To hell with Zagreb and the Swedish embassy! To hell with it all! All I want is for it to stop raining.
It was one of the city’s main roads with four lanes. There were a lot of cars, even though it was Sunday.
I sloshed in my soaked All Stars towards the traffic lights thirty metres ahead. On the other side of the road was a phone box with a smashed, half-open glass door.
The first person I thought of calling was Mister No. Second, Mum and Dad. The moron was no longer on duty, and they must have got up by now. I thought about calling them and saying that under no circumstances would I return to the camp. That they had to pack our things at once, meet me in Vešnja or here in Grozvin. I didn’t care. We had to find somewhere else to live.
But soon that thought also shrivelled up, this final belief that those two could be dislodged from Majbule. My chin stung like hell. I felt the coins in my pocket and wiped the blood off my neck. I knew who to call!
The cars sprayed water everywhere. They heavy raindrops fell on the asphalt like solid-coloured glass beads, like shotgun pellets.
I stood leant up against the iron post of the traffic lights and stared at the light and the crooked STOP sign on the other side. It continued to rain. The cars roared past.
When I finally realised that the traffic light was broken – that it simply refused to change from red to green – I had enough of it all and stepped onto the road.
One honk.
Two honks.
Three …
‘Hello!’
‘Hi, Uncle! Miki here.’
‘Hi, Emir! What’s happened?’
‘Where is the Swedish embassy?’
‘What?’
'The Swedish embassy. In Zagreb. Where is it?’
‘I don’t understand … Are you guys in Zagreb?’
‘No, we are not. But I am on my way there. Can you get me a passport as quick as possible?’ I said and bunged my last coins in.
Ukulele Jam Page 31