‘I know what you mean, they’re beginning to slacken,’ Kat agreed with a wry smile.
‘Yeah, they’re not flogging them enough,’ Matjaž declared solemnly.
Kat wasn’t really OK with that sentence, so she tried to change the subject. ‘I just found this page on Facebook that takes the piss out of healthy living.’
‘And?’ enquired Jernej. He liked to follow raw-food vegans on Facebook himself, for the purpose of mockery.
‘They’re organizing these, like, seminars on healthy lifestyles and then give them a caption: Toxic Sugar, Toxic Soul or Albumens are Great. Between Two Slices of Spelt Sourdough. And stuff like that.’
‘I’m not sure. This all seems a bit much to me,’ Katja spoke up.
‘What’s too much for you, Kati?’ Matjaž looked at her sweetly.
‘This piss-taking, picking on minorities, poor Asian children, vegans. It’s not that many years since they gained certain rights, a certain standard of living … you can’t just –’
‘Yeah, but on the other hand political correctness isn’t the answer, either,’ Sara said, taking the others by surprise.
‘But it’s the right thing to do!’ exclaimed Katja.
‘Fuck the right thing!’ flew out of Suzana’s mouth, making everyone else laugh.
‘It’s patronizing,’ Kat said, backing up.
Sara added further weight to the argument, ‘And actually it just conceals the fact that problems and tensions, which are implicit within apparently neutral phrases, persist in real life. If equals can insult each other, and in this society people are as unforgiving towards one another as they can be, that just means that what we have to treat with political correctness isn’t politically correct.’
‘But hate speech only encourages that!’ Katja protested.
‘Of course, and that’s always been the bind. But the alternative is even worse, as it presupposes that those offended are incapable of articulating what bothers them, in order to stand up to hateful insults,’ Sara replied.
The seriousness of the argument began to bore Matjaž; he’d have preferred to stick to the jokes. ‘But we’re not politicians, we’re not going to make sure that we don’t offend each and every group in society – like women, for example – while we’re having a beer on a Friday,’ he eventually said.
‘Well, maybe on Fridays we should make an exception, and only abuse and offend Matjaž,’ Kat said.
‘Agreed!’ Suzana shouted. Katja and Karla clapped, too, while the guys just laughed.
‘You may well laugh, but one of these days I’m going to leave for Native American Summer camp in the USA, and you can all offend whoever you like in Ljubljana,’ he said, as if disappointed, and the mood in the group livened even more.
It was one of the most enjoyable evenings that a group of people could have manufactured, thought Matjaž to himself, as he left the others to chase the remainder of summer at Metelkova on his walk back home alone. The fact that people could be together for a long period of time without killing each other, or at least hating each other, was just another miracle of life on earth, he thought – especially for him, having become increasingly demanding of his surroundings. A sign of ageing, boredom, fatigue? Maybe he was becoming a grumpy old man? Maybe he already was a grumpy old man? He panicked for a moment.
When he arrived home he put on a Midsomer Murders DVD. How nice, how calm and civilized, he thought to himself, as the sombre opening credits came to an end. He was crazy about English television series. He particularly appreciated them for their British rhythm, which was so pleasantly soothing. That was the final thought that sent him off to sleep – even before the first murder.
BRIGITA ON HVAR
MONDAY
Matjaž could think of no greater pleasure than sitting on the island ferry while the rest of the world came into season: the cultural-artistic season, the football season, the educational season, the new fashion season, the season for picking apples and pears or whatever. To him there was no greater pleasure than travelling to a place where only one season existed, only summer time, where the main concerns were when lunch would be, what would be for lunch and which restaurant would prepare it; how best to position the sun-lounger on the beach so that you were able to read in just enough sun but not too much; and whether to drink your first beer on the beach, or maybe even have two.
Here there was no crisis with the coalition, or parliamentary sessions about retirement legislation, here they didn’t know about the financial crisis let alone wars and unrest around the world. The crisis in the Middle East was no more, and people were no longer starving in Somalia. The world was free of tax havens, mega corporations didn’t have a monopoly on the international economy and children in the Third World no longer went to sew in factories instead of going to school. No woman was raped, no child was beaten, all murderous impulses of man had been eliminated and evil of all kinds suspended.
The sea was all there was, strewn around the island where olive trees, vines and rocks thrived. There was sun in abundance, shade a little less so, and the nights were warm. The promise of the ancient coastline could be felt from the ferry; he saw it from the ferry back then, when he and Sara first sailed there. He found it interesting how the island had remained the same while his memories of their first time on Hvar had become so dusty; the image of him and her had faded. The only feeling he recognized was a slight melancholy, not because of her or them but because of time itself and the years that could not be halted; the years that carried on inexorably forwards, trampling over him, transforming him, making him look upon his first trip to the island as if he were looking at a postcard from a good but increasingly distant friend. His only connection to his former self was memory, and this alerted his attention to the fact that there were no consistencies in life, nothing permanent and stable. It may be sunny today, raining tomorrow, or it may be windy today with static cloud tomorrow. There was nothing permanent, nothing, other than the island, he thought. Then he also thought that Hvar had been called an island for a very long time, and only in being known as an island did it arrive at its true conception, as his former love would probably have said – in accordance with Hegel.
Matjaž was pleased that he was leaving everything behind him, that there would be no Aleksander or Karla, no other crazy friends, and – even better – no crazy girls, who through some strange cosmic system always found him and enticed him into their Friday night and weekend peripeteias. Only one tiny circumstantial detail was casting a shadow over that fine thought of peace and relaxation. The wedding. He had to go to a wedding. He didn’t exactly hold these ceremonies in high esteem as a guest, and on top of that he had to work at this one. A wedding album. ‘Gross!’ he thought to himself. Those 700 euros would come in handy for the break he was giving himself a few days before the unhappy event, though, and a few days after it, too; to get over the trauma in his own time.
It still wasn’t clear to him where the groom Lovro had found him of all people for this job, nor was it clear to him why he and his chosen one – what was her name again? – had decided on a big wedding on Hvar. But it wasn’t important now. What was important was to take a holiday on the island.
So, to take a break from this laborious thinking, Matjaž took a sip of his drink and lost himself in the newspapers. In an hour or so he’d be arriving at the promised coast once again. He’d barely started reading when he heard that language from which he loved to flee so much: his mother tongue, Slovene. As if there weren’t already enough Slovenes in Ljubljana, they had to follow him here, too. He couldn’t understand why, of all the holiday destinations on earth, they had to choose the very same island as him and cause him so much stress. Unbelievable!
The conversation that unfurled between the Slovene women was far too close and far too Slovene for him to be able to ignore it.
‘I can’t believe you’re nervous already. Everything will be fine,’ said a soft female voice.
‘Nothing will be fine. I
t will always be the same. Awful, unbearable and humiliating,’ said another, a more sombre and resistant voice, whose wit reminded him of someone – but whom? There were so many of them, he thought to himself self-pityingly. And now he had to carry on listening. The complaining voice continued, ‘But you know how awful they can be, and how they take every opportunity to torment me.’
‘Hey, it’s not so bad,’ said the other voice, comforting the complaining one.
‘But you don’t know how it is, though, because you’ve always had boyfriends, you’ve always achieved everything you set out to, you have a job and your own flat, and you’ve just always been the ideal daughter in every way.’
‘That’s not true. You know very well how much good advice I have to swallow in spite of my own perfection. But anyway, I don’t see what they’ve got to reproach you with. You’re successful in whatever you do. And not just that, you’re creative and your work is so prolific.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything to them if I write, if I publish anything. They see a woman as an incomplete being who only reaches a certain completeness if she starts keeping company with a man, and who only achieves her real goal when she gives birth. But you know how I can’t stand men, let alone children.’
‘I know, my dear; you despise those two species, even more than women. And whoever knows you, knows that you tolerate so few female specimens that it’s not entirely clear how you hold out in human civilization. We’re both quite similar in that way. I can’t stand people either.’
‘Your guest list seems to suggest otherwise,’ smiled the complainer, and her sarcasm was even more familiar to him than her grumbling.
The softer voice also laughed and added, ‘You’re right. If it all goes ahead without any fatalities, I’ll be rather pleased with myself.’
‘You’re more likely to be able to escape somehow, though; I, on the other hand, will have to survive an evening with the parents.’
‘If it’s any consolation, I won’t hold you in any way responsible for the odd murder in moments of madness.’
Both of them started laughing and at that point Matjaž placed beyond doubt the laughter that belonged to the grumpy voice – he turned around with a jolt and blurted, ‘Brigita!’
When he caught sight of her he stopped for a moment; both girls were looking at him bewildered and he was suddenly convinced that he’d made a mistake, for he didn’t recognize his sweetheart that never was. Long hair, of a colour that complemented her skin tone, tumbled down past her shoulders; there was no make-up on her lightly tanned face, and no sign of the piercings either. Illuminated by the evening sunlight, her naturalness seemed to him divine. So beautiful that he didn’t even notice the virtues of her travelling partner.
After a few seconds of shock, Brigita also recognized Matjaž and introduced him to her sister – not without a hint of irony, ‘Sonja, this is my love that never was, Matjaž.’
‘I think that “friend Matjaž” would have been enough, but I guess “love that never was” is also fine,’ he said, offering his hand to Sonja.
‘But he looks entirely civilized,’ said Sonja, turning to her sister.
‘Oh, thanks, I assume that was meant as a compliment. What exactly have you been saying about me?’ he said, turning to Brigita.
‘Oh, nothing she wouldn’t say about every man,’ replied Sonja, reassuring him.
‘Well, that makes me feel so much better,’ said Matjaž, pretending to be hurt.
‘Enough of these niceties,’ said Brigita severely, interrupting the introductory procedure. ‘Instead, tell me: what are you doing here, and where are you going exactly?’
‘It’s nice to see you, too,’ he said, feigning courtesy. He extended the polite exchange even further, taking on the task of questions and answers himself, ‘Yeah, it’s so nice to get away to the sea in September time. I think Hvar is beautiful, too. Oh, where am I going? To the town of Hvar itself. I booked an apartment. Where? On the Križni rat? No, of course that area doesn’t have anything to do with the war; it’s just the headland. Yeah, I’ve been there several times and come back several times. There’s nowhere better, seriously –’
‘Oh, stop pretending to be offended. You’re fluent in shameless!’ Brigita said, taking issue with Matjaž’s passive-aggressive behaviour. Sonja was visibly enjoying their interaction.
‘Still, you might have exercised a little more restraint after a year,’ Matjaž said. ‘Deep down inside I’m actually a very gentle and vulnerable soul.’
‘Firstly, it’s not yet a year since our fiasco; secondly, there is not a single gentle, let along vulnerable, cell within you. And thirdly, you’re a man.’
‘I suppose I should apologize for that, too,’ said Matjaž.
‘For starters you can try to explain your presence on this ferry – and even better, your future presence on the island – more convincingly,’ Brigita said severely.
‘Brigita!’ Sonja exclaimed, a little taken aback.
‘Thank you, Sonja, at least someone in this family possesses basic manners,’ Matjaž said, pitying himself.
‘Don’t you dare talk to me about basic manners, we’re both too old for these games,’ Brigita retorted decisively, rather too pleased with herself.
‘I am absolutely not too old, ha ha!’ he said teasingly, and Sonja laughed at him.
Brigita snorted. It seemed to Matjaž that she was only pretending to pull a face, but her sister wasn’t so sure so she started talking. ‘But it really is an unusual coincidence that we should meet here.’
‘I know, my basic aim was to escape my compatriots at whatever cost,’ Matjaž said convincingly.
‘I understand, but I’m still interested to know what you’re doing here,’ attempted Sonja in the same gentle voice that had calmed her sister earlier.
‘I’m going on holiday. In between I’ll have to take pictures at some wedding but that will only – fingers crossed – ruin one day on the island.’
‘Wedding? Whose wedding?’ Brigita burst out.
‘Oh, I don’t even know what the poor guy’s surname is. His name’s Lovro, and I’ve forgotten hers.’
The girls looked at each other, and let out, ‘Sonja.’
‘The bride’s name is Sonja,’ Brigita said.
Matjaž was slightly taken aback. ‘You mean, that you, that you two, that we’ll all be, that it’s … I don’t believe it!’ He thought for a moment and turned to Sonja, saying, ‘But you seem completely normal, what do you need this for? To ruin the island, and so many people for a whole day – why?’
Sonja laughed. ‘I know, that’s exactly what we were saying. But it is what it is, and we must see this tragedy through to the end.’
‘And you, poor thing, how will you cope with these traditional conventions? Are you going to stand at the back, so it’s easier to throw up?’ Matjaž turned to Brigita.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to throw up right at the front. I’m Sonja’s bridesmaid,’ she smiled sourly.
‘Oh the poor thing,’ he said to Sonja. ‘Don’t you have any other sisters, brothers, friends, strangers, homeless people who would cope with this role a bit better?’
All three of them had to laugh at this.
‘I’m going to get beer. I won’t survive these last few hours without alcohol,’ Brigita eventually sighed, and set off in the direction of the bar.
‘So you’re Matjaž, then,’ Sonja said, more rhetorically than anything, when her sister had disappeared from view.
‘Unfortunately I am. Did she really speak so badly of me?’ he asked, concerned.
‘On the contrary. For a while I even thought that she was going to drop this whole lesbian thing. But who knows, maybe she really doesn’t get on with men.’
‘Well, I’d like to know who she does get on with.’
‘But she doesn’t seem that terrible to you?’
‘No, not to me. I wouldn’t be able to say so many terrible things to someone if I actually thought th
ey were terrible.’
‘I understand,’ Sonja smiled. ‘There’s just one tiny detail that you should know.’
‘What?’ Matjaž acted frightened.
‘No one actually knows about Brigita’s, erm, orientation. I only gave a slight hint even to Lovro, so he took it as some kind of teenage phase. But our parents are – well, how should I put this – very conservative, well and truly Catholic, and that kind of news would probably destroy them. And then they’d destroy Brigita.’
‘Brigita seems like a strong enough person to be able to stand up to them,’ Matjaž said, now slightly more serious.
‘No one is strong enough to stand up to our parents, believe me. Least of all Brigita. I think she’d rather move to the other side of the world than have to have that conversation with them.’
‘And that’s probably why she hasn’t brought a girl along with her.’
‘She doesn’t have one. She’s never had one, at least as far as I know.’
‘So then how does she know she’s a lesbian?’
‘I really don’t know, but I have to trust her on that. She’s my sister and I love her,’ Sonja said, concluding the debate simply. A moment later the accidental threesome enjoyed their well-deserved beer.
‘Where’s the unlucky groom, then, while we’re on the subject of the wedding?’ Matjaž enquired.
‘He’s already on Hvar with friends, and he’s going to be waiting for us in Stari Grad to take us into town. As long as he doesn’t forget, that is,’ Sonja replied.
‘Forget about the time, you mean?’ Matjaž asked.
‘Or the day,’ Brigita remarked bitterly.
‘Aha, our bridegroom is diligently making the most of his last few days of freedom. At this very moment he’s lying down recovering after a night of debauchery with floozies and random women on the Pakleni Islands. He deserves it, poor guy …’ Matjaž teased.
‘You won’t manage to unnerve Sonja, Matjaž,’ Brigita replied with satisfaction. ‘Lovro isn’t like that. The most excess he’s capable of is diving one centimetre deeper than usual. Or stargazing a bit later into the night, or staying up all night reading books and studying,’ Brigita explained.
Jela Krecic Page 26