Antidote to a Curse

by James Cristina

  One of the main reasons he’d driven them there was to show them the view. From the main turret Croatia – that is, the internationally recognised country of Croatia – was no more than a glance away, past the mad hatter’s border that turned and twisted at 90-degree angles. It seemed a line ruled at whim. But that was not what he’d come for. He wanted to show them the country. Not the soldiers, the checkpoints, the barbed wire, which fuelled the enigma and the endless tirades of those who lived in the neighbouring towns, but the country itself.

  ‘You can let yourself in,’ Zlatko offered nonchalantly. The key, no less than a foot long, appeared to have been forged out of the blackest iron, set in a gothic cast. Catching his eye through an ornate swirl Jasna smiled wryly. He handed it to her and pointed towards the castle’s doors. ‘I’m serious, there’s nobody here.’

  She laughed, anchored momentarily by the weight of the key. He could tell it all appeared incongruous: the prize, the drive, the castle and now the key. How did an invitation to a poetry competition at Hana’s end up here? Ifran stiffened; despite the joviality of it all, he could tell Zlatko was serious.

  ‘Lead the way.’ He pointed, nodding vehemently towards the door.

  ‘If we get caught?’ The nervousness in Jasna’s voice underscored her desire to enter; she pushed the key towards him but didn’t let it go.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he insisted, pushing the key back with an open palm. Seeing that his reassurance did not sway her, he added, ‘I work here – I can’t get caught, can I?’

  Finding her nerve, she said, ‘You’re with him, aren’t you?’ ‘

  You’re with Babo?’ Ifran asked, incredulous.

  Jasna failed to meet Zlatko’s gaze. ‘I thought you worked for Una-Sana,’ she said, meaning the canton, or whatever remained of it, not Fikret Abdić. She traced the crenellated edge of the curtain wall before meeting Zlatko’s searching gaze face on.

  ‘Welcome to Switzerland,’ Ifran repeated, pointing to the door. Ifran made it plainly evident that he knew that the castle was linked to Fikret’s multi-million-dollar enterprise Agrokomerc.

  A silence descended upon them and the resonant echo of ‘Babo, Babo’ lighted the passageway of Zlatko’s thoughts. After all, it was Fikret’s operational headquarters, it was here that he exerted his leadership; this castle represented the pinnacle of his possessions, it functioned as the illustrious seat of his enormous enterprise, Agrokomerc. It was due to his leadership, his pragmatism (at least in the early days), his determination, his ruthlessness and his links with warring factions: both with the Croatians and the occupying Serbs, just over the border, and ultimately his ability to employ so many locals that had earned Fikret Abdić the nickname Babo, ‘Father’. Despite the demands exerted by the ruling party in Sarajevo, he acted independently. After all, he was successful. Ultimately, it was his ability to negotiate with his neighbours, to succeed where they had so obviously failed, that resulted in the breakdown with fellow Bosnians in Sarajevo. He became a ‘stand-alone’ man with his own army, his own jurisdiction.

  Yet Zlatko could tell that both Ifran and Jasna were charmed by the simple things: the reverberation of their footsteps, the raw stone walls, the doors, the wood panelling in some of the adjoining rooms, the rustic chandeliers chained to the rafters with their near-transparent gold bowls of blown glass.

  South-facing windows caught the late morning sun. The courtyard was wide, green, and thanks to a rectangle of flowerless rose bushes, austere. The windows were made up of small winking squares that extended from knee to cloud, each tapering to a high pointed arch. The bookshelves opposite, at least double the width of the window frame, were also set in arches. The keystones were ornamented with fleurs-de-lis. When Zlatko flicked the switch, all three looked up to admire the chandeliers.

  At the head of the room was a purpose-built desk fabricated from the same wood as the dais it was mounted on. Zlatko had no way of telling what sort of wood it was, but he imagined that it was local. Bosnia Herzegovina had abundant supplies of oak, as did Croatia. The desk sported a fine, highly lacquered finish. It was the teacher’s desk, the leader’s desk – that of the successful father, Babo. Ifran chuckled to himself as he pulled the seat back. Zlatko imagined that Ifran understood the impulse to lead, given that he was an aspiring professor, albeit of an itinerant nature. With his job in Japan and the academic opportunities there and his roots here, he could never see him settling down, forming the sort of attachments those here were prepared to fight for. Zlatko admired the ambition of his compatriots, their pragmatism and their ability to make do with the day-to-day.

  Zlatko stood with his nose to the glass, his thoughts mired by the rosebush colony. He extended his hand high and pushed out the window to light up a cigarette. He wondered what it must be like to leave Bosnia and live in a foreign county. He knew scores of people who had, some even moving as far away as Australia and New Zealand. Jasna stood with her neck craned back as she scanned the upper row of leather hardbacks.

  The dreams were interpretations of Zlatko’s stories and had been influenced, in part, by a set of movies I inherited before leaving Sydney. I acquired a stash of old super-8 movies with no sound, no apparent sequence, grainy. Michael’s Cameras in downtown Melbourne transferred them onto a set of DVDs that I could view on my laptop.

  Zlatko’s stories had also been influenced by a death in the family.

  Watching one of the films, I realised the distance was beyond traversing and this film, like the dreams, provided limited access.

  Nancy lit up her lamp. I struck the pause button. From my bedroom window I had an uninterrupted view of the gazebo. The garden was suffused with a soft light. Armed with a couple of magazines she had taken her place in her rocking chair. That night I dreamed about Jasna and Zlatko in the town of Velika Kladuša, Fikret’s town. The dream unreeled like an old super-8 in full colour.

  … a van rolled into a poppy field and came to an abrupt halt. The passenger-side door opened and Jasna plunged into the high grass. The field poppies were mixed with cornflowers and the blue, deep, hypnotic, created a dizzying variance among the red petals. Her red ribbon matched perfectly and the poppies, translucent, wind-tossed, folded tellingly against her plain dress. It was then she realised that the colour of his car was not beige or off-white, as she had previously thought, but canvas. She ran her hand over the coarse weave of her pleated skirt as the driver’s door opened. Zlatko leapt out and stepped into the grass, where he was at risk of being swallowed whole. Among the pockets of grass heads and varying stalk heights he appeared to be naked. He waited for her to say something, but instead she clapped her hands, once, twice. The film cut, momentarily, to a shot of the surrounding woods before settling back on the couple.

  They didn’t seem to be in the least worried about being caught.

  The dream panned across varying parts of the city and the surrounding landscape to highlight rows of conifers and a green undulating hillside. It was a Sunday morning in the city of Velika Kladuša, and though the imam had already climbed his one remaining turret (the other destroyed in a recent bomb attack) and issued the call to prayer, the city was still. The church bells had yet to ring and the city’s synagogue was shut. Even Fikret’s castle remained unattended.

  In the next segment Zlatko appeared fully clothed and well groomed, surprising since the pair still seemed to be marooned in the poppy field, but the film had been poorly spliced and this depiction of the couple may in fact have borne no relation to their surroundings. The dream panned across a few more outdoor shots. Zlatko and Jasna appeared again as they did moments before, but this time at an awards ceremony. They both seem to have won prizes. Zlatko was presented with an envelope, and he shook the hand of the gentleman conducting the ceremony. Jasna received both an envelope and a certificate which she presented proudly.

  ‘Do you have a copy of her poem?’

  ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  ‘The one that won.’

  I could
tell from Zlatko’s smile that the question was expected. He had asked for a copy of the poem but apparently she had not been happy with it.

  ‘It won?’ I reminded him.

  ‘There was no second.’

  ‘There’s always a second.’

  ‘The prize was hers, perhaps from the start.’

  ‘Nobody could match her?’ I hazarded to ask.

  He pulled his cigarette from the ashtray and inhaled meditatively. ‘The competition was fixed.’

  ‘Fixed?’ Despite my tone, Zlatko regarded me with sedate eyes. ‘Why fixed?’

  ‘To shut her up.’

  ‘Why?’ I persisted.

  ‘Why? Why?’ he repeated, scratching his head. ‘She knew too much.’

  ‘They didn’t want her to defect?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not.’

  I looked at him, unwaveringly, sure he would continue.

  ‘The prize was half-baked,’ he said, reminiscing.

  I gave him a confused look.

  ‘It had the wrong category,’ he explained. ‘She won for best poem, but the certificate had “short story” printed under her name.’

  ‘Did she know? Did she work it out?’

  ‘Yes, with the help of a few informants.’ He leaned to the ashtray for his cigarette, keen to change the subject. He exhaled. I watched the smoke rise and allowed the silence to mellow.

  ‘What did you do after your drive out to the castle?’ I asked.

  ‘The castle?’ he asked, pointing to the photo of the rally.

  The photo, only years old, seemed from another epoch.

  ‘We slept. We slept and dropped Ifran off.’

  ‘So you didn’t visit the castle?’

  ‘What castle?’ Despite the eye contact, I could detect a degree of caginess. I pointed to his photo, evidence.

  ‘It was late …’ I could tell from the way that he turned his hand that it was getting dark, or just about to get dark. ‘She wanted to get back home.’

  In the store Zlatko undid the latch and allowed me behind the counter. He turned a plastic crate upside down: ‘Take a seat.’

  He opened the till and arranged the money, smashing rolls of coins against the counter’s edge. I sat there, contemplative, surrounded by magazines, videos, gels and an assortment of rubbery paraphernalia … What luxury and boredom created this industry? Stacked neatly below the counter was Zlatko’s stuff. A folded newspaper, an incomplete letter with srs, ts and zs in roman script, and a dog-eared paperback that I pulled gingerly by the cover: The End of Innocence: Britain in the Time of AIDS. Under the glare of the fluorescent light, Zlatko’s eye followed. With his hands in the till he watched in silence. I swallowed drily, the sound loud in my ears as I flicked through the paperback.

  ‘Interesting,’ I allowed, and in truth, the book, complete with historical black-and-white photos, did look interesting. In spite of an impulse to read on, I felt a pressure in my chest. I felt the feathery brush of a wing, a constriction of tissue and rib. ‘I should get moving.’

  ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

  I was already in the doorway, tangled among the coloured streamers.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he called.

  I stepped back into the shop and gave a conciliatory nod. ‘Tomorrow.’

  Even the smell of blood and rotting corpses had disappeared now that Henry’s new refrigerator and exhaust system were up and running. After rushing back, I realised there was nothing to do. The house was empty. Everything was ordered. The smell of furniture polish prickled my nostrils. The teak shimmered beneath the crocheted doily. Ned and Nancy had regained their place, now that the photo had been wiped clean. Nancy was wearing a low-cut, red knitted dress. She kept this one, the size of a modest postcard, ‘His fortieth,’ on display. Nancy’s door was open, the bed arranged. Henry’s boilersuit was hanging on the back door, and in the kitchen Lina had left a chicken sandwich on the counter. At least I think it was for me; beside it was a note, Keep Clear.

  I pricked the plastic and forced the air out. I unwrapped the plate and gobbled down the sandwich; sometimes, just sometimes, there was nothing better than chicken, butter and bread. I decided to make a soft-boiled egg. ‘Hmmm,’ I allowed as I poured myself a glass of milk. I turned up the cooker and watched the bubbles rise and accelerate, before pacing the space between the bench and the cupboards around me. I tried to make the tiles clap uniformly; using the hardened leather soles of my shoes to strike a satisfying chink. I caught my near-transparent outline in the kitchen window. I switched the cooker off.

  I took the wooden staircase; three steps at a time … I closed myself off in the bathroom. I undid the laces of my shoes and nudged each off. I took off my socks and stuffed one in each shoe. I looked in the mirror. On the hook was Lina’s housecoat. Its powdery synthetic stirred like the skirt of some sea anemone. I watched it, waited for the draught to subside, unhooked it, whirled it around one hand and hurled it into the cupboard below the basin. Its fine fabric caught like floss. It clung. After a couple of shakes I pulled my hand out of the cupboard, free.

  The bathroom was clean with square white tiles, white porcelain and a white glossy ceiling. I looked up through the skylight towards the sky and saw the same near-transparent outline that I saw in the kitchen window. I looked down and saw my forehead was wrinkled with worry. I looked almost forty. I still hadn’t reached thirty. What am I doing here? Next to the white sink was a hand mirror. Pearl-framed – one of Nancy’s family heirlooms. I picked it up and looked into the wall-to-wall mirror. I stood very still and carefully aligned the hand mirror so that it was parallel with the one behind me. Like magic, a hallway of mirrors swept out on either side. I swung the mirror away at arm’s length and the hallway expanded outwards like the folds of an accordion. I saw my head, a shrunken profile, duplicated towards infinity. I tried another angle but noticed that my shirt collar was wrinkled. I put the mirror back, facedown, and stepped away. My skin looked pale. My goatee needed clipping. My pale jeans were a snug fit.

  Inspired, I opened the cupboard and pulled out Lina’s housecoat. I noticed that her slippers were tucked away in the corner. I turned them over and saw a Made in Korea sticker still legible despite the smeared ink. The slippers were dainty in the extreme. Purple satin high-heeled slip-ons with a pompom of fluffy feathers attached to each strap. In seconds I took off all my clothes and donned the ensemble. I looked in the mirror, but the effect was spoilt by my own crumpled clothes stashed by the shower door. I picked up each piece and folded it meticulously before placing them all in the cupboard.

  Short of a stage name I was ready for the show. My name was Mieke, I decided, a transgendered Middle Eastern beauty, shunned repeatedly despite her success, her savoir faire. I pranced up and down the length of the bathroom, balancing expertly on my heels, turning sophisticatedly on one toe at the end of each lap while, with a single hand, arranging my curls, platinum blond, to cascade over my left shoulder. Thin-shouldered and small-breasted; I walked with my hands delicately, though strategically, placed. My violet housecoat swung openly, hooked to my shoulders with a single bow. I stole a glance in the wide expanse of the bathroom mirror again, one hand removed, poised delicately above my knee. I checked my line, my curvature, my silhouette. Content with my pose, I walked back towards the mirror, taking the judges’ comments into consideration: more confidence, longer strides, acknowledging the audience through long lacquered lashes while breathing stolidly through a slightly open mouth.

  At first, the audience’s reaction was mixed. Among the polite applause from those who felt that they must contribute in a way that will not attract undue criticism, there was jeering. One attendee was coughing dismissively into a rounded fist held politely over his mouth. It was time to draw my final card. I gave the end of the piping a sharp tug and released the gown. The reaction was both spontaneous and spectacular. I pranced towards the mirror on my fluffy high-heeled slippers. I romped lustily towards the spotlight, freeing the audi
ence of any inhibition, applause reverberating in the wings. I picked up the hand mirror. The throng’s enthusiasm was reflected infinitely. My transformation – a success!

  Because of the skylight, the bathroom was warmer than the rest of the house. I took off Lina’s slippers and gathered the gown – it sparked. I stepped back hastily, my reflection confirming spots, ‘Blood!’ I blocked both nostrils with the back of my hand and raced to the toilet for paper.

  ‘I need to see Adahy,’ I said to the white starched nurse without any greeting.

  Our eyes fell on the same level, just millimetres above her flat steel-rimmed glasses. I let the look brew – then waited for her move.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’ she asked through a mouth that barely moved.

  ‘No.’

  Again, I resisted the temptation to be lulled into any false direction. I said nothing.

  ‘Do you have a problem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Symptoms?’ she asked.

  This made me hesitate. I knew that if I said no, she would turn me away, but I really didn’t want to lie. Then I remembered the nosebleed.

  ‘Yes,’ I said confidently.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Bleeding.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her dark eyebrows arched like two distant gulls. ‘Do you have your file number with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ I slipped it out of the back pocket of my jeans, like some solitary talisman.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  The only chair available was next to a cadaverous limb partly wrapped in plaster. An old woman sat one row back, her leg propped on a chair rotated at 90 degrees. She smiled amiably. I took the seat and stared out of the window.

  My nosebleed stopped in seconds, a few smears of blood. I checked my neck in the mirror for any swelling. It seemed fine. I swung my head back and noticed my neck expand. Normal?