Mars

by Asja Bakić

  “No, you should go by yourself.”

  She didn’t ask where he intended to go. Milan was dumbfounded.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You don’t want to know where I’m going?”

  “You said you were going for a walk. I trust you.”

  Milan didn’t say a word. He sprawled on the couch and propped up his legs on the coffee table. His wife lay next to him. There was some documentary about herbivores on TV, and he commented that he just didn’t understand vegetarians. “Meat is everything,” he said, then remembered he hadn’t asked the woman from the bus what time he should come over. This rattled him.

  “I’m going out to stretch my legs before calling it a night. Not sure when I’ll be back, I may stop somewhere for a drink.”

  “All right,” his wife said.

  While he made his way to dinner, Milan kept turning around to see whether his jealous wife might be spying on him. He didn’t see her. She really must’ve calmed down, he thought with relief. Still, just in case, he circled the block twice. As he strode along, he remembered how she’d followed him on his way home from a friend’s house the year before. It had been dark, and he wouldn’t have even noticed her had it not been for a streetlight switching on.

  He knocked on the door calmly, as if he wasn’t inclined to pounce on the stranger the moment he saw her. A man opened the door. Confused, Milan said he’d been invited for dinner but didn’t know the exact time, so here he was. “We’re eating at nine,” the man replied. “I think you’ve got the wrong apartment.” Milan was nearly brought to tears. All of this was probably just a prank concocted by my wife, he thought, turning to leave. But then another door opened and a woman told him to ring the door with the name Joguncic.

  “My neighbor is always eating something, maybe she’s the one who invited you,” she said pointedly, shutting the door.

  Milan sensed that someone was watching him through a peephole, and it unsettled him. Then another door opened, despite the fact that he hadn’t yet reached it or rung the bell.

  “You didn’t say to look for the door marked Joguncic,” he said as he entered, disconcerted. “I rang at your neighbor’s place.”

  The woman said nothing. The apartment was practically empty. On the dining room table sat something wrapped in paper.

  “Why isn’t the meat in the refrigerator? It’ll go bad.”

  “That’s not meat,” she replied, laughing.

  “It’s not?” he asked. “I could’ve sworn it was.”

  “Take a look,” she said, and Milan inched closer to the table to see what she was talking about.

  In the paper sack were three apples.

  “But that scent I detected …?”

  “That was me,” she said.

  “Your meat?” Milan asked.

  “Yes, my meat.”

  Milan drew nearer to the woman. She was petite, and he looked down at her.

  “I wanted to bite you, kiss you,” he said.

  “And lick,” she said. “Panthers pick the meat off the bone with their tongues.”

  “You’re right. Where shall I dine?” Milan looked around.

  “Here,” she said, pointing to the table. “But before that, I should eat something.”

  The woman pulled out two apples. She sliced them and then grated a carrot into the same container.

  “And the meat?” Milan asked.

  “I’m a vegetarian.”

  Seeing the strange look he gave her, she asked if that was a problem.

  “No, not at all. Meat is meat, even if it’s vegetarian. It’s just that”—Milan’s tone became more intimate—“I’m interested to know how you’re so meaty then.”

  The woman laughed, but didn’t say anything.

  “Can I touch you?”

  “Wait until I’ve eaten dinner, then I’ll have my dessert.”

  “You can’t mix sweet and savory?” Milan asked, rubbing his leg nervously.

  Again she didn’t respond.

  “Are you married?” she asked him.

  Milan became confused. He’d completely forgotten that he was.

  “I am,” he said, dejected.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure your wife is asleep right now, dreaming about something lovely.”

  Milan went silent. He remembered that he’d forgotten the sleeping pills in his pants, which he’d swapped for these plaid ones he preferred.

  “Did you want to put sleeping pills in her tea?” she asked him.

  Milan blanched. How did she know? The apartment, which had looked so empty before, was suddenly filled with the woman’s shadow. Calm down, Milan said to himself. She eats plants, not people. Then he remembered what his wife had said to him when he’d forgotten their anniversary the previous year: “Men aren’t people, they’re weeds.”

  “Are you a feminist?” Milan asked, frightened.

  “Where did that come from?”

  “I realized I don’t know anything about you.”

  “Look, I ate my dinner,” she said briskly, pushing the empty bowl toward him. “Are you sure you want to talk about me instead of really getting to know me? A dream doesn’t last long. Your wife will wake up, and she’ll realize you aren’t next to her.”

  Milan looked at his watch. It was past ten.

  “Uh, I really should be getting home,” he said.

  “No, you shouldn’t, not if you don’t want to. I have a phone. Call her and say you’re at a friend’s. Make something up.”

  Milan considered, and reconsidered. The strange woman really was too beautiful, but she also scared him. After his hand had hung in the air for a few seconds, he picked up the phone and dialed his home. No one answered. This unnerved him. Where could she have gone? He tried calling again.

  “She’s not there,” Milan said. “She’d pick up right away if she were. I need to go and make sure everything’s all right.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Come this way,” the woman said, pulling him by the hand.

  A soft light glowed in the bedroom. The closet door was ajar. When Milan got closer, he saw, huddled among the clothes, his wife, bound and gagged, a blindfold over her eyes.

  The unknown woman proposed that they tie Milan’s wife to the bed and wait for her to wake up.

  “Maybe we can persuade her to have a threesome.”

  “I don’t know …” Milan shrugged.

  “You don’t know what?”

  “If she’d like you.”

  The woman laughed.

  “Of course she would, I’m just her type. She’s lucky you liked me as well,” she said, turning toward the closet.

  Milan hastened to help. He was no longer afraid of the stranger. He couldn’t explain why, but his wife’s body had put them both at ease. They transferred his sleeping spouse to the bed, but didn’t tie her to it. They sat beside her and waited for her to wake up.

  “How long have you been married?” the woman asked.

  “Five years.”

  “That’s not so long.”

  “True, it’s not,” he said. “I’ve known myself much longer.”

  The woman placed her hand on his knee. Milan recoiled.

  “Not now, not while Jelena’s sleeping.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m guessing Joguncic isn’t your real name,” Milan said after a short pause.

  “It’s not. I rented this apartment to have a place where I could meet my lover.”

  “You like women?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Then why did you seduce me?” Milan asked.

  “Your wife wanted me to.”

  Milan wasn’t surprised. He’d always contended that Jelena was masculine. Rarely had he dreamed of her alone: in his dreams she seduced other women and laid them at his feet.

  “How long have you two known each other?”

  “Jelena and me? A few months,” she said. “I rented this apa
rtment for her.”

  His wife began to stir.

  “There you are, love,” she said.

  Milan didn’t know which of them she was addressing. This was difficult for him, and he left the room. His wife remained on the bed. Her lover followed him.

  “Would you like a little rakija?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said with relief. He’d thought the stranger had nothing but fruits and vegetables in her house.

  “I have some cheese too, if you’d like. It’s not bad.”

  “Okay,” he said, gazing vacantly toward the bedroom, from which a little light was escaping.

  He turned away to avoid seeing his wife’s feet through the half-open door. At least he could do that much.

  “Here’s your rakija,” the woman said, handing him a small glass. “I poured myself some too, so we could make a toast. To Jelena!”

  “No, no. Let’s toast someone else. Us, for example.”

  “Okay,” she said. “To us!”

  “To us!” Milan echoed, as if an “us” really existed.

  PASSIONS

  For a long time I didn’t know whether Vanja was a man or a woman. When we’d pass each other in the hallways on campus, I’d always stare at her shamelessly—looking for a sign that might help me solve the mystery of her gender. When we started hanging out, after we’d met at some student party, I stuttered through my explanation that her name and her physique perplexed me. Vanja joked that she wouldn’t hold my confusion against me, because she wasn’t exactly sure which team she played for either.

  “As long as I’m on the winning team.”

  “Then you’re a woman,” I said.

  I believed this conversation sealed our friendship. I was convinced we’d grow old together, talking about the same things then that tormented us in our youth, but Vanja went away after graduation and we didn’t see each other for years.

  It’s hard to articulate what went through my mind when I noticed her in the middle of the hotel ballroom. So much time had passed, I needed to close my eyes for a moment. I couldn’t believe it was really her. I slowly walked up behind her. Vanja turned around and, without a trace of surprise, uttered the most perfunctory hello. We exchanged a few words, speaking very formally, then said our goodbyes and proceeded along our respective sides of the buffet table. Later I spotted her embracing a man I didn’t recognize, which only added to my confusion. I wondered what Vanja saw in him. But then she vanished from my sight.

  I knew nothing about Passions, the novel whose launch party Vanja and I were both attending. I was told it was good, but I tended to be suspicious of anything I hadn’t written myself. One of the other guests, noticeably tipsy, wanted to summarize the book for me, but I luckily managed to escape. The novel had been released pseudonymously by my publisher, and the launch was an important event. But I couldn’t care less—I kept scanning the room for Vanja. I chatted with a few acquaintances and periodically inquired about her. No one knew who I was talking about. The conversation returned to the book we were there for, all of us with our full mouths and emptied glasses. Everyone insisted I simply had to read it. “You’ve got competition,” they said, patting me on the shoulder.

  An hour later, a little unsteady on my feet, I saw Vanja exiting the hotel lobby with the same man and wandering into a nearby park. I set off to follow them. I wanted to find out what they were up to, even though I knew literally nothing about such passions, even those bound in books. I understood, however, that I’d discover nothing about Vanja, not only because it was getting dark, but also because I had no idea what I even wanted from her. I continued walking anyway.

  Slowly following the couple, I paused a few times to hide behind a small tree or some bushes—I was afraid they’d see me. I wouldn’t know how to explain what I was doing there; I was even surprising myself. Vanja, in the meantime, began to kiss her companion passionately against a tree. Watching them, I couldn’t stop thinking about the novel. While I listened to their sighs, my mind wandered to the hotel lobby, to the poster announcing the book. Passions. Who was the author? Did I know him? Or was it a her? I glanced toward Vanja, who was making the unmistakable sounds of fellatio, but instead of watching her and her lover, I hatched a plan to blackmail my editor: if he wouldn’t tell me who’d written Passions, I’d publish my next book somewhere else. I imagined his outrage, how he’d vent to his secretary that authors were vermin—especially women authors, the worst of all!

  Even though my literary debut, a collection of essays, had been critically acclaimed, I’d found real success as a novelist, writing about something of which I knew nothing: human relationships. Only then was I taken seriously; only then was there collective acknowledgment that “this one knows what she’s talking about!” My first novel was about Medea, who didn’t know how to poison her rival Glauce. The sorceress couldn’t guess what kind of clothing her husband’s new lover might like best—my Glauce wore secondhand clothes from a flea market—even though their taste in men was identical. For some, the obvious message of the book was that men and women couldn’t be swapped or discarded as easily as clothes, while others concluded I was trying to revive socialism because Glauce’s distaste for expensive garments and reluctance to accept golden gifts saved her life. All of these interpretations were complete nonsense, of course, but my publisher forbade me to say this publicly. I eventually decided to refuse interviews altogether so I wouldn’t risk alienating my readers and critics.

  It wasn’t a coincidence that Vanja had long been the sole person I considered in the superlative. Considered, but never told, because I didn’t want Vanja to know just how much I admired her. I can’t emphasize enough how deeply I detested conversation with other people; I ran away from them. But Vanja was the exception: I enjoyed her company. I believe I even dreamed of her when I was younger, when our discussions were particularly stimulating. But we hadn’t seen each other in so long; I’d lost that feeling of intimacy and reverted to my old hermetic ways. I didn’t know how to converse one-on-one, or in a group. I found it all exhausting. “Hell is other people,” said a philosopher who was himself somebody’s hell. When I saw Vanja that evening, though, I immediately wanted to grab her by the hand and drag her to some darkened room where we could continue speaking in hushed tones, as relaxed as if I’d never been afraid of conversation, as if I were an expert in the art of the tête-à-tête.

  When we’d first met, Vanja and I both had harbored literary ambitions. Despite being a brilliant conversationalist, however, Vanja had been incredibly lazy and never managed to write anything. But as I stood in silence just steps from her, it seemed to me she’d become some other person, someone who could write with great ease. As if, in the darkness of the park, at the heights of pleasure I couldn’t understand, she’d transformed into a paragon of accomplished writing. This Vanja surely could’ve written Passions, I thought, almost offended. This Vanja did write Passions. I was convinced of my discovery.

  When a woman speaks intelligently, it calls her gender into question. Vanja had short, boyish hair, but I never noticed her, or really anyone, below the neck. I didn’t know then, and still don’t know, what to make of a person’s genitals. I’ve always pretended there’s nothing to a person besides their head. Still, it was clear to me that people’s attention was constantly split between two anatomical points: the head and the groin. I applied this knowledge in my books and received many letters from readers thanking me for writing in a sincere and intimate voice that “opened their eyes” and “helped them realize something.” Needless to say, my publisher was delighted. I, on the other hand, couldn’t have cared less.

  Although Vanja’s androgyny was stunning, I always found it easier to imagine her as a woman. I’d often catch myself daydreaming about writing books on her behalf. Mostly they’d be genre fiction, especially horror and science fiction. I was certain that Vanja, had she not wasted herself on conversation, would’ve made a great author.

  If I sometimes had an erotic a
fterthought, it was only while trying to think like her. Vanja was androgynous, true, but I’d never met anyone as sensual and tactile. While we’d be talking, she’d inevitably touch my arm or my leg; these were the only moments in which I allowed others, and myself, such familiarity. At other times, any touch was repulsive and caused me horrible discomfort.

  Our separation was hard on me. Vanja got a job offer in another city and accepted it without a second thought. She even bragged that the move was a unique opportunity to put her empty life in order. I took her pronouncement personally and never contacted her again; I even ignored the emails she sent the first few months after her departure. If she considered her life empty, it meant that for her I was also empty, just stale air, unlikely to enrich anyone’s life. After a while, Vanja stopped writing to me.

  I threw myself into my career in the following years, writing and publishing constantly. Only literature held my attention. Here and there I’d meet people who seemed interesting at first glance, but our relations always remained superficial. No one intrigued me enough to make me want to get to know them better. In my writing I’d often recycle conversations with Vanja, hoping she’d reach out to praise the book, to say how she’d never found a better interlocutor. I wanted her to confess that she missed me, but it was as if the earth had swallowed her up.

  Due to the long silence, her appearance at the book launch had come as a surprise. I hadn’t told her how strange it was to see her there, and when I’d finally summoned the strength, it was too late—she’d disappeared. It also tormented me that she’d left for the park with her companion, rather than reserving a room at the hotel. I’d never known her to be an exhibitionist. Her behavior confused me. But what confused me the most was the nonchalance with which she’d addressed me. I didn’t expect such composure, such indifference. But I was soothed by thoughts of Passions and of Vanja as its possible author: maybe the novel was a message for me, the message I’d been patiently awaiting for years.

  After Vanja and her friend left, I made my way home. I couldn’t sleep. In the morning, I went to my editor’s office and gave him an ultimatum. He stared at me blankly. I repeated my question: