by Ivan Srsen
With both hands he started crumpling up the posters until he had wadded them into a large paper ball that he tossed a few feet away. He started huffing, then worked his mouth strangely, as if something were caught in his teeth and he was struggling to dislodge it. Suddenly she realized he was pooling phlegm and that in a second he would deliver it to her face.
The glob of Eagle Logo’s bubbling phlegm landed on her left cheek, slid down her face, and dribbled onto her jacket and pants. With her sleeve she frantically rubbed her blazing cheek and all her pent-up rage thundered inside her head. Eagle Logo laughed a repulsive laugh that sounded to her like the sputtering of a moped in a low gear. The two others stared at him as if he were a hero.
“No point in wiping it off, you little shithead,” he said to her with disgust. “I’ll do it again as a warning and to give you something to remember me by.”
“Give me my backpack and let me go home,” she said, and stepped closer. Goatee and Black Jacket were completely out of her visual field, they no longer mattered.
“Hey, hey, muffin, suddenly so bold,” taunted Eagle Logo, dangling the half-open backpack in front of her face.
“I’m asking you nicely,” she declared firmly.
“Look, girlie, we can reach an understanding. Don’t they say understanding builds a house? I’ll give you back your bag if you give me something, okay?”
“Give you what?” she asked, and tilted her head to the side.
“Don’t go Little Miss Innocent on me, you know what I mean! Cunt, right?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Why not! Isn’t my cock good enough? I bet those anarchists of yours are all pip-squeaks, obviously you’ve never in your life seen a real dick,” he said, scratching his balls. “And besides, your attitude turns me on, oh yeah.”
Black Jacket and Goatee were leering and shoulder-bumping, clearly hoping they’d be getting some tonight too. Goatee began humming “Fella, fella, fellatio . . .”
She clenched her teeth and deftly wrested the backpack from Eagle Logo. She caught him off guard and before he could stop her she was at her bike with her backpack over her shoulder. She pushed down on the pedal, swung the other leg around, and just then felt him lifting her off the seat. She swam in the air, her legs flailing, and the bike banged on the pavement.
“Heeeey!” she got out a shout, but with his left arm around her waist he pulled her in firmly and clapped his right hand over her mouth. He dragged her over to the building, kicked open the door, and trundled down the stairs into the basement. She kicked at his knees, struggled to wrench free of his grip, and then quieted down, trying to think what to do next.
He pushed her into a narrow passageway with wooden latticed storage units on either side. She smelled the sour stink of sweat under his arms mingling with a cheap men’s deodorant. He nudged something with his shoulder and a light went on. He carried her a few feet more to the bottom of the passage at the end of the row of storage units. There was a ratty old mattress propped up against the wall. Eagle Logo kicked it over and threw her down onto it. Her body jiggled on the springs.
Suddenly the strains of the guitar solo from the song “Bella Ciao” by KUD Idijoti rang out from somewhere, getting louder from one beat to the next.
“What the fuck . . . ?” said Eagle Logo, spinning around tensely.
It was the cell ringing in her pocket. When he figured out where the sound was coming from he groped for her phone, and flung it with relish onto the dusty floor. She crouched on the mattress and said nothing, she had no clue what to do; there was no sense in screaming hysterically here, she had to think, think fast.
She wondered where the other two were—they were probably waiting for him to finish his business.
With all her strength she threw herself into him, trying to slip through the little bit of free space to his left. But Eagle Logo was ready, grabbed her by the arm, and peeled the backpack off her shoulder. He threw her back down on the mattress, straddled her with his knees, and sat on her stomach. He found the roll of tape in her pack. Terror swept over her, she knew what came next. She could no longer even hear her heart, as if someone had muted all sound. She only saw his grimy fingernail scratching at the tape, seeking the edge.
Then she remembered the scissors which, apparently, he hadn’t noticed. The backpack was open in front of her, she saw the see-through yellowish handles on the bottom, snatched the scissors up, and shoved them with all her might into Eagle Logo’s gut.
He groaned and clamped his hands over hers, trying to pull the scissors out. She figured she hadn’t pushed them in too far; she leaned back, pulled the scissors out, and managed to wriggle free of the sticky grip of his fingers.
He was no longer focused on her. Lying on his side, he clutched at his blood-soaked shirt. She pulled away and slipped out of the passage. Her head was spinning and she shut the door with trembling hands; now she could barely hear his moans. She mustered all the strength she had and burst like a shot through the entrance door. Outside, Black Jacket and Goatee were sitting a few feet away on the low wall. They caught sight of her, hands bloodied, as she sprinted to the left and vanished into the neighborhood. She ran with a mindless speed.
* * *
She sprinted by the big cube-shaped clock that stood at the intersection of Savska Road and the Cvjetno neighborhood, its hands at a few minutes to three. The whole way there she never saw a single person. The bloody stain on her black pants didn’t seem too bad, it had already dried a little and looked like any old greasy stain.
The moron would live, she hadn’t managed to rip him up too much with those dull scissors. The other guys must have called an ambulance—they’d patch him up in the ER and that would be that.
She calmed down, and soon she stopped shaking. She rinsed her bloody hands in a muddy puddle in the park behind the Vjesnik building and decided to walk the rest of the way home.
In the back pocket of her pants she could feel her wallet and her ID. Good, she thought, it’s still there.
Behind her back she heard the screech of a tram pulling into a stop. It was half-empty and for a moment she considered trotting across the street and shortening her trip home, but decided not to. Fuck it, not smart, better to put one foot in front of the other to the main square and then cut across to Zvonimirova.
She felt in her pocket for her cell phone and then remembered where it was. She sighed, realizing they could identify her with the SIM card. They could remove it from the cell and identify her just like that! But maybe the morons got the jitters, maybe they wouldn’t report her, maybe they’d concoct some shit of their own at the ER, maybe anything, maybe nothing . . .
She’d come out onto a small square by a kiosk when she heard footsteps approaching along the path through the park. Two men in blue were slowly strolling and talking rather loudly. What the fuck, now them too? she thought, and her knees buckled. She had to stay cool, she’d pass by them and keep to herself. She musn’t speed up or slow down, just walk along at the same pace. And then she did something stupid. Dead cool she said, “Good evening.” It was instinct—good upbringing screws you over when you need it least!
“Good evening, ma’am,” answered the older cop, stopping to have a look at her. The other obediently stopped next to him. She did not slow down, she thought it had gone well. But then she heard their steps behind her, they were following her . . . or maybe continuing on their way?
“Ma’am, would you please stop?” she heard the older cop say.
She turned around, assembling the best half-smile she could muster. No panic, no panic, scrolled a message across the surface of her mind as if on a digital display. She felt a powerful wave of heat in her solar plexus and her gaze flitted by the stain on her pants; it didn’t seem too bad.
Both of them eyed her with curiosity, and the older cop jumped straight to the point. “Where were you headed, miss?” he asked.
He was stout, he had one of those creased, clean-shaven fac
es of older men on which you can see the results of a heavy diet. Under his police uniform bulged the clear outline of his belly. She registered his shift from ma’am to miss but had no time for analysis, she just had to keep the small talk going.
“I’m on my way home,” she said, in the most natural possible tone. Her hands were sweating but what did the two of them know about her hands and what they had been doing only an hour earlier?
“It is not so smart to be out walking alone this late with no escort,” piped up the younger cop, with a crew cut and a trim figure; his uniform fit him better. He was obviously still in the rookie phase of service.
Why am I standing here talking with these two? What was I thinking? “I am not afraid of anyone,” she answered, and with both hands she adjusted the straps on the backpack, meanwhile stealthily wiping the sweat off her hands.
Senior grinned, grabbed the suspenders on his trousers, and pulled them up. “Take it easy now, I have seen plenty of things in this city,” he said, shoving his hand into his pocket and rocking back and forth on his feet. “Where are you coming from? Were you partying somewhere?”
At first she said nothing as Senior eyed her clothing and hair. Her nerves were killing her, and suddenly she had to pee. “From work. I’m tired. If you don’t mind I would like to go,” she said in a conciliatory tone, and sighed.
“You are one of the . . . whatchamacallit . . . those ones who march around waving signs about gay marriage . . . Feminists, right?” he said, and grinned again.
“That’s not the same,” she answered coldly.
He grimaced and grew serious. “So where do you work?”
“At a fast-food place in Lanište,” she replied.
He raised his arm theatrically and checked the watch on his left wrist. Then he looked back at her. Junior’s gaze darted off across the road and he shifted his weight from his left leg to his right.
“Three o’clock! Eleven minutes past, in fact! What fast-food place outside the center of town is open until two, three in the morning?” He was already guffawing.
“Why do you care?” she said tersely.
“Oh ho ho, getting a little edgy there, are we? What kind of a tone are you taking with officers, young lady? You might want to change your tune!”
“Fuck, I cannot believe this,” she muttered through her teeth.
“What did you say? Huh?”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
“Oh yes you were. You were using foul language, I heard you. Repeat what you said, if you’ve got the guts, feminist or whatever!”
“That is offensive!”
“I am offending you,” he said with a half-smile, and stepped a little closer. “C’mon, your ID!”
“I don’t understand,” she whined.
“What don’t you understand? Am I speaking Chinese?”
She opened her wallet, pulled out her ID card, and handed it over. A black sports car slid by almost soundlessly along empty Savska Road.
“Milena Jakšić, Zvonimirova 26b,” he read out loud, and burst out laughing.
She found his fat chapped lips disgusting.
“One of those three-phase households, eh?” he announced with glee, and handed back the ID.
She knew what he meant. It was an old nationalist phrase she had learned from a boy who taunted her in elementary school.
“Father’s name?” he asked shrilly.
“Milan.”
“There, what did I say, fuck it, don’t I always smell out the Serbs?” he hissed, and slapping his legs triumphantly he looked over at Junior. The other cop nodded, perturbed. Clearly the exposure of her family background was not as spectacular a find for him.
“Happy now? Prick hard enough yet?” she snapped. She no longer cared about the consequences. Senior’s fat lips stretched as taut as an inflated condom. She longed to puncture them. He grabbed her by the arm, squeezed it hard, and began to tremble.
“What the fuck, you filthy little shit.”
“Don’t touch me, asshole,” she glowered, and was slapped hard.
Her head was knocked to the side. She saw Junior shudder and stare nervously at empty Savska Road. She tried to wriggle free of Senior’s grip, but he grabbed her other hand and dragged her a few steps. He was furious and panting like a pig, huffing in her face.
She wanted to explain everything to him, everything that had happened that evening, but her throat stung, she couldn’t get a single word out. She slumped to the ground and stayed in a crouch, staring between Senior’s legs. He grabbed her by the hair and forced her to stand up.
“Get up, don’t start playing lady now!” he growled.
Behind his back the Motorola on Junior’s chest began to crackle: “A case of serious bodily injury, Lanište, perp on the run. Young female, brown hair, jeans, black backpack. Confirm receipt, Kruge Patrol #4.”
It was as if someone had knocked all the air out of her.
“What did they say?” called Senior, who apparently had not heard the message.
Junior stared at her, wordless. His hands shook, they went to his belt, and he started fiddling with something. She couldn’t tell what he was doing. Senior spun around and stared at him.
“You have the shakes? What the fuck is wrong with you?” he said, releasing her hands and going over to Junior.
A pistol appeared in Junior’s hand.
“Confirm receipt, Kruge Patrol #4,” the Motorola barked again.
“What are you doing, are you crazy?”
“She’s a . . .” He released the safety on his pistol and aimed it at her.
“Hey, kid, put that away, have you lost your mind?” Senior slowly pushed Junior’s hand down.
Junior kept staring at her as if he didn’t see his partner.
From her crouch on the ground she shot to her feet, grabbed her backpack, and dashed off into the park.
She heard their halting breathing behind her. Over damp leaves she sprinted through the dark.
Wiener Schnitzel
by IAN SRŠEN
Rudeš
Translated by Ellen Elias-Bursac
Jagger strode nervously into the Orhideja and ordered a double espresso and a shot of bitters from Mr. Montenegro. It was cold outside and Montenegro had cranked the heat up to the max so they had all made themselves comfortable inside, doffing their jackets and coats so there wasn’t a single available hanger left in the place. Jagger briefly cursed their mothers, shed his coat, tossed it over the last free chair in the little café, and went back to the bar.
“What’s up?” asked Montenegro.
“Why the fuck ask me, I already ordered,” snapped Jagger.
“I know,” said Montenegro coolly, setting a demitasse of coffee and a shot glass of the viscous rakija on the bar, “but what’s up otherwise?”
“Shove it, Montenegro. You blew it at the bookie’s and now you want to know if I did too?” Jagger knew everything that passed through the minds of all the regulars at the Orhideja. He loathed their limited vocabulary and their eternal topics of conversation: soccer, politics, and the fresh booty that had strolled down the street the day before out in front of the café. So when Montenegro asked what’s up, it could only have to do with one of these three topics and nothing else.
“Prickly, prickly. Okay, the rakija’s on the house, but hey, did you hear Darkec broke his arm?”
“I don’t give a shit about Darkec and that dumb-ass Astra he cruises around in to show off in front of the bar. Maybe someone broke his arm in a pickup game when he was un-fucking-bearable.”
“No, he fell down the stairs at home.”
“No shit?” Jagger was interested now. He was hoping Darkec had broken more than that.
“Better believe it. Okay, so he had too much to drink. But never here, the weasel. He parades around town, pays twice as much for beer as I charge here, then he has to go home to keep drinking because those fancy places are too pricey for him . . .”
“The guy can drink
where he likes,” said Jagger, shifting gears; maybe Montenegro was bugging him even more than Darkec. “But is it coming today?”
“What?”
“What what? Fuck your moron mother!” Jagger knew the guy was dodging a straight answer. “Don’t pull the jackass thing with me, Montenegro. Is it coming today?”
“It is.”
“Good.” Montenegro’s answer was reassuring. Jagger turned his back to the bar and checked out the café. Everyone there was always huddled around Marijan, an auto mechanic who never seemed to work yet money was always falling out of his pockets. Mate, an out-of-work electrician, Mijo, a plumber with a short fuse who was quick with his fists, and a retired cook with a postwar PTSD diagnosis whose nickname was Karapandža—they all came to the café with twenty kuna in their pockets. After they’d spent it, Marijan held the floor. He paid for their drinks as long as they’d listen to him. He’d send them off to fetch him a sandwich, to check and see whether he’d turned off the gas burner, and once Mijo even delivered flowers to one of Marijan’s lovers. Aside from the four of them, Keti, an old drunk, was sitting at another table and talking loudly with Stankec, an old potato vendor from the nearby farmers’ market. Stankec had been living for decades in a shed behind a neighboring building and every time he saw him, Jagger wondered how it was possible for the man to still be alive. As far back as Jagger’s memory reached, Stankec had been splitting wood around the neighborhood in exchange for rakija, beer, and the small change he’d use to buy a quarter loaf of bread and several slices of Tyrol sausage. And yet here he was still, nodding calmly at Keti’s escapades and sipping slowly from a beer bottle. This pained Jagger: the man was always cleaning up after others, dumpster-diving for food, he’d drink himself to sleep, yet here he was now nodding with dignity, looking as sober as a judge. A single rakija, the one Jagger had just downed, would be enough to send him flying into a rage, fueling his agitation and his big plans.
At the other two tables at the Orhideja sat Suhi, owner of the nearby cardboard factory, and his business partner Kolaković, and next to them was Tomo the ambulance driver and his funny cousin Pjer. Just looking at Pjer made Jagger laugh. The guy was fifty if he was a day and he always looked as if his mother had just dressed him for school in the morning and combed his hair. Why would someone live like that for fifty years, why would someone like Pjer sit all the livelong day with his cousin, a nurse, who was always pulling out porno DVDs that he’d bought from the Romani stands at the marketplace and inspecting them under the light of the café to check whether the discs were damaged? If one of the discs turned out to be scratched he’d send Pjer back to the marketplace to get another. One time Pjer came back with the classic They Drive By Night with Humphrey Bogart instead of another porno. Tomo shit bricks. “What the fuck will I do with this? Our grandmothers used to get off on this stuff, Pjer!” Montenegro had intervened and bought the DVD off Tomo for five kuna. For the next hour and a half the whole café watched the movie, and Pjer cried several times. Montenegro soon dismantled the DVD player and television after Tomo started bugging him to show porn.