Antidote to a Curse

by James Cristina

  The door slammed, slicing through the vagrancy of my thoughts. Zlatko drove back along the dirt road in his father’s truck, now no bigger than a coin, well on the other side of the crack in the mirror. I steered my attention to the right of the fissure and watched her approach. She was on the last stretch of road that would lead to her hamlet. It was important that I cut her off before she got to the river, the bridge. I noticed her falter, a slight misstep as she looked straight at the truck. In some weird way it felt like making eye contact, though from this distance that was not possible. I traced the cut of her billowing skirt, her high-heeled ankle-cut boots that would founder hopelessly in the wet terrain, and that bolt of hair flashing like a horse’s mane, chestnut.

  Instinctively, I leaned away from the mirror, but I knew it was too late. That stare, that recognition, sent an adrenaline rush so intense I broke into a sweat. I pulled the glove box open and reached for the coiled stretch of lacquered rope and stuffed it unceremoniously into my pocket, the evidence incriminating even in the horrid scent of denial. I stuffed the rope into my pocket and released the door.

  I sat at Stalactites, at a four-seater table, alone. I looked back at the few pages I had written, a compelling distillation? Inspired by dreams, the photos, Zlatko’s stories … Why ‘torn’ entry? Was I implying that this was something that Zlatko would appropriate? The suggestion being that it was something surviving or stolen from Zlatko’s enclave, Bihać?

  Could it stand as a translation? Translated into English after his move to Australia? Whatever it was, it was certainly a diversion from the ill-received novel I had stuffed into my backpack after the brief commentary I had received yesterday, all within Darko’s earshot. What was said in the cafe remained in the cafe, unless it filtered into my journal – I gave myself this freedom.

  I wondered what he would make of this attempt. I could imagine him skimming the draft and raising a questioning brow over two searching eyes. Of course, I had no intention of showing it to him. Ifran was obviously someone he knew. I couldn’t help but suspect that he must have been someone that he liked and someone he grew to hate. The intensity of this cocktail of mixed emotions was there in the intimacy of its details, the story’s implicit violence. Zlatko hadn’t been altogether forthcoming about Ifran. His relationship to Zlatko and his real station remained a mystery.

  Zlatko slipped the menu between the sugar canister and the salt and pepper shakers with a dismissive wave. He wrapped one hand nervously around the cigarette pack and with his other fumbled inside his faded jean jacket. He pulled out some photographs, a suite of four, and shuffled them. I detected his face briefly before it disappeared among the blur of glossy snaps. I leaned in for the viewing. Zlatko attempted a loose shuffle although the cards were prone to sticking. Something about the colour, the setting and the stone facades seemed other-worldly. I could tell from Zlatko’s lowered lashes, his steadfast gaze, that he was set on a particular order.

  After shuffling the photos for a good half a minute he placed one on the laminated tabletop and slipped the rest into his pocket.

  I leaned in further and, in spite of myself, I held my breath. I pulled the photo towards me.

  ‘Jasna,’ I pronounced, as if we’d been introduced. I knew it was her without Zlatko needing to say a single word, but was immediately distracted by what appeared to be a phantasmagorical double, a print, a woman she was standing next to. I noted Jasna’s signature upturned eyes, the thick bolt of reddish hair parted crudely, and the pronounced collarbones beneath a low-cut shimmery tee. The photo was an animated shot; she looked like she was gesturing to someone outside the frame while pointing enthusiastically at a print entitled The Creation of the Birds.

  The extraordinary print was life-size. It portrayed a woman, or a kind of woman, who appeared half-bird. The character was tall and thin and sat upright over a very basic-looking desk. The desk was fashioned out of a few carved wooden planks. Prominent owl-like discs framed eyes that seemed closed, as if in prayer, since they were lowered to the work beneath her. She held a triangular prism in one hand, which she used to refract and fan a ray of planetary light from one of the open-arched windows over a bird that she was painting, or rather invigorating with life. The paintbrush, or nib, extended from a thin pliable tube that disappeared into the sound hole of a miniaturised guitar that hung like a pendant, or a crucifix, from the subject’s neck. I stared at the guitar. The instrument stirred my thoughts and brought the concoction into focus. The sound hole was an entry point to the creature’s heart. The tube that curved its way between the guitar strings and into the hollow resembled an artery. Was blood the essential ingredient to this artist’s palette? The creator was carefully painting the bird’s tail and the bird, though incomplete, was lifting itself off the blotter as if ready to take flight.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked Zlatko, pointing to the photo.

  ‘The Creation of the Birds,’ he said, stating the obvious.

  ‘A painting?’

  He gave a brief nod. ‘Varo.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Remedios Varo,’ he repeated, in an accent that seemed altered yet recognisable.

  ‘Bosnian?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed, not unkindly. ‘Half Spanish, half Mexican.’

  ‘Another hybrid,’ I uttered, thinking out loud. Jasna appeared animated – a photo where creation was the central theme, not death.

  Zlatko reached into his jean jacket and pulled out another photo, which I’d caught sight of briefly while he was shuffling. This photo was garish and comic. It was a close-up of a man in near profile with a gold coin stuck between his square-perfect, whiter-than-white teeth, staring into the camera. The man was in his thirties, self-assured, with a sweep of thick, dark brown hair. It was a low-angle shot, just below eye level. The angle, however slight, gave the smiling man an aristocratic air.

  ‘Ifran,’ he said in a tone of recognisable discomfort.

  ‘Ifran,’ I repeated, pulling the photo towards me. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Partner?’ I asked, looking over the photo.

  He lifted his fingers off the tabletop.

  I placed the photo on the tabletop and he aligned it carefully next to the first, and then proceeded to pull out another photo which he placed beneath the first. He had his suite of cards and was aligning each one carefully. This was a photo of both Jasna and Zlatko. Apart from being thinner, Zlatko looked just about the same.

  ‘This is us at Hana’s.’ I was reeled by another hook. ‘Just after the poetry competition,’ he said, laying a thumbprint over the woman’s face.

  Poetry competition, I thought to myself. Hana’s. Unable to resist. ‘Hana?’

  ‘Bookshop.’ He pointed out the rows of shelves.

  I looked at the group behind them. ‘Poetry competition.’ And after another glance at the locals, ‘In Bosnian?’

  ‘We could afford to be regional.’ He winked cheekily.

  ‘Did she place?’ I asked, lifting the third photo off the tabletop.

  ‘She won,’ he declared, pride reverberating in his voice, discernible in the photograph.

  The contours of his thumbprint distracted me, though the sweaty swirls evaporated in seconds, leaving the photo open to scrutiny. The faces were white and sleepy-looking – drunkenness ringed their eyes. The big-featured woman was small-breasted and thin-shouldered, and though she sat closest to the photographer there were other reasons her face dominated the print. Zlatko sat beside her, thinner-looking, younger-looking, in a blue shirt with a prominent buttoned-down collar lined with a chequered fabric of pink and white squares. He looked like the poet himself, sporting silver-rimmed glasses. Jasna looked at least thirty-two, and Zlatko a good ten years younger. He had the same silver sleeper pierced through the top of his left ear. His hair was black and gelled forward in messy waves. He clung onto some folded sheets of paper on the table they were sitting at. The two made an odd pair, but they did look like a pai
r. Something in the relaxed, complacent way they were seated indicated that they were a couple.

  ‘Did you read?’ I asked searchingly.

  ‘A friend’s piece.’

  I looked for the small pockets of background. Among the bookshelves I could detect the harsh crevices of rock. He assured me the rock was artificial, a fibreglass nativity setting. The bunched candles were electric, like those suspended over the enclave next to the bar at Stalactites. The patrons smoked profusely even though the whole place was little more than carton and wax.

  ‘Seems like quite a place.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he conceded, fanning the smoke before reaching into his pocket.

  ‘This is the next photo I want to talk about.’

  These four carelessly preserved prints were the few tangible remains of a narrative that coiled and diverted in compelling trajectories from the story barely hinted at in our near daily meetings. He dealt out the last before leaning forward to sweep the photos into the palm of his hand. I wondered whether he had changed his mind.

  Darko brought our coffees over. He noticed the photos and the way they were curled in Zlatko’s palm. He noted everything and failed to react. Zlatko dealt them out a second time, four in all, colourful, close-up and garish. He placed the four in a block and pointed to the one at the bottom right.

  ‘This is when things began to go …’ He tapped the tabletop briefly. The gesture failed to inspire a single syllable.

  The last photo was the one closest to me. It had been taken at a rally. I could see Jasna with a banner bordered with green stripes and the letters SDA marked in the centre, marching in front of a castle. She held the banner high above her head, triumphal. I looked for Zlatko’s face among the torn sprawl of contenders. I was unable to find him, but managed to spot Ifran’s face in the background. I looked at it the way I would look at foreign calligraphy: fascinated, attracted, but unable to understand. It was an intriguing photo but in a different language.

  ‘It was a mess,’ he stated, reverting to the facts behind the image.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was never going to work,’ he blurted.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We had different allegiances.’

  ‘Did you take the photograph?’ I asked, looking at the second.

  ‘Yes.’

  I fastened on the cheeky man with a gold coin stuck square in his teeth. He brushed his hand over mine, his forefinger tapping the background. ‘It was taken at work.’

  ‘Ah!’ I allowed, politely returning to the photo of the rally, intrigued even further by the detail, the white faces. I could tell from the way they were dressed that it must have been cold. I lifted the photo and tilted it against the light. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was an anti-Fikret meeting.’

  ‘Anti-who meeting?’

  He swallowed drily, as if some sliver of bone were stuck in his throat. Despite the cleverly thrashed-out structure, the point-by-point revelations, he was unable to continue.

  I leaned in, the photos spread out before me. ‘Who’s Fikret?’

  ‘My boss,’ he stated, sweeping the perspiration through his matted blond hair.

  According to Zlatko the last photo belonged to the suite, but it was unlike the others. There was something about it that signalled a turning point, as dramatic as the rally itself, but I couldn’t draw the threads together. The photograph had been taken at the foot of a castle. In fact, despite the location, the banners and the smiles, there was something about the photo that could easily pass as a fake, a re-enactment of sorts, some university prank or a heritage act. But the action was of its time; it was self-referential and did not refer to anything else. It was an interesting still, possibly even the very juncture – then things fell apart. To get a fuller sense of the narrative I needed to know what had come afterwards. These photos provided an introduction to some interesting characters, but in terms of story, the photos themselves seemed random and somewhat unrelated. Nonetheless, Zlatko had arranged them to indicate that they were a suite of sorts. I had read numerous stories about Fikret Abdić but at the time couldn’t place the name. I looked into Zlatko’s eyes and back at the four neatly arranged prints before me. The bones of some troubling skeleton had come to surface.

  His forefinger landed on the third photo. I focused on the pair seated before me, the folded pieces of paper and the tumblers of whisky. ‘It was late,’ he said, tapping his own face in the photo. Yes, he looked tired. After gaining my attention, he slumped back in his seat as if he’d had a sudden change of heart. Irrespective of his body language I leaned in closer. It was almost four. I could just detect the small hand of the wall clock in the photograph. I tapped the clock’s white face with the tip of my finger.

  After slipping on his glasses, he pulled the photograph close and noted the time. ‘It was taken just before we left.’ He whirled the photo back on the table as if it were a playing card. It landed facedown over Ifran’s photo.

  They left together, I thought, unable to maintain eye contact.

  He reminisced while slouched back in his seat. ‘I let myself go. I felt like I was drifting …’

  I imagined him driving through darkness, dawn and then light. ‘You connected.’

  ‘But without knowing each other, without knowing whether we suited. She had escaped from Bužim for a few days, or so she told me …’ He twisted his head, his mouth, indicating doubt. ‘Jasna was an odd name for a village girl.’

  ‘You drove into the woods?’

  The gazebo’s light penetrated my room, casting long, triangulated shadows along the ceiling. I imagined them to be the edges of the book Nancy was reading, forming some sort of protective canopy while I lay in bed. I left her to More’s Utopia and thought of Bosnian villages nestled among green hills, minarets, church spires, the open road, Ifran’s old, battered van … The palm branch tapped lightly against the glass pane, reminding me to insert my earplugs. I turned the clock towards me. The red LED highlighted that it was 11.21. Despite the coffee I had drunk, I slept deeply.

  Within seconds the main road was no longer visible. Zlatko took Ifran’s invitation to drive his van as a compliment, a sign of trust. After a moment’s hesitation, the key resting idle in the ignition, Zlatko reciprocated by driving them north. He referred to the rear-view mirror out of habit. Zlatko had anticipated the turn in dreams and musings, a slide, a film still conjured before its time. When the wheels bit the track, the execution was marked by the crunch of gravel that thinned into weed, grass and surprisingly a poppy field, tucked into a cleared fold.

  The bonnet of Ifran’s van was surrounded with flowers. Some of the stalks were frozen and the thin unyielding flutes were crushed beneath the tyres. The windows were wound down, and Jasna took the air deep into her lungs. There were three of them, all piled up in the front seat of Ifran’s van. The poppies twinkled like toffee wrappers in the morning sun. Among the swaying red flowers the track seemed all but lost. It felt like they were floating, and with the waves undulating through the high grass, he thought this was what it must feel like to set sail. It had rained during the night and Zlatko had to resist the temptation to drive on. Yes, funny that. He had to remind himself that he had liked them a lot at the beginning. Whenever he wished to remember more amicable times, he thought of this scene.

  Of course, it was a risk to take two staunch and outspoken advocates of the Armija of BiH, the Republican Party, to his workplace, but, he thought, something about the transgression would test their mettle. For Zlatko, a meaningful bond was predicated upon loyalty. The friendship would simply not be able to survive any breach of this loyalty. They would either stand or fall, together. The invitation was a bold act, one that would test an aspiring poet and an ambitious budding academic. Only he could take them to this world, this breakaway province.

  He knew the two guards stationed at Tržac by name. He negotiated the crossing, the check, with a few words. The guards walked around the van, peered into the win
dow and waved him on. He drove into the night, purposeful, with the headlights turned high, trailing dawn, while Ifran and Jasna were still asleep. Ifran woke first and once Jasna stirred he told them that he was taking them away. Ifran returned a weary gaze. What could this possibly mean? With the light breaking through the leaves around them, Jasna wound the window down a little, and took note of one of the few surviving road signs. Ifran gave him a slight nudge and after catching his eye, smiled knowingly.

  ‘Fikret’s castle!’ Ifran declared, releasing a mouthful of mist into the morning air as he zipped his padded jacket right up to his chin. He had spotted the signature black turret with its high-pitched slate tiles through the distant trees and stood there pointing.

  As they cleared the cluster of icy conifers, Zlatko glanced briefly at his companion, and taking his hands out of his pockets welcomed them to Velika Kladuša. The castle stood on its rise in full view. Ifran cast an appreciative look around. Zlatko was keen to take them inside, but Jasna turned around and looked at the gabled roofs of the nearby houses glinting in the early sun. She rubbed her eyes. ‘Everything’s fuzzy.’ She blinked in an attempt to focus. Zlatko stepped in beside her and viewed the terraced landscape to his left; he viewed a cluster of louvred wooden boxes, each with a narrow spiral staircase of lacquered wood.

  ‘First time?’ Zlatko asked.

  Jasna arranged her scarf so that it fitted snugly, before replying, ‘No.’

  Ifran stepped in beside them. ‘Switzerland,’ he joked, as he traced Jasna’s gaze through the surrounding hamlet towards the village below.

  ‘First time?’ Zlatko asked him.

  ‘Never this far north,’ he said, shooting him a wink. Zlatko looked him up and down. He wasn’t expecting this from someone who travelled internationally. He saw the look on Jasna’s face and smiled openly towards her before taking a step towards the drawbridge. He couldn’t help but shake his head.