Seven Terrors

by Selvedin Advic

  But then Mirna came in. Angrily, she cut through the crowd with the help of her elbows, through the cries and curses, grabbed me by the hand, pulled me outside and pinned me in front of the window. She was shouting. A new play for the guests in the humble café bar. They had got a lot more than they could have expected for their money again. The waiter turned down the music so they could hear every word.

  ‘I need money, understand? I have to pay back my loan in Sweden. All I wanted from you was that you use your journalist’s influence and get rid of that madman from my apartment, so that I can sell it. Do you understand? I thought you had some contacts, that you know important people. Now I’ve found out you are not even a journalist any more…’

  Two really ugly veins were pulsing on her forehead and neck. And her nose wrinkled in a not at all pretty way.

  ‘I’ve lost too much time. The council could have solved my problems faster than you!’

  Good, now things are quite clear, I thought. While she was taking breath for the next machine-gun burst, with which she probably hoped to finish me off, I said,

  ‘If you’ve finished, I’d like to go back. I’m cold here.’

  It seemed to me she wanted to say something else, but for me it was enough. I have a soul as well. I turned around and went inside. The people in the Sedmica café examined me for a moment, then the waiter turned up the sound of the music. Of course I remember (I already mentioned that this is one of my useless talents) that the song was ‘Killing Me Softly’. Completely by chance. I ordered another vodka. I didn’t feel bad. Really. Maybe, when you push a man roughly towards the bottom, that force makes him bounce up towards the surface and take another breath. Calmly I sat there, at ease with the unjust ways of the world; sipped my drink, enjoyed the music and watched through the glass the headlights of cars slipping through the night. One thing was finished, I thought optimistically; it’s time to end the others as well.

  Let’s make use of this pause, and let’s continue the humiliations. It’s time for me to finally relate why my wife left me.

  I can say straight away that everything that happened was my fault; but she started it. I know, we’re not children, it’s not important who started it, it’s important how it finished, but that is the unadorned truth, there are no more reasons for lies. I remember, she was getting ready for the New Year celebrations. That was the first time we had celebrated New Year in town, in a restaurant. She wanted to order a new dress and asked me to help to find a model. I was not interested, I really wasn’t. I don’t understand anything about dresses, the meaning of the words pleated, flounced, embroidered, mignonette are completely unknown to me. She pushed a bundle of fashion magazines into my hands. She said, I well remember, ‘I’ll look just like you want me to!’ Try to imagine what unbelievable possibilities are hidden inside that sentence! It’s hard to imagine another with anything like the same strength. Who can reject such an offer? I was never a strong person – you have realised that by now, I believe – I have always been inclined towards all sorts of vices if it was possible to get to them easily and without consequences. My life, as Woody Allen says, revolved around cynicism, sarcasm, nihilism and orgasm.

  She knew I liked to look at her, to measure her up as she passed through the room. When she asked me why I was watching her, I would roll my eyes and snort, in a caricature of animal passion. We were playing. Maybe she wanted to contribute to the game, to see how it would evolve. But I am certain she could not have known how it could finish. I didn’t know either… I don’t think anyone knows what they are hiding inside themselves, until the chance comes for it to awaken. I got my chance.

  Vogue! What a word. When I say it, no matter how I practice the accent, I sound like an answering machine. That word and I do not belong to one another, I cannot use it in everyday conversation without feeling like an imposter. Written down, it turns into a symbol. And although until then I had never opened even one of the magazines, I read an infinite variety of information into that symbol; it covered me like a long block of advertisements: life without care, full of translucency, boats cutting through a calm sea, ivy-covered paths around houses, people sitting all day in constant sunlight in wicker chairs, wonderful women, proud, self-confident; there are bottles of wine lying in cellars, shoes like small idols, dresses that are precious pictures… That’s simply how it is, I can’t go against myself, these pictures assault me even though I read that Vogue is at fault for the death of hundreds of thousands of anorexic women, for severe, suicidal depression, broken marriages, infertility, curved spines, baldness. That it is as deadly as a nervous, dictatorial regime.22 From the pile of magazines I took Vogue. Consciously. For the first time in my life…

  I was blinded by Cartier jewels as radiant as an Amazonian snake. Already, on the next page, was the miracle of L’Oréal Panoramic Curl which enhances eyebrows and eyelashes so much that the lucky woman who owns it achieves the look of an Arab princess. I found out that something called Clinique exists – a new dramatically different gel; and another page brought a Tiffany brooch, magical like the arch of a mosque in Isfahan, which I had seen in a photograph. The ‘In Vogue’ column presented me with dramatic news from the latest fashion line, and a page called Style informed me that hysteria was ruling the world – the cause was a red dress in which every woman would become provocative. Another page in the same section was taken up with couples photographed while out strolling, and the captions said they were indeed beautiful, talented and together. I read a text about the evolution of the brassiere, the extraordinary wine produced by the Angove family, the fantastic ability of French women not to get fat; I saw how the photographer Mario Testino had given Vogue images of Elizabeth Hurley, Carolyn Murphy and Liya Kebede; I thought about the sentence: ‘People who buy status symbols because they are status symbols are not doing it because they are materialistic or because they are greedy, they are simply sending a message: Please, be good to me.’ Vogue recommended me a book, a CD, a film, told me ‘what I needed to know’ about new talents and gossip; and Vogue Living picked out glasses for me, plates and pillows (inspired by coral). While Bulgari jewellery, similar to forest flowers, intoxicated me, I learnt that Chanel Cristalle Gloss can at the same time make your lips sensual and natural and moreover give them a provocative shine, and that a Tag Heuer watch reveals what its owners are made of.

  I turned the pages carefully, looking intently at the details, thinking about the way the editorial staff had planned the concept, looking for the method in creating titles and sub-titles, analysing the style of writing… No matter how hard I tried, I could not penetrate the secret of Vogue, find the source of the dark power, that rare essence which sets it apart from entire kiosks’ worth of similar magazines. But when I closed the magazine I knew what I wanted. I wanted a Vogue woman – provocative, radiant, hard and ice-cold like platinum. I wanted a clone made out of the body parts of Chloë Sevigny, Cate Blanchett, Heidi Klum and Kirsten Dunst, directed by the cold mind of Anna Wintour.

  I found such a woman in the ‘Vogue Promotion’ section, in an article called ‘Summer Romance’. The editor had not written her name anywhere, for who knows what dark reasons, but for me she was the ideal woman, exactly the sort I had wanted to find. She was sitting in a black armchair. An armoured self-confidence emanated from her, she was aware she possessed the power of a multi-barrelled rocket launcher. She had bent one leg at her perfect knee, and stretched the other in front of herself, somewhere outside the shot, out of the magazine, in what was to me an unattainable continuation of a perfect world. She had placed one hand with long, pointed fingers on her hip, and with her other hand she embraced the back of the chair. She was not looking at the camera; her grey eyes were cynically fixed on my right shoulder, and her lips looked as though they were forming an aleph.23 She wore a simple dress, of a colour somewhere between blue and green, without sleeves, with a small, sharp neckline. On the foot that I could see she wore a red sandal with three narrow straps. There was no jew
ellery. It was not necessary.

  I was completely engrossed with the Vogue sprite, so that I did not notice when my wife came to stand behind me. I held the magazine out to her, open at the ‘Summer Romance’ page. Even though there were other photographs on it, she knew straight away which one had attracted me; she nodded her head and said,

  ‘Right, we’ll see what my dressmaker can do for you.’

  Seven days passed. I returned home from the office and immediately after a quick lunch lay down on the sofa. I was reading a book, having decided to quickly rid my mind of all the useless things I had had to repeat that day. I lifted my head when she called me. She was standing in front of me, her hair unrestrained, in that pretty Vogue dress and red sandals. She smiled, went to the chair and took up exactly the same pose as the model. I turned into a cannibal.

  It was not making love, it was a devouring. Actually, the details of our pleasure are not important for the continuation of the story, why would a description of the numerous positions of love which we changed that day and a large part of the night be important to anyone else but us? The disclosure of the words we spoke to one another and similar details – how we were breathing, smiling, biting, shouting – would bring nothing to the understanding of the story.24 It is enough to say that we loved one another better than ever. Our passion had the same strength as in the beginning of our relationship, but our confidence in the accuracy of our movements had grown much stronger.

  Her transformation had a very powerful effect on me. It seemed to me that a completely new tunnel had opened up in life, full of exciting and unknown channels. The hope was born in me that I had found the way, with no risk or effort at all, to possess all women in the world. Simply, I would change my wife, the body I already possessed I would adapt to resemble the one I wanted.

  As soon as I noticed the small signs of a lessening of passion, I found a new dress, black with red flowers. When she drew her fingers into the silk gloves, she turned into a mistress of the senses. You will have to believe what I say… After that the hunger became greater, but clothes could no longer satisfy me. I wanted a complete transformation. I asked her to tie her hair in a tight bun and to wear a minimum of make-up. I wanted her to wear a white blouse and black skirt, which wrapped her body tightly and reached two fingers above her knees. I wanted the attitude that went with those clothes – severe and arrogant. I wanted to hear the high heels of her shoes ringing out decisively on the parquet, to see how in amazement, or disdain, she lifted up one eyebrow, fully aware of her perfect figure. I wanted the Snow Queen, a manageress made of steel, a bureaucratic goddess. (I wanted, you must excuse me, to have Anna Wintour, in case you haven’t already realised that.) And I wanted her to always be like that, not just in the bedroom. I pleaded with her to find such a being inside herself. We made love on the writing table and I demanded she spoke rude words; that she continually described what was happening to her. (It’s important that I emphasize the details here.) She consented, but I remember now, she unfailingly added:

  ‘I will, if it means so much to you.’

  When that too bored me, I wanted her to look like Patti Smith. I chose a singlet, helped to alter the jacket, found a brooch in the form of a horse; she dyed her hair black by herself and cut an uneven fringe. I asked her to squat down and hold onto the radiator, completely naked. She also looked wonderful as Holly Golightly too, in a white dress and with a hat on her head. We listened to ‘Moon River’ a lot in those days. I can’t stand that song now.

  One evening, I remember, the football fans were celebrating a win under our window. They were tooting car horns, singing ‘how great it is to see you again’; it was impossible to think from all the noise. She sat on my favourite chair by the window, dressed only in a wide blue singlet (like Betty Blue). She had an unusual expression on her face, some sort of complete absence of mind, but with such sadness. I thought it was a part of her act, and then I heard a deep, deep sigh and the words,

  ‘Why can’t you love me the way I am?’

  Such a question got me up from the armchair in front of the television. We had never had such a dramatic conversation before. I sat down opposite her and saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘But, I do love you, I truly love you.’ I think I murmured that or something very like it.

  ‘I asked you why you can’t love me, just me, and not this daydream?’ she raised her tone of voice.

  I repeated my last sentence.

  Now she was already shouting, ‘Why can’t I be myself?’

  ‘You can, really you can.’ Finally I realised the games were over.

  ‘But, I can’t!’ she screamed.

  ‘You can, why can’t you? You can right now. Be whatever you like. Be my guest.’

  ‘I can’t.’ She was crying now.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, you idiot, I can’t remember what I was like!’

  From this whole sentence, one word upset me the most. Idiot. It was the first time I had heard her say it. She had called me names before, let’s not lie about this, different insulting expressions like fool, catfish, horse, beast, cretin, but never, ever had she used the word ‘idiot’. The word ‘idiot’ was not our word. It was the word of a strange woman, cold and sharp, a television word, legal, bureaucratic, a nothing word. The rest of the sentence was not without interest either, but that word, I felt, was the most important. ‘Idiot’, without a doubt, definitely divided us.

  When I came home from work the next day, she was not in the apartment. And she never came back.

  And that was that.

  Since then I have been alone. I know what loneliness is, I know how a man can easily become transparent. To lessen the fear of being invisible I often used to count my own qualities, as a sort of psychotherapy – I’m still young, the grey hairs on my temple denote manliness and not old age; I am not excessively attractive, but I don’t believe that if someone were describing me they would first say I was ugly; I can be interesting in company, if I avoid alcohol I can even be charming; I am compassionate. I often reminded myself of exploits of seduction, even those for which I was not quite certain whether they had happened as I recollected them; evoked all the compliments women had ever sent my way, remembered their faces…

  In this way I got as far as Mirna. She was the only woman who had walked directly into my life. Is it so strange that I thought I could try? Was my offer so shocking? I was sure she was not indifferent towards me. Because, why had she chosen to knock on my door, to seek me out for help and not someone else? I am not an influential person, that’s clear, neither am I known for my strength, pushiness or wisdom. There are countless more suitable people than I who could, with no fuss at all and in a short time, find her father. We shouldn’t ignore the body language either, I had read about it in a magazine; how she leant against me, how she gazed at me, smiled…

  It’s obvious you shouldn’t believe what the magazines tell you; but when I thought about it as I sat in the bar, I concluded it didn’t matter; at least one more dilemma had been resolved. To give myself courage, I drank to the health of the loudspeaker and whispered into my glass,

  ‘If this evening is the solution, then let it never end. Hey Lou, this is the beginning of a beautiful adventure.’

  A lemon slice rotated in the liquid.

  Three vodkas after that I decided that I would visit the Pegases and talk to them. Two more vodkas, three songs alongside them, and I was looking for a taxi out on the street.

  And, of course, I found Ekrem.

  In Ekrem’s taxi it smelt of pineapple. Cardboard trees were swaying on the rear-view mirror, and on the radio, through the crackling of the vinyl, some woman was singing a folk song. The sky was luminous, with little bits of confetti thrown around. We left the town, with the yellow windows of houses skipping past the car. Then the moon took over the lighting, and everything became silver. We had travelled less than ten minutes, and already we had arrived in uninhabited country, large fields under snow,
old pathways leading into black forest to places and things I didn’t dare think about. The land around us was completely empty; the snow left untouched. A huge empty living space. And we had fought and died so sweetly for every little bit of land, for small dry hills, for impenetrable thickets, muddy glades, dead pear trees, gravel pits, water-worn gullies. The taxi stopped in front of big steel gates.

  Ekrem turned towards me.

  ‘I don’t want to go any further. Don’t you go either. Surely, neighbour, I can talk you out of it?’ he asked me.

  I shook my head and got out.

  ‘As you wish. I’ll wait for you,’ I heard behind me.

  I pushed the gate and stepped onto the yellow brick path. It went through a corridor of winged plaster horses, towards a strong light on the top of a small hill. After about a hundred metres and two troops of horses, I saw the Pegasus Motel. It looked like an ice-cream sundae. Under dozens of bright floodlights it shone in all imaginable colours, studded with cupolas, randomly pierced with round windows, balconies and verandas… In front of it, on tall poles, flags of all the countries of the European Union were hanging, and under them were parked expensive, shiny cars. Like in Brussels, or some other town where important people live. In front of the door of the motel stood a doorman dressed in the uniform of the Yugoslav navy. He did not even look at me, he just smartly opened the door. Two huge guards were standing in front of a woven basket full of pistols, knives, sprays, sticks, stakes, knuckle-dusters, chains… They informed me I could not go in with weapons and looked disappointed when I told them I was unarmed.

  Inside it was hot, suffocating, humid and smelly. Like the inside of a meat pie. Loud bass from the ceiling nailed us to the floor, keyboards were spluttering from all corners, accordions shrieking, clarinet pipes discharging, all the trumpets of the world coming into the folk-song refrain where the word ‘uzurlikzurli’ waited for a Diva to strip off her fur coat, loosen her hair, throw away her panties, brassiere, respectability and call for us to kill ourselves with merriment. It was a grandiose ‘folkateque’, full of attractive girls dressed like porn stars. They were dancing in front of mirrors and moving their hips between the laser beams. The few men on the dance floor did not know how to dance; most of them simply throwing out their arms and falling on their knees in front of the beauties, kissing their stomachs, squeezing their buttocks, biting their crotches, licking their piercings, gnashing their teeth, panting and howling.