Best European Fiction 2017

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Best European Fiction 2017 Page 5

by Eileen Battersby


  That night she did. It was “Bigmouth Strikes Again.” He later confessed that he was fed up with them. He wanted to pour gasoline all over Morrissey and set him on fire.

  I think you’re overreacting, she told him.

  Come on, the guy left the stage at some show because he spotted a grill somewhere in the distance. He’s like this sworn vegetarian, “Meat is Murder.”

  You’re still overreacting.

  Fine, I wouldn’t exactly set him on fire, but I would definitely throw meatballs at him.

  How old are you?

  I’m twenty. I think. Why?

  Sometimes you sound like you’re six.

  And how does that make you look? Your boyfriend is a six-year-old.

  You’re not my boyfriend.

  I’m not?

  No.

  We kissed to a Smiths song.

  What does that have to do with anything?

  A lot. It’s, what-do-they-call-it … romance.

  What do you do?

  Don’t try to change the subject.

  What do you do, Elias?

  I write.

  What do you write?

  Stories.

  What about?

  Love.

  She frowned. Romances?

  No. Short stories about love.

  I see.

  Do you fall in love a lot?

  I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman I didn’t fall in love with.

  Ugh, that’s such an obnoxious cliché.

  Fine, a beautiful woman then. One that listens to good music. And watches good movies. And she has to read.

  What do you read?

  Cortázar.

  What else?

  Poetry.

  What kind of poetry?

  Love poetry. He laughed. His laugh was loud.

  And what about you, what do you read, Andrea?

  Don’t use my name.

  What should I call you then?

  I don’t know. I don’t like my name.

  Why?

  It’s plain.

  What is a plain name?

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  Fine, what do you read?

  Large books.

  And right now?

  2666.

  Bolaño?

  Si.

  He nodded. I’m gonna change the song. The Velvet Underground. “Venus in Furs.”

  What’s wrong with the Velvet Underground? She asked.

  Nothing, but they’re not exactly party music.

  Her friend was the one who put it on. She wasn’t very happy with him playing the Strokes instead. He was switching from New Yorkers to younger New Yorkers.

  So what? he said. The Strokes are just as arty as the Velvet Underground, but they’re much more suited to parties. You designers and architects always put pose above music.

  What a hideous stereotype, she told him.

  Sometimes you have to apply them.

  But you told me you can’t stand stereotypes.

  Stereotypes are fun as long as they’re not about me.

  That’s a bit hypocritical.

  It’s extremely hypocritical.

  You’re a strange guy, full of contradictions.

  That’s Zen.

  It has nothing to do with Zen.

  I like to believe it does.

  Are you lying to yourself?

  I am naive enough to believe things that are clearly not true.

  I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.

  Me neither.

  I think the world might be a better place if we were all a bit stupid. But I’m not sure that I could pull that off.

  Me neither.

  You know what?

  I don’t.

  These times weren’t made for you.

  He laughed.

  Let’s get out of here, she said.

  Where to?

  My place. I have a bottle of wine at home. You can play the Strokes.

  Deal.

  ˜

  They got out of there. The moon was a tiny notch against the night sky. He told her that.

  How do people forget about the moon? About all of its forms?

  I don’t know, she said. I like it when I can see its face. You know, like it’s howling or at least shocked at all it sees. Like it’s saying: “Why the hell are you making everything so complicated?”

  It seems indifferent to me.

  Oh, so you don’t think the moon would mind if I kissed you right now?

  That’s right.

  You know, I’m like the moon sometimes. I observe and I’m indifferent.

  I know that feeling. I know this might sound ridiculous, but I’m trying to make my life more like a novel or a movie.

  Well now, these topics go better with some wine and music.

  Where do you live?

  Not far away. We can walk.

  Deal.

  ˜

  The first time they made love, they were measuring each other’s strength. It wasn’t as much about sex as it was about proving skill. It was still dark when he woke. The street light was crashing against the window and dispersing all around her tiny bedroom. There was a Modesty Blaise poster above her bed. On her night stand, Murakami’s Norwegian Wood and Bolaño’s 2666.

  He got up, put on his pants and his shirt. Tied his shoes. Took his coat and got ready to leave. Standard practice. He stopped. She was still asleep, her arms embraced around the vacant space where his body lay a moment ago. He picked up her mobile phone and put his number in it. He left the room silently and sent her a text.

  Oh … sweetness, sweetness, I was only joking

  When I said by rights you should be

  Bludgeoned in your bed.

  ˜

  So, you made love? he lit a cigarette with a match. They were standing in front of a diner and it was pouring rain.

  Made love? Buddy, I might be a romantic, but I don’t think I’ve ever made love to anyone. He lit a cigarette using his.

  Fine, did you penetrate?

  Elias blew the smoke away.

  Well?

  A gentleman never tells.

  We’re no gentlemen. You’re an idiot and I’m a bum. But I’m also your best friend.

  My best friend? He raised his eyebrow.

  Yes.

  What are we, in kindergarten?

  Fine, you don’t need to tell me, I don’t give a fuck. But you’re not coming to my birthday.

  He laughed. Fine, yes, we did.

  Cool.

  Cool.

  Let’s get inside, he tossed away his cigarette.

  Let’s.

  They went back to their table and sat down. Their coffee had gone cold. Elias took a sip.

  Yuck.

  Yeah, and it’s not much better hot.

  They sat quietly. Elias was nervously tapping his fingers on the table. Little finger, ring finger, middle finger, index finger. It sounded like a gallop.

  I’m gonna get going. I haven’t gotten much sleep the past few days and this phone call of yours in the middle of the night was of no help.

  Sorry.

  Don’t sweat it. I’ll see you around.

  See you around, Maroje.

  Don’t use my name. That’s what she told him. He remembered the poster in her bedroom. Modesty Blaise. Yes, that’s what he could call her. Modesty.

  They were like two lines that took an eternity to touch, a moment to live out the eternity, and a moment to disappear, uncertain of the possibility of another intersection. Two accidents waiting to occur.

  And so he sat in the diner under the arrhythmic flickering of the neon lights. The only thing tying him to her was the pattering of rain on the window. He was nervously tapping his fingers on the table. Little finger, ring finger, middle finger, index finger. It sounded like a gallop. And she was sleeping. Dreaming of walking barefoot in the snow. On a field of snow where the sky is white and as frozen as the ground. The sun frail and distant. Almost as if …


  “The Volvox Doesn’t Glow in the Dark”

  She insisted that I wasn’t listening to her or something like that. There was nothing wrong with it, she wasn’t upset, but she came to the conclusion that I have trouble focusing. The sun was emerging, the water for coffee was just starting to boil, the waves were murmuring as they caressed the sand. The sound was making me want to take a piss. The sun was emerging and she insisted I wasn’t listening to her. I went to take a piss.

  I could hear the spoon clanging against the cup. Have you decided? On what? Whether you’re going home or not. Should I stay or should I go? She’s talking again, I can’t hear her over the stream. I yell, What? I said I knew you would find me.

  I can feel her warm breath on my ear. We’re at a nightclub, electro blasting and I can’t hear her well. I answer by taking a sip of my beer. Ever since we met in that record store, I can’t get her out of my head. A miniature hurricane that claimed to go by Megi.

  Who did you come with? I ask. My brother. The one who collects LPs? What? she can’t hear me. The one who collects LPs? I yell into her ear. She’s wearing a subtle perfume. I like that. Wanna get outta here?

  Sure, I say. I need to take a piss, wait for me outside. She nods. I go to the can. No line in the men’s room. I’m done fast. I close my zipper and get out. She’s sipping coffee. She’s handing me my cup. The sun is advancing fast. It’s no longer a crimson newborn.

  I said you didn’t have to go.

  I answer by taking a sip of my coffee. I ask her if she wants to come with me to the beach. She says she does not. She’ll be drinking coffee on the terrace, doing crosswords and Sudoku. I grab a towel and a book, Hemingway’s short stories, and take a seat at the table.

  You like to go to the beach when there’s practically no one around. I don’t like the noise, the children screaming. I like the sound of children playing.

  I shrug and finish my coffee. I kiss her on the cheek. I won’t be too long, I say. I get out and walk toward the beach about a hundred feet away from her house. I spread my towel and lay the Hemingway on it. I go into the water. It’s cold and sending chills down my spine, my body instinctively wants to get out. I dive in and decide to swim toward the buoys. There I turn over to my back and let the waves cradle me. No point in writhing, just close your eyes. Peacefully.

  I wasn’t sure how long the kiss went on. Perhaps only for a second, but perhaps it’s been a couple of hours, and the sun is now dawning.

  I like you, you’re a good kisser. I like Marica from the second grade better. Her socks don’t fall down to her ankles like yours do. Is she as good a kisser as I am? I haven’t heard that verb in quite a while, “to kiss.” People normally use these gross phrases. Like what? To make out, it sounds so mechanical. So is Marica as good a kisser as I am? Who’s Marica?

  She lets out a laugh, turns on her heel, and walks toward the club. I follow her and go in. Megi is still doing her crosswords. I leave my book on the table. I’m going to take a shower, I say.

  The hot water’s out, she yells. Doesn’t matter. I get into the shower and let the water run, lukewarm water, like summer rain. That sounds like a cliché. Summer rain! Anyway, it feels good. Salt dissolved in the shower water is running down my body in snakelike curves.

  Rain is pouring all over us and we run to the nearest doorway. I press her against the wall. I can taste the rain on her lips, the filthy rain. I tell her that. In return, she slams me against the opposite wall. She says it’s a good thing her brother can’t see us. He can’t stand anyone touching his little sister.

  I’m a rebel, I do whatever I want. Prove it to me.

  I think about it, and eye the surnames on the intercom. I slide my finger pressing each buzzer. I wink at her and run to the next doorway. I repeat the action. We are running down the street. The lights in the apartments are coming on; people are looking out their windows. The streets are empty. All they hear is laughter.

  We’re taking a walk in a small Mediterranean town. We summoned the courage to hold hands. It’s a bit strange since she’s much shorter than me. We are quiet. The silence is comfortable. In fact, that too is a kind of communication. Everything’s fine, you don’t have to tell me, I know it. We’re walking, we soon arrive back at her house, and I tell her I’m going to the beach for a short while. She’ll be waiting.

  I promised to drop by her place and now I’m climbing toward the Upper Town. I see the city spreading below me, the windows are shimmering like the volvox or whatever-they’re-called do on the sea surface. The moon is already so close I could grab it by its horn. I reached out my hand and closed my eyes.

  Are you going to spend the night here? Megi takes a seat next to me, hugging her legs, shaking. No. The sand isn’t as warm as you are. Then get inside. I’m going to stay for a few more days, I tell her, I get up and I kiss her. The sea lies behind me, almost pitch black. On its surface you can see the shimmering volvox or whatever-they’re-called. The moon is so close I could grab it by its horn.

  “The Happy and Dead”

  That morning Andrej Kalovski determined he was dead. He was still breathing, his pulse throbbing, his entire body going like clockwork, but fuck it, he was a dead man. He was drinking coffee and using his free hand to tie his tie, a skill he had acquired over the years, working in a gray firm with gray hallways, where everyone wore gray suits, drank tasteless coffee, and ate free lunches that tasted sort of gray. In addition to the skill of one-handed tie tying, he had also developed a sense of apathy toward each and every aspect of his life. The understanding that he was dead came to him with no shock whatsoever, and he continued to sip his coffee, having already managed to tie his tie. On his way out of the apartment, his wife reminded him to take out the garbage.

  The outside greeted him with early-morning cold and quiet, there was hardly anyone on the streets. He headed for the bus stop, which is where each day at 7:22 AM he catches the bus to work. Every morning he meets the same set of people at the stop, dressed in the same set of clothes, standing in the same spots. Today, however, he spotted a new person at the stop. A short girl with ruffled black hair reaching chin length. He could distinctly make out the traces of smudged make-up around her big black eyes and the somewhat paler eye circles. She was wearing an oversized black shirt and tight jeans, looking right at him and smiling as if they knew each other. He saw her lips move, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.

  I wasn’t saying anything.

  Oh, I thought …

  … I was just moving my lips.

  I can’t read lips.

  I’ll teach you. Try again.

  Andrej observed as she moved her lips, carefully shaping each muffled syllable. Do-you-ha-ve-a-smo-ke?

  I don’t.

  There you go! It wasn’t that hard. Besides, I don’t smoke.

  Why would a lady who doesn’t smoke need a cigarette?

  Lose the lady.

  Excuse me?

  Why would you need a cigarette, she says, stressing the “you.”

  Oh, right. Why would you need a cigarette? He asks, also stressing the “you.”

  To start up a conversation.

  The bus arrives, Andrej gets on, and the girl stays at the stop.

  Hey, aren’t you getting on?

  No, it’s too crowded, I’ll take the next one.

  But …

  The doors close. The girl is further and further away. Andrej kept thinking about her for the rest of the day. While they were waiting for the bus in the evening, he looked up at his colleague. Do-you-ha-ve-a-smo-ke?

  What?

  I wasn’t talking, I was only moving my lips.

  The colleague gave him a puzzled look. Andrej, you’re working too hard.

  Yes, perhaps.

  He got home. Had supper. Didn’t fuck the wife. Before falling asleep, he thought about the strange girl from the bus stop. Maybe he’ll see her in the morning.

  Morning. He was drinki
ng coffee and using his free hand to tie his tie, a skill he had acquired over the years, working in a gray firm with gray hallways, where everyone wore gray suits, drank tasteless coffee, and ate free lunches that tasted sort of gray. On his way out of the apartment, his wife reminded him to take out the garbage.

  There she was! She was tying the shoelace on her sneaker while hopping on one leg. The people at the stop paid no attention to her.

  Hello! he approached her.

  She took one look at him and went back to tying her shoelace.

  My colleagues can’t read lips either.

  She finishes tying her shoelace. She crosses her arms and starts reading the timetable.

  What is it, don’t you remember? I’m the one you asked for a cigarette yesterday, even though you don’t smoke.

  She still says nothing. The bus arrives. He looks at her, gets in, and sits down resignedly. Yesterday must have been just a bit of fun for her. The doors close, she hops on at the last moment. She walks up to him.

  I dreamed that I was taking a bungee jump from outer space toward the earth.

  What?

  Yes. It felt amazing.

  Why wouldn’t you talk to me at the stop?

  I did yesterday.

  So?

  But I didn’t get on the bus with you.

  I still don’t get it.

  This way I’m creating a sense of coherence. I didn’t talk to you out there, but now I will in here. There you go.

  And tomorrow?

  What?

  What are you going to do tomorrow?

  What’s tomorrow?

  The day after today.

  I find that concept a bit vague. I’m not able to look so far ahead.

  Oh. So bungee jumping, you were saying?

  Yes! The earth was getting closer and closer, and the second before I hit the ground, the rope pulled me back up again.

  I never dream about anything interesting.

  I don’t believe you.

  No, really. I only dream about my exams, the hardest ones, from back when I was in college.

  So change something.

  I don’t know how to change things in my dreams.

  You don’t need to. Change something in your life.

  What should I do?

  Quit your job.

 

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