Infidelities
Stories
of War
and Lust
Josip Novakovich
For Joseph and Eva
Contents
Acknowledgments
Spleen
The Stamp
Night Guests
Neighbors
Hail
A Purple Story
Snow Powder
Tchaikovsky’s Bust
The Bridge Under the Danube
59th Parallel
Ribs
About the Author
Praise
Other Books by Josip Novakovich
Copyright
About the Publisher
Acknowledgments
These stories have appeared in the following publications:
“Spleen” in The Paris Review, May 2003, and in the anthology Wild East: Stories from the Last Frontier.
“The Stamp” in Ploughshares, December 2002.
“Night Guests” in Antioch Review, September 2001.
“Neighbors” in TriQuarterly, January 2000.
“Hail” in TriQuarterly, January 2003.
“Snow Powder” in Other Voices, April 2003, and in a shorter form in Powder, December 2002.
“Tchaikovsky’s Bust” in Fiction, June 2002.
“The Bridge Under the Danube” in Boulevard, June 2002.
“59th Parallel” in The Sun, January 2003.
“Ribs” in Tin House, July 2001.
“A Purple Story” appears for the first time in this volume.
I’m enormously grateful to Terry Karten for her wonderful editing and steadfast support, and I’m thanking—for encouragement and feedback—Francine Prose, Anne Edelstein, Danny Mulligan, Emilie Stewart, Jeanette Novakovich, Richard Burgin, Andrew Proctor, Carol Keeley, Larry Goldstein, Don Lee, and Mark Mirsky, and gracias to the institutions which helped by granting me time in the guise of money: the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York Public Library’s Dorothy B. Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers, the Yaddo Corporation, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Tennessee Williams Fellowship at the University of the South.
Spleen
When I found out that a Bosnian family had moved into our neighborhood, just across from my place, I was thrilled. I had left Bosnia seven years before, and I hardly ever saw anybody from there.
To me now it didn’t matter whether the neighbors were Muslims, Croats, or Serbs from Bosnia; the main thing was that they were Bosnian, that they spoke the language I loved and hadn’t heard in a while, but when I learned that they were a Croatian family from Bugojno, I was all the more delighted. And nostalgic. Perhaps I could have gone home, but I didn’t trust it: my hometown was in Republika Srpska. Under the NATO supervision, it was already possible to go back, and probably nothing bad would have happened, but I still couldn’t see sleeping there without streetlights around. I recalled the events before my departure. Some people had already fled from my hometown because they’d heard the Serb army was coming, but I didn’t believe they would bother me. If they were targeting people ethnically, I thought I was safe, since I was half Serb, half Croat. Then, one night, somebody knocked on the door and shouted, Open up! Police.
I looked through the door and saw two men with masks over their heads.
That’s not what you’d expect police to look like. What would police need to talk to me about anyway?
I went to the kitchen, took a sharp, midsized knife, put it in my sleeve and waited while they tore the door down. I hid in a clothes cabinet. The two thugs went through the house, overturning the tables, smashing the china, and they shouted for me to come out. One walked into the basement, and the other opened the toilet. At that moment, I sneaked out of the closet, walking softly, barefoot. But he saw me and ran after me and knocked me down. The knife slid out of my sleeve and fell on the floor but he must not have heard it because he’d knocked down a pile of plates on the way, and they crashed on the floor. He tore my clothes off. Meanwhile, the man—or should I say, beast—downstairs kept smashing the jars of jam and pickled peppers; suddenly he quieted because probably he’d found the wine bottles.
The thug pinned me to the floor and as I tried to throw him off my body, he whacked my head against the boards. I am pretty strong, and I think I could have thrown him off if he hadn’t whacked my head each time I moved. It hurt terribly. I thought migraines were the worst headache you could have, but this was worse, it hurt deeper inside, and I was dizzy, as though my brain had turned around in my skull and was now loose and wobbling.
He slid a little lower and sat on my thighs. You must help me to get it hard, he said.
I don’t want to.
You must. Here, take it into your hand.
I did with one hand.
It’s awkward like that, can I sit up, I asked.
Sure, no problem.
I sat up sideways, felt on the floor for the knife, grabbed its handle, and without hesitation stuck the knife into him. I wanted to get him in the middle of his abdomen but I missed and stuck it to the side, the left side. I did not think it went deep.
He shrieked and didn’t react when I leaped to the side and ran straight out of doors. And so I ran into the hills, naked, in the cold November night. I nearly froze, turned blue, and didn’t know where to hide, except in the Benedictine monastery on top of the hill. I broke into the chapel in the middle of matins, five in the morning now, still dark. The poor men crossed themselves, hid their faces, prayed in Latin, and I heard one word, which I liked, misericordia. But one of them, said, Brothers, don’t be silly. Help her! He took off his brown garment, put it over me, and stood there in his striped shirt and long johns.
The monks gave me hot water and coffee, and when I stopped shivering, I wanted to run away. I told them what had happened and advised them to run away as well. The one who had intervened for me drove me west, to Mostar. As he drove he wanted to hold hands with me. No harm, I thought. And indeed, what harm was it? This fifty-year-old man, holding hands. He did not ask for anything more. I think he just loved some female creature comfort. I did not wait for further developments. I stole a bicycle in Mostar, and rode it all the way into Croatia, to Metkovic. That was not hard since the road mostly goes downhill. And in Croatia, I appealed to Caritas, where they gave me papers and let me go abroad, to the States. Now that was more adventure than I had hoped to get.
I’ve always wanted to be a homebody. I never got the joy of travel, wanderlust. Nearly the only aspect of travel I enjoyed as a kid was the homecoming. I’d rush to the side of the train as it crested the hill before my hometown, and seeing the first glimpse of the church steeples and the minaret and the old castle made me happy. So it’s all the more miraculous to me that I have become a world traveler, an American.
And my workplace, a bank, is nice. Next to it, there’s a restaurant, Dubrovnik. I don’t need to go into it, but just knowing it’s there comforts me; it’s a bit of homeland. And just recently, I did go into it with my fellow bank teller, a Polish woman named Maria. We walked up the stairs into the restaurant and entered a tobacco cloud. The guests in the stinging smoke gave me an impression that a group of angels was noisily resting in the cloud. Since I couldn’t make out many details I saw only the silhouettes blowing smoke from their cigarettes, feeding their blue cloud, as if the moment the cloud vanished, they would all fall to earth. I liked to imagine that the gathering was a choir of smoked angels but I knew it was unlikely that any of them were angels; most were recent immigrants from Herzegovina and Croatia, and some had participated in the war.
As I savored soft chicken paprikash, Maria said, You know, a Bosnian family moved into our neighborhood, right next door to you. Have you met them?
No. I had
no idea that anybody moved in.
They are having a grill next Saturday. They invited me, and I can bring along anybody I want. Would you like to come along?
Maria wiped her shiny lips and cheeks with a napkin from her lap, and added, They are quite handsome.
Her napkin turned red.
THE GREEN BACKYARD of my new neighbors was enveloped in the grill smoke; I enjoyed the smell of coal.
That is one aspect of American culture we from the Balkans quickly adapt to, grilling cutlets and sausages, although we add our variant to it, chevapi, spicy mixed meat. The boombox on the windowsill played folk music, the kind that used to bore and bother me, but now made me feel at home. You know, accordion, bass, and a wailing voice.
The bald host wore a green outfit as though he were in a hospital, and when I asked him whether he was a doctor, he said, I work at Mercy Hospital as an X-ray technician.
That’s a good job, isn’t it? How many hours a week counts as full time?
Twenty-four.
So you have lots of free time. Nice.
It could be nicer. I studied to be a doctor in Sarajevo, did very well, but wasn’t very wise: I participated in a protest against Tito, had to go to prison, and couldn’t go back to the university afterward. I had no choice but to emigrate.
Have you met my nephew yet? He pointed out a man who was facing away from us. The man turned around, balding like his uncle, with a wide bony face, and teeth unusually white for someone from our parts—they were also wide-spaced and maybe that’s what saved them.
He looked familiar, but the more I looked at him, the more I was sure that I was wrong. That is just it—many people from my native region can give me that feeling of familiarity even without my ever having met them. In my hometown, they’d all be strangers to me, but the familiar kind of stranger, and that is what I imagined I was responding to.
He came over to me and asked where I was from and what I did, the kind of questions you would not expect from someone from our native region, but from an American.
When I told him I worked for a bank, he grew wildly enthusiastic. I need to buy a house, he said. Can you get me a mortgage? What’s the best rate you can offer?
That depends on your credit rating.
Credit rating, phew. How would I have any? But I have a refugee status, and a Lutheran church backing me. And I just got a job, as an electrician.
You must be smart then. A dumb electrician would be dangerous.
You are right about that. But maybe I am a dumb and brave electrician.
Have you ever gotten a good shock?
Of course, who hasn’t. Even you have an electrical shock story.
True.
Bank, he said. Isn’t it boring to work there?
Not in the least. There are many Croats and Slovenes there but not Bosnians.
So it must be boring!
It’s always interesting with our people—they are still to my mind our people. One day a man paid for his entire new house in cash. He opened a brown suitcase—it was full of ten-dollar bills. Nothing but ten-dollar bills.
Why don’t you write a check? I asked him.
Can’t trust checks, he said.
And why only ten-dollar bills?
Can’t trust no hundret-dollar bills, he said. Too many Italians here. They are all Mafioso, and that’s what they do, they print fake bills. Ten dollar is the best.
He was an old Croatian car dealer. The motto of his dealership was, Honest Cars for Honest Cash. You wouldn’t imagine that someone completely stuck in the cash economy could become rich, but that man did, bringing half a million dollars just like that. I wonder how he dared walk in the streets, alone, with all the cash.
Dragan laughed.
Our people are such hopeless hicks! All of us are peasants.
He kept standing closer and closer, and I moved a little away from him, and so we kept moving around the yard. I was keenly aware of it, and he apparently wasn’t, or didn’t mind. Perhaps I had adopted the American subconscious concept of personal space, which is about an arm’s length, so nobody can touch you or hit you without your getting a chance to duck; it’s also convenient because at that distance anybody’s bad breath would dissolve in the air and you wouldn’t have to suffer it and likewise, you wouldn’t have to worry that if you had morning breath, you’d make people uncomfortable breathing in your free-floating bacteria. I like this Anglo-Saxon personal space, but naturally, a fresh arrival from Bosnia wouldn’t understand the space and would find it cold and standoffish.
But after a while it occurred to me that he was not so much after a house and mortgage as after me.
In the meanwhile, his uncle was retelling Bosnian jokes to Maria, who rewarded him with her booming laughter.
We ate chevapi then. I looked forward to the taste, but the meat was overgrilled. Our hosts were too eager to talk and so they forgot the meat. Actually, since we didn’t use to have refrigerators in the Balkans, we customarily overgrilled meat, to make sure to kill all the bacteria. Only here did I for the first time see people eating bloody meat, calling it rare and medium rare. With us, there was only one way: well-done. At any rate, while I loved the smell of grilled meat, I couldn’t eat the charcoal crusts to get to the meat. Instead, I drank the red wine Dragan offered—and it was spectacular, Grgich, deep red and purple, tasting of plums, for some reason. Now both he and I relaxed, and he told me his repertoire of Bosnian jokes. Strangely, though I found many of them funny, now I can’t remember any.
Anyway, I agreed to get together with this man, Dragan—for no serious reason, other than that I loved speaking Bosnian. I guess that’s a serious enough reason. We met in our neighborhood beer hall. That’s one thing about Cleveland—it has many ethnic neighborhoods, and this was the German contribution.
You know, he said, my uncle is a funny cat. At night, he sometimes dresses like a doctor and pretends to be one, and visits patients in the clinic, even offering them new diagnoses and advising them to undergo surgery; he loves to advise heart patients to get transplants. He was caught impersonating a doctor and fired, but then, there was such a shortage of nurses and medical technicians that they let him come back. He suffers on the job because he imagines he knows much more than his superiors. He is so absorbed in his status struggle that he neglects other aspects of his life. He lent his life savings to a friend of his from Bosnia, forty thousand dollars, without a security note, just on the honorable word. The friend disappeared, and that was that for life savings. What an idiot my uncle is!
How can you speak so badly of him? He takes care of you.
I am not speaking badly of him. Everybody knows what he’s done. It’s funny.
Mostly sad. He lost so much money. And he pretends to be what he’s not. Does that run in the family?
What do you mean? Crazy generosity? Well…
No, pretending.
I don’t pretend anything.
I did not say you did. I simply wonder whether what he’s doing is a family trait.
Is that how you talk for fun?
Yes, I continue a theme, a thread. So he’s your uncle.
And so? What are you getting at? (He sat up from his chair.)
My God, I thought you had a sense of humor.
Yes, I had it.
Okay, mellow out. Have a beer.
Good idea. Two Guinnesses please, he asked the waitress, and turned his head. The waitress wore a short skirt and black stockings that went only a few inches above her knees, so there was a stretch of thighs between the hem of the skirt and the stockings.
Good body, I said.
Guinness has lots of body.
She has a good body.
You noticed?
I noticed you noticing.
Oh, here we go again. You are catching me or something?
No.
I noticed her style. I don’t know whether she has a good body, but the style’s—
Sexy?
I forgot how difficult o
ur women can be. Now I feel right at home.
Same goes for me and our men. I do feel at home. That’s the point, I wanted to feel like I was home.
And that’s why you agreed to come out with me?
Yes.
It doesn’t matter what I am like, the main thing is I’m from over there?
It matters what people are like.
The beer was foamy and cool, and left a creamy edge on his lips, which he never wiped off right away, but talked like that, with the foam on his upper lip.
The second round of ale got to my head. The American bars are dark. We kissed in that darkness under the spell of dark ale, or under the excuse of it. He tasted of unfiltered cigarettes, and I liked that, it reminded me of home. Yes, I had kissed a few Americans, and nonsmoking immigrants, who before the kiss, regularly chewed mints, so their mouths were cool, slightly antiseptic. Well, the three, four times I had kissed they went to the bathroom to floss their teeth, no doubt, and to brush them, so you’d get a refurbished mouth. But this was a European kiss, old style, with a nicotine bite to it, and an undertone of hot peppers—he must have had feferonki somewhere. The kiss was hotly reminiscent of the old continent, so I closed my eyes and floated into the smoky spaces with Turkish coffee poured from dzezva, coppery vessels, and heavy dregs on the bottom, from which old peasant women read fortunes. Upon drinking a cup, you’d have a few coffee grains left in your mouth, to chew on, to chase around your mouth with your tongue, and that is what the kiss now felt, like a grainy chase. A gritty and biting kiss. I stretched my neck and he kissed it, his five o’clock whiskers scratching me like a rasping paper, raw, but I liked that sensation of hurt.
We went to my home and continued our erotic pursuits so impatiently that we had not fully undressed. I still had my skirt on, and he had his shirt and tie, though everything else was off. I pulled him to me by his red tie, and the tightening grip of his collar, plus the labor of lust, made his face all red, and blue veins popped on his forehead and kept changing their courses, like overflowing tributaries of a river, seeking the most urgent way to the sea.
Infidelities Page 1