Zagreb Noir

by Ivan Srsen

  After thinking about what had just happened, I shrank back in horror. The Serbian team was gone, to safety I imagined, and because of the prediction of potential violence, there weren’t many Serbian fans (the buses from Serbia were not allowed to come to the game), so these were Croatian hooligans. The Croatian police, some fifty of them, ran down and surrounded the murder scene.

  I followed another group of hooligans who somehow got ahold of a few Dinamo players and beat them systematically. Somebody knocked Marić down, and several people kicked him, shouting insults, “Scumbag! They bribed you, didn’t they? Fucking whore, faggot . . .” One of them said, “I have a better idea, let’s take him to the zoo!”

  I was still furious and drunk . . . I think I had a whole bottle of Hennessy during the game, and instead of sobering up upon seeing the beheading, I went along with the hooligans. Hell, I was one of them. I must admit, I even gave Marić a kick, somewhere in the kidney area, and I was one of the guys carrying him to the zoo. There were five of us, like pallbearers. It’s strange that in triumph, we carried our coaches like that and tossed them in the air, and in loss, we carried the culprit pretty much the same way.

  The zoo had modernized recently. It used to have barred cages, but now, with being members of the EU, the zoo had to become more humane—the tigers got a bigger cage, an acre of land with trees to sharpen their claws on, with a little pond to drink water from and bathe in; they were new Siberian tigers, Putin’s present to Croatia. Putin had just retired to Croatia, having bought the island of Ugljan.

  Anyway, we tried to toss Marić over the fence into the cage, but the fence was too tall and the guy fell out of our hands onto the pavement. He shrieked in pain. “Oh shut up, you should have kicked that ball a little lower. Why go so high with it, freaky ass?”

  “Let’s take him to the grizzlies,” someone proposed. So we picked him up and carried Marić to the grizzly cage. These magnificent creatures were a political present too, from Obama, delivered by John Kerry, the secretary of state, when he visited a couple years ago. Croatia had proven to be a faithful peon of NATO, starting with smuggling arms for the Syrian rebels and sending peacekeepers into Egypt. There’d been a long tradition of presents in the form of animals. Indira Gandhi had given the former Yugoslavian leader, Tito, elephants; Mao Tse-tung gave us panda bears; and now we had grizzlies as well, named Bill and Hillary. Anyway, these guys were massive, male probably 800 pounds, female 450—even bigger than the Siberian tigers.

  We had to climb the fence to throw him into the cage and he landed on a rocky little island. Bill and Hillary jumped to the island and sniffed Marić. We shouted, “Tear him up! Eat him!” but the bears merely sniffed him all over for a while, and then licked his face. They did not bite him. Marić didn’t move, sprawled and loose like a rag doll. Bill roared and lunged at us, but the fence was ten yards removed over a chasm, so he fell into it, then climbed out and growled at us. He jumped again and managed to reach the fence and climb it. Once over, he knocked down one guy and snapped his neck. I ran. He bit my right calf and tore a huge chunk out of it. I pissed in terror and ran out of the zoo and into the streets; a cab driver who was right near the zoo entrance gave me a ride to the Rebro hospital. I bled richly and groaned until they cut off the circulation to my leg and gave me shots to stop the bleeding, and morphine to dull the pain. At first it had hurt less than I imagined it should—the shock is a natural painkiller—and that’s how I had managed to run for my life.

  I passed out at the hospital from the loss of blood combined with the dose of morphine. When I woke up, I was in horrifying pain; my nerves were severed too. I stayed in the hospital for days. The surgeons patched me up, and without my calf muscles, it was clear I would have a permanent limp. At least I had the rest of my life. I wondered how Marić was doing so I looked it up online.

  Marić had a broken spine, a concussion, broken ribs, and a ruptured kidney. He was in critical condition at the Rebro hospital. Thank God we didn’t kill him. I swore I would never watch another soccer game if I could help it, and I would never root again for any team. In any event, Croatia, both individual teams and the national team, was now banned from international competition for four years. If I hadn’t been there, the same thing would have happened—there were enough hooligans. Maybe I shouldn’t feel terribly guilty, but of course I should.

  * * *

  When Marić recovered enough to go around in a wheelchair, and when I recovered enough, I volunteered to take him places and we became fast friends. I took him to Gradska kavana every morning for macchiato. Because of the damage to his spinal cord, he’ll never be able to walk again unless there’s some medical breakthrough.

  And what do we talk about? Anything but soccer. For a whole year I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was one of the thugs. But one day, we were relaxing and were both in a particularly fabulous mood. I’d just told him a new Mujo and Haso joke.

  “What would I do without you?” said Marić.

  “I don’t know. Maybe play soccer?” I said.

  “Let’s go to the zoo,” he suggested. “I want to say hi to Bill and Hillary. You know, she saved my life by licking me and nursing me. I think I was clinically dead. I saw my dad and mom in heaven, and we ate baklava together. I think there’s life after death.”

  We took a cab. On the right side was the Dinamo stadium. He turned away from it.

  I helped him get out of the cab with his electric wheelchair, and we went past the Siberian tigers, to the bears. I had no reason to be glad to see them, but Marić shouted, “Hello, my friends!”

  Both bears stood on their hind legs and made strange noises, something between a growl and a roar, but a couple of octaves higher, the way they would talk to a cub.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” he said. “See, they remember me. Next time I’m going to bring them some trout.”

  “You aren’t supposed to feed them.”

  “I can do what I want. You’ll help me get here, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “You know, Bill ate my right calf. I am not that eager to feed him. I already did.”

  “I know. I’ve read the articles.”

  “You knew all along? How? That’s crazy. Why would you talk to me then?”

  “I saw the pictures, security camera pictures, and I could tell that one of the silhouettes was you. And then there were articles about the bear, how he killed two hooligans and tore up your leg.”

  “And you don’t blame me?”

  “Of course I blame you, you ass, but I understand. You were a fucking hooligan. Anyway, you weren’t the ringleader.”

  “Generous interpretation.”

  “Not generous. Let me show you something.” He leaned over, opened his jacket, and I could see he was carrying an Uzi. “Guess what that is for?”

  “Security?”

  “No. I am waiting for the other two. You are okay. You suffered, and I got to know you. Bill avenged me, and you weren’t the ringleader. But when I see those motherfuckers, off they go.”

  “Wow!”

  “It’s vow, not wow. So when can you come back to feed Bill and Hill with me?”

  “I’m not sure. Seeing that gun makes me lose my appetite.”

  And as I stared at him, looking kind of like Stephen Hawking in his wheelchair with thick glasses, a proper black jacket, and a red tie, I imagined I was seeing him for the last time. But am I stuck with him now? If I quit seeing him, will he put me on the list of people to shoot? With thoughts like these, we couldn’t be friends anymore.

  “Adios, my friend!” I said, and turned my back to him, my hard-sole leather shoes crunching the sharp gravel, every little stone imprinting itself into the skin of my feet as I started to walk away. An uneasy feeling sent goose bumps up my back, as though a bullet would pass through me at any second.

  The Old Man from the Mountain

  by IVAN VIDIĆ

  Jarun


  Translated by Stephen M. Dickey

  I

  Zaza danced with her arms raised, tossing her long black hair in all directions as she sang. She stood on an elevated narrow stage, only a step away from her loyal audience, who repeated her every word and imitated her every move. Between songs the throng screamed with excitement. She was tall and buxom, with piercing eyes, full lips, and an unreal tan. The girls copied her. The men were wild about her, and all it took was one look at her to drive them crazy. Except for her high heels, she barely wore a shred of clothing.

  II

  The old man from the mountain’s coming down to town

  Look out, look out!

  No one’s happy, no one but me,

  No one’s happy, no one but me,

  I’m waiting for my man.

  My Old Man, my man,

  My man, my Old Man,

  ’Cause he’s the one’s gonna give it to me . . .

  III

  No drinking or fighting, it said on the wall. No throwing bottles, ashtrays, or other hard objects at the performers, it said. No grabbing or groping the singers. Absolutely no firecrackers, flares, M-80s, or other fireworks. No knives or firearms under any circumstances.

  Prohibitions, nothing but prohibitions.

  And I violated the most important one.

  I shouldn’t have said it. I shouldn’t have said it out loud, but I did. It only took a moment. It took me less than a minute to say it, and that was followed by a few minutes of laughter, surprise, and comments. Yes, I boinked Zaza, the singer. Not Zaz, that boring French girl, but Zaza, our girl, the one who sings the folk songs. Ooh, get out, lucky devil, what a looker, what a piece . . . ! But how?! After the concert I went into her changing room and congratulated her. I said I worked for the Old Man; otherwise they wouldn’t have let me in. We talked, smoked some of my terrific hash, and it just happened. And that was it. That was literally everything I told those people I thought were my friends. I made it up to show off. It only took a minute, people, no more. One accursed minute that would determine my life, or what was left of it, which might be very, very short. I might die any moment, and all because of a lie, a little lie that I told just to amuse some guys. Besides, I’d smoked a lot of hash. I was high—I couldn’t be held so accountable, right? That should be a mitigating circumstance. Because sober I’d never say something so stupid, tell such a horrible lie that it might get me killed. Now they are coming, and “the sound of harpists and musicians and flute players and trumpeters will not be heard in you any longer.”

  IV

  I shouldn’t have gone home. That was the last thing I should have done. What a stupid thing to do—it was the first place they were going to look for me. I turned out the lights in the apartment and kept out of sight. I was in the hall when I heard footsteps and the sliver of light under the door was broken by the shadows of their legs. So, they were already there in front of the door. Now they would ring the bell.

  They didn’t ring. Instead they started pounding wildly. But their beating on the door couldn’t drown out the beating of my heart, which had started pounding like crazy in my chest. It made my whole body shake. I knew that I had very little time before they would burst in. A bad door, a cheap one, can be forced open with one well-placed kick. And didn’t my parents tell me when I moved into the apartment to replace it with a security door? At least it would have been able to take a little more. But who cares what old folks who are paranoid about thieves say? I realized as I listened to the pounding that they were right.

  I had a few seconds to find somewhere to hide. It didn’t make any sense to lock myself in a room—the kitchen or bathroom. I couldn’t jump from the sixth floor.

  A moment before they burst in, I slipped into the closet in the hallway. I knew they would fly right by me, the idiots. There were four of them: Tafilj, Rico, Hoxa, and a fourth one who I didn’t recognize. I tiptoed out of the closet behind their backs and slipped out of the apartment. I didn’t start running until I was on the stairs. I flew out of the building, got into my car, and raced down Maksimirska Street.

  V

  He sat at a large desk and listened to me. He was calm and full of dignity, with the poise of a king. He spoke softly and looked me straight in the eye.

  “You insulted the Old Man. What else did you expect?”

  “But how did he find out about all this? And why? It was only a stupid joke I told some friends.”

  “He hears everything.”

  “I need to find a way to tell him that nothing happened.”

  “Did nothing really happen?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not even what you said?”

  “I said it was a joke.”

  “A joke?”

  “A white lie.”

  “Just a white one?”

  “It happened.”

  I closed my eyes and hoped someone would get me out of there. But there was no chance of that happening. All that was left to do was watch everything I said and stick to my story no matter what.

  “I was joking. It’s just that at the time I didn’t realize how inappropriate it was. That was because of the hash.”

  “As you’ve heard, the Old Man doesn’t even forgive a joke.”

  That was true. According to the stories the Old Man was dead serious, vain, and so unbelievably touchy that he didn’t forgive anyone for anything.

  No one knew of any of those who the Old Man pointed his finger at escaping their fate. They were condemned to run their entire lives, with his assassins on their heels, who would follow them to the end of the world, forever, if need be. That was why I needed to get my words just right.

  “I completely regret what I did.”

  “Why did you even go into the Raspašoj?”

  “Because Zaza was singing there. I wanted to see her concert. I was just looking to have a good time. I didn’t have any bad thoughts or intentions. I respect the Old Man; everybody knows that. I was just acting like an idiot; it was a mistake. It was a very bad joke. I wouldn’t ever do anything to offend his girlfriend.”

  “Zaza isn’t the Old Man’s girlfriend. He owns her.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I’d like to know if the Old Man can forgive me.”

  “During the day you sell his stuff, at night you hang out at folk music clubs, hit on other men’s wives, all full of yourself. You think you’ve got God by the balls. Tell me, why should the Old Man spare you?”

  VI

  I wondered that as I raced out of my apartment on Maksimirska Street and headed for Jarun, to the Raspašoj, a folk music club I liked and where I was a welcome guest. Most of my friends prefer Košmar or Rusvaj, but I don’t know, those clubs are a little too wild for my taste.

  I never thought I was such a bad soul, regardless of the work I did. And now I didn’t think I deserved what was happening to me. I like telling stories, making things up, maybe because of the hash I smoke every day, maybe that’s just the way I am. Although I worked for the Old Man’s people, I wasn’t one of them. I like to dream and let my mind roam; I like to walk the streets of this city and look up at the sky, enjoy the flight of a flock of pigeons and swallows, and let my spirit take in their freedom.

  I’d never seen the Old Man before, but he was everywhere. I once heard a fable about his predecessor, some Old Man from the Mountain of old, from whom he got his name, and who created a paradise and populated it with murderers. That was in the north of Persia. The Old Man shut himself up in inaccessible gorges whose entrances and approaches were protected by impregnable fortresses. Inside them he arranged the land to look like a garden of abundance. In gleaming castles painted with birds and animals, brave young men cavorted with beautiful young women. All around them pipes poured out water, mead, and wine. And everyone thought it was paradise. But whoever wanted to enter it had to agree to serve the Old Man and become a murderer. These men were called hassassins, from the hashish that they enjoyed. And they killed all the Old Man’s enem
ies and anyone who didn’t obey him.

  But at that time I didn’t care about fables. I didn’t care about very much, and I didn’t know much about this world at all. I only enjoyed life. And hash. I adore it; it casts a miraculous and intoxicating light on all things; it creates new scenes and landscapes from old ones, and makes familiar paths unfamiliar.

  So, was I then the Old Man’s servant? No, I wasn’t. He and his men traveled the world with swords. I was only a dealer, and I liked to fly in my dreams.

  But it was a fairly dangerous job. The market here was divided, and there was continual conflict. The Old Man had the heroin and hash, along with his other activities that I knew nothing about. Since chemical techniques had appeared and since the kids had started swallowing tons of pills and smoking tons of grass, it had become difficult to get real hash. But I had it. And I had all kinds of other things—money, girls, and good cars—and now, because of some tactless words, I was losing it all.

  VII

  Zaza had agreed to five concerts in Zagreb and tonight was the last one. When the intermission came, I asked the bouncers to take me to her. I said that it was something personal, a matter of life and death; not even that would have worked if her personal bodyguard hadn’t recognized me. He lifted the thick barrier rope and led me into a passage next to the stage. I went behind him into the changing room.

  “What were you doing telling everyone about that?! Are you crazy?!” she screamed into my face as soon as I entered the changing room.

  “The Old Man is after me. I have good reason to believe that he’s issued my death sentence.”

  “Yes, you do. But what do I care about you? You don’t deserve any better. And why me? I thought you liked me, that you cared about me. What did I do to make you want to destroy me?”

  I told her about the circumstances of my little joke, which had spawned something terrible. Zaza listened to me in silence.