bothered him that things, such as life as a couple, were once a possibility – in fact, they were the only possibility. Now, in contrast, he lived a life of duality. He sometimes felt like he was two people: happy in the morning, difficult in the evening; or optimistic in the morning and moderately suicidal in the evening … But life as a couple? What’s the point in that, he wondered. Where’s the happiness in that? Whenever he tried to remind himself of the appealing side of life as a twosome he found himself staring into a void. He didn’t understand what it was exactly; only fleetingly he recalled the feeling of comfort, occasional enthusiasm and, most of all, the feeling of happiness that he used to have in his routine life as part of a pair.
He became slightly angry with himself – damned summer, inviting all of these thoughts, confronting him with these reminiscences. He didn’t want to confront himself; he didn’t want to be the protagonist in his own story when, after all, it was obvious that the only reason he was there was to spice up the agonizing mundanity of life with a few jokes. People – quite a few people, his friends included – had children. A few – quite a few – of his acquaintances had well-paid jobs. Others – quite a few others – in his circle of drinking buddies had the luxury of not caring about anything, about family or about work. And what did he have? He was stuck in a rut in every respect. He wasn’t at home anywhere. Apart from during the summer, he remembered, apart from here, in this cycle of thoughts that absolutely refused to end. Even though he never intended to reflect on anything, least of all himself. He was convinced that the less you knew about yourself, the better – regardless of what the ancient Greeks claimed.
He had already left the office and was striding towards a popular nearby pub called Izložba – had he even said goodbye to his colleagues, he wondered? But nobody really notices greetings in summer anyway, let alone misses them when they’re not there.
When he arrived at the bar, he was pleased to discover that, apart from one other person whose face was hidden behind a newspaper, this place was empty. After a few minutes of silence he began to wonder if anyone actually worked there, or if the owners had all left for the seaside and forgotten to lock up their property. But that thought didn’t last long.
There is nothing finer than a cigarette in summertime. A drag on a Gauloise settles the score imposed by the heat, and already the sky is brighter and your thoughts have cleared. How he wished that he had a newspaper as well – thinking your own thoughts seemed like such hard work. He was aware of them constantly, and he wasn’t used to that. He was used to having every thought interrupted by a phone call or a work email, some obligation or another, by Ksenja’s ruminations or instructions in a text message about everything that still needed to be done. He was used to the odd bad joke from Katja on Twitter, or one of Suzana’s invitations for coffee – although she was actually in Istria now, with Saša of all people. It turned out that her Šeki, if they were still even together any more, just wasn’t the holiday type. Aleksander was sunning himself with Karla on the island of Krk and only got in touch every other day, and then only in the evenings. Jernej was waiting tables all summer by the coast – some people really do have it all.
Gašper, Marko and Andraž were currently on their rich-kid weekends in Pula or with relatives on the Kvarner Riviera, having the most wonderful time of their life – admiring their still-beautiful women and their even more promising children, and thinking to themselves that life wasn’t so bad – as long as their mum or dad or brother or sister with kids didn’t knock at the door with a load of bright ideas about how they could spend the day together, what they could cook and, most importantly, what would be good for the kids.
It was possible that he missed the hustle and bustle of company – any Mini or Stela, Nada or Melita could at least have dropped him some kind of tasteless text. He’d like that, the offer of some kind of crazy night with no obligations. As it was, Stela was probably happily in the arms of an obscene mogul – at least for a day or two – and mother and daughter were probably off trying to flaunt their charms in the Caribbean or Cuba. Mini was no doubt tied up with the situation in Gaza or the Congo or suffering over the burning of forbidden books in Singapore.
Where did people get their money? Where did this money come from that allowed them not to report back to base, to him, Matjaž, who, after all, remained a magnet for every type of stupidity? Was he going to have to call someone himself one of these days; someone who knew how to pour their wages back into drink? Was he desperate enough to call his mum? She was probably at this moment lounging around with colleagues on some training course in Karlovy Vary that was just an excuse for bathing in the springs there, and that existed only so the relatively well-cared-for retired legal experts from the Republic of Slovenia’s Ministry of Higher Education could enjoy their holidays and attempt to rescue what was left of their bodies and long-lost youth. Was he so close to the edge that he’d exchange a few dull remarks about the weather with his father, who was employed at the Republic of Slovenia’s Environment Agency? To Matjaž, his dad’s job had always been something just to do with the weather, although his father would be enraged by the idea since he was employed at the agency as a physicist who calculated God-knows-what for the good of us all. When he was little – and probably encouraged by his mum’s wicked suggestions – he had always blamed his dad for the rain or for the winter that stopped him going out to play.
A game, he figured, that’s what was missing. Maybe poker or billiards – crazy people can probably be found in summertime, too, those who are prepared to waste their money and their lives on their passion for gambling. He started searching for names in his contacts, when a familiar voice from not too far away interrupted him.
‘Mat!’
Was he dreaming? No one but her had ever dared use that name, that stupid, ridiculous name invented for him by his equally sil
ly, completely shameless and now deceased grandma – the woman he had perhaps loved most in his life. It was his grandma who always said that children put their parents in checkmate by the very fact of being born. That’s why she always liked names where she could see the beginnings of a ‘mate’: Matej, Matjaž, Matko, Matic, Matija, Matilda, Mateja, Matahari and so on. But Grandma is dead, he said to himself, he was convinced of it – she had a headstone at Žale cemetery, along with dried flowers, burned-out candles and all of that. Then maybe he was just imagining it; maybe the heat was messing with his head. Finally he looked up – and he saw her. Sara.
She was coming towards him with a crumpled newspaper and her distinctive smile, which struck him right in the stomach.
‘Your newspaper’s crumpled,’ he said upon greeting her, slightly embarrassed. He hadn’t seen her for more than a year.
‘They say people with tidy newspapers are not to be trusted,’ she replied, once again relaxing into that captivating smile.
‘Hitler always had a tidy newspaper.’ She winked.
‘Probably because he never read it,’ he added quickly, still feeling uncomfortable.
She started laughing, a lovely heartfelt laughter, almost as lovely and heartfelt as when they had still been a couple, and he knew that this laughter was a part of him and his sense of humour. Already he’d forgotten how her head tilted when she laughed, making her fair curls flutter, and how they magnificently complemented her light complexion, which not a single sunbeam had managed to compromise. He’d forgotten just how fair her complexion was; he’d forgotten how much they had avoided the sun when they were on holiday; he’d forgotten about her hats and her long tunics.
‘Others say that it’s only old people who read newspapers now, and that’s only because they’re checking that their obituary isn’t inside,’ she added. He remembered now how much he loved her wit.
‘Then it’s possible that you’re not real and that I’m talking to a ghost,’ he said, laughing.
‘Quite possible. Maybe you can pinch me so we can check I’m alive.’ It seemed to him as if her eyes twinkled at this point.
‘Why, have you found your obituary?’ he asked.
‘No, but that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘How about you pinch yourself, and you let me know if you’re alive.’
She did so and nodded. ‘It appears I still exist.’
‘Well, that’s encouraging.’ He could feel how hard he was trying to speak in a normal voice.
‘I have to say, I didn’t expect someone who doesn’t believe in God or the afterlife to allow the possibility that I may be a ghost quite so quickly,’ she said, still smiling.
‘God is spelled with a capital G.’
‘What?’
‘Our Catholic readers are always giving us grief about that – especially if there’s a full moon. If you’re writing about a personal god, a god of religion, like Christianity or whatever else, you have to spell it with a capital letter.’
‘So you do believe, then?’
‘In what?’
‘In capital G for God.’ She looked at him playfully, making him shake with laughter once more.
‘A man’s got to believe in something.’ He smiled and gestured with his hand, inviting her to sit down.
As she sat she remarked, in passing, naturally but flirtatiously as only she knew how, ‘You’re looking good.’
‘Objection!’ he let out, as if the situation was strange and familiar at the same time.
‘So?’ she went on.
‘What?’
‘How are you?’
‘Are you really interested, or are you just being polite?’ Matjaž was slightly confused.
‘If you’re asking me that you already know the answer,’ she replied.
‘What was the question again?’ he said, now feigning confusion.
‘How are you?’ she repeated.
‘Don’t even go there.’ He sighed dramatically.
‘That bad?’ She smiled.
‘Nah, it’s not bad at all,’ he reassured her.
‘Good, then?’
‘Come on, do we have to elaborate on every nuance of “not bad” now? I’d rather you told me how you are. Either way, I’m convinced you only asked me so I’d return the question.’
‘You’re mistaken, my intentions were pure, so I’ll also answer calmly and succinctly. I’m all right, thanks.’
‘Oof, well that can’t be good,’ Matjaž answered in concern.
She laughed, saying, ‘You still know me.’
‘No, I don’t. I thought that you really were fine, and obviously I don’t begrudge you that,’ he said with a hint of anger.
‘No, nothing’s wrong,’ she said, as if trying to convince herself, but he detected that legendary ‘but’ lingering at the back of her throat.
The waitress sensed a point in the unease where she could take their order.
When they’d amicably established all the things that weren’t on the menu during the summer, they ordered the only two remaining dishes and agreed to share them, just like old times.
Matjaž hadn't felt this good around someone of the female sex since he'd been with Ronja, and he got the feeling that Sara felt similarly. They revisited old stories: the disgusting mussels on the island of Rab; the cheap but high-quality rakia on Korčula that led to night-swimming in the port; the ski slopes at Vogel where she tried to show him the joys of skiing, which he in no way wished to embrace; the goulash that kept cooking away, forgotten, while they made love on their weekend away in Piran (and was still not at all bad) …
They only spoke about current affairs long enough for them to change the subject. They gossiped a bit about Karla and Aleksander, about Suzana and Katja, about Gašper’s kid and about Jure’s new offspring, and counted up all the remaining children that had been recently born to people they knew. They established that we wouldn’t be dying out any time soon.
When he’d settled the bill and silence settled in, he said seriously, ‘Well, I’d best get back to work.’ He stood up, while she remained seated and looked at him – strangely, actually. ‘What is it?’ he asked her.
‘Mat, could we not – just for today – could we not have coffee together?’
It was her tone of voice, and her slightly bewildered – perhaps even disappointed – expression, rather than the meaning of the words, which moved him. He wasn’t used to that. He thought about it for a second, and then said, ‘Fine, it’s nothing urgent anyway!’ He worried that the cynic in him hadn’t come up with a better reaction, something more decisive – it wasn’t like he owed her anything, damn it! He was frightened of himself, frightened that he was starting to feel desire for her again. Then he quickly called work and made arrangements to put off his unimportant duties.
The coffee at Nebotičnik quickly, miraculously quickly, turned into a beer; in the more than ample sunshine Matjaž and Sara were still chatting away like old friends. Over the first beer they bitched about all the Asian tourists in Ljubljana, making cheap jibes about their umbrellas, or rather parasols, which defended them against the ozone hole. Together they also criticized the band that was spending the evening going around the various bars on Petkovšek Embankment; it consisted of some not overly talented Romanians.
‘Do you still pay them to stop playing?’ she asked him as she lit a cigarette carefully, elegantly and passionately, as only she knew how.
‘I try, but they still don’t understand. They don’t even understand when I ask them if they think it’s appropriate to start collecting money after the first song. They don’t understand when I ask them to play something I haven’t heard before. Nope, in this battle they are the victors,’ he complained. It pleased him to see that his scornful storytelling brought a smile to her face again and again.
‘And how are you getting on with the scroungers these days?’ she pushed him, and he knew that she was hoping for his latest tales.
‘Well, what can I say. We’ve
agreed a truce, but one of them threw me a bit the other day; the one who operates all the way from the Ethnographic Museum to Petkovšek and who clearly doesn’t know who’s given her what and when and for which story – she really is a bit unprofessional like that. She could at least be a bit more prepared for work. So one day she got two euros from me with the excuse that she didn’t have money to buy milk for her small child. The next day I bumped into her on Petkovšek and she claimed that she didn’t have any money to pay the rent. And that’s when I finally stood up for myself. I said to her, “If you didn’t buy so much milk for your child then you’d have enough money for rent.’” He managed to get another laugh from Sara. So he continued, ‘Of course, coming up to summer she’d forgotten all about it and approached me again by the museum with a new problem. She said that she’d had to have an operation on her heart valves and that while she was in hospital she lost her job, was kicked out of her flat and was now left with nothing. I looked at her and decided that, if nothing else, her imagination had earned her a euro.’
Their conspiratorial closeness was interrupted by some loud English football fans and so they decided to change location. Sara suggested that they try another bar somewhere. ‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked her.
‘Somewhere nice.’
‘Everywhere is nice right now.’
‘Let’s go somewhere that’s only bearable then.’
‘Žmavc?’
She nodded and they left. It felt funny walking next to her, next to her short but decisive steps, next to her animated hips that were not afraid to show themselves to the world. She seemed taller than before, but Matjaž thought it was probably just her confidence that lent her the aura that a tall girl has; always decisive, elegant, superior.
‘I’d forgotten, you know, how tall you look compared to how tall you actually are,’ he smiled.
‘I know.’ She looked back at him, slightly nostalgic, then she smirked, ‘It’s my magnificent personality.’
Jela Krecic Page 20