Best European Fiction 2012

by Aleksandar Hemon

  “Child, they still haven’t found your friend.”

  So it was. They didn’t find Clara Bou. Even today, twenty-five years later, they haven’t found her. Although I don’t believe anyone is still looking.

  TRANSLATED FROM CATALAN BY JAN REINHART

  crisis

  [UNITED KINGDOM: ENGLAND]

  LEE ROURKE

  Catastrophe

  I’m sitting in my small room watching you all on my TV. I’m watching you committing the crime. I can see you all. I don’t know why this has become such a national event. Your crime is lousy. I certainly didn’t plan it this way. But now you’re all here, watching me, as I watch you committing your crime. I’m sitting in my comfortable chair in here. Just my chair. It’s the only piece of furniture I have now. I’ve thrown out everything else I own, except my TV. But you know all that, you saw me flinging it all from my balcony, twelve floors up, didn’t you? You saw it all happen, one item after another, falling . . . falling down to the tarmac below, where it smashed into smithereens, smatterings of modern detritus still evident by your booted feet, baptising the bitumen. You weren’t aware that I’d barricaded myself in—even when you turned off the water and electricity supply for the whole block, hoping to force me out like a rat. You didn’t realise that I’d already thought of that scenario, that I’d my own generator and enough drinking water to last weeks upon weeks. You didn’t realise all that back then. You do now, though. I’ve heard you all on the TV; I’ve seen the men and women in suits and hair-dos talking about all this to the camera back in the studio. The whole country knows about me now. They’re watching with you, committing the same crime . . . waiting for the catastrophe. Well, I’m waiting for it with you. I’m waiting for it to happen, too. What have you got down there? A swat team? Dynamite? What are you going to throw at me? There’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’ll fall with this building, your criminal act will not destroy me. I don’t care. You don’t understand the lengths I will go to. I belong here. I will remain here in this room until my last breath. I’ll exist here in perpetual silence. If that’s what it takes. You’ll see. You’ll all see, down there, watching me. You won’t be able to stop me. I can see you all now, gathering, enjoying the spectacle, the TV crews, the lights, the satellite dishes beaming it all into the atmosphere.

  . . . . . . . . . . . HAS BARRICADED HIMSELF INSIDE THE TWELFTH-FLOOR FLAT OF A BLOCK OF FLATS DUE FOR DEMOLITION THIS WEEK . . . . . .

  I can see you all down there. I’m watching you on my TV screen. Committing your crime. You fit snugly within my 24” of plasma, flat-screen technology. You’re all in shot, in frame, enveloped in some crude, everyday symmetry of waiting . . . of listening. And what have you heard now? What? What? I’m going to kill myself here! I have a hostage here! I’ve killed someone here! I had difficulties in my childhood! My mother didn’t love me! Is that what they’re telling you? Yes, they are. I can hear them on my TV telling you all about me, all these things, all these retellings, these stories and clichés we’ve all heard before. Repeated and repeated again. It’s no wonder you all crave this event, this moment . . . my downfall. It all makes sense to me, if not to you. No, it can’t make sense to you, your crime, if it did you wouldn’t be down there, you’d be up here with me, sitting next to me, watching it all unfold with me. Waiting, anticipating the final moments.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . EAST LONDON AFTER A LONE MAN HAS BARRICADED HIMSELF INISDE THE TWELFTH-FLOOR FLAT OF A BLOCK OF . . . . . . .

  You’re all so bored, you’re all somnambulists. You’re living in a technological miasma of your own making and all you crave is the very same speed that, unknown to you, hurtles you towards the same beginning again and again anyway. One day it will forget you entirely, it will finally leave you behind, and then what will you do, without your entertainment? You’ll kill yourselves, that’s what you’ll do. Stripped bare, that’s all you’ll have left to do.

  . . . . . . . . . . BREAKING NEWS: POLICE HAVE BEEN CALLED TO A PROPERTY IN EAST LONDON AFTER A LONE MAN HAS . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  There you are again, in your studio, communicating your scripted thoughts, proselytising each hackneyed syllable to the nation. What are you going to say next? That I’m mad? That I crave fame? Is that what you’ve all been told to say? To think? I bet it is. Well, keep it. Your petty fictions. Keep all those thoughts, all those words, they’re not enough for me anyway. It’s all nothingness to me, but you won’t understand that. “Boredom,” “humdrum,” “apathy,” “languor,” “stolidity,” “the blahs,” “radium,” “anguish,” “ennui,” “accidie”—I’ve read these words, and others like them too many times. They’ve been used in essays, addresses, fiction and poems . . . they’re not enough for me. So, use them for your own entertainment. Use them at will—you will never understand the weight that hangs above them, the weight that hangs above us all.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . DUE FOR DEMOLITION THIS WEEK. . . BREAKING NEWS: POLICE HAVE BEEN CALLED TO A PROPERTY IN EAST . . . . . . .

  And all you policemen and policewomen down there, in your uniforms, some of you young enough to be my son or daughter. What is it you’re all trying to guard? Why are you all just standing around? Surely you’ve got better things to do? Especially you there, coordinating it all, standing there, all proud like a peacock, with your plans, with your instructions and orders, your stupid walkie-talkie, transmitting more of your blather into the ether. What are you doing there? You look stupid. Your helmet is too big for your head. You’d rather be elsewhere. I can tell by the look on your face. You’d rather be at home, or in your local with your friends, talking about women and football. You’d rather be doing anything than be here, waiting for me, whilst committing your crime, down there, at the bottom of this tower block, waiting around for your orders to be followed. Well, your orders mean nothing. They’re merely words. Sounds. Words force-fed into you by someone else who earns more money than you. Someone else who drives a bigger car, owns a larger house. This is all it is, this is the only thing that’s happening here. The pursuit of money. Ha, what a farce. You underestimate the power of man’s dwelling, the power of being somewhere in time: here, being here. You underestimate the sheer weight of it. And besides, deep down, you know this event cannot be narrated. You know this as much as I do.

  . . . . . . . . LONDON AFTER A LONE MAN HAS BARRICADED HIMSELF INSIDE THE TWELFTH-FLOOR FLAT OF A BLOCK OF FLATS DUE . . . . . .

  I’m made of thicker stuff than you. Look at you, pacing up and down, waiting for the event. Look at you rubbing your hands in gleeful expectation. Hoping whatever it is you’ve planned works and comes into fruition the moment you want it to. There you are gathering your fellow officers, manoeuvring them into position. Don’t you see how obvious it is? Don’t you see? If you were up here with me, looking down, you’d notice right away just how simple, fragmented and pointless it all looks. But you’re not up here are you? You’re down there, in the thick of it. Caught in the madness of it, seeing it all happen before your very eyes, in your so-called real life. You’re caught. Caught.

  . . . . . . . . . . FOR DEMOLITION THIS WEEK . . . BREAKING NEWS: FINAL EVICTION PROCEDURES AND THE DEMOLITION OF. . . . . . . . .

  But wait . . . what’s that? Who’s that you are talking to? And now, where’ve you gone? You’ve gone. Now we’re back in that studio, with the suits and the hair-dos. What’s that the presenter is saying? Breaking news, breaking news. What’s all that about? What’s that they’re saying? I can’t hear you properly. You’re speaking too quickly. What’s that? Local council? Town planners? I can’t decipher what you’re saying. Reprieve? Why a reprieve? Wait, wait, why have you cut back to the police down there? Why are people walking away? People are walking away. They’re going away. Back home. Back to work. What’s going on? Why’s nothing happening? I don’t understand, I thought something was meant to be happening? Today? The event? The ca
tastrophe? The result of your crimes. Where is it? Where is the catastrophe? Why isn’t the catastrophe happening? I want an answer. I want somebody to explain all this to me. I want somebody to explain to me why there is to be no event today. I want this to be explained clearly and slowly. Surely somebody knows?

  . . . . . . . . CONRAD COURT, IN HACKNEY, EAST LONDON HAS BEEN POSTPONED DUE TO “TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES” AND A LAST- . . . . . .

  Can’t you repeat to me what you just said? Can’t you cut back to the studio so they can tell me one more time? Slowly? With meaning? So that I can understand why all this has suddenly stopped. So cruelly. And without any concern for me. Look, they’re walking away. I don’t understand why everyone is walking away down there. What shall I do now? How long do I have to wait now? Why can’t they just get all of this over and done with? I cannot go through this again. Over and over again. The catastrophe never happening again. Their crimes repeating and repeating. Never reaching the point of no return—the point we are all waiting for. The moment we all secretly hope will come and envelop us all. Again.>

  . . . . . . . MINUTE REPRIEVE BROUGHT IN BY COUNCIL LEADERS AND CITY PLANNERS. IT IS UNKNOWN JUST WHEN EVICTION . . . . . . . . . .

  [MONTENEGRO]

  ANDREJ NIKOLAIDIS

  The Coming

  The smell of blood reached us even before we entered the house. There were no signs of a break-in at the front door. Clearly the murderer had rung the bell and a member of the household had opened up for him. I turned around to Janko: “Probably someone they knew.” “Psssht!” he hissed—he must have been afraid the murderer was still in the house.

  I looked back. Curious neighbors were already clustering around our patrol car behind the row of cypresses that skirted the Vukotićs’ property. Some kids were tearing down the street in a souped-up yellow Fiat with music blaring and almost lost control at the bend. They spotted the crowd, slowed down, and drove back. “Turn that off,” someone yelled at them, “there’s been a murder here!”

  I forced the door with my shoulder and took a step into the house. I gripped my pistol as tightly as I could, with both hands. It was cold, as if I’d just picked it up out of the snow. Janko came in behind. He lit the way for me with his flashlight. We heard a movement in the dark. Or at least we thought we did—who knows. We were on edge. Terrified, to tell the truth. It was my first murder, after all. Sure, I’d seen a lot of corpses before, but I don’t think any sane person can get used to death.

  When we heard the noise, or thought we did, Janko flashed his light into the kitchen. I stepped forward, ready to shoot. Then my legs caught on something and I fell. My cheek was warm and wet. “Fuck this,” I called, “turn on the light.”

  I was lying in Senka Vukotić’s blood. I found some paper towels in the kitchen to wipe my face and hands. Meanwhile, Janko photographed Senka. “I think I moved her,” I told him.

  There was a large wound on her head. It turned out that the murderer had dealt the first blow with an ax. Evidently that didn’t kill her outright, so he knelt down and cut her throat. We didn’t find the knife. The ax is at the lab in Podgorica for analysis.

  The trail of blood led to the inside stairs. The lab later reported that the murderer had been wearing size eight rain boots with worn-out soles. As soon as he set foot on the stairs, Pavle fired at him. Two shots. We found the buckshot in the wall. It’s incredible that he didn’t hit him. We combed the house several times but couldn’t find any trace of the murderer’s blood. That’s what fear does to you—Pavle was firing from above, from the top of the stairs, it can’t be more than five yards. Before he could reload the shotgun the murderer was upon him. From what we’ve been able to reconstruct, it seems the first blow struck Pavle in the right shoulder. As the murderer swung the ax again to deal the mortal blow, Pavle dashed off into the bathroom and tried to hide.

  Then something happened that makes us certain that the murderer knew the family and had been to the house before: instead of going after Pavle he went into the children’s room. He knew they had children—that’s the point—and he knew where to find them. He grabbed Sonja in the bed by the window. She was seven, Jesus Christ . . . One blow was enough for a small child like that.

  Meanwhile, Pavle realized that he’d left the children at the tender mercies of the murderer. He ran into their room and found the intruder on the floor—the man had needed to set down the ax to grab Helena, who’d hidden under her bed. That was the second chance Pavle had that night. He didn’t get a third. Although he now had the ax, which put him at a clear advantage, the murderer overpowered him. And cut his throat, like he did with Senka down in the hall.

  Helena tried to run away. She didn’t get far. We found her body in the living room, on the couch in front of the television, which was on. Judging by the bloodstains, the murderer sat down next to her. Our psychologists are trying to unravel what that could possibly mean. One thing’s for sure—he switched on Animal Planet.

  Then he left. No one saw him, no one heard him, and he left no fingerprints or DNA. There won’t be any more investigations because, as I’m sure you know, homeless people laid waste to the house and ultimately set it on fire.

  “Quite a story, don’t you think? I think you’ve got something for your two hundred euros!” Inspector Jovanović exclaimed.

  “You can say that again!” I said, patting him on the shoulder. I ordered a beer for him, paid, and went outside. But I didn’t manage to get away. Every day I go back to the pub, sit behind the same sticky bar, and listen to the same story like a bloody refrain I can’t get out of my head.

  I remember all of that this evening as I sit in a long line of cars and stare at the fire-blackened ruins of the library covered with snow like a white sheet spread over a dead body. It’s meant to be hidden, but everyone knows there’s a body underneath—everyone knows there’s been a crime.

  I’ll need at least an hour to get out of this traffic jam, I thought. It’s cold tonight, and the snow has turned to ice since there’s no one to clear it off the roads. A driver probably failed to brake on time and crashed into the car in front. Even this evening they’ve managed to get into a fight about it. The police are coming now to restore order. I can see the blue rotating lights through the snow that’s now falling ever more thickly. Luckily I filled up before the Ulcinj gas station closed and all the staff were sent home. When the gas station ran dry they rang the head office in Kotor to ask for another tankload.

  They called all morning, and finally around noon they reached a guy. He told them everything was over—no one needed anything now, least of all gas. “I mean, what are people going to do with it? It’s not like they can escape,” the severely depressed man said. He complained that his wife had kicked him out of the house. She’d told him to get lost—she at least wanted to die without having him around. And with nowhere else to go, he went back to the office. He was alone, there wasn’t another living soul at the Hellenic Petroleum depot. When the workers at the gas station finally realized that the end of the world also meant they’d lose their jobs, they divided up the money from the till. The gas cylinders that they’d sold to customers in happier times were now heaved into the trunks of their cars, and plastic bags full of candy, cigarettes, and bottles of whiskey were crammed into the back seats. They didn’t bother to lock the door when they left. Now they’re probably guzzling down Chivas Regal and their children are gorging themselves on candy till it makes them sick, so nothing will be left. Like they say: it’s a shame to waste things.

  The gas needle under the speedometer tells me I’ve got enough gas for all I need to do this evening. The motor rumbles reliably. I turn up the heating and put in a new CD. Odawas sings “Alleluia” while several men with long black beards march past in formation. They’re rushing to the mosque—it’s time for prayer. The lights on the minarets blink like a lighthouse. But it’s too late now, I brood, we�
�re still going to hit the rocks. You can crawl under the red altars, run into the minarets—slender rockets ready to take you away to a different world—but it will be as promised: tonight, no one will be able to hide.

  Tonight would warrant an update of all our dictionaries, if only there were time, so as to add the definitive new meaning of “deadline”: anything that anyone in the world still plans to do has to be done tonight. Working under pressure? I’m used to it, even though I initially imagined that being a private detective in a town as small and peaceful as Ulcinj would be safe and easy. Cheated husbands, suspicious wives—who could need my services apart from unhappy people in unhappy marriages? So I thought.