How the Soldier Repairs the Gramophone (29 page)

Edin reads the front page of yesterday's newspaper. Nothing about war yet, he says, just barricades and sports. We could do with a time machine, there's a flash and we go back to last week and warn everyone. And no one believes us because we don't even know what the barricades are there for.

I do, I say, but before I can explain there's a shrill whistling over our heads, there's a genuine flash, glass breaks, a shove on my back pushes me to the ground. I shield my face with my hands, splinters fall on me, a shower of glass like hail, someone shouts.

Smoke rises from the asphalt. Zoran and Neo are lying in the street, stretched flat. Edin is still standing there with the newspaper in his shaking hands. Edin is pale, so pale, with blood running from his nose, that I feel as if all his blood is draining out of his face through his nostrils.

Oh, go fuck the sailor-woman, spits Zoran, frantically shoving the section of the paper with unusual careers for women under his shirt. Neo slowly gets to his feet. His hand is bleeding; he counts his fingers. The blast caught all the windows in the building opposite, including the big display window of the shoe shop on the ground floor. Edin says: I'm hearing everything and nothing at the same time. He licks blood from his upper lip with his tongue. The tobacconist's window behind him is full of holes; cracks have sucked their way into the glass, splaying out.

I get to my knees, Zoran gives me a hand.

A large triangle of glass, pointy end down, comes away from the window frame rather late in the day and breaks on the pavement, a starting shot: we run for it, four Carl Lewises, two in pajamas, two bleeding. Were you scared? Zoran asks again, and in spite of everything we're not going to admit it in front of Zoran.

Is there any glass in my back? I ask.

Edin taps his forehead with his finger: I can hear a kind of note, he says, a very, very shrill kind of note.

The Berlin Wall in my trouser pocket is still in one piece.

Is Ema safe? is what I don't ask after we've stolen back to the cellar as if nothing had happened.

My hand shaking, I paint a slim Uncle Bora.

Am I bleeding?

I paint a wound without any blood.

Suppose that man really does blow up our dam the way he swears he will on the radio, cursing, although the other man tells him: with all due respect, please don't do that! The man at the dam has wrecked Ivo Andric's statue in the park by the bridge too, with a sledgehammer. He's capable of anything.

I paint a lizard with a tail.

Suppose someone finds out we broke into the tobacconist's?

How much dynamite does it take to blow up a dam like that, and what would the river Drina and the fish think of that?

I paint a moment of peace.

Over there a baby in a military tunic is reading the newspaper.

Over there a boy with a gold tooth is putting on a Rolex.

Over there a one-eyed giant with a cross on a string around his neck and a crescent moon on his armband is stirring a pot.

Over there a dentist in a miniskirt is busy drilling.

Here am I on the steps down to the cellar. Here is Asija beside me. Asija's long fingernails.

Over there a woman in an apron is feeding a dog with miniatures of a woman in an apron.

Over there a still unhewn figure is hoovering; here, Asija is saying: your pictures are horrible, twisting her hair around her finger. I'm Asija, she says. They took Mama and Papa away. My name means something. A man once came to our village to answer all our questions. He was as thin as a rake, with only one ear, and you had to shout into it so that he would understand the question. Everyone in the village could ask the one-eared man a question, and in return for the answer they gave him a box with ten chicks inside, or a bottle of schnapps, or an envelope. The one-eared man had a one-eared horse that pulled a cart. The cart was piled high with presents. I showed the man a piece of wood with my name scratched into the bark. What does Asija mean? I shouted in his ear. No idea, the one-eared man shouted back, why do you ask? He had such a strong smell of new wine and horses that I had to wash my face in our stream. A year later the soldiers lined up everyone from the village. Uncle Ibrahim and I managed to hide in the forest. A soldier read the names on our papers out loud. Another soldier crossed himself and poured gasoline over the door of our house.

Over there a gentleman with a monocle is cleaning his teeth.

Over there a woman with a top hat is shaving her legs.

Rules of the game: the place at the bottom of the stairs means memories. I stand up and switch the generator off. The light goes out.

A list: silences. Silence of those dark seconds with Asija in the stairwell before we press the light switch. Silence baring its fangs. My father. Silence after Kamenko fires his shot. Francesco and the silence of the veranda. My silent Nena Fatima. The silence of my last ten years.

The box is still behind the wardrobe in Granny's bedroom. I lay the pictures out on the floor. I lay the pictures out on the chest of drawers, I lay the pictures out on the beds. I lay the pictures out on the windowsill, on the table, under the table. Ninety-nine pictures of unfinished things, with writing on the back, I'm going to finish painting every one of them now. There isn't a picture of an unfinished childhood among them. I'll begin with the hawk diving through the air, the hawk I painted that day in the Lagoon of Light, I am still the . . .

Comrade in Chief of all that's unfinished

A hawk diving through the air.

Our Yugo on the road to Veletovo without its exhaust.

Yugoslavia with Slovenia and Croatia.

Nena Fatima's hair, unbraided.

The river Drina without the ugly new bridge.

The young river Drina without the dam.

A pumpkin not cut up.

Tito in a T-shirt.

Tito with untidy hair.

Tito without a hole shot in his eye.

An open window on a sunny day.

Father's
Portrait of B. as Virtuoso on the Gentle Violin
without the silly violin.

Grandpa Rafik without a cognac bottle.

Going barefoot.

Shadows of people under a streetlamp without any people there.

Candle without a wick.

Friday afternoon, Saturday and Sunday without Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday morning.

Edin's goal chalked on the front of the school, without the caretaker.

A lizard with a tail.

The straight nose of my classmate Vukoje Worm, who tried to break mine four times, but something always happened to prevent it. Painted by Vukoje himself in an unexpectedly gentle moment.

Van Gogh, Father's great example, with both his ears (very large).

Books with no dust on them.

Sunrise (very red).

A cow who has fallen over. Grandpa Slavko and I are playing chess on her.

Yugoslavian flag before the star disappeared.

A shower of rain with no clouds in the sky.

Statue of Ivo Andric with Ivo Andric's head still on it.

Beach in the sun at Igalo without the people of Višegrad.

Milenko's Milica in black and white, without makeup.

Veletovo graveyard without Grandpa Slavko's gravestone.

Carl Lewis without his gold medal.

Emina far away from the soldier with the gold tooth.

A
börek,
uneaten.

Unfinished jigsaw: Tito shaking hands with E.T.

Starless starry sky.

Airplane with no vapor coming from its tail.

Cauliflower galloping far and wide without a bridle.

Gramophone without soldiers dancing near it.

Wound without blood.

Hammer without sickle.

Plums without pits, coated with minced meat.

Ten sleeping soldiers.

Ten unarmed soldiers.

Dog without collar.

The beautiful big Kawasaki without Jürgen in leather.

Moment of peace.

Johann Sebastian's wig. Without Johann Sebastian.

Mama's face, smiling, cheerful, carefree.

Campfire without smoke.

Party without pistols.

Unloaded pistol.

Catfish with mustache and spectacles leaping out of the Drina at the highest point of its flight, twelve feet above the surface.

Palm of a hand without lines of fate.

Great-Grandpa radiantly young: with ravines of wrinkles, bushes in his ears, a thicket of beard, hair like a meadow, eyes like lakes, and a little plow under his arm.

Yuri Gagarin without Neil Armstrong.

Neil Armstrong without the moon.

Radovan Bunda's cows on the first floor.

A sniper's gun without any sniper.

Soccer game, whistle for the start of play.

Goal shot.

Throwing a basketball.

Magic Johnson without AIDS.

Drazen Petrovic scoring a three-point shot without car accident.

League table of the year 1989. Red Star still in the lead.

Cheese without holes.

My answer to Francesco's good-bye letter.

Čika Spok without a hip flask to his lips.

One-pot dish without beans.

The hurricane called Walrus sweeping through Bogoljub Balvan's tobacconist's shop.

Railway engine without carriages.

Game of rummy, all cards in the hand.

Bread without bread bin.

Uncle Bora, slim.

Coat hanger without shirt.

Čika Hasan and Čika Sead arguing.

Sheet of paper without a crease.

Tank without gearwheels.

Rambo 1.

Karl Marx before shaving.

Half-moon.

Comrade Fazlagic, not Mr. Fazlagic yet.

Signpost with no writing on it.

Penicillin injection with no needle.

School yard before rain.

Flowers without weeds.

Teta Desa naked, without the men from the dam.

Shooting, but no one lies down, there's no blood in sight.

Milk not yet cold (twelve minutes).

Snow without footprints.

Dough on the hands of Teta Amela, who bakes the best bread in the world.

Francesco before saying good-bye.

Glass without a crack.

Hands on a light switch.

Self-portrait with both grandpas.

Reflection.

When everything was all right.

Blank sheet of paper.

Defiant gramophone gone wrong.

Asija.

It's late evening, and I still haven't finished most of the pictures. It took me a long time to think how to shave Marx, or what it was I liked about a starry sky with no stars in it, what the blank sheet of paper meant, and where Radovan's cows should go. Now Emina lies in front of me, the sketch of a woman's face.

Aleksandar? Granny Katarina knocks and comes in. Are you hungry?

I'm nearly through, Granny.

Soon would be better than nearly, she says, and turns to go, but she stops in the doorway, running her fingers over the height markings. Tomorrow is requiem mass day, she says. We're going to see Grandpa in Veletovo.

This is the first time she's mentioned Grandpa Slavko.

How often do you visit his grave? I ask.

Whenever I can. The road is all overgrown now, and it's a long way on foot. Great-Grandpa and Great-Granny look after the grave. Do you remember the day Slavko was buried? I pulled you away from the pit in the ground and asked what you thought Grandpa would want me to do now.

What did I say?

I don't know, says Granny, that's the trouble. So you'll come with me, won't you?

You mustn't forget him. And you must notice everything: what's in the paper, what people are saying, what you see, what you hear. And then you must go to see him with me every Sunday, telling him everything at your leisure. He ought to know what's going on, even without the newspaper and his glasses and going for a walk. You'll tell him how it really is. Then you'll go away and leave us alone for a little while. I'll take over the stories.

Granny wakes me by pulling at the sheet underneath me as she wants to shake it out while I'm still on it. The alarm clock says six o'clock and Miki is standing beside Granny. Good morning, Aleksandar.

I've been dreaming of a woman who's a cross between Asija and Marija, with bright curls. I took Asijamarija breakfast in bed, an omelette.

Good morning, Uncle, I say, losing my battle for the blanket, so there I lie in my underpants in front of Granny in her black dress and my broad-shouldered uncle in his black suit. Miki turns his face to the window, bump on his nose, high arched eyebrows, it's still early, he says, we boys will go for a spin.

My Grandpa's profile, his beautiful mouth.

Miki starts the car.

How are you doing, Uncle? I ask after a while. Miki looks straight ahead, no one on the street, we'll be there in a moment, he says. He drives to the bridge with me. We get out. I follow him, he goes to the middle of the bridge and looks down into the Drina. There's a cold wind blowing through the valley, clouds race across the sky.

Miki drives to a building on Pionirska Street with me. I read about this house, I saw it in the news. It has a new yellow fa cade, which makes it stand out from the dirty houses next to it. The wind rises higher. An old man wearing a hat is sitting on the bench under the window, walking stick on his lap.

What are you going to do when you finish your studies? Miki asks me. The old man spits his chewing gum out into his hand and packs it into its foil with shaking fingers. It takes him a long time, and when he's done it, Miki takes the little pellet from him. You okay? he shouts into the old man's ear.

K-k-k, says the old man, fn, fn.

Miki drives me to the Hotel Bikavac, which isn't a hotel anymore. The dilapidated little bungalows are now inhabited by people who can't afford anything else.

Do you have a girlfriend? asks Miki, looking up at the sky. It smells like rain, he says, and then: when are you planning to have children? He knocks at several doors, one is opened, a pale woman with her face still crumpled from sleep asks in surly tones what we want.

Just saying good morning, says Miki.

Miki drives me to the Hotel Vilina Vlas. Each time we get back in the car, I'm more scared. I know I should ask. I know I should scream. I know he won't answer, no matter what I do. Each time we get out of the car, I say less.

About halfway there, in Kosovo Polje, we stop by a burned-out ruin. Miki picks up a stone and rubs his thumb over the soot on it. In the parking lot outside the Vilina Vlas he offers me a cigarette and when I refuse he throws the pack away, half full.

On the way back through town he turns off at the police station. The police officers greet him as “Miki,” all of them. He goes into a small office without knocking. Pokor immediately takes his feet off the desk and puts the newspaper down. Keys, says my uncle, and Pokor hands him a large bunch of them.

Everything okay, Miki? But my uncle doesn't deign to give him another glance.

There's no one in the cells. Miki opens the door of the largest cell and places the sooty stone from Kosovo Polje on the narrow bed.

Get your studies over with quickly and see about making some cash, he says.

Miki's made lists. Miki drives me to the fire station. He crouches down outside the garage gate. The two large red fire engines used to stand behind it. I couldn't summon up any childish enthusiasm for them. Miki folds his hands in his lap and looks up at me from below. I crouch down too, but he keeps his eyes on where my head was a moment ago.

Your father and Bora, he says, breathing in sharply, don't think it necessary to visit their own mother. Perhaps they think sending money is enough. But it's not enough. She's our mother, without me she'd be all alone. And these are not good times to be alone. Miki speaks calmly, his hands part and then come together again. Your father and Bora have a problem with me. It's just between the three of us, it has nothing to do with our mother. Tell them that.

Father said they were planning . . . I begin, but Miki interrupts me, and his eyes suddenly meet mine: your father hasn't spoken a word to me for seven years! Your father sends money, and photos of a swimming pool and your mother in a bathing suit. As far as your father's concerned I'm worth less than a spat-out piece of chewing gum! I look at the ground. But that won't do! he suddenly shouts, it won't do, that's not right! he shouts and shouts and shouts, that won't do, it won't do! Miki hammers the gate behind which the fire engines stand with his fist, a single blow.

I do not deprive my body of the readiness to protest, but I don't trust my mouth to find words for it, I don't let any challenging look come into my eyes, I permit myself no stern expression, I will not let my hands clench in anger. I'm outstandingly good at describing gestures.

Miki drives home with me. Granny is drinking coffee with her women neighbors. Mrs. Popović and Teta Magda are wearing black and criticizing the gathering clouds. Mrs. Popović thanks me for dropping in yesterday. I ask why, she says her husband has been playing the piano all morning. I say: that's none of my doing—nor mine, she says.

Granny would like to sit in the front seat of the car. Miki pulls out, she says: Slavko once filled the apartment with flowers for me, once he gave the Central Committee his own version of Little Red Riding Hood instead of a speech, once he prophesied, it can't turn out well, we all just have ideals but no alternatives to those ideals, and once he thought of being unfaithful to me, I could taste it in his kisses.

Just after we leave the paved road, we can drive no farther. There we are, says Miki, putting the hand brake on. There are so many potholes in the ground, and they're so deep, that even walking is difficult. Brambles and rampant undergrowth reach out to us from the sides of the road, thorny shoots, even rosebushes, there's only a narrow track left, with young oaks crossing their branches above it. It soon gets hot inside this tunnel of vegetation, the wind carries a sweetish scent of decay. The clouds overhead come together, forming a gray mosaic heavy with rain.

It's incredible, I say, hitting out at the buzzing around my head, all these insects in March.

Yes, incredible, gasps Granny Katarina, pointing to the bushes ahead of us. I stop. Suspended in the undergrowth nine or ten feet above us is the shell of a yellow Yugo. Granny and my uncle walk past the stranded car, which is held aloft only by tendrils, branches and creepers. I cautiously approach the Yugo entwined there in prickly shoots, and am left with a bleeding scratch on my forearm when I push a couple of branches aside to get a look at the registration. Our old Yugo, which always, without fail, broke down on this stretch of the road, the donkey, the idiot, the cretin of a car, as Father used to call it, has found its final parking place. The car is in love with this path—I can't explain what I see here in any other way.

The track through the vegetation leads to a meadow, this is where the path ends; it never went any farther, dew lies on the ground here, snow lies on the mountain peaks. We go uphill through the plum orchard to my great-grandparents' house. It's a long time since the trunks of the plum trees were smoothed down, scab and moss have eaten into their bark, fungi sprout at their feet. What are we all thinking? I wonder as Granny, my uncle and I stroke the bark of one of the trees in turn.

There's a table out in the yard between the sheds and the house, the white tablecloth weighted down with stones. At the head of the table Great-Grandpa Nikola is holding on to his long hair.

The wind, children, the wind, he sings, taking my chin and then my head between his bony fingers. Aleksandar, my sunshine, he sings hoarsely, Miki, come here, hold me tight, he wails.