In/Half

by Jasmin B. Frelih

  She lifts the mattress and pulls out a thin, black, dogeared notebook. She opens it. Written on page one: ‘To Kras; to the scale of all our insanities, don’t give up on us, you know…’ In italics: ‘Self-Published, LEZK. 17.9.2008.’ Three signatures. Only Zoja’s is legible.

  There’s a poem in this collection that speaks to Mila’s most remote feelings. What is passion? Not affection, love, lust, desire, want, necessity, need, craving, nothing physical, but not only psychological, and all these words, do they even mean anything on their own, independently of… What is

  passion

  Clouds have form. The tops of trees are roots – stand on your head. Roofs are bare backs under the acupuncture of chimneys and antennas… Magpies nest in nests. Where is

  passion

  St Nicholas bakes biscuits, the horizon is red, that’s what they say, although it’s late summer, the equinox will be late, it’s always late, when is

  passion

  The sound of a zip. My own hand slides between my legs. I’m my own puppet. I make a stranger out of my body and I abuse it. Evil. I use it. And no

  fear

  A young girl’s eye watching through the keyhole. She sees her, sees her belt around her knees, sees her writhing around on the bed… Mila is thinking about Borut. And a little bit about Mitja.

  I don’t want to go into too much detail, but what Kras is doing with Katarina seems normal only when one is naked, focused on feeling and ripped out of time.

  The washing machines tremble. Slapping sounds are echoing off the walls of the bathroom, the sloped walls of the bathtub, in the toilet bowl, in the bidet. The soap has slid down to the plughole. The squished and twisted tube of toothpaste stands upright among the brushes. A roll of toilet paper has rolled off the shelf. The floor is wet. The paper soaks up the water and swells.

  Katarina is safe.

  The moan takes shelter between the towels, inside the radiator grill and warms itself up there. The hole in the floor, covered with a grate, ingests the water and foams at the sides. The saliva mixes with the mucus. Flushed flecks of flesh on porcelain. The mirrors hide nothing, they keep silent about almost everything. Beyond here, there’s so little that is true.

  Kras wants whatever he wants.

  His jaw is unmoving. He’s trained it. He pursues pleasure with a technical dedication. Methodically. Long years of practice. He knows where he has to be, what he has to do, how. To the limit of trust. To the edge of what’s safe. A tricky tightrope-walk, a dance on a razor blade. The shaving equipment is not where he left it. Somebody borrowed it. He doesn’t know what to think about that. The epilator in the plastic bag is what allows his hands to slide over Katarina’s legs. They’re smooth.

  ‘Quiet!’

  He covers her mouth with his hand. The cries should stay inside her. They should echo off the inside of her skin. They mustn’t escape. This landscape has its own rules. She bites his hand lightly. It’s not a real bite because right now her teeth aren’t a part of her body. The scarlet line stings, mocks. He punishes her by firmly grabbing the flesh hanging from her ribs.

  ‘Quiet!’

  The word has lost its addressee. The body frees itself of the slavery of consciousness and becomes a thing, wrapped up in a foreign will. This pain has no roots. This pleasure has no wings. She bites him as he climbs onto her. The teardrop is not really her own. She swallows him. Teeth pressed together. Into the cliff. He slides dangerously. Everything depends on the grip. No ropes. Just faith.

  The door handle declines, pointlessly. The door is locked. In the keyhole is a concealing key. Po must make do with eavesdropping. Who knows what she’s imagining as they make it to the peak.

  Kras is lying on Katarina’s back. They’re sweaty. They smile absently, each in their own direction. They part a little shyly. As they drape themselves in the sounds of splashing, they laugh at each other. Kras shows her the ticket that he extracted from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was soaked but the ink hadn’t yet run.

  ‘I got this yesterday, you know, when that postman came.’

  Katarina nods.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A plane ticket.’

  ‘What? To where? ‘

  ‘Seam.’

  ‘Seam?’

  ‘That’s the military designation for the buffer zones.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but which one?’

  ‘You find out when you get there.’

  Kras smiles reluctantly. Mila is growing concerned.

  ‘Do you think it’s from Mitja?’

  ‘Probably, yes.’

  Silence.

  ‘At least I hope it is.’

  ‘And you’re going?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What if…’

  Kras interrupts her.

  ‘Please. What if what? Isn’t it all the same? If I don’t go, I’ll never forgive myself. And aren’t all of you fed up with me here? If I do go, I’ll be mad at him for a few weeks, and then things will cool down.’

  Katarina is not used to him talking about his feelings as if they were someone else’s.

  ‘The miserable little bastard!’ shouts Kras.

  He stamps his foot on the floor. Splash.

  ‘I’m sorry. You see? I can’t stand not having him around. My body doesn’t know how to work this way. And now all this stuff with Berdo… I don’t even want to know what they’ll do to him.’

  ‘What?’ asks Katarina. When Kras explains Bernard’s situation, she moves her hand to her mouth and winces at its pungent scent.

  ‘Do you think it will be bad?’

  ‘I think that…if it was really him and not Mitja… Though I don’t know how he could do it without Mitja’s help, but still… If it was really him, we won’t see him again.’

  ‘So you’re just going to leave?’

  Kras evades her accusatory tone by means of a shrug.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m just going to leave.’

  When Edgar presses the doorbell, he feels something like dread in his stomach. He has no idea why. The wind blows a cloud of dust into the air. This place hasn’t changed in decades. The same cars, the same homeless people, the same pigeons circling above, creating a sense of constant vertigo for anyone underneath. Edgar has a sunny disposition, but in the midst of all this concrete it darkens sometimes. There’s a methadone clinic right nearby. During last year’s big clean-up they collected two containers’ worth of needles. How can a person keep up a cheerful face? Edgar lacks that urban courage that sucks a person dry of all the mystery, of all the solitude (but not a shred of the loneliness), of all the humility before the night sky, leaving behind just a derisive attitude towards all that is human… Inside these towers they even shit with their backs turned towards each other. The only animal here is man. Everything else is noise, error, a cheap ad for something that can’t be squeezed into the schedule. Nobody has time. He stares into the camera. Is Alenka even home?

  The door screeches as it unlocks. Edgar enters and climbs the stairs. He doesn’t like lifts. The door opens even before he manages to knock. Alenka’s not wearing make-up. She looks horrible.

  ‘Hi, Alenka.’

  ‘Did Kras send you?’

  The question puts him on the spot. His first instinct is to lie, but that would only have worked if he’d ever bothered to visit her before. He can’t remember the last time he was here. Ten years ago? Twenty? Is that possible? The things that have happened since then.

  ‘Yes. I mean, he didn’t tell me what to say. He even said there’s no need to convince you of anything. Just…how you’re doing, yeah? Is that ok? Can I come in?’

  Alenka scans the flat. When she looks back at him, she resigns herself to fate. ‘Come in.’

  He enters and takes his shoes off. The flat is completely soulless, he thinks, after his first glance. Everything is cleansed to the point of sterility, devoid of touch. As if for decades Alenka had been flat-sitting for the real owners, who were held up in Cambodia on
a round-the-world trip, thus rendering moot any thought of pouring money into it. Even the picture frames hang empty. Her gait is broken and frail. Edgar follows her through the kitchen to the living room.

  Voranc is sitting at a table and staring intensely at the cartoons on the TV. When Edgar pats him on the head, he winces and smiles through a mouthful of chocolate.

  ‘How are you, kiddo?’

  Voranc nods and waves a bandaged forearm into the air. Edgar whistles with admiration.

  ‘A battle wound, you’re a right old guy.’

  ‘It was Grandma,’ Voranc says.

  This silences Edgar. He nods grimly.

  ‘You, too,’ says Voranc.

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘Come on, show me.’

  Edgar turns his side towards him and lifts his shirt. All Voranc can see is a pile of white gauze, but that’s obviously fine by him.

  ‘Wow,’ he says.

  They nod to each other as if they were the sole survivors of a difficult trial. Voranc’s head swivels back to the television. Edgar walks slowly over to Alenka and sits down on the couch right next to her.

  ‘Alenka…’

  She interrupts him.

  ‘Edgar, please, you know me better than all of them and you should know how offended this will make me feel.’

  ‘Because…?’ asks Edgar.

  ‘Because you brought the family along. Because you carry it like a mask, like a shield, a spear. You didn’t come to see me because you’re interested in me as a person but because you’re following the dictates of some social scheme that is supposed to make our relationships more natural, more meaningful, more human, as if we were all aware that by ourselves we are absolutely incapable, in the long run and without faking it, of loving each other. Every family meeting, every single one, proves this to be true.’

  The scars etched on her face by chickenpox have deepened over the years. On her right cheek there’s a strange red mark that makes it look as if she’d hit herself or as if someone else had hit her. Her eyes are watery, like they’ve been done in watercolour. She looks rather thin. What used to be a pretty prominent double chin is now just a fold of goitre. She’s never smoked, but her voice is raspy.

  Edgar doesn’t know what to say. He’s not yet ready to speak openly. Alenka smiles.

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’

  While she’s making the coffee, Edgar makes faces at Voranc, bringing out warm and mild laughter.

  ‘I didn’t bring the family, Alenka. I don’t know how to put it. I’m here because…’

  Voranc clangs his spoon against the table.

  ‘Mummy’s sick!’

  Edgar raises his eyebrows. Alenka’s fingers twist Voranc’s ears for a moment or two.

  ‘Ill,’ she says.

  ‘What is it, Alenka? What do you have?’

  Alenka doesn’t respond. She is staring at the slowly rising coffee vapour.

  She puts the pot to the side, waits, and returns it to the heat.

  ‘Alenka?’

  ‘Nothing, Edgar. We are all mere tenants of these bodies. It’s just too bad that…’

  ‘What do you mean, too bad?’

  ‘It’s too bad that we have to share water, and electricity, and the plumbing.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That our landlord is such a bloody prick, and that our landlady’s such a lousy whore.’

  ‘Alenka…Voranc!’

  ‘That all the renters are, without exception, complete arseholes. That’s too bad. And it’s just too bad that we…’

  Edgar’s face drops. He’s not going to achieve anything here. The bonds have been cut for good, probably for years now. We delude ourselves, thinking that other people share the affection, even if we don’t maintain contact. Every step can rip us apart. If you are not constantly in view, the picture starts to develop on its own. Alenka is an unknowable girl. How is he going to tell Kras that?

  ‘It’s too bad that we share blood.’

  Horror has a human face.

  The light drizzle creates an atmosphere of unease. The clouds have dropped low, their undersides linger at neck height. The hills are flowing into the notches of gorges where they’d hid the bodies. Long rows of dead, cold human bodies in the pits of a mercury mine. Do you think a country can exist without regularly shedding its skin? And which is the real body? The strongest one? Or is it the one who is trusted? The traitor is always on the far side of the answer.

  Grace turns among the spruces. These are tricky roads. Fog lights are useless here and she can barely see a yard ahead. She doesn’t slow down. Sorry, deer, but she’d like to get out of here right now. She’s got a bad feeling. She no longer bears responsibility for these people, she’s doing all this simply because she would like to help. But it’s precisely help that will entangle her again. It’s hard to find the balance between what is right and what is necessary.

  At the crossroads she stops and gets out of the car. Her shoes sink into the sand by the road. The signposts are too high up to make out through the fog. ‘Dew’ or ‘White Wood’. Black letters on a yellow background. A lost bee buzzes by, laden down by drops of rain. To the right, then. She can hear talking in the distance.

  ‘…so we now have this, you’ll understand, an ideology, an ideology, right? It’s nothing special, but it’s ours. Kras’s people wrote it, yes. Yeah, it’s not exactly Tito’s…at least not to the letter…but in terms of meaning they’re, either way, all the same in the end, you know – this is mine. And then they start competing over who can put it in a more complicated manner, until they get sick of all the blabbering and shoot each other. What’s the need for all the claptrap, then? Take what you can keep, then keep quiet. God understands. You can spin whatever tale you want, he will not give up on you. In the end he will take you.’

  Headless figures are staggering along the road. Grace bends down and whistles.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Andreja?’

  Olga’s ear recognizes the children and can tell them apart just by their breathing.

  ‘I came to get you! Are you all right?’ yells Grace.

  They reduce the distance between them to a few steps. The aunts cling to each other. Mother’s face is all sweaty. Wrinkled like bark. Dark grey curls cling to her forehead, and she’s out of breath. But her gaze is sharp. That gaze of hers. If Grace appreciates her father as much as she pities him (his heart is as good as it is weak), and if she’s always been at least as fearful of Kras as she has been grateful to him, the feeling she has for her own mother is like nothing she feels for any other living being. Olga introduced her to the rituals of religion, as if she were passing along the flame of some ancient wisdom that she had to guard against the vulgar fingers of the uninitiated; she was her priestess, her shaman, and yet also an ordinary mother, a worker, a wife, three times broken by a man’s hand, three times avenged, with a fate that, in terms of tragedy, did not differ essentially from the average of all those who found themselves in this world without the consolation of a congenital insemination machine. The break with her mother gave Grace enough experience to live a carefree life. Freedom doesn’t owe anything, but neither is it innocent.

  ‘So he managed to call…’ says Olga.

  ‘Where is Bernard?’ Grace asks.

  The sisters look at each other.

  ‘We escaped,’ says Svetlana.

  ‘Escaped,’ nods Magda.

  ‘Bernard stayed behind at Šink’s,’ says Olga.

  ‘At Šink’s?’ asks Grace.

  ‘Šink Lovro has him locked up in the basement. He says he’s not letting him out until he gets what he’s been waiting for, for twenty-five years.’

  Grace is baffled.

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘How should I know?’ says Olga, upset. ‘Maybe he wants me in his bed, maybe he wants to strangle me… I didn’t hang around long enough to find out. As soon as I sensed wh
at was in the air, we were off.’

  Magda and Svetlana smile. Olga looks at them.

  ‘Well, what to do with you two now? I suppose Grace wants to go fetch Bernard? This is Kras’s jeep, right? Good. If it’s ok with you, I’ll go with her. Will you two come with us? If not, walk. You know where you are, don’t you?’

  ‘We’re heading home,’ ‘home, Olga,’ ‘we’ve been walking all day,’ ‘give or take an hour,’ ‘it’s not far,’ ‘not far.’

  ‘Good.’

  They embrace almost without awkwardness. They wink goodbye to Grace.

  Olga squeezes herself into the car and Grace follows her.

  ‘Did you walk along the road?’

  ‘Yes?’ says Olga, fastening her seatbelt.

  ‘You’re lucky I stopped. The way I was driving I could have mowed you down like daisies.’

  Olga eyes her coldly.

  ‘I was walking beside it.’

  ‘Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!’

  Bernard is despairing at the top of the stairs behind a closed, barred door.

  It’s light brown, freshly lacquered, and when he pounds on it with his fist no splinters burrow into his skin. Can nobody hear him? Where’s Mother? He has no courage, never had it, no shame in not having it, and there’s no need to have it put to the test… If you ask him, he’ll admit it. Without hesitation he’ll admit that he’s a coward. Doesn’t that admission mitigate anything? Or should he just keep quiet, lie, pretend? Would that make him better off?

  The basement is totally bare, except for the rickety desk with the telephone. The phone went silent, as if someone had cut the cable. The weak light bulb consumptively sputtering under the ceiling outlines the cinders heaped up in the corners. Who knows what this space was used for. The ghosts are silent. Not because they would be afraid, or because they would be ashamed, but simply because to talk you need a mouth. So much that is human can accumulate in the basements of the world that will remain forever without expression, without influence, entirely without consequences…