Ukulele Jam

by Alen Meskovic

  One day, while he stood eating a banana, he was teasing two boys, two brothers around ten or eleven, who were playing beneath his window. They responded by throwing pebbles at him. He told them to stop, and they replied that they would do that if he gave them a banana.

  Mirko replied with an obscenity about another banana that they could get a little of, and a voice from the balcony above also found it incredibly amusing. When Mirko’s laughter also echoed between D1 and D2, the brothers started to throw bigger rocks at him. One of them hit the framed photo of the grandiose meeting between Mirko and Tudjman. The picture fell down, and the frame broke.

  When Mirko came running out of the building, the children were already sprinting down the path. Their mother, a widow from the region of Osijek, was just passing the restaurant. Her children hid behind her, and she stepped forward.

  The folks, who met Mirko on the path, later described that he was completely red in the face. That he was out of breath and literally moaning with anger. He started to shout that the children had shattered his photo, that it was an attack against the president, and that she – if she was a true Croat – would immediately give the children a proper thrashing. Otherwise, he, Mirko, would ‘take matters into his own hand.’

  The mother replied rather calmly that nobody in the world was going to hit her children. And not in the least him. That he should just relax and mind himself and not go round deciding who was a true Croat and who was not. Especially when he himself was not ‘the Croatian Croat’ but ‘the Bosnian.' And then she called him a sycophant.

  Mirko did not reply to that, but grabbed her by the hair and started to pound his fist into her face. The children hid behind a fig tree near the path, crying and screaming and shouting for help.

  To make matters worse, Mirko was wearing a watch with a metal band, which cut the woman on the forehead and the face. The band sprung open, and the watch flew off. The woman fainted and Mirko let go.

  With blood on his shirt he ran into the restaurant. A handful of the old people who witnessed the incident were in shock and moved out of his way, while those who saw it all from the corner balconies of D1, were already on the way down towards reception to call the police.

  At the restaurant, Mirko ran straight into the kitchen, where he shouted something inarticulate about the bad food and the lack of salt. He demanded to speak to the chef immediately. The female cooks walked backwards and crossed themselves at the sight of the bloody man talking nonsense.

  The chef demanded that Mirko leave at once. Access to the kitchen was reserved for employees. They started to argue, and Mirko insisted on his portion of food being brought to his room in future. His torrent of words was interrupted by the chef, who grabbed the handles of a large pot of soup and threw the contents over Mirko. Luckily for the Parasite the soup – with carrots, parsley and letter-shaped pasta – had long since cooled down.

  He turned on his heels and ran. First out of the restaurant and then past the tennis court and the disused bungalows.

  For half an hour he ran around Majbule, and then he showed up on the terrace by the corner of D1. With dried blood and soup on his shirt he slipped into the building and locked himself in his room.

  At the other end of the terrace, between the TV room and the entrance to D2, half of the camp had gathered. Everyone was waiting for the police to arrive. The woman was driven to the hospital, where they patched her up. She later returned with her face wrapped in white gauze. She looked like a mummy and said that Mirko should thank God that her husband had been killed in the war. Because had he been alive, he would have made him genuinely disabled.

  When she returned, Parasite no longer lived in the camp. Directly after he had locked himself in his room and drawn the curtains, the fists of the authorities pounded on his door. The cops asked him to open up and promised they would not harm him. One of the cops came out of D1 and went down the stairs towards the path. He stopped beneath Mirko’s window, where the photo of the president was still lying. He picked up a couple of pebbles and threw them at the window, while he shouted and called Mirko. The rest of us did not utter a peep. Not even whispering could be heard in the crowd.

  Finally, Mirko let the cops in, in order that they, a few long minutes later, could lead him across the terrace towards their car on the Muscle Market. The crowd split in two so they could get past. Suddenly a sea of accusations, taunts and condemnatory swearwords were heard. Mirko swung away in handcuffs. He was perfectly calm. He looked down at the ground. The dried pieces of letter-shaped pasta still clung to his green Hawaii shirt. I clearly saw a V and an O on his left shoulder.

  PHONE CALL

  Some things are better remembered than others. For example, I am still in doubt as to which day the police collected Mirko Parasite. The same goes for the day his belongings were collected. On the other hand, I clearly remember that it was Friday morning of the same week that I received a letter.

  It was a rectangular envelope and difficult to bend, but the letter itself did not take up much room. Two lousy pages.

  ‘Congratulations … You’re almost grown-up now … Behave yourself …’

  Included were two hundred Swedish kroner, folded up in silver paper.

  He was clever, that Mister No. He did as he was told. A letter from abroad, addressed to a refugee camp was a rather easy prey. As soon as the people in the post office spotted it, they knew what was in it. Time after time we heard about post that had never arrived. On the radio they went on about transport issues, about a few mail sacks that were drenched with rain. But they could not fool me. Except for the stroke of the hour, everything you heard on the radio was by now a lie. Not even the weather forecast did I trust. You always had to prick up your ears, break the codes, read between the lines. ‘Clear with a few showers’ for example meant that it would either piss down like hell or else remain dry and cloudy.

  ‘Oh, already!’ Mum said when I came in.

  ‘Yes. Rather two days early than two days late.’

  ‘The post doesn’t come on Sundays, either, does it.’

  ‘No, he couldn’t get me on the day.’

  I handed her the letter:

  ‘Why doesn’t he send a picture soon? I would like to see him. It’s been over two years.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mum sighed. ‘Maybe it’s expensive to get them developed up there.’

  ‘There’s something fishy about it,’ Dad said. ‘Very fishy.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve said that,’ I snapped. ‘How’s Uncle doing? Did you call him back?’

  ‘Yes. He said to say hello. He complained about an uneven footpath.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Heh, heh! He tripped over it yesterday. Kissed the asphalt and hit himself. Right outside his flat.’

  ‘Two days after his return?’ Mum asked. ‘How unlucky! How is he doing?’

  ‘Good. But imagine! He’s seen so much of the world and still can’t figure out how to walk. How come I don’t trip? Why does that never happen to me?’

  ‘Stop it,’ Mum laughed.

  ‘That’s how it is when his feet have got used to the even, Canadian asphalt. You get unobservant from it!’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But rather that than go on like this all your life. You always have to stare at the ground out here! You can never relax.’

  ‘Yeah, the tanks have also destroyed it in certain places. But still! Why do I never trip? Why does it never happen to me?’

  I went down to reception to exchange the money. Sergio sent me to the shop, and the shopkeeper looked at the daily newspaper lying on the counter.

  ‘Exchange rate?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It’s not every day people come here with Swedish currency. Who have you got up there?’

  ‘Five brothers! I’d like some coins. Do you know how much it costs to call Sweden?’

  ‘No. I never ring abroad.’

  They had finally cleaned the two booths in reception. It smelled of spirits in number o
ne, and the receiver was dry and smooth. I entered the number, but it was busy. I tried several times, went out, waited a little and tried once more.

  No result.

  Then I remembered that he had once said that there were a lot of them who shared the phone.

  ‘People hang onto the receiver all day long,’ he had complained, ‘even though it costs a fortune. It’s better to write letters.’

  I went out and sat down on the step in front of reception. Old Jozo from D2, who suffered from insomnia, had fallen into the deepest sleep of them all. Mum had told me that same morning. Now they carried his corpse past me out to the ambulance on the Muscle Market. The situation became more awkward for me than necessary. His daughter and two ambulance workers spotted me while I sat scratching my balls. I got up awkwardly, looked away and hurried into reception.

  This time I was in luck. A woman answered the phone and said that she knew Neno – they were neighbours – but that she had not seen him for several days.

  ‘There are a lot of us in this camp,’ she said. ‘Can I get him to call back when I see him?’

  ‘Yes. Where could he be?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ll give him the message.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  I remained there, hungry. The stupid situation with the balls and Jozo’s corpse made me think of Adi. He scratched himself down there all the time. Especially after he had got hold of a Jackie Collins novel back during the war. For a number of days he constantly talked about ‘Jackie’ and the detailed depictions of sex in the book. He let me read several select passages.

  I went up to the room, found Adi’s number and gave him a ring. The phone rang and rang but nobody picked up.

  Maybe it’s best like that, I thought. Maybe he should not have written at all.

  OUT THE DOOR

  The following day was a Saturday, and Saturday was known as Ukulele day. I slept in as long as I possibly could. Woke up alone in the room and lay there. No erection. Over from D2 I heard the intro to ‘Oh Croatian mothers, don’t mourn. Call, just call. All falcons will give their lives for you.’

  I listened closely to ‘Peace Frog’, ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ as well as the A-side of Vulgar Display of Power. My Sanyo cassette player was by Dad’s pillow, within reach. I turned it up all the way. The patriotic chorus bothered me only during the silence between the songs.

  Then I got up. The sky was full of small white clouds when I opened the balcony door. My purple T-shirt was soaking when I finally found it, and the toilet seat felt lovely and cool.

  The shit refused to die. It really was irrepressible. I had to empty the cistern several times before it at long last accepted its fate.

  It also surprised me that my toothpaste spit was more red than usual. The gums were apparently not what they once had been. When I checked them with my tongue, it felt tender and soft on the side.

  Despite that, I was not dissatisfied with the start of the day. For some reason I was rather chipper. Maybe it was because I was going out to turn seventeen that night. Maybe because the music, Pantera in particular, worked me up.

  Sometimes you are just happy. You wake up and can feel it, and that’s just how it is.

  It was quarter past twelve when I grabbed our orange plastic bowl and went out. The door to Gogi’s room was wide open. It reeked of oil inside. Gogi’s grandfather stood bare-chested by the electric hob flipping a pancake with a single, constant movement of his hand.

  Outside hot air poured over me. The red-haired Ljubica, who I always found ‘hot for her age,’ was painting her toenails on the balcony of D1.

  At the restaurant I saw neither Pero nor Bruno. That alone, that they neither stood in front of me nor behind me in the queue, made the news about the daily special bearable.

  Rice with liver gravy for lunch. Tinned sardines for dinner. Bread.

  ‘No fruit today?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘No yogurt?’

  ‘None.’

  After eating I did not manage to find either Zlaja or Fric at home. Fric was slaving away in Vešnja, while Zlaja had driven to Grozvin with his dad. I stood picking figs somewhere on the way back when a car came driving towards me. I let go of the branch and stuffed the figs discreetly into the pocket of my swim trunks.

  I could already see the headlines of tomorrow’s paper: ‘A young man, who happens to turn seventeen today, imprisoned for stealing fruit in Majbule.’ And further down in the story: ‘The underage EP … bla bla bla … is previously unknown to the police. The theft is exclusively down to his diet awareness, he explained to the police and the assembled press.’

  They tasted good, the figs. I wolfed them down on my way past the abandoned bungalows. Thought back to the summer of ’92. Marina, Elvis Amar … The dry pine needles … The same gentle smell of suncream and resin.

  Kaća was lying by the pier in Adria. I sat down next to her, and we lazed about together for a couple of hours.

  ‘What time are you going to Ukulele?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. What about you?’

  ‘That depends on Silvija. It’s her party.’

  ‘You have to come before it’s over.’

  ‘Yes, and white time does is it over?’

  ‘Five bands, half an hour each, plus sound check … they’ll probably be finished before twelve. I don’t think they can play later than that. It is outdoors.’

  We only went swimming once. I held out my hand and helped her up. Was completely gobsmacked when she stood up. It struck me that Kaća had got beautiful. She had really developed in the time I had known her. Especially this summer something had happened. She had gained a little weight, and the longer hair suited her better than the untidy short hair.

  ‘Kaća,’ I said. ‘It’s a damn shame that you’re so ugly!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Otherwise I would have made my move a long time ago.’

  She ducked her head under water and let her right hand remain above. Her middle finger pointed directly up at the sky. I laughed. Kaća flung her hair back:

  ‘I’ll never get married. Men are such pigs. And you’re not very sweet today either! What kind of shit is that you’re spouting?’

  Some things you remember better than others. For example, I am still in doubt as to whether Mum and Dad came home from the beach while I took a shower, or if they did directly after I was finished. Nor do I remember if I shaved the few soft hairs I had south of my nose, or if I cut them off with nail clippers. On the other hand I remember clearly that the label on the shampoo bottle was green, that the contents of the bottle were thin and barely foamed up. Apple. Almost no smell. I remember the strangest things.

  Dad was lying down reading the paper, while I put on my checkered shirt. I did not button it up, had my Maiden T-shirt underneath. It had got muggy over the course of the afternoon, and I had forced myself into a pair of tight, elastic jeans. You have to suffer for the sake of being cool.

  The trousers came from the Red Cross warehouse, but they were tip top. Thin and dark-blue, with spacious pockets. I imagined their previous owner, a tough heavy dude, a drummer who had grown out of them. Then a crazy hot chick, who just had to have a new pair.

  The latter was my preferred version. The thought that the girl had had her groin right there where I now had mine was the icing on the cake. I wondered what she might look like. I wondered what the likelihood was of us meeting tonight. For her to point at my tightly packed groin and say: ‘Those are my old trousers!’

  Would that actually be cool? Would she ridicule me in front of the whole gang or laugh excitedly about how small and wonderful the world is?

  ‘You can have them back, if you like,’ I heard myself say.

  ‘No, that’s alright,’ was her reply. ‘But I would like to try them on. Just one more time. Just to see if they still fit.’

  ‘Fair enough! Here?’

  ‘No! He-he! I know a much better place.’

  And dot, d
ot, dot … And so on … And all that.

  Mum stood on the balcony hanging up the washing when I put on my good old All Stars. I waved goodbye to her and said, ‘see you’ to Dad. He nodded. Without looking up or putting the paper down. His lips moved as he read.

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ Mum said. ‘And don’t drink too much.’

  ‘Alright, alright! Take it easy,’ I replied and went out.

  I came out the door the same way I had done so many times before. Without stopping or turning around. I forgot all about Mum and Dad before I even grabbed the door handle. I was on my way to Ukulele. In my mind, I was already outside and far away.

  But sometimes, when I think back, I wish that I had stopped at the bloody door, had turned around and taken one last look at the room and the two of them. That I had said to them, that they shouldn’t worry if I didn’t come home that night. That maybe I would sleep at a friend’s in Vešnja.

  Some times it is Saturday night again, and I stop at that same door, nearly seventeen years old. I hold onto the door handle and observe Mum and Dad and everything around them. Time stands still. I am a ghost and don’t say a single word. I just stand there and dwell on the smell of our hanging laundry, the sight of the orange plastic bowl with cold liver gravy and the faint, almost sleep-inducing sound of Dad rustling the newspaper that is full of lies.

  Then I depart from room 210 in building D1.

  UP AT THE CITADEL

  I hitch a ride into town. It was the last weekend of the holidays, and my monthly pass was not valid yet. School was going to start two days later, and Zlaja was already jealous. He was looking for work. There was no work. He considered pretending to be insane in order to avoid military service. He didn’t want to ‘lose his hide’ as he put it.