Antidote to a Curse

  ‘I like it,’ he said.

  She was about to give an appreciative smile, the ring poised at eye level, but Ludovico asked, ‘A line of yours?’

  She nodded. ‘One that Zlatko liked.’

  Ludovico pushed himself back onto the bed. ‘He reads poetry?’

  ‘When he’s not net-snaring the likes of us,’ she disclosed, her voice barely audible. She dropped her eyes, unable to maintain the scrutiny.

  Jasna walked towards him and took his right hand, and slid the ring onto his fourth finger. It caught at the knuckle. She pulled it away and tried his fifth and it slid all the way to the base, perfect.

  ‘But I couldn’t …’ Ludovico began to protest, sliding forward.

  ‘Why not?’ she challenged with one raised brow.

  He looked at her.

  ‘A friendship ring. A lucky charm. To inspire you to write.’

  It was the only thing he was wearing and it was perfect. He turned the silver ring around the base of his finger. He got up and snapped the band of his silver watch into place.

  ‘What will I write?’ he asked, turning towards her.

  ‘That’s up to you,’ though she gave a little appreciative wave towards the window.

  The Neretva unfurled itself in a gargling spool, about ten kilometres south of the medieval town of Mostar. It was a magnificent day and he felt like a bath. He pulled off some leaves and headed for the bank, where he took off all his clothes. He used his clothes to anchor the leaves. The sun warmed his body and he felt his chest for stubble. It had been almost a month since he had shaved and he doubted that he would shave again now that the summer was ending. He lay on the grass just by the river with one hand below his head; with his other, he shaded his eyes from the sun. He turned his head to one side and noticed a solitary daisy wavering in the breeze. The sun was warm and the air cool. He plucked the daisy and sniffed it. He ran it along his chest and his right underarm, trying to drag the petals without breaking them. The smell of the daisy contrasted with his odour: sharp and musky. He burrowed his head into his underarm and when he felt his cock he was surprised to find that he was almost erect. He had come no more than half an hour ago across Jasna’s lace bed cover. He hadn’t meant to be so messy, but he couldn’t help himself. She’d sat against the bedhead with her petticoat hitched as he lapped dextrously. Now the sun prickled his entire body with its catlike tongue. He fondled himself in the sun’s caress. He arched his body back against the ground and released a guttural moan and came over himself, uninhibited, aware that he would jump into the river.

  The water was cold, much colder than the wind, and it took a minute of wild cavorting before he could stomach the drop in temperature. He settled in a rocky enclave and used the two handfuls of vine leaves to clean himself, rubbing his genitals and underarms with intense small circular strokes. Ah, it was good to be here, and the river sparkled with the sun’s fire though seemed to absorb little of its heat. Already he could feel the sun prickle the back of his neck, though his testicles had shrunk and hardened (unripe acorns!), leaving his cock to flow like a translucent worm inches below. He climbed the rocks and settled by the oak; he was about to lie on the grass again, but the sun had disappeared behind a cloud. He liked the feel of the rough bark against his back and wiggled against it. He rested his outstretched arm against his knee and his fingers dangled like twigs. He was so tired he felt he could rest there for hours – do little more than breathe. He had given himself up to the world of shadows, not awake, not asleep, his mind a rock’s crevice, when a hand fell on his shoulder and startled him. He had already settled on his feet before he recognised the man. ‘Zlatko!’

  ‘Ah, Ludovico – good to see you. Ah! All of you.’

  Ludovico stood and put one hand over himself, but when he caught the smile on his friend’s face he took his hand away and offered it to him. He expected Zlatko to shake it, but instead he held it, held eye contact, and gained control.

  ‘I should put some clothes on.’

  ‘Don’t … you look fine.’

  He pushed Ludovico up against the tree, though not hard enough for Ludovico to want to make him stop; it surprised him a little, that he pushed him like that. Ludovico’s breath quivered; he stared at him, attracted though unable to trust. He waited while Zlatko moistened his forefinger, which he ran in a narrowing spiral around Ludovico’s left nipple. He leaned closer and inclined his head towards his. They kissed, and though Ludovico acquiesced by leaning forward, Zlatko pushed him against the coarse bark, they kissed openly. The wind tickled Ludovico’s body. It felt like Zlatko had his hands all over him, but he wasn’t even touching him; he laid both palms flat against the tree. When he placed his right hand on Ludovico’s rump and gave it a hard squeeze, Ludovico whistled lightly. Zlatko took his other hand away from the bark and again he dipped his finger in his mouth, squeezed, lifted and pulled the two cheeks apart and dipped the moistened tip. The wind tickled Ludovico some more. Zlatko pushed inwards and let his finger rest there for a few seconds before pulling it out and holding it up against his own nose. Ludovico went hard again. Zlatko inhaled deeply, dropped to a squat, rolling his tongue on the tip of his hardened head. He lubricated Ludovico’s cock and to both of their surprise Ludovico came a third and final time, prematurely.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come.’

  Using Ludovico’s legs to pivot against, Zlatko turned on the balls of his feet and spat over his shoulder. The white caught a few blades and anchored them. When he wiped his mouth Ludovico noticed the tiny translucent bulb sticking out of Zlatko’s left ear.

  ‘That’s fine. I hope I wasn’t too rough with you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your elbow, it’s healed?’

  They were face to face.

  His elbow had healed, it had healed well, but the question had cut a fresh wound. ‘Being left strung up in the net didn’t help.’

  Zlatko caught the anger in his eyes, hesitated before lying. ‘I wasn’t comfortable … I didn’t know how much I could trust you.’ And in the tumble of words he revealed himself, only to admit, ‘I hunt.’

  ‘I know.’ Something about the rhythm of Zlatko’s rushed revelation made Ludovico hesitate, fumble for the right words. ‘You …’

  Zlatko stared at him.

  ‘I don’t care anymore,’ Ludovico declared.

  ‘I was trying to catch someone else.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  ‘You managed to get out,’ he said, keen to change the subject.

  Ludovico gathered his laundered clothes and put on his whites. ‘Where were you heading?’

  ‘To Mostar …’ Zlatko grabbed Ludovico’s hand and held it at eye level. ‘This!’ he quipped with a scowl on his face. ‘I recognise this.’

  The ring glinted – still wet.

  ‘It’s Jasna’s,’ he said.

  He dropped the hand. ‘Looks like it’s yours.’

  Ludovico just looked at him.

  ‘I’m going,’ Zlatko said, even more determined.

  ‘I’d like to join you.’

  ‘Why?’ Zlatko seemed keen to get away.

  ‘I’ve never been.’ Ludovico had heard of Mostar’s grandeur. Not surpassing the sublime Sarajevo, but Mostar was well reputed as a small city of cultural magnificence. Ludovico’s excitement was palpable. He had read about Mostar for years, but being stationed in beautiful, though somewhat provincial, Bihać most of his life had left him little opportunity to pursue his interests. He was particularly interested in seeing its lauded landmark, the Stari Most. The seventeenth-century traveller Evliya Çelebi famously wrote: ‘I, a poor and miserable slave of Allah, have passed through 16 countries, but I have never seen such a high bridge. It is thrown from rock to rock as high as the sky.’

  ‘Let me come with you,’ Ludovico pleaded.

  ‘You would like to visit Mostar?’ Zlatko asked somewhat needlessly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, I will take you. I will take
you to the beautiful city of Mostar.’

  Ludovico’s almond-shaped eyes twinkled. He imagined the bridge.

  ‘I’m invited to a friend’s place for lunch. We will sit in a square first. I will invite you to coffee.’

  Ludovico’s nostrils prickled with excitement. The mere mention of coffee struck a tripwire: a cerebral fabrication of the aroma, albeit faint. Though he would on occasion indulge in a shot of Turkish coffee, he loved milk coffee, with lots of scalded full-cream milk, stirred frothy. ‘Oh, Zlatko, I’m so glad I met you. I have always wanted to visit Mostar and see its famous bridge with my own eyes.’

  ‘Ah, even better,’ Zlatko exclaimed with unashamed enthusiasm. ‘We will take the river.’

  ‘A special route?’

  ‘A special route.’

  With the ring, the key and the soon-to-be-witnessed city, Ludovico felt this was a day for rejoicing. He splashed his face, neck, hands, wrists and feet with water from the emerald river and bid Zlatko to make haste.

  ‘The city of Mostar,’ Zlatko sang out, his fist clenched high above his head.

  They walked single file: that way they were able to manoeuvre themselves freely. Hopping from stone to stone along the lip of the river and occasionally cutting a swathe through the neighbouring meadow where the bank was impeded by trees. At one point Zlatko thought it best to leave the river and cut right through the woods. Ludovico detected Zlatko’s adrenaline in his determined steps, the certainty of the course he maintained, the possible recitation of a guiding song. Ludovico interpreted his steadfastness to this venture as a tremendous compliment. He rolled his trousers to just below the knee in the hope of keeping them clean. Beige was not the most practical colour, he knew that, but it’s what he wore incessantly. Zlatko stood in stark contrast with his short-sleeved black polo shirt, blue jeans and black trainers. Zlatko called Ludovico a Turk because he wore sandals or went about barefoot.

  Earlier that morning Jasna had pulled Ludovico’s clothes out of the dryer and given them to him to iron. He’d offered to iron her clothes as well, but she preferred to do her own. It was extraordinary what luxuries she could afford herself: a new dryer, a new bathroom; she even intended to renovate the kitchen, but presently marble seemed beyond her means. With the exception of the kitchen, she had overseen the building and the finishing touches, room by room. Due to the lack of funds she left the kitchen in the builder’s hands. The house was a sanctuary tucked south of Jablanica, an updated replica of the Zahirovics’ second home.

  Ludovico lost track of time, but they seemed to have been walking for a good forty minutes. Ludovico was about to recommend a little rest when he asked, ‘Much further?’

  ‘Tired?’ Zlatko asked, zeroing in.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a rest,’ and seeing the smirk on Zlatko’s face, added, ‘briefly?’

  ‘How about a dip, just to refresh ourselves?’ Zlatko gestured towards the fast-flowing river.

  Ludovico liked the sound of this immensely. He had built up a sweat and really didn’t want to arrive looking like he had when he’d arrived at Jasna’s house. He stripped in seconds, folding his clothes carefully and placing a rock over the pile before jumping in. Zlatko was slow to unpeel himself from his clothes. His jeans were tapered and nearly skin tight and needed yanking to be released from his large feet.

  Ludovico bombed the river with gusto, but the rush of the river was so lively that it seemed a mere splash, and he found himself accommodated in the fold of the overwhelming current. Zlatko dived in and released a scream. The river was deathly cold and it was vital to dive below the surface and become immersed by the body of water, to move vigorously in an attempt to raise one’s body temperature, to concentrate and focus on one’s corporality, irrespective of the surrounding environment. After diving a second time, Zlatko grabbed Ludovico’s legs, careful to avoid his clawed feet, but wasn’t able to maintain his breath long enough and surfaced gasping. Ludovico saw his chance to up the ante. Unlike Zlatko, Ludovico was in his element; he often swam in the River Una, which was colder, stronger, responsible for scores of deaths. Ludovico placed his palm firmly above Zlatko’s blond crown and pushed him below the surface and held him there, delighting in his power. Zlatko resurfaced, spluttering and exhausted to the point of blackout; he reached for Ludovico’s grasp and fell into his embrace.

  They crawled up onto the bank, where they allowed themselves to lie, almost collapsing in unison, side by side. Through a mere squint Ludovico traced the sun’s whiskers fanning Zlatko’s cheek. He gave him a nudge. ‘Don’t sleep,’ he bid, determined to continue their journey, but Zlatko grunted and, to Ludovico’s surprise, farted. He seemed unable to raise an eye. In fact, he seemed to fall even deeper in his sleep. Ludovico was determined to see the day’s promise through. He gave Zlatko a fierce shove and in a harsh voice demanded, ‘Don’t sleep!’

  Zlatko rose slightly and gave Ludovico a tired look. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

  Seeing that Zlatko was exhausted, Ludovico lay on top of him and kissed his neck, massaging his arms at the same time. ‘That’s better,’ Zlatko murmured; he was keen to nap a little longer. Ludovico turned his attention to his friend’s ear, working his way around the rim, taking the lobe into his mouth, running his tongue as deeply as possible into its hollow. ‘Feels like a slug.’ Zlatko winced. ‘I can hear the sea!’ he declared.

  Once he was done with Zlatko’s ear, Ludovico turned his attention to his sun-reddened cheek. Zlatko, finally aroused, instructed, ‘Let’s go.’

  Fully clothed, Ludovico became aware of his own excitement. He caught it in the leaves that suddenly turned silver in the updraught along the valley floor. He caught it in the blue sky, the position of the sun, yet to reach its peak. He caught it in his renewed friendship with both Jasna and Zlatko. He caught it on this special day as he ventured south into new territory.

  ‘We are near,’ Zlatko called over his shoulder. He waited for his friend to join him and said, ‘You go ahead. I will follow,’ clapping him on the shoulder.

  Ludovico hardly needed any persuasion, though Zlatko’s selflessness surprised him. It seemed fitting that he should walk ahead, especially now that they had passed a few houses along the city’s periphery. He was surprised by the freshly painted walls, the bright colours, and what appeared to be newly constructed roofless shells. ‘We are near,’ Ludovico called out over his shoulder, as if he had become the guide.

  ‘Yes, we are near,’ Zlatko rejoined, and no sooner had he called out, the medieval city of Mostar lay before them: a pockmarked, bombed-out ruin. Ludovico focused on a cable bridge dangling between the hollowed remnants of what had once been the bridge’s watchtowers. And though a few people came into view, the city seemed a soulless relic.

  Zlatko came to rest a few feet behind Ludovico and released a knowing, haunting laugh. ‘Welcome to the city of Mostar,’ he declared derisively. Ludovico turned around sharply. Before Zlatko had released his laugh, Ludovico had momentarily forgotten about him. ‘You knew!’

  He nudged Ludovico’s shoulder and etched his hand across the panorama before them.

  In town, after Zlatko had gone for a walk, Ludovico decided to write a letter to Nancy Triganza while sitting outside at the Cafe Korzo, Santiceva 34, Mostar.

  Dear Nancy,

  I am writing to you from Mostar to let you know that I will not be returning to work at the aviary, though I will do what I can on location here. The beautiful city of Mostar is devastated. There is so much misery here, and even worse than the physical damage is the broken spirit of the people around me. Most of the surrounding houses are damaged; some are mortar-pocked shells. The incredible bridge built by the Ottomans that has stood for centuries, the bridge that I have read so much about, is a ruin.

  From where I sit at a cafe several streets removed from the river, it is hard to imagine that this city will rise to see the splendour of the not-so-distant past, though I shouldn’t predict any outcomes. I have told so many stories about the
city of Mostar and its famous bridge without any firsthand knowledge. Perhaps people were grateful for the conversation, even if they knew better. I would like to think that I have inspired some people with the stories, even if some of the details have proven unreliable. Thank God my friend Zlatko did not feel a need to shield me from the truth. He is reliable, but perhaps not always so inspiring. Today’s visit has taught me that even though I have travelled, I probably need to travel some more.

  I have no intention of returning to Bosnia and will remain in Herzegovina. I am happy to write that my elbow is fully healed, the bone has knit nicely. I am able to straighten my arm after all! I thank you for all your help over the years, but without any answers or strong direction I feel the need to help in the rebuilding and the restoration of this devastated city, however small my contribution may be. I am meeting new people constantly and I doubt there will be any shortage of work.

  I know you will continue with your fine work and I wish you the very best in your efforts.

  Till we meet again.

  Ludovico Muscat

  I leaned towards the spy hole. The volume of the TV in the next cubicle increased, the green vertical notches appeared in rapid succession, one after the other, and the picture, homemade footage, sharpened. This was Zlatko’s old home province. I had made the link. A tanker fired a direct hit at a post office. The noise that reverberated from the chipboard cubicle was explosive, and though I was inclined to recoil I continued to watch, privy to an event that had aired mistakenly. Yes, news breaking through the sparks of a Kalashnikov’s rat-a-tat as a tanker silently stormed a low-angle view. It was an extreme close-up of the wheels and links grinding defiantly over an uneven dirt track through the maelstrom of shelling and sniper fire. Soldiers in drab camouflage, front-line ditch combatants forced to retreat, for now ‘running away to fight another day’, though still managing to exchange fire. The footage was a montage of several fronts, displayed in jagged succession, and judging by the colours of the uniforms, the berets, the sewn-on insignias, several armies. It was evident that two different units on two fronts were advancing on the mad scramble of an army still making bold claims on the town designated by the captions as Bihać.