Best European Fiction 2014

by Drago Jancar

  A white, chubby hand gestures from under the cover.

  “It’s the wide strap.”

  The blind gently slides down.

  The father sits by an old reel-to-reel tape recorder trying to thread a reel between the rollers. He grabs a cigarette from the ashtray, takes a puff, and sets it back down, still fighting with the machine. In the end, he tosses the tape into the corner of the couch in disgust, puts his cigarette back in his mouth, and reaches down into a cabinet full of records.

  He puts a version of “What Is This Thing Called Love?” on the turntable and sets the needle. This is where we definitively say good-bye to the father. Schopenhauer recommends listening to music in hopeless situations, which are pretty much all of them.

  You got what you wanted, you old lecher. Ciao.

  The high-school student embraces his classmate, Bunny, near the now familiar metal lockers. He’s breathing hard and his lips have little bite marks on them.

  “Bunny, c’mon, someone might see us,” he wheezes.

  “Where did you learn to kiss like this? I’m sure I’m not your first.”

  “Hmmmm . . .” he says and wants to add, “I had a good teacher,” but remains silent.

  Bunny wears a pink T-shirt, pink pleated skirt, white sneakers, and short white socks. A pink plastic flower is pinned in her hair. Today she was training for a march as a majorette and hasn’t had time to change. Her T-shirt has been pulled up more than halfway, and she’s breathing heavily.

  “I’m really sorry you’re not the first,” the boy says at last. “I was crazy about this one chick, but that’s behind me. Bunny, with you I feel . . . I want to say, I feel like it’s the real thing.”

  “Darling!”

  “I’d like to marry you.”

  “All right, but we first need to finish school.”

  On a small island in the Caribbean, something walks out of a small house, a shack, really. Yet, despite the size of the building, the door is nearly two meters wide. Yes, some pink round substance has stuffed itself through the door and is moving down small steps to the nearby beach. Someone tossed a banana peel on the fourth step, however, and this aspic slips and rolls down to the beach. A pale blue bikini is apparent within the folds of this jelly substance. There is only a small fishermen’s jetty on the beach and on it a large sheet of parchment stretched over some bones. Looking at the jetty from back at the shack, which is rather far away, you might almost think that there was somebody sunbathing on it.

  “I’d like to swim a bit on a hot day like this,” we hear from below.

  “But not for long, so you don’t dissolve on me!”

  “I’ll just cool off a bit and I’ll be right with you, darling. The sun is setting and another night of passion awaits us!”

  Subsequently, there is a huge splash, and a wave washes over the beach, although it keeps its distance from the parchment man.

  A little later, an inconceivable mass comes out of the water. Having absorbed a lot of water, the aspic has become translucent, even luminescent. It oozes onto the jetty.

  “I love you.”

  The parchment rolls up and sighs, “Come to me. It’s getting dark and I’m already trembling . . . The whole weekend is ours.”

  Indeed, the sun has dropped to the horizon. Waves can be heard. Waves of surf.

  Thousands of stars twinkle over the beach. Some of the stars are blocked for a moment by a cigar-shaped object moving eastward. It’s the Hindenburg airship on its regular route to South America. It circles the island and slowly descends. The aspic glitters intensely.

  Sand, the warm stones of the jetty, the stars in the sky, a long weekend.

  The jelly begins to ripple and blink, giving out a whole spectrum of light. The dolphins jump. I save my document in Microsoft Word.

  2:20 A.M., Feb 15, 2002, La Aldea

  TRANSLATED FROM SLOVAK BY MICHAELA FREEMAN

  [SLOVENIA]

  VESNA LEMAIĆ

  The Pool

  How can you explain yourself: You are human, and right now you must be standing by the pool, raking leaves off the surface. You’re absorbed in your work, the shirt you’re wearing is soaking wet, as is your tie. You are at the edge of the pool: you’re holding a special pool net in your hands, which skims off everything, including the insects that keep falling in the water. The surface is completely smooth, but you go on skimming. Your progress is slow because you are meticulous, you go around the perimeter several times. A while ago, you would regard this as completely unnecessary, especially at this impossible hour. What’s particularly surprising, for instance, is that you’re not bothered by the scorching sun. Any other bareheaded person of normal body weight would suffer a sunstroke, if we consider that the sunbeams are not just blazing down upon the top of your head, but also reflect off the splashing water, glinting in your face. Then your phone rings, which you keep clipped to your belt. You hesitate, the people around you wave their hands dismissively, understandingly, it’s not important, why answer it. But they’ve been here longer than you, they are more committed to the unusual situation you have found yourself in. Despite your reluctance, you therefore turn away from the splashing water, tensing up, your entire body trying to remember what your past life meant to you, and only then do you gather the strength to reach for the phone and press the green button. You hear your wife’s voice sobbing in your ear: “Martin? Christ, Martin, is that you?” You hear the familiar beep—the battery will run out any moment now.

  But before that, everything was different. You couldn’t care less for pools; for a rich man, a pool is something that comes with a house and that’s about it. Your brother has always been of a different opinion; he used to say, “Pools are more than just pools.” Unfortunately, you understand your brother now, but back then, you and Dr. Vlah both agreed that your brother was nothing but a harmless eccentric. You let him be, until he dropped out of architecture school in his third year. He came back broke and mysterious. Dad took the middle path: He didn’t ask questions, he gave him a job in his company; he appointed him to some junior but respected enough position, with a decent salary. Your brother didn’t attend family gatherings, but, if nothing else, at least there wasn’t anyone to start fights at those get-togethers. When you and Dad were alone, the old man would wave his hand dismissively and say, “Your brother is autistic. But you, my son, you too take the middle path.”

  Then, one day during the week, you receive the following phone call:

  “Hi, son!”

  “Dad, is something wrong?”

  “No, of course not! Not at all. I’m doing very well, thank you—”

  “Then I guess everything’s in order . . . ? Dad, I’m in the middle of a meeting. I’ll ca—”

  “The thing is, your brother hasn’t come to work for three weeks. No one had the guts to tell me, it was by pure coincidence that I—”

  “I’ll call him, Dad. I’ll set him straight, I promise. Don’t worry, take care.”

  You go back into the conference room and ask a colleague if you missed anything important.

  Three days later, you remember your father’s phone call, slapping your forehead. Your wife knows the gesture, she asks what you’ve forgotten this time.

  “I really need to call my brother, honey.”

  “What for? You’ve heard something new about our peculiar little architect?”

  You hate it that she has such a low opinion of him. Enough to resolve that you’re not going to discuss this matter with her. You leave the room: You want to have a word with him in private. He doesn’t pick up the phone and you get an unpleasant feeling, the kind you get every time you’re about to make a bad deal. You’re restless, walking up and down the room, thinking about your father; in half an hour, you try again—this time, your brother answers: his voice sounds unfamiliar—he’s excited, he tells you that he’s extremely happy you called. He takes you by surprise; your response is stiff and mechanical: “Where are you? What’s going on? Dad’s worried
about you.”

  “Hey, I have a new pool.”

  You hang up: You can’t keep up with these developments. Your brother hasn’t been seen at the office for three weeks because he’s got a new pool. Well. No plausible explanation comes to mind: You have no choice; you’re going to have to go see him. You redial his phone number, he picks up again and asks if everything’s okay. You don’t answer him, simply announce your forthcoming visit in a somewhat cool tone. He tells you he’s moved. You write down his new address on a scrap of paper and put it in your jacket’s inner pocket.

  You drive through the outskirts of the city for a long time before you stop in front of a house. You check the address again. Nothing particular can be learned from its exterior, least of all omens of the fate that lies in store for you. The pool is nowhere to be seen. An uneasy feeling comes over you. A bad deal in the making.

  Your brother appears at the door, unshaven and much thinner. He looks like a homeless person, so the first thing you ask is: “What’s the matter? Do you need money?”

  “Not at all, come in.”

  Once in the cool of the foyer, you regain your composure: Regretting your initial haughtiness, you put your hand upon your brother’s shoulder almost spontaneously and hold him back: “Tell me, what’s going on?”

  Your brother’s face is inscrutable: He’s hiding something and it’s driving you crazy. He wrenches himself from your grip and waves you to follow. Swimming goggles dangle from his hand. Stepping into the spacious living room, you stop again. The blinds are down but there’s no doubt about it: There is definitely water sparkling outside.

  “Wait,” you tell him, a sudden rush of suspicion floods over you—you halt. Your entire body resists following him. “We need to talk.” This time, you take a different approach. “You’re in trouble. Dad found out that you haven’t shown up for work for three weeks. You’re going to have to explain yourself to him.” Your words produce no effect whatsoever: He is watching you patiently. You think of Dr. Vlah, your family psychiatrist, who treats so-called female hysteria as well as male self-esteem problems in your family. “Listen, maybe it would be better if you set up an appointment with Dr. Vlah, I’m sure he would be able to offer you some advice.”

  “I talked to him earlier. Dr. Vlah feels fantastic.”

  Your brother’s face is now expressionless, you can’t figure out if he’s joking; you try to find something definite close by, something to hang on to, and that’s when you see the aquarium: Most of the fish are floating on the surface, riddled with bite marks, while the surviving ones swim up and down along the side of the aquarium closest to the drawn blinds. You close your eyes for a moment, praying that the fish died because of simple carelessness and not as a result of some new pathology of your brother’s.

  “How come you don’t call me, we don’t see enough of each other . . . ” You don’t know why, but at that moment, for the first time, you feel that your brother no longer belongs to your family. No longer belongs to anyone. You want to brush this aside now, so you go on talking animatedly: “We should spend some time together, throw a ball around. I mean, you know—we haven’t seen each other in a long time—you have no idea what’s been going on for me, or vice versa, I mean—”

  “I have a new pool,” he says. There’s a glimmer of light from behind the blinds.

  “A new pool?”

  “Yes, it’s magnificent.”

  “And that’s all?” You’re running out of patience.

  “Sure. Do you want to go see it?”

  “That’s all you have to say to me?” you ask. Your voice quivers, its tone reserved and threatening. “After all this time?”

  “Come.”

  Giving in is out of the question. “Look at yourself! You’re a mess.”

  Your brother goes to the blinds and raises them, revealing a wall of glass; you shield your eyes, the pool glistens outside like a cave of gold, people are standing and sitting around it. You’re bewildered: With all these friends around him, maybe your brother isn’t doing so badly after all.

  “I see you have a real pool party going on here. Looks like I’m intruding.”

  “Won’t you join us?” he asks, looking at you as though you’re the crazy one, not him.

  “No, no. I don’t want to impose.”

  “Well, too bad. Next time, then. You’re always welcome here.”

  The sudden role reversal throws you completely off balance. Before you leave, you want to re-establish the position you had when you came in: “Listen—I came to see you because we’ve got to talk . . . it’s serious. You haven’t shown up for work in three weeks and here you are, throwing a party at your new pool. With all due respect,” you try to preserve your brother’s dignity, “this is completely irresponsible.”

  Your brother beckons you to follow. “Come, join us.”

  There’s nothing more you can do here but accept the situation: As ever, you’re cast as the middleman in this drama. “Okay. What should I tell Dad then?”

  “Dad’s by the pool,” he says and leaves you alone.

  First, you repeat your brother’s last sentence several times. You hesitate for a moment or two, then run outside. Before you lies the pool, beautiful and frightening beyond description. There it is. You forget your father, the only thing that matters is getting as close to the pool as possible. Even though you were heading straight for Dad and couldn’t have cared less about the damn pool before you got out of doors, now you head right towards its edge; if you could just stand by the water and look into it, see bottom.

  But your brother stops you on the way. He takes you by the elbow. “Well, what do you think? Isn’t it splendid?”

  He gives you a tap on the shoulder and takes you to a chair next to Dad.

  After some time, when your father stops staring at the surface before him, you whisper to him: “I didn’t expect to find you here by the pool. What are you doing here?”

  Slowly and with difficulty, he manages to turn around and gestures toward it: “I’m admiring it.”

  His answer makes sense, sort of, but something else unnerves you: A few meters away, you see Dr. Vlah talking—to himself, leaning over the water, visibly distressed.

  You get up, restless. Your brother seizes you by the elbow as if to detain you. You break free from his grip, your advance is relentless, you move to the edge—and look in: It all slopes downward according to some unfathomable logic, the curves and angles antagonistic to each other, incorrect, cyclopean, as though simulating the rotation of something you have trouble naming. It’s distantly reminiscent of an upside-down cathedral: When you stare into it, you lose your sense of direction—which way is up, which down; the bottom disappearing from sight under a murky arch. Your gaze slides along its inner walls glimmering in varying bluish shades, lost in the reflections of the underwater atmosphere. You’re finally roused by the sound of your phone, releasing you abruptly from your rapture. Your wife’s name flashes on the screen, and you don’t answer it. You hear Dr. Vlah say, “Neurotics! God, how I hate them!” Dr. Vlah, a rational man by nature, keeps leaning over the water, bearing his soul to it. The sight of your family psychiatrist, talking about himself for the first time since you’ve known him, depresses you. Eventually, you feel a tap on your shoulder; your brother leads you back to Dad.

  “How nice to have you all here!” he adds and moves away.

  You sink helplessly into your chair, time is ticking away and the pool is right there in front of you. All around it, you recognize family friends, acquaintances, and, of course, your brother, who walks around the pool several times, swimming goggles dangling from his hand. Meanwhile, a minor incident: Your uncle is trying to pull his wife away from the edge; she breaks into piercing screams, struggling to tear herself loose; seeing this, Dr. Vlah makes a face and says: “Well, what did I tell you! Now do you understand?” The wind whips up the water’s surface, a wave washes over your uncle, who steps briskly away from the edge.

  “W
hat a beautiful pool!” sighs Dad dreamily. You can see three pool mattresses floating on the surface, a woman lying on each of them. They are all dipping their hands in the water. This would be a perfectly charming scene if they were showing any signs of life. Your brother comes up to you, swimming goggles still dangling from his hand. His smile is inscrutable.

  “How nice to have you all here.”

  “Listen, shouldn’t we wake those women? They’ll get sunburned.”

  Your brother is momentarily confused, then replies mechanically, “Don’t bother. Everyone is responsible for their own actions.”

  Night falls. You look at your watch; its hands have stopped at two thirty P.M.

  When morning comes, all of you are still there; in the midday heat, a strong wind rises, blowing over the surface of the pool; the women whirl around on their pool mattresses; the sharp smell of burned skin tingles in your nostrils. Waves carry the floating mattresses gently toward your father and you. Dad looks away; you want the wind to blow in the opposite direction or abate immediately. But neither of these things happens: The blonde is the first one to get carried toward the pool wall, followed by her two friends at a respectful distance. The buzzing of flies accompanies the smell of burning human flesh. Dad shifts his position, turning to his side, away from the woman. The blonde lies stretched out on her back, dipping her hands in the water. The burns on her face, cleavage, and belly are much more conspicuous than her Hawaii-patterned bikini. She has big dark sunglasses on her nose, for which you are grateful. The sight of burnt eyelids or flies crawling from underneath them would be something you wouldn’t be able to handle. Dad pants with effort, which makes you cover your nose with your tie and push the mattress away from the edge with your foot, hard. Too hard, as the woman, along with her big dark sunglasses, tips over and begins to sink deep down, getting smaller and smaller, until she disappears into the darkness. The pool must be very deep, as you’re unable to make out the bottom, despite the clearness of the water. Your shoe feels soggy, you take it off nervously and hurl it into the pool, which responds by swallowing it without a sound. Only the beeping of your phone is heard, down from your waistband, letting you know that your battery is about to run out.