Mars

by Asja Bakić

  “Who wrote Passions?”

  He remained silent. Confusion passed over his face. Then he said, “Why are you fucking with me?”

  His clumsy secretary brought us coffee. I watched how the girl slowly carried the tray to his desk. I expected her to stumble and fall on her face at any moment. Her hands were shaking, she was so nervous, but the editor paid no attention. Such details didn’t interest him. The secretary didn’t interest him. He was focused on me. When the girl left, I told him that I wasn’t fucking with him, I simply wanted to know. He barked that he didn’t understand why I was fooling around so early in the morning, and then asked how my new book was progressing.

  “There won’t be a new book,” I said, “if you don’t tell me who’s behind Passions. Is it Vanja?”

  “Vanja who?”

  He didn’t know who I was talking about.

  “For god’s sake,” he said, “I had no idea your alter ego was a physically separate person. Do you want me to dial your phone number so the two of you can come to an agreement about who wrote the book?”

  He continued to speak about Passions as a huge commercial and critical success, about the awards I could expect for such a masterpiece. I wasn’t listening. I could only wonder how it was possible I’d written and published this book without knowing it.

  “When did I send you the manuscript?”

  “Three months ago,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re still joking here. You didn’t let me call you while you were writing, but I should have. If you keep on denying authorship, I’ll have to invent a story about someone hacking into your email and faking your signature on the contract. Didn’t you receive the advance?”

  The drink sitting in front of me went untouched. I returned home worn out and sleep-deprived. I turned on my computer and checked my email, but the correspondence with my editor wasn’t there. My head started to hurt from the stress. I turned out the lights and lay in bed. I shivered with fever. My teeth were chattering. I thought only of Vanja.

  I woke up the next morning drenched in sweat. I’d dreamed something unpleasant. I couldn’t recall exactly what, even though I usually remembered and wrote down all my dreams. The sheets were soaked. I’d put my cell phone on silent. I had a few missed calls from my editor and a text message from an unknown number. It read: “What do you think of the book?”

  I couldn’t find the number in the directory, and customer support couldn’t tell me who’d sent the text.

  “Would you like for us to block the number? So they don’t bother you anymore?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  Vanja? Why hadn’t she identified herself in the text? Damn Passions! I needed once and for all to get to the nearest bookstore and buy myself a copy. Back home, I curled up on the couch and began reading. I forgot to call my editor back, forgot to raise the blinds. I read the novel until night fell.

  I had only myself to blame. My editor had grown accustomed to my outlandish demands, to my “eccentricity,” my refusal to do interviews and literary events. My alleged request that we discuss Passions only over email, that he never ask me anything about my book in person, that he refrain from calling me repeatedly to see what I was doing or how I was feeling—surely it didn’t surprise him. Commentary about me abounded: how I always appeared in the same clothes, how I wore a ring in the shape of a skull, how I left my house only at night. But the rumors didn’t bother me. I didn’t fill the papers—it wasn’t that kind of talk. I wasn’t in danger of ending up in the tabloids. I never got naked in public, never beat people up, although—I must admit—I often wanted to. I’d sometimes wake up with clenched, burning fists. Had I been a poet, I no doubt would’ve written about such things, but poetry didn’t interest me. I didn’t read it, and I didn’t try to write it. Had my editor been a smarter man, the poetry would’ve given it away. It would’ve been instantly obvious that I wasn’t the author of Passions. I never would’ve begun a book by quoting verse. Never.

  But there it was—serving as the epigraph to “my” Passions, a very awkwardly chosen poem by some Japanese writer, some woman by the name of Kasa. Short, but irritating enough to piss me off:

  To love someone

  Who loves you not

  Is like entering a temple

  And worshipping the walls behind

  The wooden statue

  Of the hungry devil

  What was that supposed to mean? I hadn’t a clue. I couldn’t remember if Vanja read poetry. It suddenly seemed very important, maybe the most important element of all.

  It turned out that Vanja was still using her old email, that nothing significant in her life had changed—she still used the same phone number, the same email address. Since I couldn’t stand talking on the phone, I decided to write her an email. I didn’t want to reveal too much. I asked whether she felt like getting together, we hadn’t seen each other in so long, blah blah blah—the platitudes piled up. I’d even written Dear Vanja at the beginning, which wasn’t a lie, but sounded insincere.

  It took her three days to reply that she didn’t have time, but as soon as she did, she’d get in touch about meeting up for a drink. I was nervous. I wrote back saying I had something important to discuss with her. I should’ve known she would call me right away. She asked what all this was about, but I didn’t say. I proposed we meet that night. She declined.

  “I can’t meet before tomorrow,” she muttered.

  “What you can’t do today can wait till tomorrow,” I said, laughing like a moron.

  I tried to prolong the conversation. I had to clutch the receiver with both hands—my palms were so clammy, it was like trying to hold a bar of soap.

  “Tomorrow in the main square?” I asked.

  “Okay, be there at five. We have a lot of work to do, so I can’t stay long.”

  “We?” I asked.

  “Yes, me and my husband.”

  “I didn’t know you were an old married lady,” I said, on the verge of tears.

  “Don’t you just mean married? I’m nobody’s old lady.”

  “Tomorrow at five then,” I said, quickly hanging up.

  I’d forgotten to say goodbye, see you, or take care. I’d forgotten such formalities. Before my eyes appeared Vanja’s husband, that disgusting creature who couldn’t possibly deserve her. I’d never met him, but already I hated him. However much I tried, I couldn’t recall the face, or even the silhouette, of the man I’d seen Vanja with at the book launch. I imagined him with small, hairy hands and oily skin. Then I started fantasizing that Vanja had actually left the event with a lover. The idea of Vanja lying to her husband brought me a few minutes of pleasure. If it hadn’t been for those thoughts, I wouldn’t have gotten a wink of sleep.

  I slept fitfully. I dreamed of my high school physics teacher, vividly recalling her face, and even more her hair. She’d been a surprisingly intelligent and sophisticated young woman who specialized in electromagnetics and optics. In the dream, I was trying to convince her that physics could actually predict the future, that the task of physics was to show how two bodies with the same charge could attract rather than repel one another. The teacher—whose hair I remembered, but not her name—wagged her finger and fumed that the principles of physics state that positive and negative attract, and negative and negative repel. “And positive and positive?” I asked. Before she could answer, I woke up.

  I got to the main square at quarter to five and recognized Vanja right away. She didn’t see me. I had to tap her on the shoulder several times before she turned and looked at me.

  “Have I become invisible?” I asked.

  “No, but you’ve changed a lot.”

  “We just saw each other the other night.”

  “All the same, it’s difficult.”

  “I brought you flowers.”

  “Thanks,” Vanja said, and before I could give them to her, she grabbed the bouquet from my hand.

  “What did you want to talk about?” she as
ked, casually waving the flowers around.

  I wasn’t sure it was the best idea to bring up the novel yet, so I awkwardly asked if she was happy in her marriage. She pretended not to hear the question.

  “Why did you attend the book launch?” I asked, as soon as we sat down at a café.

  “My husband was invited.”

  “Does he know my publisher?”

  I was trying to show off.

  “Probably. The hotel where the book launch was held is ours.”

  “It’s a shame I didn’t get to meet him,” I lied.

  “Yes, a real shame,” said Vanja.

  I’d dreamed of this moment, our next meeting, for years, but nothing was as I’d expected. Vanja listened with complete disinterest, as if I were boring her. I imagined she’d start yawning at any minute. I felt humiliated. I knew at once that Vanja hadn’t written Passions. The Vanja sitting next to me seemed to have been lobotomized. Nothing about her—except her appearance—was special or exciting. She must’ve been deadened by her husband’s money.

  “Do you read poetry?” I asked.

  Vanja laughed.

  “I have no time for literature, only the hotel. The last book I read was over five years ago. Becker or Roethke, I can’t remember. You?”

  “You know I’m not a big fan of poetry,” I replied.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “I know,” I said. “I know what I’m missing. I’m not sorry about it.”

  “You used to tell me constantly that I didn’t know how to write. You didn’t understand my sensibilities. Maybe if you read poetry, you’d get it.”

  “I thoroughly doubt it. I doubt it,” I repeated. “You talked too much. You used yourself up on conversation like so much soap!”

  I paused then, remembering the damp of my hands. Had I clutched the receiver or Vanja? While I sat there, my mouth half open, I noticed Vanja had actually started to yawn.

  “Am I boring you?” I asked.

  “No,” Vanja said abruptly. “Anyway, you wanted to talk to me about something important. That’s why you contacted me. Surely you didn’t want to talk about my writing.”

  “Actually,” I said, “that is why I contacted you. My publisher released a novel under a pseudonym and I wanted to ask you whether you knew who’d written it.”

  “I don’t know. But it interests me too.”

  While she said this, she smiled malevolently. At least it seemed like she did. And then she yawned again. Why did Vanja’s brain need so much oxygen? I wondered. She must be plotting some kind of stunt. After I brought up the novel, the conversation flowed in a predictable direction. We talked about the books we’d read during our studies, then quickly parted with a promise to meet again for coffee.

  “As soon as I’m free, I’ll get in touch,” Vanja said.

  “Okay,” I replied, knowing we might never see each other again.

  Before we went our separate ways, Vanja briefly commented on an excerpt from Passions, like she wanted to show me that she did read something from time to time, despite her claims to the contrary. I never got the chance to say that lying didn’t agree with her.

  At home I was overcome with exhaustion, as if talking with Vanja had depleted my energy—as if her repeated yawning had sucked up all my strength. Our pointless conversation had aligned her with the others—those with whom I didn’t get along. I lay in bed reflecting on her mannerisms. In the past, she’d used her hands a lot more. Now her gestures were stiff. I concluded she’d lied to me shamelessly about her hotelier husband, because if her husband really had owned the hotel, there would’ve been no need to go to the park with him; they could’ve used whatever room they wanted. Vanja, the woman I’d for so long considered in the superlative, was slowly fading from the horizon. I was confronted with a Vanja I couldn’t understand. If I had changed, what had happened to her? I pondered these changes until I fell asleep.

  Once again I dreamed of my physics teacher. This time we were discussing optics. I complained about how when the eye turns things upside down, the brain sets them aright. I didn’t like what the eyes did, I told her in a child’s voice. The whole time, the teacher was trying to say she wasn’t interested in my opinion, but I wouldn’t give her a chance to speak. I didn’t like seeing things upside down, but then correctly, I repeated in the dream. It wasn’t good for me.

  I woke up at three in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. I was still wondering what had happened to Vanja and whether she’d really given up on literature. I just couldn’t believe her. People lied so much and so carelessly that I was certain Vanja had been lying to my face the whole time we were together. Thinking about people’s duplicity, I decided to confess to my editor that I wasn’t the author of the book—to explain that it was all a misunderstanding. Of course he’d call me crazy, but I couldn’t claim Passions as mine, I couldn’t attach myself to a book I didn’t understand. I read the reviews, all of them positive, everyone commending the book—it was only a matter of time until my editor disclosed my name to the media. The thought of it filled me with an indescribable dread. I shuddered. My cell phone started vibrating.

  “You never said what you think of the book,” read the message.

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  “Your admirer.”

  “Vanja?”

  “Not Vanja.”

  “Who is this?” I asked again.

  “Not Vanja,” the person repeated.

  “Not Vanja” was persistent: I received about ten more messages declaring love for me, asking if I’d liked Passions, promising to write another, even better, book, wanting only that I should reciprocate, that I should write something in her name.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Not Vanja.”

  I sat at my computer and wrote Vanja an email. I said that someone had lied to my editor, telling him I was the author of Passions, even though I hadn’t written a word of it. Vanja called me that instant, as if she couldn’t sleep either.

  “Listen, we haven’t seen each other in years. I don’t know why, out of all our classmates, you decided to contact me. Is it because I have money?” she asked.

  “For god’s sake, Vanja, weren’t we best friends?”

  “No, we weren’t,” she said. “We barely spoke outside of class. You were always terribly shy. If you need money,” she continued, “just say so. I know it’s hard to live as a writer.”

  “I don’t need your money. I have enough.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Take care.”

  “Take care.”

  As soon as we hung up I popped two caffeine pills. An awful throbbing in my temples heralded a migraine. The light began to bother me, and I felt nauseous. I barely managed to drag myself back to bed, climb in between the layers, and gather the little pillows around me. I knew nothing about passions, nothing about people. I knew nothing, in fact, about myself. I knew only that there was Vanja, the image of Vanja, corrected, that my eyes had deceived me, that I’d deceived myself. My head had accepted a distorted picture for years. I’d lived and written with this picture, and now I was supposed to go on without it. Naturally, I didn’t know how. Completely broken, I decided to stay in bed till morning.

  I’d always identified with Medea: I wrote like a betrayed, rejected sorceress, but in fact, I’d received Medea’s gift—her poisonous truth. I was supposed to drape myself in it, to die there where the gift, my phone conversation with Vanja, had transpired. I was supposed to fall like something mowed down, but that didn’t happen. By ten the next morning, I was on my feet, and by afternoon, on the road. I went to my editor’s office. I had to find out who was behind Passions, who was behind the poetry.

  My editor wasn’t there, so I decided to wait for him. Around me sat young men, writers, poets—I didn’t know who they were, I could only assume because they were holding manuscripts and books. His secretary was nowhere in sight, and I grew nervous. The young men waiting with me recognized
me, and I suspected they wanted to drag me into conversation. My head still hurt; I wasn’t in the mood for tiresome stories. I stood up to move away from them, and began pacing around the reception area. I didn’t pay attention to where I was going—I only wanted to disappear—and I banged into the secretary’s desk, knocking a book to the floor. I picked it up: a volume of Japanese poetry. Two of the poems were marked with slips of paper. One I immediately recognized, the poem about worshipping the walls of the hungry devil, and in the other the last line was hastily underlined in pen: my flesh spent with lust. I stared at the words, looked at them for so long that I completely forgot where I was and why. When I finally mustered the courage to lift my eyes from the page, the young secretary was standing before me. I waited a few moments for my brain to correct the upside-down image.

  THE GUEST

  When we got to the traffic circle, Aleks stopped the car and looked at me questioningly. I still couldn’t tell if we were close. A harsh landscape stretched out in front of us, just gravel and sharp rocks. I shrugged.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Try again,” Aleks insisted.

  I leaned out the open car door and grabbed a handful of dirt. At first I didn’t notice anything, but then a green pebble revealed itself. I already knew it shone only when placed against warm skin. It went unnoticed just lying on the ground among the other stones and gravel: human touch was what distinguished it.

  “We’re close,” I said.

  We drove about ten minutes further, arriving at a hill. I got out of the car. Aleks said goodbye and immediately headed back to the city. I had to continue alone, climb the hill, and wait on the other side for my contact, a young woman who’d agreed to help me. I started to get nervous. I was supposed to find a strange settlement, a wild village, to write an account of Carlyle and his followers. I knew it was dangerous. The army and the police stayed away. Not one journalist had agreed to go there. Someone at the newspaper had remembered I’d written an opinion piece about it, and wanted to see whether my fascination with Carlyle was serious, or purely a publicity stunt.