Zagreb Noir

by Ivan Srsen

  He went toward the door, and she caught him by the arm and burst into tears. Her small body shook while she implored him not to go in a voice verging on hysteria. She repeated that she would not give him up so easily, and this upset him. He imagined her possible outbursts in public, which must not happen. He had to prevent it at all costs, and the only way to do that was to kill her. That meant in the next few seconds he had to think of a way to do it. If he did kill her, what would he do with the body? If he did get rid of it, who could guarantee it would not be found? If someone found it, that would be the end of everything. Not just the life he had planned for himself in great detail, but everything. He could not believe he had found himself in the middle of a scene out of some silly film. Except that here there would be no repeats, and he had not chosen his own role. It had been given to him long ago. After half a day spent in custody, he knew he could not survive in jail. Therefore he hurried outside, hoping that tomorrow he would think of a better solution.

  She went after him, and he took the steps two at time in big strides. She reached him at the bottom of the staircase and tried to embrace him, and he pushed her away without turning around. He knew that she had fallen, but he did not see that she had hit her head on the iron fence and that her doe-like gaze remained staring at one point, somewhere between the doorway and the light switch. Without speaking he got into the car. Lovrić said, “You’re quick.”

  * * *

  An hour later Frida woke up in her bed. She stayed lying there for a time, letting her eyes get used to the dark. She rose slowly, carefully stretching her legs, her neck, the rest of her spine. Softly she set off through the darkness, from time to time lightly touching the shadows of motionless things. She moved silently, nimbly, and invisibly, not leaving any tracks behind her, not even a shadow. There was no one who could upset her sleep, her daily routine, and her need for solitude. She was alone. For that matter, she had been alone as long as she could remember. Probably it had not always been like that. Actually, certainly it hadn’t, but who could know now what had happened. Her memory did not go back that far, and she had embraced loneliness because she had no one else. And she had learned to do everything by herself. That had not always been easy because life sometimes requires someone else, cries out for another pair of eyes and ears, for the warmth of another body. Solitude by itself is not a weight to carry, but the fear loved by solitude is. It is easier when carried by two. However, she had learned to live with it; even to sleep.

  She loved to sleep and gave in to it more than to anything else. It was not just a physical need but an escape; security. Although it was often interrupted by noises, which prompted Frida to stare into the dark with wide-open eyes so that she could see moving shadows. She would lie there motionless and tense until overtaken again by sleep. For this reason she slept mostly during the day. At night she went out because night was her protector, her partner and friend. Night creates possibilities and brings rewards. Night does not ask for reasons, causes, or consequences. It is protection for the lonely and the hungry. It sharpens the senses and quickens reactions. It calls and challenges. Like now.

  She could not resist the call of the night. It would lead her down empty streets and through dark yards. Sometimes she was satisfied with aimless wandering, but more often she was led to her goal by hunger; hunger as big as a void, as heavy as a mountain, and as persistent as the Arctic winter. It could be deceived by sleep, but it would not let itself be tricked while awake. Now it was still on its way; just a forecast and a cursed reminder that it had not forgotten what it would do to her. Another hour or two and it would completely take over her mind, become master of her body, and if she did not feed it, it would take away all her strength. She knew she could not let that happen. She must do something before she lost control of herself because that would mean less chance of surviving. And for a long time survival had been the meaning of existence on these shores of insecurity.

  Frida crept out onto the street. It was wet from the rain, which had stopped falling, but left puddles on the shiny asphalt. She did not like rain, nor snow. She would have liked to turn winter into one long, unbroken sleep, after which she would wake up happy to a sunny, warm day. But that was something she could only dream of.

  She was blinded by the lights of the cars. She stopped against a wall, and decided to follow a dark path leading behind a house, between yards, and through the alleyways. She moved slowly, becoming more cautious with every step, sensing danger, which lay in wait for her in the dark abyss. She heard every little noise as though it were a loud uproar, making her cringe and look for shelter. There was caution in her movements and in her senses, and her heart was beating with the pulse in her neck, more and more strongly; she could not calm it. She listened to it echoing in the darkness.

  Hunger grew and led her toward some nearby dumpsters. She was hoping she would find in them something with which to feed the animal inside her. She knew the trucks had not yet picked up the trash and in the dumpsters, without much trouble, she should be able to find something edible. Silently, she walked faster, glancing this way and that. The dumpsters were well known to her, some had even become favored. Often she visited them stealthily, not wanting to be seen. This time she did not find what she was hoping for. Either they had changed the timetable for removal, or she had mixed up the days.

  Despair and anger were now mixing with the fear brought by hunger. This was stronger than all other fears and pushed her farther and farther, as far as the marketplace. During the day she avoided this area. There were too many people there, too many smells, voices, and altogether too much of everything; and she loved peace and quiet. Now she wandered between the empty tables and crawled underneath them, hoping to find scraps of food. There was nothing. And her strength was running out.

  She went toward the fish market. She liked the smell of the fish, but apart from that there was nothing. Shreds of disappointment and anguish dragged behind her, slowing her down. She had no solution, but she was hoping one would present itself, as had happened so many times in the past. There had been other such futile nights, when not even hours of searching had brought peace of mind, and then on the way back, suddenly, she had found the food that she had been seeking so desperately. She favored luck, but never relied on it completely. You can never be certain. Everything, even luck, can leave us at any moment. And that moment is perhaps right now. Frida was thinking like this when she noticed a small rat. She bent down and gathered all her strength. Without waiting too long and giving him a chance to notice her, she threw herself on him and sank her teeth into his neck. She clamped down with her jaw long enough to make sure he had stopped breathing, and then she carefully let go. Once again she looked about to see whether anyone was coming or maybe watching her from around the corner. There was no one and she could devote herself to her prey in peace. Even so, she tore greedily at the bloody meat and devoured it, listening to the wild animal inside her purring with satisfaction. When she finished, she relaxed for an instant, but quickly decided to move on, tensed like the string on a guitar, stepping silently, as always. She never stayed longer in one place than was absolutely necessary.

  Led by a momentary desire, she crept into the open lobby. Long ago she had learned that desires which turned up suddenly should not be resisted because there was always a reason and purpose for them. At the bottom of the steps she saw an unmoving body and approached it. She saw the fixed stare, the long hair strewn about, covering part of the small face; and the blood which had congealed on the ground. She did not resist; she had to try it. On her tongue she felt the salty taste just as she heard footsteps and glimpsed men’s black shoes coming quickly toward her from the street. She hoped they would pass by her without stopping; there was nowhere to escape. She hunched down on the floor, but this time she was out of luck. The tip of a shoe caught her from above, strongly and painfully drilling into her stomach. She cried out, and a deep voice shouted, “Get lost, you disgusting cat!”

  Headl
essness

  by DARKO MILOŠIĆ

  Mirogoj

  Translated by Coral Petkovich

  I dropped in at the hospital to see my mother. I found her in the surgery section; she was talking to Dr. Basic.

  “Hey, you weren’t in Nelly’s Café the other day?” she said, mincing her words.

  “No, what happened? Something new again?” Dr. Basic replied, blasé.

  “Oh my God, something faaabulous! A terribly handsome young man presented us with a phen-om-en-al new type of coffee.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really something special. It’s coffee from Sumatra where they roast it from a special bean which, you won’t believe this, is actually pooed by wild cats.”

  “You’re joking?!”

  “No, I’m not. And you know how much one cup costs? From 250 to 550 kuna! It’s not for poor people, my dear.”

  “Oh my God, I must try that as soon as . . . What about if we go straight there after the hairdresser’s?”

  “Can do, old friend. Just give me a shout!”

  Before leaving, Basic turned her attention to me. “Goodness, how you have grown, boy! How time flies.” She sighed. “Never mind, old friend, I’m off, I’ll call you after the hairdresser’s and we’ll go to Nelly’s, okay?”

  She waved and left.

  “And how much do you need?” my mother asked me.

  “Well, at least as much as you’re prepared to spend on a cup of coffee made from cat poo,” I replied caustically.

  “Oh, please, spare me. And what do you need it for?”

  “I’m going with Alen to McDonald’s, and afterward we thought maybe we would go see a movie.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Yes, maybe.”

  “And maybe you could be a little more polite, young man, eh? While you’re under my roof . . .”

  Bloody hell.

  “Listen, Alen’s waiting for me outside. I’m hungry. I’m asking you nicely to give me some dough, enough to last for tomorrow too.” I was trying to be very polite and patient.

  “And why can’t you find more suitable company than that boy? Truly, when I see him, I get goose pimples. And he was such a good-looking little boy . . .”

  “Alen has been my friend since—”

  “I know, I know . . . Actually, yes, I feel sorry for him.”

  In one of the rooms we passed, a patient suffering from lung disease began to cry.

  My old lady reached for her purse and handed me some money.

  “Thanks, Mama.” I tried to sound appreciative. Go fuck yourself, Mama, I thought.

  * * *

  Alen was sitting in front of the hospital, killing time by pulling the legs off a daddy longlegs. It’s not that he hates spiders; he just plays with them. When only the spider’s body remained, he pushed it lightly with his thumb, like a ball. Sometimes he uses a cigarette lighter. He’s laid-back, but focused. Creative. He greeted me without looking up. Next to him, a can of Zuja. I reached for it and took a long swig. Alen is cool; I’ve known him since kindergarten. All my life, man. We knew each other when his father used to be with them, instead of in the loony bin. When we were still small, from time to time his father was allowed home, and he would wander around the neighborhood, up and down on Lascinska Street, Bijenicka, Srebrnjak . . . like some fucked-up zombie. He would call me, put his face close to mine, and ask me if I was fucking anything, and then laugh, a laugh which sounded just like the squeaking of hundreds of mice.

  Alen—his father called him “Yellow Shit”—was beaten from a very young age by his brothers and sisters, and his old lady; his old man used to thrash the lot of them. Alen had a small dog he loved very much. Once the dog crapped under the kitchen table. His dad dragged Alen from his room, pushed him under the table, and pressed his palm onto the shit. Then he took a broom from the cupboard and in the corner of the kitchen he beat the little animal. In front of Alen. After he tried once, also in front of Alen, to beat Alen’s mother in the same way, they stuck him into Vrapce, where he is now. Alen’s old lady in the meantime started to get interested in the church, but not our church, the real one, Catholic and apostolic; but some really weird club, a wannabe church, which used to meet in people’s apartments. With guitars and tambourines. A “house church,” as she called it. And that in itself would not have been a problem, but because he was the youngest, his old lady forced him to go with her to those meetings—she called them “services”—and for hours he had to kneel and “praise Jesus.” And this happened two or three times a week, in houses around Hrastik, Dobri Dol, up near Zmajevac . . . at the houses of “brothers and sisters.” Alen used to tell me that it all started relatively normally, with coffee and cakes, the warmth a bit forced. But later they would reach such a state that they would randomly open the Bible, read a couple of lines, and fall into ecstasy, literally fall onto the floor, choking with laughter or tears. Alen would be watching, frozen, his stomach cramped like it was when his father raged around the house. Then they would suddenly go quiet and someone would begin to mutter incomprehensibly. One after the other they would begin to mutter—“to speak in tongues”—all of those present, louder and louder, until finally they would be rolling around on the floor again, sobbing convulsively, possessed by “the spirit.” They would watch DVDs of American preachers wearing crocodile-leather shoes, in expensive suits, running from one end of a huge podium to the other, shouting that God wants us to be shamelessly rich. Amen? Aa-men! Hallelujah!

  From time to time they would have a “healing service” to drive out the demon of colds or the demon of depression. All of this only a kilometer or two from the Ruđer Bošković Institute, where my old man works with his colleagues in CERN. Jesus. Alen was ashamed to see how his old lady, cheeks flushed and with sweat stains under her armpits, lifted her arms into the air; once, in a surge of inspiration, she decided to christen him again because she came to the conclusion that the previous baptism was not valid—she maligned the Catholic church whenever she had the opportunity—so that one evening at the “service,” at the home of some “brothers” from Rebro, they stripped him down to his underpants and submerged him in a bath full of water, all the while singing psalms and foretelling for him a successful missionary career. Alen, whose experience of constant beatings during his childhood had taught him that the torment would not last as long if he did not resist, simply took a deep breath before they pushed his head under the water. Maybe he would become a minister one day, but right now he was interested in Crowley, he was listening to Marilyn Manson and bands like the Cradle of Filth, Bal-Sagoth, and the Meads of Asphodel, pulling out the legs of spiders. He was planning to order LaVey’s Satanic Bible through Amazon. He was still über-cool; in school he did not even bother to choose ethics instead of religious teaching, and in class he now stared at the anxious young teacher in a way that made her noticeably nervous. From time to time he would ask a question, like, what did she think about the Book of Job or about Judas as a positive character. Fuck, in primary school, walking with his mother to the “service,” he collected quite a lot of information from the Bible so now he was using it to annoy this poor woman. He covered his nails with black paint; his image, in general, he got from the old Satanists he sometimes spent time with in Maksimir, down near the fifth lake, or in Ribnjak Park. He was a member of the “coven,” he had been for a year now. They let me go to one of their meetings once, an “esbat,” in a house in Jordanovac.

  The boss was some old depressed-looking dude, a bit like Zizek, who wore a T-shirt with his own face on it, and I quickly realized he had cups with his face on them, and some cardboard pyramids, and like, some “holy” pics where he, the self-appointed “God,” “the Eternal Master,” “Lord,” stared out at the observer. Older members of the coven mentioned him reverently and nostalgically as one of the pioneers of the goth movement in Zagreb, back in the eighties, when he introduced them as teenagers to black magic, while in Lapidarij and Jabuka they listened to Joy Divisi
on and Sisters of Mercy. Alen heard rumors about his alleged involvement in a ritual murder in Sesvete at the end of the seventies . . . Mostly, the meetings started with an invocation of the four crowned Princes of Hell, then the old man begged Beelzebub to inspire their work.

  The one time they let me attend a meeting, a young girl was also present, with an attractive little swastika peeping from under her shirt—very serious about wanting to join them. “Alastor,” as they called the host, asked her to make bundles of hawthorn twigs and wrap them in aluminum foil, and then bury them at night in certain places around the building where she lived.

  Why? He told us solemnly that he wanted to have “his people” in every Zagreb district so that his “positive influence” would expand across the whole town, and even farther. And even farther. The dude was ambitious. There was a plan of the town on the wall with the districts joined by lines which had symbols, unknown to me. I found it all quite silly and that’s what I told Alen, but Alen informed me that old Alastor, with the help of crystals, filled him with so much energy that he got all pumped up and did not sleep for several days. What sort of fucking crystals was he talking about? I asked him.