Ukulele Jam

by Alen Meskovic

  And then the paper inside. Swedish! Checked and thick. Primo quality.

  That’s the Swedes for you. Excepting a few flops like Roxette or Ace of Base, everything that comes from that region, tip-top quality. Just look at Europe, ‘The Final Countdown’, they are also Swedish. A little too much synthesiser for my taste, but cool riffs, obviously, damn, it is heavy after all!

  I read the letter over and over again. I read it to myself. To Mum and Dad. To be able to remember the passages by heart.

  He wrote very little about the day they split us into two groups – the day they drove them away and let the rest of us walk towards the Bosnian army.

  We did not write about where they were driven to, and what happened to them there. He skimmed over the many months he had spent in the camp. ‘All kinds of things happened,’ ‘It’s nothing to write about’ and ‘One day you’ll get the whole story’ were some of the recurring sentences. One I would never forget went like this: ‘We got a little food, many thrashings, and we worked from morning to night.’

  They slaved away for long periods out in the fields, I later found out. When Serbian farmers from the region came driving in their tractors, the prisoners were lined up in a row in the courtyard. The farmers chose the ones with the biggest muscles and drove them into the fields or to their homes. The prisoners were supervised by at least three to four armed soldiers, while they gathered hay, chopped firewood or did various other things.

  I tried to imagine him collecting hay – and laughed. It was an impossible combination.

  Going out to work with a farmer had certain advantages. The farmers’ wives made good food, and you got a lot more than at the camp.

  The farmers did not beat them either. The guards and the soldiers who had to go to the front did. On occasion the army’s lorries stopped outside in the night, the door opened, and the brave Serbian heroes stormed in, kicking and stomping away. Then the engine was switched on again, and the lorries drove off in the direction of the front, now with a battle-ready crew devoid of nerves.

  The last part he told me during our second phone conversation. Even though he kept repeating that I asked too many questions, and that he would rather talk about anything else, I kept at it. In the end he had no more call time on his card.

  Most of the first letter described how he had got away from the camp and made it to Sweden. He obviously preferred to write about that. Parts of the story I knew in advance – that was what he told me after ‘Miki, is that you?’ – but I re-read every single word and sucked it all in anyway.

  It started one day when he was chopping firewood at the farm of a younger prison guard. His old schoolmate from Banja Luka, Dragan, whose dad had got them out of Sarajevo back then, happened to walk past the gate. Neno said hi to him. The friend saw him, but did not reply. Not because he wanted to ignore him or anything, he simply did not recognise him. At that point Neno had lost over twenty kilos. He was unshaven and wearing clothes that were so used and filthy, that they would fall to pieces if you pulled on them.

  This friend and his dad would be the cause of two of Neno’s favourite phrases in his first letter. One made Dad suspicious of the so-called Stockholm syndrome. While the other even Dad agreed with:

  ‘Not all Serbs are alike,’ and ‘Money creates holes where drills can’t.’

  Now it was just a matter of earning enough money to pay them back.

  ‘There’s something fishy about that,’ Dad muttered, when I managed to finish the letter. ‘Why doesn’t he say who he borrowed the money from?’

  ‘Of course! You always have to look for the hair in the ointment,’ Mum said. ‘Can’t you just be happy?’

  I sat alone in the room that day and re-read his letter several times. I mulled it over incessantly. Sweden, fate, basements and minefields filled my thoughts, while the bass boomed from one of the lower balconies.

  What is it with me and this faraway country? I had hardly heard of it before Samir and Damir had to go there. And now they’re there, as well as Amar, Ismar and Neno. Now I have to sit and read that greasy atlas in Vešnja’s library again. Dream of saying goodbye to the old folks and taking off north, as soon as I was finished with school – upwards of a year away. Hope that one day he gets the papers and passport and comes to visit us in the camp. Imagine showing him around. Tell him that I had a friend named Igor, and a girlfriend named Jelena.

  ‘Igor is dead now, and Jelena is living in Ohio, USA. I got an electric shock from a kitchen niche the day you called. I don’t know if that was what it took. I had tried all kinds of things … Maybe all that with Igor, Jelena and the electricity, that was heaven’s preferred payment, and not my arms and legs and whatever else I offered. Maybe I had been completely mistaken. Attempted to trade with unwanted currency.’

  Immersed in Neno’s plump handwriting, I sat playing homespun philosopher for hours that day. I got up, put on some music, changed tracks, walked back and forth, lay on my bed, cried and read the letter over and over again.

  Can it really be true? Is it really him? Am I dreaming, or will I be woken up by Dad’s howling radio soon? The holiday has just started. Why am I not celebrating and looking forward to it? Has superstition placed a rock on my shoulders? Do I dare not hope for a good summer at last? Is the third time not lucky? Neno is alive, dammit, he is living somewhere safe! The sky is blue, and waiting down by the pier are your friends. Now go down and let loose, man! Stop mulling over it so much! Life is too short for this shit; it should be lived and not fucked up!

  I put the letter down, opened the brown, built-in wardrobe and pulled Neno’s Spitfire jacked out of the bag. I found the yellow pack of Čunga Lunga chewing gum in one of the pockets and sniffed it.

  Then I bawled a little more, blew my nose, walked out the door and let the summer begin.

  Cassette 7

  BIG HITS OF SUMMER

  TEJI AND DENI

  Zlaja threw the towel over his shoulder and put his sunglasses in place. He handed me a piece of chewing gum.

  ‘Do you know what?’ he said.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘The two of us, we freaking rule this place.’

  I knew he would say that! Sooner or later. He said it at least once an hour that summer.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I mean, the two of us: two dangerous dudes, two heavies. Two shaggy animals! Eh? What do you say to that?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. That depends on which eyes are looking.’

  It was late July. The ground and the asphalt were glowing. We jumped from one tuft of grass to the next.

  ‘Seriously,’ Zlaja continued, ‘what do you think? Are we not the coolest in the entire bay?’

  ‘Yeah, that depends. It’s all just …’

  ‘An illusion!’

  ‘To a degree. “We are one another’s illusions,”’ I quoted Fric. ‘And check out those two illusions there. Take a look at those two hot illusions there!’

  Zlaja glanced down at the beach and saw: two wonderful young bodies, stretched out in the sun. Two bodies, we had neither seen nor noticed before. Meaning two bodies that must have just arrived at our keenly observed bay.

  One was lying on her stomach reading a book. The other on her back, with a blue top covering her face.

  ‘I know them,’ Zlaja said.

  ‘Bullshit! They’ve just got here.’

  ‘Nix. I saw them yesterday.’

  ‘Okay. Whereabouts?’

  ‘At Wicky. Sat with them last night drinking a beer.’

  ‘Already? You told me nothing! Who are they? What happened?’

  ‘One of them is Slovenian, the other one … probably Slovenian too. I think. But they’re from Italy. They came and sat down at the table next to Gogi and I. Then Pero and Robi came and threw themselves all over them in the most uncool manner. You should have seen it. Utterly hopeless. Something like “Do you have the time?” and “Haven’t we met before?” Jesus-fucking-Christ! You should have seen how cold t
hose chicks were.’

  ‘No way, If only I’d been there! Fuck-all happened at Ukulele yesterday.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No. It was half empty. People are partying on the beaches. It’s cheaper. Anyway. What happened next?’

  ‘Yeah, what do you think? They started to look at daddy-o here, you know. They asked for help.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I switched to Italian, and they didn’t give the idiots one more look.’

  ‘Boom!’

  ‘Robi showed off with his English, but they were ice-cold. They changed tables.’

  ‘Ah, how cool, man!’

  ‘Let’s go down and say hi to them. One of them is sweet on me. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yep, two secs.’

  I took off my sunglasses. Caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection: dangerous dude! Shaggy and cool.

  Winked at Zlaja:

  ‘Now I am!’

  He winked back:

  ‘Okay. And now: on the attack! Now something is going to bloody happen.’

  Danijela, the name of the one with the book, was a little better looking than Mateja, but they both seemed really sweet. I assumed that it was Danijela who was sweet on Zlaja, so I concentrated on Mateja. She had a pointed nose and a cheeky little mouth: a reverse Marina. On the outside of her left thigh I noticed a white birthmark, a pale island surrounded by tanned skin.

  They offered us crisps and orange juice, and we chomped on crisps and talked about U2, Danijela’s favourite band. Here I launched a small arsenal of discreet compliments. They happened at relatively brief intervals, but the compliments were well disguised as general comments about good taste in music, nice T-shirts and the like. At this point of the summer it flowed quite naturally. Zlaja and I had ruled the beach for over a month, and our routine was to stand out by a mile.

  I had just had my ‘fingering’ debut as the guitarist Zlaja called it. One Stefanie from Graz introduced me to the practical side of petting after Zlaja’s, Gogi’s and not least, Fric’s craziest theories and talks on the subject. Fric claimed that the term petting only applied in the instances you used all five fingers, since pet meant five in all of the south Slavic languages: Slovenian, Croatian, Bosnian, Serbian and Macedonian. While he outlined the languages, he shot out respectively his thumb, index, middle, ring and little finger at me.

  ‘Do you follow me?’ he said and pointed at his open hand. ‘Five. Right? Five! Five fingers, five languages. Petting!’

  ‘Ah, I don’t bloody know, Fric. Serbian, Croatian and Bosnian are one and the same language. And then there is Montenegrin, which you didn’t even mention.’

  ‘That’s because Montenegrins don’t do petting! They’re too lazy for that sort of thing! Everyone knows that!’

  Typical Fric. He tried to make me believe all sorts. Including there being a difference between onanism and masturbation. That it was a matter of two different techniques. Good old Fric.

  The best thing about Stefanie and other tourist girls was that you did not have to fall in love with them. It was all very simple: they hung out in the bay for a week or two, they were out to have fun, and they talked openly about which day and what time they were going home. No reason to fear them suddenly informing you that they were going to Ohio, USA or something.

  ‘Teji’ and ‘Deni,’ which Zlaja’s and my new acquaintances called each other, were a class above, not only Stefanie from Graz, but also most other girls we had met up till now. Danijela had an absolutely perfect body, dark hair down to her chin and thick, full lips. At first I felt more like touching them than kissing them.

  Mateja and she asked loads of questions. Especially about the area and the opportunities to get away from the wailing brats and snoring old folks, who farted in their sleep into the bargain. One of them let loose while we were having a conversation about U2.

  Just as we were about to go in the water and swim across to the island, Zlaja grabbed my upper arm firmly:

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Chatting up my girl.’

  ‘Her?’ I asked in amazement. ‘“Teji?” Is she sweet on you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘I thought … Oh! … But … No, forget it! I’ll just take the other one. Better looking too.’

  On the way over to the island Danijela got the usual spiel. About how electrical installation was the most dangerous trade mankind has ever engaged in. About how us electricians make a maximum of one mistake in our hazardous career. That’s all we get. I told her that I had five brothers in Sweden, but that I would rather stay in Majbule, because the bay was so beautiful, and you met new people all the time. I fired off all sorts of crap.

  She had just finished secondary school and was going to study at uni. Either journalism or archaeology.

  ‘Archaeology?’ I said. ‘In other words, you want to dig up the bones of our ancestors.’

  ‘Yes, I love history.’

  ‘Get other people to do it! Physical work hurts.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Are you crazy?! Spend four years at uni, get a degree and then still have to dig up the earth and sweat like crazy. That is completely absurd!’

  She had a very ambitious mother, who sent her to a chosen few summer schools in Vienna and London. Her dream was to go to New York. She was crazy about that city, especially Brooklyn, Manhattan and Skyline.

  Hm, I thought. And here we are sitting counting loose change at Wicky. This is going to be uphill, this is.

  ON FORM

  The island was its old self. It was small and deserted – with an excess of rocks in relation to underbrush. The gulls shrieked in the sky, and Danijela said:

  ‘Wow! It’s beautiful here.’

  On the other side – the side facing the horizon – we positioned ourselves in the spot where Samir and Andrea had sat slobbering over each other two years ago. The spot where I stood thinking about Nina and feeling like I had a lot of catching up to do.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll win today,’ Zlaja said.

  ‘Yes, I will,’ I said. ‘I can feel it. I just stood thinking about taking the tallest one.’

  ‘The tallest? Are you mad?’

  ‘Just wait and see!’

  We had a competition going that summer. We jumped from gradually higher and higher cliffs and moved up towards the spot from where Andrea at one time jumped out feet-first. I had made it up to a cliff that was two metres lower. Zlaja couldn’t believe his eyes: the stupid Bosnian was about to beat him on his home turf.

  ‘I’m taking the highest one today!’ I said. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Relax, Miki. Then you’ll have a long life.’

  ‘No! I can feel it. I’m ready. Just have to take some of the lower ones first. Just have to warm up a little!’

  ‘What’s it about?’ Mateja asked.

  Zlaja answered in Italian, and all three of them laughed.

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked.

  ‘He said, that you want to jump head-first from that cliff,’ Mateja answered.

  That provoked me.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘And I’m going to wank at the same time. With both hands!’

  They did not catch that. I winked at Zlaja and hurried off. Jumped a couple of times from two lower cliffs.

  Zlaja was content with one. He was good at doing ‘the swallow,’ keeping his legs together and his arms stretched out nicely. But this was my day. I could feel it. I had bigger balls than him.

  Mateja and Danijela walked down to the water, threw themselves in and commented on some yacht that sailed past.

  ‘I’m bloody doing it,’ I said to Zlaja. ‘I’m doing it now.’

  ‘Hey,’ he said and whispered, ‘just jump feet first. That alone is crazy. It’s more than fifteen metres tall.’

  ‘I’ll assess it from up there.’

  I stood on the tallest cliff on the nameless island across the bay in Majbule. I pushed my hair behind my
ears and looked across the horizon. Italy, I thought. Somewhere out there is Italy: Fabio, Mauro, Toto Cutugno and Pope John Paul II. Then I turned and looked at the peninsula, the bay, and the coast that stretched in the direction of Vešnja. Small cutters, large yachts and a few inflatable boats. The camp. The sun. And an endless blue sky. Now I was going to jump. This was the time. This is my day. My island. My jump.

  Zlaja and the girls sat on a cliff a little further down whispering to one another. I gathered my thoughts. Shut the three of them out of my head. Breathed deeply.

  Then I stretched out my arms and focussed on an invisible point in the air. It was at chest height. I imagined launching myself out and hitting it with my chest. I told myself that everything was going to be fine. That it was just a taller cliff, nothing more. ‘The principal is the same, everything else is a nuance,’ like in the song by Balašević. Just remain calm, don’t change anything during. The hands should be outstretched. Just bring them together before you hit the water. Otherwise your head can split open like a pumpkin, they say.

  But that would not happen. I could feel it. I had calmed myself. Had imagined myself several times, hitting the point in the air with my chest, keeping my arms outstretched and pulling them together quickly before the splash.

  Now it was just a matter of doing it.

  I’ll never forget the moment my feet tore away from the cliff. The moment I threw myself into the air with outstretched arms and was blinded by the sun and the void around me.

  The flight down had often seemed long. The cliffs, especially those from the last couple jumps, had been rather high. But never before had it felt like the water failed to appear. As though it was keeping its distance. And continued to keep its distance.

  Splaaash, it said at long last, and then it went perfectly still.

  My body slipped deep down in the thick water. My speed decreased.

  I put my legs together, straightened up and started to swim up towards the surface. I needed air badly.