Ukulele Jam

by Alen Meskovic

  Kaća did not want to go with me. Or rather, she was desperate to go, but her Mum would not let her. She had just turned fifteen, and they fought all the time.

  The day she returned from Trieste was a Sunday. I had all of six days to break in the shoes. I trained indoors and outdoors. Walked back and forth. Sprinkled dirt on them so they did not look way too new.

  I counted down the days. Lay in my bed Friday night and thought: twenty-four hours.

  Woke up with butterflies in my stomach. No appetite. Sheer joy that the day had finally arrived. And excitement. Loads of excitement.

  From noon till evening, Pero, Vlado and a couple of the others hung out on the terrace showing off. I saw them putting chokeholds on each other for a laugh, and discussing press-ups, when I went out on the balcony to see if my T-shirts were dry.

  ‘Sixty-five!’

  ‘Sixty-five?’

  ‘Sixty-five! I swear. I used to be able to do sixty-five.’

  At eight o’clock I stood at the roundabout in Majbule, freezing cold. Not my toes, but my upper body. Wearing an extra jumper under the black sweater and dropping the jacket had clearly been a mistake. Sure I looked cool, but fuck was I cold!

  A guy in an orange Lada drove past. Then he must have changed his mind because he slammed on the brakes.

  I ran up to the car and opened the door.

  ‘Shit, man,’ he said. ‘I thought you were a girl.’

  ‘Sorry. Can I get a lift anyway?’

  He thought about it for a moment, nodded and said:

  ‘Hop in!’

  So I hopped in.

  Ukulele opened at eight, but there was virtually nobody there before ten. That was what Fabio had told me. I had loads of time.

  I passed my school and the town library. Walked past two cinemas showing the same film. Imagined myself as the leading man. Getting the girl in the end. Kept walking.

  On one of the streets of the old town there were several restaurants with ćevapčići on the menu. I chose the smallest and the cheapest.

  ‘A small portion, please!’

  I was not actually that hungry, I had eaten at the camp. But it was a special night, and I got carried away. Since the start of the war, I had not tasted ćevapčići once.

  From the table by the window you could see the street and watch people as they walked past. Two unshaven guys in boiler suits and sneakers were sitting in the bar. They were smoking and were virtually silent. A guy with glistening wax in his hair was on a date with a blonde. Unfortunately she had her back to me.

  My food arrived. The waitress, who had fuzz under her nose and a beauty spot on her serving arm, said ‘enjoy’ and I thought: Oh no! They serve them with chips and bread here! No pita bread dipped in homemade broth? Chips and dry white bread?

  I cut into one of the meat rolls, tried a piece and chewed. It was too salty and rubbery. This was nothing like Bosnian ćevapčići. I had landed in a tourist trap.

  What the hell had I been expecting – at that price?

  I paid and left. Never managed to see the blonde’s face. Tipsy soldiers, beggars, and all sorts walked down the pedestrianised street. One of the soldiers staggered towards me. He was alone. I tried to evade him, but it was too late: we grazed shoulders.

  ‘Sorry,’ I hurried to say when he stopped and sent me a scornful look.

  ‘Sorry,’ I repeated. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  He turned around and continued walking without saying a word. I left the centre, Vešnja’s old town, and headed in the direction of Ukulele. I did not know exactly where it was. Had hoped I would see other people walking there and then just follow them. But all I spotted was a punk wearing a leather jacket entering a block of flats.

  A woman in her mid-twenties gave me directions:

  ‘It’s on a side street to a side street to the first side street after the crossing. On the left.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘No, seriously: first you go left, then left again at the end of the street. You’ll see a small car park in front of an abandoned building, factory or whatever it used to be. Ukulele is right next to it.’

  I heard a roar from inside. That was my first impression. A song and a band I did not recognise. Something hard. Something kick-ass.

  The bass was loud, the sound grinding and muddy. The large metal gate was open on one side. Through the entrance I could glimpse part of the terrace and the stage, which was used for concerts in the summer.

  Sitting to the right of the gate was a guy with a windcheater zipped up to his chin. A pack of fags, a money box and a pile of tickets on the table in front of him. The guy had dark hair that covered his forehead. My heart was pounding as I handed him a tenner.

  ‘Enjoy!' he said and handed me the change.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and slowly walked inside.

  It felt like there were ants crawling up and down my back. I felt like raising my arms in the air and jumping up and down. Like shouting or something.

  I was only a few months gone sixteen. With no notion of what it would be like to be with a woman. Wake up with her on a mild summer morning. Feel her gentle hand cupped around my balls, which could suddenly speak – both German and English.

  For that reason, for a long time I hoped that one fine day, when it finally happened, it would feel like walking through the gates of Ukulele.

  BAMBUS

  There were not many people inside. The broad concrete terrace was practically deserted. Sitting at one of the many tables along the metal fence were two older heavies, hair down to their arses, laughing. A guy holding a bottle of beer said ‘see ya’ to a couple of girls and walked over to the table with the heavies.

  At the opposite end of the terrace, near a wall ravaged by graffiti, there was a two-storey building with two entrances. One led to the bar, the other to the overlit toilets.

  The large building, from where the droning music came, was on my right. It was round and had three entrances. I discovered that when I stepped inside. I actually had to piss, but had to see the dance floor first.

  Ukulele must have been a church in the old days or something along those lines. In any case, the large building had a high ceiling. At least eight metres. The speakers, standing in each corner of the dance floor, were over two metres tall.

  Damn, the sound when you got inside! My Japanese mono-weakling multiplied by five hundred. At least! It was as though the music went straight through your chest and stomach.

  Around the dance floor was a small raised arena with three rows of plastic seats. Behind the back row on one side there was a platform with plastic armchairs along the wall. On the opposite side of the dance floor a couple of stairs led to a smaller stage, from where the DJ emitted the fierce, angry tunes.

  I walked along the edge of the dance floor and looked up at the DJ – a long-haired guy with glasses and cans. Wearing a long-sleeved sweater similar to mine.

  The disco ball spun round, but there was nobody on the dance floor. A couple sat kissing in one of the armchairs at the very back. Two girls went up to the DJ with their tapes and a record under their arms. I nipped to the toilet.

  A skinny punk with an aquiline nose wearing a black Dead Kennedys shirt stood next to me. He was clearly having problems getting his penis out of trousers that were far too tight.

  I read the words on his top: TOO DRUNK TO FUCK, and recognised them at once. Fabio had a T-shirt exactly like it.

  I wonder if Fabiano is coming, I thought. His jaw will drop when he sees me here. Definitely.

  The neighbouring bar looked like a normal bar, with its own music, tables and chairs.

  I sipped my drink and livened up. Wished ‘the Swedes’ were here. Sent them a toast in my thoughts. Then I took another sip and went out to the terrace to go for a walk.

  I drank bambus, a local mix of home-made red wine and Coke. I could not afford more than one beer, but I could get three glasses of bambus for the same price. My big plan for the night was to buy a b
ambus every hour and a half and walk around with it.

  When I emptied glass number two, people started to pour in. The music grew more familiar, and the dance floor filled with a group of punks who were kicking in every direction to something hardcore. They were replaced by the death, thrash and heavy metal dudes, who swung their hair and looked badass. Finally the repertoire eased towards soft rock and grunge, with a few Croatian and Bosnian hits sprinkled in for good measure.

  I sat in the third row, drank bambus and followed the evening’s developments. My All Star Hi-Tops felt good on my feet. My hair was perfect. The girls walked past, one more beautiful than the next. I just made note of them and remembered them for another time. Had Fabio been there, we probably would have made a move together. He knew a lot of them as far back as primary school. He was from Vešnja, after all.

  Had Fabio been there, we would have headbanged to ‘Symphony of Destruction’ by Megadeath and ‘Two Minutes to Midnight’ by Iron Maiden. I knew the lyrics to ‘Two Minutes to Midnight’ from start to finish, and I got up and sang at the top of my lungs, before I downed my third and final glass.

  I did not meet anyone I knew that night. Nobody I could talk to. Some familiar faces from the school and the street, standing out by their clothes or haircuts, walked past and nodded now and again. I got annoyed towards the end of the evening, when the bambus finally started to take effect. It would have been good to have at least one witness. One person to have a drink with. One person to confirm that I had been there. When you don’t speak to a single person the entire evening, it all seems strange and surreal in your mind. Maybe I should have rung Fabio and asked him to join me.

  Another Lada, I thought, when I hopped into the car. Tonight is the night of Ladas!

  This one was white, and it was a different guy driving. With a moustache and shoulder-length hair. He was at least twenty-five, if not older. Sitting next to him was his girlfriend, wife, score, or whoever she was. They were heading to Majbule. Probably to one of the summerhouses, I thought. I had never seen them before.

  ‘Were you at Ukulele?’ the guy asked.

  That made me really happy.

  ‘Yes!’

  I obviously looked the part. A Ukulele guy!

  ‘Us too.’

  I thought: they’re probably going back for a shag now. Why else would anyone in their right mind drive to Majbule at three o’clock in the morning?

  For a moment I wished I was the man behind the wheel. With a lady, a car, music playing and the keys to a summerhouse with clean sheets and the lot.

  ‘Is that Pink Floyd?’ I asked, unsure, and neither of them had spoken in a long time.

  ‘Yeah!’ the guy said and cranked up the volume.

  We were deep into the song. The solo passages were over, and Waters began to sing: ‘Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.’

  ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond!’ the guy shouted. ‘From Wish You Were Here.’

  Wish You Were Here? The icing on the cake. An unforgettable night. Pink Floyd in a white Lada, sailing through the night.

  ‘I have to check out this album!’ I said. ‘I don’t know it.’

  Tomorrow the crap weather would be there again, I thought, and it’s probably going to be a long time before Boro’s next handout. But never mind. I would recall the details of this night one at a time. For days. And Kaća, she was going to get the full account. Everything from the gate to the dance floor, the songs, the bambus, and right up to the Lada and Pink Floyd. Yes!

  Red wine and Coke whipped around in my body. The adrenaline prevented me from hearing the song properly. Everything buzzed around inside my head. I was a beehive of new impressions and new notes.

  Would I ever be able to sleep after a night like this? Could I even be bothered? Is there anyone in those ridiculous buildings right now listening to music this good?

  When I reached the camp and our room in D1, I silently loosened my laces. Dad was snoring. Mum turned in the bed.

  ‘Lock the door,’ she said.

  ‘Aren’t you sleeping?’

  ‘Yes. It’s late. You should be too.’

  Only later did I work it out. One Saturday after another I stood up by the roundabout in Majbule with Boro’s financial contribution in my pocket. I stuck out my thumb, strolled through the city and was already hanging out in Ukulele around nine. Sometimes I did not meet anyone at all. Other times Horvat, Fabio and has brother Mauro were there. Plus their friends, who quickly became mine. Plus all kinds of girls.

  After the last song I hitched back to Majbule, and each time I snuck into the room, I heard my Mum turn in bed. She never went to sleep until I had returned to D1 safe and sound.

  Myself, I feared nothing. Not the drunken soldiers in the narrow streets of Vešnja or the unknown drivers who picked me up.

  I knew that the sun could do damage. But sitting in the shade could also be dangerous.

  DREAM

  I fell asleep and dreamt I was walking through the pedestrian precinct back home. On my way to Ukulele! Standing in the queue in front of me, Samir, Damir, Amar and Ismar were asking where the hell I had got to. I replied that I had had to walk Nina home. Sitting at the folding table to the right was Mister No, selling tickets. He nodded, and we got in for free. Samir handed me a bottle. He patted me on the shoulder, and I woke up just as I was going to take my first sip of the night.

  I had drool on my pillow. Out in the corridor doors I heard doors opening and closing. I could hear footsteps, voices and sporadic coughing.

  Someone knocked on the door opposite ours. Then ours. Twice. Three times.

  Dad got up and opened the door.

  ‘Good morning!’

  ‘Good morning!’

  ‘ID check!’

  Two men in civilian clothing entered. They were both in their thirties. Wearing unbuttoned denim jackets with shirts underneath. I lay motionless on my side and pretended to be asleep. Through my eyelids I could see one of them flipping through a notebook.

  Mum opened the drawer to the bedside table and handed them our yellow ID cards. I closed my eyes and took long breaths.

  ‘Is that your child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have any more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any more people living here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘HEY!’ one of them shouted.

  I ‘woke up,' rubbed my eyes and looked surprised.

  ‘How old are you, boy?’ he asked. The other held our cards and jotted down the details.

  ‘Sixteen,’ I replied. ‘What time is it?’

  Dad cleared his throat and added needlessly:

  ‘Youth these days! Out all night and asleep all day.’

  The men did not react to him at all. They did their job. The pencil or the pen – I could not see which – scratched the paper. The writer moved his hand to his mouth and sneezed. Then he handed the cards back to Mum, and without saying a word he closed his notebook.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Dad said, when the denim jackets were on their way out, ‘are you from Vešnja? From the refugee office?’

  The writer’s mate stopped and sent Dad a scornful look:

  ‘“Office?” What “office?” Pull yourself together, man!’

  Cassette 6

  PUNK’S NOT DEAD

  FOUR ILLUSIONS

  One day in January 1994, two months after the first raid, Dad burst through the door and shouted:

  ‘What on earth is that stench in the corridor?’

  ‘Dunno,’ I said.

  ‘Is there a body somewhere, or what?’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘It almost smells worse. Try standing here!’

  I got up from the bed:

  ‘Ugh! Close the door, dammit, before I pass out!’

  ‘Damn!’

  ‘Shut the door!’

  That was how it started. With an unforgettable stench that made the eyes sting, in the corridor of the second floor of D1.
Who could know that one thing would lead to another, that it would all end with one person dead and one alive, one person departing and one arriving.

  I had been to school that day, but only half followed the lesson. It was windy outside, and on my way to the bus stop, I passed a broken-down phone box. The grimy glass door was ajar. On several occasions I had poked my index finger in the cool hole where returned coins on seldom occasions were forgotten.

  This time it paid off. Two kunas. I picked up the receiver, bunged the coins in, selected the country code, the local code along with the number: 832-769.

  Of course nobody answered. The hysterical rejecting tone beeped away in my ear. The two coins jingled down to the hole. I collected them and put them in my pocket, pleased with myself and with a good conscience. I had done my bit.

  Imagine if suddenly there had been a connection. Imagine if it had been re-connected and somebody had answered. Him, for example, the one who did not ring or write or appear in the doorway. Him, the one we are still looking for.

  As far as I knew, the house was still vacant. The weeds in the garden and the surrounding grass had grown tall. Most of the furniture had long since been stolen. I should be happy that I had not heard a voice in the receiver. Had I done that, it probably would have shouted at me:

  ‘You don’t live here any more! Do you get it! This number does not exist! The same goes for the greyish-blue telephone! Generations of Serbian are going to live here!’

  I stepped out of the phone box and headed for the bus stop.

  At the camp in Majbule, the harsh stench awaited me.

  Gogi, also known as Goran, was a Slavonian of Croatian nationality. Those in the camp not from his village doubted it at the beginning. Pero and several others knew him from before. They maligned him and spread all sorts of rumours about his ancestors on his mother’s side. Gogi did not care and had a part in the confusion the day he moved in. When someone from Pero’s balcony in D2, for the umpteenth time played Čavoglave and its lines like ‘Drop a bomb, chase the gang,’ Gogi opened his balcony door and responded with Miroslav Ilić or Sinan Sakić’s turbo-folky hits.