Best European Fiction 2014

by Drago Jancar

  TRANSLATED FROM MONTENEGRIN BY WILL FIRTH

  [NORWAY]

  KJELL ASKILDSEN

  My Sister’s Face

  Late one afternoon in November, on my way upstairs to my place on the second floor, I noticed a shadow silhouetted against my front door. At once I realized there had to be someone standing between the door and the lightbulb by the entrance to the attic, and I came to a halt. There had been a lot of break-ins in the area lately, some muggings too, probably due to widespread unemployment, and there was every reason to assume that the person standing motionless on the stairway up to the attic didn’t want to be seen. So I turned and began walking back down; it’s been my experience that you should avoid drawing attention to someone who wants to stay hidden. I had only made it a little way down when I heard footsteps behind me; I was frightened, until the moment I heard a voice say my name. It was Oskar, my older sister’s husband, and even though I didn’t much care for him, I breathed, quite literally, a sigh of relief.

  I walked back, and realizing right away I couldn’t avoid asking him in, I shook his hand. We hung up our coats on the hallstand, and then I went ahead of him into the living room and turned on the two freestanding lamps. He stood in the middle of the room looking around. He said he’d never been here before. No, I don’t suppose you have, I said. He asked how long I’d been living here. Six years, I said. Yes, that would be about right, he said. He took off his glasses and rubbed one eye. I invited him to sit down, but he remained there standing, cleaning his glasses with a big handkerchief while squinting half-blindly at the room. Then he put his glasses back on. You do have a phone, he said. Yes, I said. But you’re not in the telephone book, he said. No, I said. I sat down. He looked at me. I asked him if he’d like a cup of coffee. No thanks, he said, besides he had to be on his way soon. He sat down opposite me. He said my sister had sent him, she wanted me to visit her, she was at home with a sprained ankle and had something she wanted to discuss with me, he didn’t know what, she hadn’t said, actually yes, he said, apparently something to do with when you were kids, and when he told her she could easily write to me, she’d become hysterical, unscrewed the top of a tube of glue and emptied its contents over the carpet. A tube of glue? I said. Yes, he said, photo glue, she’d been gluing photographs back onto the pages of an old album. He took off his glasses again and rubbed his eye, then he took out his handkerchief again and cleaned the lenses. I’ll call her, I said. Right, he said, then at least she’ll know I’ve been here. Actually, he continued, if you give me your phone number, then she can ring you if anything comes up, then I’ll be spared the journey halfway across town to call on you. I didn’t want to give him my number, but so as not to insult him, I said I couldn’t remember it. He studied me through his thick lenses, I was a bit uncomfortable, I usually only lie in self-defense, so perhaps it’s possible to tell I’m lying just by looking at me, I felt that he could tell in any case, and I said I never used it, after all you don’t call yourself very often. No, of course not, he said, and the way he said it annoyed me, I felt I’d been put in my place, and I went out and got some cigarettes from my coat pocket. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer you other than a cup of coffee, I said. He didn’t reply. I sat down and lit a cigarette. You’re lucky, you are, he said. Oh? I said. Living here all by yourself, he said. Oh, I don’t know, I said, even though I agreed. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with myself, he said. I didn’t reply. Right, I’ll be off, he said, getting to his feet. I felt a little sorry for him, so I said: Things aren’t great between you? No, he said. He walked toward the door. I followed. I held out his coat. He said: I’m sure if you call it’ll make her happy. She says you’re the only person who cares about her.

  She must have been sitting within reach of the phone because she picked it up immediately. I said who I was. Oh Otto, she said, I’m so happy to hear from you. She seemed sincere and in no way tense, and the subsequent conversation progressed in a relaxed, friendly tone. After a while she invited me to her place, and I said yes. Then she said: Because you haven’t forgotten us, have you? Forgotten you? I said. No, she said, us, you and me. No, I said. Are you coming tomorrow? she said. I hesitated. Yes, I said. Around one? she said. Yes, I said.

  After I’d put down the receiver, I was in high spirits, excited almost, a feeling I often get when I’ve finished something difficult, and I celebrated by pouring myself a quarter glass of whiskey, something I wouldn’t usually do at that time of the day. The feeling of elation endured, thanks now to the whiskey perhaps, and I treated myself to another glass. At almost half past seven, I locked the front door of the flat and went to the Bigwig, a dive that doesn’t live up to its name, but where I have a beer or two now and again.

  Karl Homann was sitting there, a man my own age who lives in the area, with whom I have a somewhat forced relationship with because he once saved my life. Fortunately he wasn’t sitting on his own, so when he asked me to take a seat I felt I could take the liberty of finding a table to myself. I went to the very back of the premises. The fact that I had mustered the courage to refuse his invitation had me so flustered it was only after I sat down that I noticed Marion, a woman with whom I’d had a not entirely painless relationship. She was sitting three tables away. She was flicking through a newspaper and it was possible she hadn’t seen me yet. I didn’t necessarily have to have seen her either, so I ordered my beer and awaited developments. There was however something unbearable about the situation, and I tried to catch her eye. After a little while she glanced up from her paper and straight at me, and I knew then she’d spotted me ages ago. I smiled at her and raised my glass. She raised hers too, then folded her paper and came over to me. I got to my feet. Otto, she said and gave me a hug. Then she said: Can I join you? Of course, I said, but I’ll be off soon, I’m on my way to my sister’s. She brought her glass. She seemed to be in fine form. She said it was good to see me, and I said that it was good to see her. She said she often thought about me. I didn’t reply, even though I’d also thought about her, albeit with mixed feelings, not least due to her sexual needs which I hadn’t managed to satisfy and which on one occasion, the last, had led her to exclaim that sex was not a church service. To change the subject I asked how things were, and we chatted until I’d drained my glass and said I had to be off. Then she’d go too, she said. As we were getting to our feet, she said: If you hadn’t been on your way to visit your sister, would you have come back to my place? I’d have been tempted, I said. Call me sometime, she said. Yes, I said.

  She walked with me to the bus stop, and once there she pressed up against me and whispered some lewd, suggestive words which put my body in a quandary, and, well, if the bus hadn’t come, but it did, and she said: Call. Yes, I said.

  I got off at the next stop, and bucked by the self-esteem Marion’s advances had stirred in me—she is a beautiful woman—I headed straight for the closest bar. But I only got as far as the door; when I opened it and saw the crowd of people and heard the noisy music, my nerve failed. It’s a situation I’m well used to, the frightening sense of alienation in an unfamiliar place, and I closed the door and went home.

  Later that night I was awoken by a dream no doubt influenced by said self-esteem. It was an intensely erotic dream, and unlike the typical sort, where the woman’s face—or women’s faces—are unknown or not even visible, this woman’s features suddenly appeared, clearly, without diminishing my desire. It was my sister’s face.

  She opened the door before I had managed to ring the bell. She was leaning on two crutches. I saw you coming, she said. So I see, I said. She hugged me and lost one of the crutches doing so. I bent down to pick it up. Hold me up, can you? she said, putting her arm around my shoulder. I did, that is to say, she held herself up on me. She hobbled along beside me into the living room and sat herself down at the already-set coffee table. After I’d hung up my coat and gone back in, we ate sandwiches and talked about her foot. I took a furtive glance at the carpet, but couldn’t see
any trace of photo glue.

  We’d been talking a while about this and that, when she said: You’re more and more like Dad. I assumed she knew what kind of relationship I’d had with him, so I took slight exception to this, but I didn’t say anything. I got up to look for an ashtray. What are you doing? She said. Looking for an ashtray, I said. She told me where I could find one, and I went to the kitchen. When I went back in, she said she’d been thinking about me a lot lately, about us, and how it was a pity we didn’t see so much of each other, since we used to be so close. Well, I said, everyone’s got their lives to live. Do you ever miss me? she said. Of course, I said. If you only knew how lonely I feel sometimes, she said. Yes, I said. You’re lonely too, she said, I know you are, I know you. It’s a long time since you knew me, I said. You haven’t changed, she said. Yes, I have, I said. In what way? she said. I didn’t reply. Then I said: You just said yourself that I’m getting more and more like Dad. What did you mean by that, by the way? There’s something about the way you smile, she said, and you sway when you sit just like he did. Did he sway, I said, I don’t remember that. That’s strange, she said. I guess I didn’t look at him as much as you did, I said. What do you mean? she said. What I said, I said. I didn’t like looking at him. There was something unsavory about him. Oh Christ, she said. We sat in silence for a while; then I became aware I was swaying my torso and I straightened up and leaned back in the chair. Eventually she said: There’s a bottle of sherry in the bottom corner cupboard, could you go and get it please. And two glasses, if you’d like some too. On the way to the cupboard I decided to only take one glass, but I changed my mind. I poured her a large one and myself a little one. You’ve never said that before, she said. No, I said, let’s talk about something else. Skål. Skål, she said. I drained the glass. You didn’t give yourself much, she said. I don’t drink in the middle of the day, I said. Me neither, she said. I poured myself some more. I didn’t know what we were going to say. I looked at my watch. Don’t look at your watch, she said. Where’s Oskar? I said. At his mother’s. He’s always at his mother’s on Saturdays. He never gets home before five, so relax. I am relaxed, I said. Are you? She said. ’Course, I said. Good, she said, can you give me a little more sherry? I poured her some, but not as much as the last time. More, she said. I topped up her glass. Skål, she said. I drained my glass. Help yourself, she said. I remembered what she had said to Oskar, that I was the only person who cared about her, and with a sudden and almost triumphant feeling of freedom, I filled my glass up to the brim. She looked at me, her eyes were shining. You’re staring at me, she said. Yes, I said. Do you remember how I called you my big brother? she said. I nodded. And you called me sister, she said. I took my glass and drank. She did the same. I remembered. Have you got a girlfriend at the moment? she said. No, I said. No one good enough for you? she said. Don’t make fun of me, I said. I’m not making fun of you, she said. I prefer living on my own, I said. You could still have a girlfriend, she said. I didn’t reply. After all, you’re a man, she said. I didn’t reply. I got up and went to the toilet. I placed the plug in the sink and turned on the cold tap. I put my hands into the water and held them there until they hurt, then I dried them and went back into the living room. I sat down and said what I had been thinking: I prefer women who don’t make any demands on me, but who give, take, and go. She didn’t say anything. I lit a cigarette. And you say you’re not lonely, she said, before adding: Big brother. I looked at her; she was sitting with her face half-turned and her lips parted; there wasn’t a sound in the room and no sound from outside; the silence lasted and lasted. What if, she said. What if what, I said. No, she said. Yes, I said. But Otto, she said, you don’t know what I—what do you think I was thinking of? I was just about to say; at that moment I almost had it in me. Instead I said: No, how should I know. She took her glass and held it out to me. It’s empty, she said. Say when, I said. No, she said. I filled the glass right up. We’re drinking a lot for two people who don’t drink during the day, I said. There are exceptions, she said. Yes, I said, there are exceptions to everything. Are there? she said. She wasn’t looking at me. Yes, I said. There was a sound of somebody at the front door. Oh no, she said. I got to my feet. It was a reflex action. Don’t go, she said. I sat down. Oskar appeared in the doorway; he was walking while supporting himself on my sister’s crutch. He halted. I could see by his face that he didn’t know I would be there. Hello, Oskar, I said. Hello, he said. He looked at my sister and said: Your crutch was lying by the door. I’m aware of that, she said. Sorry, he said and let the crutch fall to the floor. Now what’s the point of that? she said. He didn’t reply. He kicked the crutch against the wall with the tip of his shoe, and then he walked into the kitchen. He closed the door behind him. Don’t go, please, she said. I’m going, I said. For my sake, she said. I’m not up to it, I said. Oskar came from the kitchen. He glanced at me. I didn’t know you were here, he said. I’m just leaving, I said. Not on my account, he said. No, I said. He walked across the room and through a door. I looked at my sister; she stared straight at me and said: You’re a coward, I’d forgotten what a coward you were. I got to my feet. Yes, just go, she said, just go. I went over to her. What did you say, I said. That you’re a coward, she said. I hit her. Not hard. No, I don’t think I hit her particularly hard. She cried out all the same. At almost exactly the same moment I heard Oskar open the door; he must have been standing right behind it listening. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t hear any steps. I looked at the wall. I only heard the sound of my own breathing. Then my sister said: Otto is just leaving. Oskar didn’t reply. I heard the door being closed. I looked at my sister, met her gaze; there was something in it I didn’t understand, something gentle. I saw she wanted to say something. I looked away. Forgive me, big brother, she said. I didn’t reply. Go now, she said, but call me, won’t you? Yes, I said. Then I turned and left.

  TRANSLATED FROM NORWEGIAN BY SEÁN KINSELLA

  [POLAND]

  KRYSTIAN PIWOWARSKI

  Homo Polonicus

  Once again, Prince Stanisławczyk was dreaming he was the King of Poland. He was prancing about in a carmine and ermined peignoir, a cerulean-blue caftan with large buttons and amaranth-purple culottes! His head bore aloft a twin-sided cadenette sprinkled with powdered sugar, upon which sat the Royal crown. Somehow his noggin managed to hold it all up. On either side of the palace enfilade, the terrified gentry from all across the province were beating the floor with their foreheads. Stanisławczyk walked along, beaming with glory and accepting tributes; upon some he granted favors, upon others he rained curses, and then all at once a nude African with a ring in his nose—as big as a firkin!—came leaping out from the-devil-knows-where, as if he’d emerged from the bowels of the earth. He held a black monkey on a chain and poked it with a stick.

  “Why poke him thus?” asked a fuming Stanisławczyk, the noble King of Poland, for he thought it to be his gift from a Padishah in Brazil, and with all that poking his gift would surely get damaged. Suddenly he saw that the monkey on the chain was Niemczyk all shrunken up, and in his hairy palm he clutched a message bearing seals. Stanisławczyk understood that this message would be his undoing! Anon, he began shuffling his feet and waving his hands, he sought to flee post-haste, to hide from said undoing, from death, and thus he fled to the attic. On the way he lost his crown, and when he’d made it to the attic he caught sight of himself with neither crown nor powdered hair. On his head was his own hair, and it was aflame!

  Then he launched himself from the uncharted depths of the dream, he came popping like a cork through the calm surface of the day. He awoke with bulging eyes.

  “Dream scare us, Lord spare us!” he breathed, drenched in sweat. “How could I become the King of Poland? Why am I forever dreaming that I’m to become the King of Poland?”

  He pawed at his head, groping to see if he’d grown any lumps or horns; he ran his fingers across his nightshirt. He grabbed the mirror from his dressing table and looked into it aska
nce, fearfully. From the crystalline depths a rumpled face with a handlebar moustache, framed with ruddy mutton chops, leapt out to meet him; there was a birdlike stare in its dark, bulbous eyes—normally bright and penetrating, now filled with a mad terror—and predaciousness in the pointed nose, its shiny bridge, and the thin lips. All of this he touched, poking around here and there, and concluded that it was no one but himself.

  “What kind of King of Poland am I?” he fumed. “And why all these dreams? If it’s my destiny then let it come true; and if it’s only a dream, then off with it, and let it haunt me no more.”

  Dejected, he set the mirror to one side and fixed the bedroom drapes with his gaze. The sun gently backlit the dun, torn, faded fabric.

  “Better off a senator. Or a minister,” he muttered. “Less of an honor, but at least nobody takes you for a madman.”

  He got up. He had another look in the mirror.

  “Hmph!” he muttered again. “But a king’s a king!” He went over to the window and pulled the broken string, parting the drapes.

  As far as the eye could see, meadows fanned out, growing all about with clumps of hazel and the occasional tree. The green grain fields swayed back and forth like emerald water. It was still far from harvest time. Invisible skylarks tinkled from where they hung in the hot air, sparrows warbled in the violet lilac bushes outside the manor. High poplars guarded Stanisławczyk’s land like sentries.

  He leaned out of the window, knocking off a jagged shard of plaster and spooking the birds. They flapped off in a helter-skelter flock. A sound came from a cuckoo bird inhabiting the speckled iron tree trunk in the corner of the bedroom. Stanisławczyk counted the hours. It was broken; it cuckooed sixteen times, a spring twanged, and the cuckoo retired, content with its cuckooing.