Yugoslavia, My Fatherland. Goran Vojnović

the three of them arguing about some banality outside, but no discussion that evening could have pierced through my bedroom wall to disturb my slumber, and I did not need to convince myself that the three microbiologists didn’t get on my nerves. The whole world bothered me, so there was no reason for them to be a notable exception.

      ‘Are you okay?’

      Nadia was stoned and standing in the doorway, smiling at me mis­chie­vously. She had probably gotten up to pee and en route, recalled that she had a boyfriend.

      ‘We’re going to get some booze. Wanna come?’

      ‘Should I wake you when I get home?’

      Nadia’s smile grew more mischievous, which was always a turn-on but, alas, my mood was not erectile that evening.

      ‘No need.’

      ‘Fine. Goodnight.’

      The microbiological gang slowly made their way out, in a cascade of drunkenly resounding whispers, but I was no closer to falling asleep. I kept thinking about tomorrow’s meeting with Dusha, about my father and everything she might tell me. Or not tell me.

      I was awake when Nadia subtly stomped through the door at half past four and tried, in vain, to quietly go to bed. I threw a secret glance at her while she changed her clothes, thinking her nudity might provide some welcome distraction, but not even her young body possessed the super power to shift me out of my current state of complete emotional turpitude. She laid down next to me and fell asleep in immediate, drunken peace. Her long, brown hair smelled of pot and I thought that I might help myself to a joint, but didn’t feel like getting up and ransacking her handbag in the middle of the night. I soon heard her purr, as she did whenever she’d imbibed too much beer. I knew that I could scream and she wouldn’t hear, so I dared to speak to her.

      ‘My father isn’t dead. But he is a war criminal.’

      

      ‘Meet me at eleven. At the Second Aid Bar. Love, Dusha.’

      Dusha never gave a damn about things like atmosphere, either in her daily life or in mine. We might as well have met in a boiler room or operating theatre. At least the message, that beeped at half past seven and woke me up, assured me that I had managed to get some sleep, after all.

      Dusha arrived as sleep-deprived as I was, full bags under her eyes poorly hidden by make-up. The idea that something might have finally struck a nerve in her was a pleasant one. She ordered a double espresso and a large glass of water, and then lit up. She offered me one, and asked if I smoked, politely, as if we were strangers meeting for the first time. We sat at a table on the terrace, smoking, and I noticed that we each held our cigarettes in just the same way. I also saw that her hand was shaking.

      ‘I don’t have a lot of time, so just tell me what you want.’

      ‘I want to see him.’

      ‘You know you can’t. He’s in hiding. They’re looking for him.’

      ‘I don’t care.’

      ‘Nobody knows exactly where he is.’

      ‘Do you?’

      She shook her head. Dusha avoided my eyes, but did check her watch three times, and glance six times at the entrance of the bar, all in the space of a few minutes.

      ‘The last time he got in touch with me was three years back. I don’t even know if he’s alive.’

      I quickly did the sums in my head: how many years had passed since Dusha decided to break it to me that, ostensibly, my father had died somewhere on the front. Yet now it turned out that she had been in touch with him for twelve years... In touch with a dead guy, fallen in the midst of an offensive against common sense.

      ‘Where did he contact you from?’

      ‘I think it’s better... ’

      ‘Where did he contact you from?’

      ‘He’s hiding from everyone. Why do you think?’

      ‘Where did he contact you from?’

      ‘From Brčko.’

      ‘Address?’

      ‘Why would you think he’d..?’

      ‘Maybe he was hoping you’d visit him? Or that I’d visit him? That we’d write... ’

      ‘Vlado, look... ’

      ‘Address!’

      The waitress brought the double espresso and a large glass of water for Dusha, and a juice for me. Dusha paid immediately, saying she was in a hurry.

      ‘Address!’

      ‘He said that he wouldn’t stay at that address, that he was going elsewhere, that he wasn’t safe there anymore. That was three years ago. I’ve never heard of any new address.’

      I could’ve repeated ‘Address!’ with the same tone a hundred more times. I could’ve repeated it until the next morning, and Dusha knew it. She downed her large glass of water and started on her small cup of coffee.

      ‘Look, I know you’ll never forgive me for telling you he was dead. But I’d like to say that, in all these years, over all this time, he’s never once said he was innocent. He has never said that to me. He has also never said that he was sorry. I would like you to know that there’s a real possibility that he is guilty. I would like you to know that. Just that.’

      

      ‘There, almost done.’

      Enes probably had no idea what was happening to my old wreck in his workshop, which had been left at the mercy of his cousin’s youthful exuberance. Enes, as the undisputed star of his team, had treated himself to a small beer and a Williams’s pear schnapps, while holding court, entertaining ‘our people’ with his jokes at the café he frequented and was owned and occupied by ‘our people.’

      ‘When can I come by?’

      ‘When are you leaving?’

      ‘Tomorrow.’

      ‘Then come this afternoon.’

      ‘How much is this gonna cost me?’

      ‘We’ll arrange something, my dear Vladan.

      3

      The ‘youngster’ who washed the windows of my tired old car at a petrol station somewhere in the midst of a blasted heath halfway to nowhere, but approximately between Zagreb and Brčko, looked so much like Maki that he could’ve easily convinced me that he was the son Maki had forgotten sometime long ago, while moving iridescent kitsch from his stall at the market. Four toddlers lurked nearby, holding buckets of water and filthy cloths. They peeked out at me, ready to sprint for my change, which I intended to spend on a double espresso and juice at the nearby Javori Restaurant. I thought how my old man would have loved to take them on, but I didn’t inherit any useful talents from him, like wrestling undernourished toddlers. When I opened my car door, outstretched hands were suddenly upon me: a whirl of torn and dirty clothes, and they succeeded in jogging my conscience enough to relieve me of just enough change to transform my plan into a single espresso and a glass of water. Mildly pissed-off, I tried to push my way past them, to ignore them, but they did an Indian sprint so that one was always just in front of me, underfoot. They kept showing me how clean my car window was, shoving dirty palms ever nearer my face.

      ‘I don’t have any change!’

      I showed them my empty pockets.

      ‘That’s okay, you can give us bills.’

      ‘I only have euros.’

      ‘Not a problem.’

      Defeated, I pulled a two-euro coin from my wallet and put it in the hand of the Maki lookalike. But my battle was far from over, as the other four scrambled for their share.