"The Chauvinist Pig and Twenty Pieces of Love and Despair" by Ivan Jozić - English sample

The Chauvinist Pig and Twenty Pieces of Love and Despair Ivan Jozić Translated by Marta Huber

1

Solitudes in a Pair Sometimes I travel alone and that’s all right; tonight, however, that’s not the case. Here in the East, the night is born out of the winter’s pupil, the taxi driver’s heart or something just as cold. The town looks like a shitty outhouse, dirty and frozen. As soon as I get out of the train, I realize there’ll be no love between us. The sky looks like a stone vault and, maybe I’m be wrong, but the clouds seem here to stay; there’s no temporary overcast, no sudden spring rain shower, heat; the town is narrowed with grayness from above, pressed with cement, driven into itself.

I fix my collar and open the map. Town center is to the left, down the wide boulevard.

The wind is throwing garbage around. Neon billboards flash through the snowflakes. Free from expectations and draped in rime, I slide to meet the Ukrainian winter.

There’s a hooker standing at one of life’s crossroads. I pick a direction and say, Hello, how are you. She says, A blowjob 500 hryvnia. A fuck 750. No anal. Euro, sure.

I say, “The Croats once used hryvnia, while your great-grandfathers used kuna, and now it’s the other way around, isn’t that interesting? Economically, we overlap.”

She wants to know if we’re fucking tonight or not. She also wants to know who the hell the Croats are, because, she says, there’s no group discount.

The heroes of the Carpathians, honey, I promise I’ll explain everything later. I ask for her name, faking a deep voice.

“Katja.”

And that’s all she says, she’s playing some fucked-up game, this hooker of mine, bluffing and making me fall for it. I go on and on about how her name beautifully suits her high heels and how maybe, just maybe, there’s a nice place for us tonight, a nice place for us.

Snowflakes cover her feathers, cover her plush.

You-can-al-so-pay-in-eu-ro. She says again, a bit louder.

Eliminating the romance, I take out the money for a fuck.

This puts a smile on her face.

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Now there’s two of us smiling, hard currency brings our nations together.

“Come on, let’s hit the town. I’m taking you to a nice restaurant,” says one of us.

The hooker wraps her hand around mine and shows me the way, one of the possible ways into the night. I go for it. We walk like a couple and I must say: it’s not a grand triumph, but it makes a man happy. With a hooker under my arm, it occurs to me: journey is either reaching a goal or escaping the origin; encounters are revelations or illusions; solitudes, even embraced, are still uneven.

But let me say this again, I’m walking with a hooker under my arm and it feels good.

The squeaking sound of teeth and boots is all around us. Katja is an uglyish woman in her forties. She has bandy legs and, it seems, a limp. Her ass is a small cauldron, hiding dark secrets. She wears a satin dress with wet feathers on her shoulder; this is the image I remember. On top of it all, she put on something that was once a fur coat. I’m watching her profile, her nose, a slight curve, and I think to myself: how did she break it? in a bar fight? giving blowjobs too eagerly? or I’m simply a chauvinistic pig, and this Madonna next to me fell while running after a child and that’s why she’s got a limp, a broken nose, Kiev Madonna, Santa Subita?

So many questions and more, while this hooker and I walk in silence, graciously, steadily, slowly; the grayness disappears and the town opens under our feet, like a gigantic shell, magically gleaming from underneath. Snowflakes are thick, the night begins, can you hear it? *** I’m going to break this silence with an explanation, she says; in my past life I went to Mexico.

I bought a lottery ticket from a street vendor. I believed there was luck underneath that foil, and that, eventually, I’d grab it. Wind coming from the ocean dried the sweat and all that was left was salt, salt everywhere, on tequila shots, foreheads. And there I was, covered in salt, dry from the wind and salty like a codfish, I saw him, by chance, in a crowd, this stranger in Mexico, tall and black. The street smelled like ocean. I asked him something like, stranger, what are you doing in Mexico? Stupid questions are like thistle in a sock, but you’ve got nice eyes so here’s my answer, the stranger said. The waves crashed against a huge rock.

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I’m looking for a pink moon in this dirty town, he went on, so I asked him what it was, this pink moon, because an answer like that was an invitation for another question, you would’ve asked the same, wouldn’t you? Pink moon is magic on the body, a sort of magic that doesn’t last long, but it follows you forever, and all it takes for it to happen is a nice dinner, nice hooker and this – he pulled a box out of his pocket. A box, a simple black plastic square, he held it at eye level. Women fall for bastards, he said, and if you tell me that’s not the case, I’ll know you’re lying, because money has nothing to do with it, money is filthy, mark my words, honey, women fall for handsome bastards and that’s why my task is usually easy.

Your face is like…like a lost little girl’s face. But still, hey, hey, so, listen, this is what I’m going to do: I’ll take a hooker for the night, take her to some nice restaurant (not any restaurant, a nice one) and do my best to make her fall in love with me. Afterwards I’m going to take her to a hotel. I will fuck her under the full moon because there’s no better image than a naked ass under the moonlight, honey, nor a better moment. Fuck gently, to relax her, and then take her from behind. But why the pink moon then, you too would ask, because an answer like that is an invitation for another question, at least for me it was, back there in Mexico, the city covered in salt. Because of this, honey, the stranger replied; he opened a little box, it unfolded so romantically, like the goldsmith’s treasure, and took out a half-moon shaped stamp. He touched the button on top. In a couple of seconds, the stamp got hot. A moment before I come, I’ll stamp this on her butt cheeks, yes, a sign of mine, burn her nice flesh, make her remember me, make her remember. She’ll scramble and scream, but I’ll hold her tight, stay inside of her, she is my pink moon. No better way to come. Love hurts, honey, true love always hurts.

Will you be my hooker? he said, as if he’d thought of a good idea.

But I won’t pay you, he added.

A couple of hours later he gave me a pat on the back, like I was a good old mare, or a friend that went missing in the dark. I stayed there, leaning onto a wall, my legs shaking, ass burning. He stamped the pink moon and left. I scratched the foil from the numbers. The ticket was a loss. I’ll try again. The salt covered the roof lines, Panama hats and palms, covering the filthy town white.

Will I ever see him again? I didn’t worry about the details. I carried on. ***

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It was a short walk; it’s that kind of a town. We arrive in front of a restaurant, the moon is still new. At one of the life’s crossroads Katja says: “I am not that hungry, stranger. But look, there’s a hotel across the way. How about we get you warm?”

“Sure, honey, sure.”

“And we can order room service”, she distributes her wisdom like a snowplow distributes the salt while I take her across the street. We walk toward the light, our crowns shine; the trams clatter, and the plush, the feathers, the stockings, and I enter the hotel. The receptionist gives us a suspicious look. He’s seen worse, that’s for sure. There’s only one question: how much is a stranger willing to spend for an exotic Ukrainian night.

“A one-bedroom, my friend,” I say.

“I see there’s two of you,” the receptionist cuts in mathematically. “And for this you’ll pay extra… after you, the cleaning lady will have her hands full!”

“We’re all the same,” says Katja from the back. “You just need to take a better look.”

The receptionist doesn’t see the philosophy of the horizon, Katja doesn’t see the philosophy of not making a point, and I don’t see how this could end.

“Hey, but you’ve got it all wrong… the lady won’t stay... for long.”

“This is not one of those hotels, fella. You pay for the night, and the rest is none of my business.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but then I take a look at my battered hooker, shrug my shoulders and thrown the cash on the desk.

“Meh. Whatever.”

“Have a nice time…lovebirds,” he quips at us as we stroll down the hall.

We wave at him, the two of us, and the hooker calls the elevator. ***

I met a blind painter in France. I thought he was lying about being blind, or being a painter, because something had to be a lie, it just had to, but it wasn’t a lie, he was as blind as a mole

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yet he painted, and it was more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen, and scarier, because, what are the rest of us then, all of us, and what are we doing, with our talents, with our lives, and what is he, an angel or one of the devils, is he looking into my soul just as he’s looking into the canvas with blind eyes. The questions just asked to be answered, don’t you think?

I bought a lottery ticket on the square where he was painting. It’s a win for sure, lady, said the vendor with a moustache. It’s never a win for me. But lady, the vendor insisted, if you play – then you win. Who doesn’t play, doesn’t win, am I right?

So I played.

That night, in a basement he called his studio, we were lying in bed, he opened a drawer and felt something inside, and it opened so romantically, like the goldsmith’s treasure, and I turned to my stomach, because we all win eventually, and I knew what was coming, I spread my legs, raised my tushy and bit the pillow, and the scalded moon shone in the dark basement, that I didn’t see, but I could imagine it, and the harsh pain, the smell of burnt skin, and he moaned into my ear, bleated into the night.

The whole summer we lay in that dirty basement. I had a dream of a cot, in the corner of the room, and a tiny male suit, navy, because I would never bring a little girl to a world like this, no, it had to be a son, a son would take care of himself, and I woke up clenching the pillow and gasping for air, because the boy wasn’t next to me. No matter how much I played, him I could never win. The painter comforted me with his knotty hands, saying how, in his village, there was a legend that everything bad happening at night, every nightmare and every evil, disappeared from the mind and you’d never remember it, but the first thing you had to do, the first thing when you opened your eyes, was to look through the window, because everything dissolved under the morning sun. I sat quietly, sobbing. He caressed me. The floors and the old bed squeaked. I never asked the question that was obvious to anyone but him: Where can you find a basement window?

The summer was long and sticky, the basement was damp, the paints soggy, just like the alcohol out of his skin, evaporating, and my body all covered in paint, because he liked to paint on my body, and it was getting harder and harder to move, the layers got thicker and thicker, I feel mummified, lying naked and glued to the floor, while he staggered across the apartment, groped over the floor, smelled the paints, covered it all in alcohol and dark shades…

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Before the summer ended, crumpled in the corner of the room was a lottery ticket, the one the vendor with a moustache had given me. I scratched the foil; loss again. It was time to go. Quietly I closed the door, as quietly as possible. Still, he woke up. I climbed the stairs, toward the light, and he shouted my name, still drunk. The paint peeled off of my hands while I opened the door. Outside, the sun was shining mercilessly; I had to cover my eyes for a moment, feeling closer to him than ever. Maybe this is how he paints, maybe it’s the shadows he paints, memory and sound, and if I were blind, as in this moment, I know what I’d paint: a cradle and a tiny navy suit. Will I ever have him in my arms?

I walked on. *** The room is pastel, with stainless steel details. It glows in the semi-darkness. It looks like a place everyone would approve of, but no one would really like. I sit down at the table. It’s an awkward silence, but still, we don’t talk. A radio is playing in the background. Katja opens up the balcony door. Cold wind opens up the curtains, snowflakes paint the darkness. She stays on the balcony for a few moments. In front of her, with the river cutting in between, the blocks of concrete are shining. She covers her shoulders with her fur coat, smoking outside.

Somewhere far away you hear the Japanese economy growing.

I fold my coat on the bed, placing it carefully, as if it might break. I take out the camera and a stand, putting the equipment in the corner of the room. I shut the lights down low, and turn on the one above the bed, pressing the record button on.

“I’ll be there in a minute, darling,” she says, standing with her back turned to me. I sit at the edge of the bed, closely watching her moves. Katja puts out her cigarette on the fence, a spark flicks into the night. She slowly comes back into the room, almost like she’s flying.

“This… was not part of the agreement,” she says pointing at the camera. It seems recording is not that much of a problem; it’s more likely she’s concerned about her price.

“There are certain web-pages. And there are certain people subscribed to those pages.

It’s simple. I’m the owner of one. Canadians, Americans… Japanese, oh yes. They pay good money for the content I offer. The catch is in the fact that it’s... that it’s real. No faking. No repetition. Always a different tape. Always a different experience. That’s why I travel alone, and it seems good that way.”

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The hooker frowns and exhales. “We didn’t agree on this…”

“We’re going to have to improvise… I’ve lost too much time. There’s no love for me in this city. But don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen to you. I’m a professional. Come here, just like that. Stand in the middle of the room. Take your clothes off… wait, wait for me to turn up the radio. Yes, that’s good. Is the music okay? Now take your clothes off. Slowly.

Shoes first.”

I watch her undress, she’s clumsy and awkward, and everything she is wearing is now all over the beige carpet, the feathers flutter.

“Dance.”

“Huh?” “Dance. Dance to the music.”

Katja starts moving from one leg to another one, and the scene becomes surreal. She snaps her fingers, banging her head like an Elvis doll on a windshield. Like a steady matryoshka or persistent pendulum, the lower part of her body still swings left, right, left, right. It makes me sea-sick.

“Close your eyes, Katja. The camera isn’t here, I’m not here. Close your eyes”, I move into darkness. Katja closes her eyes. She waits for a song to finish. The radio goes mute for a moment. Katja looks down, waiting for the first cords. Her body is tense, shoulders raised, she’s on her toes, and her big toe makes a hole in her stockings. A moment of silence becomes eternity, and then, out of the plastic box, the DJ gives us all he’s got. This song, from the very first beat, is the one, a full-fledged chanson in this exotic language. Brimming with emotion, riddled with the deep voice of a singer for whom, even in the darkness of the cheap hotel, you can say: he’s all about art. This song has to be a Ukrainian evergreen.

Katja opens her mouth following the chansonnier’s voice and now she’s dancing like she’s all alone. Barefoot, on the tips of her toes, catching the rhythm from the radio. She gets rid of her bra like getting rid of sad thoughts. What does this man sing about? Will the Japanese from the other side of the video stream even hear it? And, if they will, what’s the value of this moment of solitude? Katja’s dancing is still bad, but it’s honest. This is what I need, this is what brings money. I unbutton my pants, getting out of the dark. I sit on the bed, calling her quietly. She slowly approaches me, still dancing. I’ve got a hard on. Katja sets 8

herself against my knees, kneeling and moaning. I have to invest in a better microphone, this is priceless. I feel her hands sliding along my thighs. She unzips my pants (in a single move, an almost impossible motion when sitting, you whore, you wonderful whore, the tape will rock, your teeth are made of gold). I turn my profile so the camera captures the action.

Suddenly, someone knocks on the door.

Katja jumps and runs away, the hallway squeaks under her footsteps.

“Hey… for God’s sake…” I scream after her. And the singer sobs in the darkness, used to sorrow and despair.

Katja leans her ear closer to the door, “Whooo is iiit?”

Before I manage to do anything, Katja, as naked as she was, opens the door. For a moment or two I lose sight of her. I lean towards the hallway. Silence, slightly faked, like someone from the other side of the door wants nothing to be heard. Katja comes back to the room, wheeling the cart with two silver lids. She looks confused: “This was in the hallway.”

Katja wheels the cart to the middle of our room. Steps back a little. She looks at the cart like she’s seen something out of this world, crosses her arms and makes an obvious conclusion: “It’s a riddle.”

I adore riddles. I look closely into the card: in the middle, right in between the two lids, there’s a bottle of vodka stuck on ice and two champagne glasses.

Written in English, the napkin says, Happy Malanka! Knock youselves out, lovebirds “And there was no one outside?”

“No.” “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” We stare at that cart a bit hypnotized, expecting it to speak up, wink or do a trick, when all of a sudden Katja claps her hands, like she has just figured out the joke; opens the mini-bar and grabs a beer. She gets vodka from the cart and pours it.

“Homemade champagne, stranger. Tonight we drink, we celebrate Malanka!”

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“Katja, we have to work…”

“One drink, stranger. One drink never killed anyone.”

“Okay. Just one… there’s work to be done, we’re filming…”

It’s impossible to think about money when you’ve got a hard-on: there’s not enough blood in the body for such contradictory action – fucking and contemplating the profit. It remains a miracle how the latter is inspired by the former, and the former is the purpose of the latter.

Katja shakes the beer, places a cap onto her golden tooth, frowns a bit and bites in.

The cap eases up. There’s beer all over the table, floor, boobs. Katja blows the foam over the vodka glasses. It actually looks like champagne. Remotely, if nothing else.

She hands me the glass: “Drink, stranger. We celebrate, that’s the order.”

We toast, down our glasses. The table starts to jiggle. We drink and drink, it’s been hours; it could’ve been days, then Katja says: “We’ve drank it all.”

I shrug, like nothing matters anymore, not this, not anything. I lean back in the sofa; Katja is in my lap and she runs her fingers through my hair. I look into her eyes, there’s no reason not to tell her. So I say: “I’d like to buy a sailboat. A small one with a cabin for two.”

“A sailboat?”

“Yes. For two. That’s enough.”

“I’d like to sail the sea.”

“Really?”

“Some warm sea, I’m tired of this fucking ice.”

I’m a disgustingly romantic when I’m drunk. I’m aware of it, but I can’t help it. Some guys puke after a bottle of hard liquor. Some guys beat up a friend, and then apologize in the morning. But I, given the right amount of booze, I can easily fall in love with the nearest hooker. Fuck it, it’s the way I am. I’d like to be one of those guys who fight, and then apologize in the morning. My life, at least the next day, would be much easier.

“Heeey…Katja… hey.”

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“Yes, handsome?”

“Would you… would you maybe… sail the world… with me?”

I’d shake her sheets like a French maid, in vain and at once, so I grab her ass and she laughs, throwing her head back and raising her legs up in the air, swinging like a tiny sailor in his cradle, while the sofa squeaks under us, and I moan erupting in happiness, and Katja, hey, Katja, instead of a reply, looks into my eyes, deeply and significantly. It seems I’m going to vomit, but I manage to hold it in, and I look at her, our pupils tremble in the dark.

She gets up, gives me a kiss on the forehead.

“What do we have here?” Katja lifts the silver lid. There’s a lottery ticket under it, on a silver platter. Katja looks at the ticket, and then at me, her eyes narrowed, as if she sees me for the first time.

“If you don’t play, you don’t win,” she says, almost mumbling.

She lifts the other lid too. There’s a black box under it.

“Let me guess… this one’s for me,” I say and I open the box and put the stamp in my pocket, for later. It occurs to me that perhaps, there’s something here… I turn off the camera in this northern town. I come out on the balcony, staggering, watching the lights in front of me. Her hands, soft and warm, hug me from behind. I puke over the fence and take a look around me: the town is still generally shitty, gray, and ice-cold, but it doesn’t seem so bad anymore, with the New Year’s fireworks launching and the river flashing in colors of the sky.

Explosions come one after the other, like peptic ulcers, and I forget about the work, about the Japanese, the Americans and the Canadians. Instead, I whisper in Katja’s ear the differences between a racer and a schooner, and she pulls me back inside, because it’s cold outside, and we’re getting closer to bed, I stagger with my ass naked, and she, obediently, turns on all fours toward the Croatian erection and a brighter future, while in the dark of the room, you’ll barely notice, a new stamp glows.

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Fuck You Once upon a time, and that time is now, I sit and stare into the phone. Once upon a time, and sometimes only then, I think you’re going to call too. Then it suddenly knocks me out of the bed, slaps me in the face: the thought of us, it shines. Rarely, and only then, I run my fingers over the receiver, searching for a reason, any reason at all like when searching for the edge of a Scotch tape. My nails search for a new beginning, nowhere to be found, slipping through my fingers.

And then out of the depths of my soul someone says: You know what – fuck you

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Giving up So? When it all comes to an end, what do you need? How long?

45 minutes.

Then you realize that the apartment is big. You have way too much stuff. How little of it really matters. What matters most is not going with you anyhow. It stays behind. It’s what you leave behind. Isn’t that right? You sure?

Well, let’s go then, move. Look.

45 minutes. This is where we get to what matters. Suitcases aren’t enough. Duct tape.

Make sure to use garbage bags, a solid PVC, reliable. Shove it all in, it says 15 liters. You’ll sort it out later.

Ignore the knot in your stomach: your mind is playing tricks on you, screwing with you. Ignore it. Put one bag inside the other, this one’s heavy. Full of nice memories. A pathetic shot in the head. Tape the top. Toss it in the corner.

43 minutes, you’re almost done. Look: The apartment looks different. Deprived of you. It’s hers now although she is not the one anymore, not the one you knew, no, she’s someone else now and as soon as she sets her foot in this place, it will become something new, something you’re no longer entitled to, something mysterious, something sad. Something you’ll remember as yours.

You plan to leave a letter. You give up. You know she’d keep it. Let her remember what she wants. There’s not a sentence strong enough to end it. What do you even say when the curtain falls? Thank you? Good luck? Good night? You take another look. Lights out.

Love is when you love her. Giving up is when you love yourself. The end is when you take the trash out.

At the end, what do you need? You need 45 minutes. Nothing more.

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The Monkey A grayish room in a high-rise, Novi Zagreb. In it, two men and a monkey. Yet another life’s mystery and it’s not even noon.

Two doves are pressed against the window, looking. From the outside it seems as if the two men are arguing. The monkey doesn’t participate; he sits peacefully and plucks the sofa. The doves, even if they want to, can’t hear what’s going on in this grayish room. The sturdy man points his finger at the monkey and throws his hands up in the air. He looks angry.

The other one is smaller, his hair receding. He sits in his undershirt. Something about his posture tells us this place is his home. The man of the house avoids eye contact with both the monkey and the other man. He stares at the table in front of him. Sometimes he sighs, shakes his head.

A grayish room in a high-rise, Novi Zagreb. A day like any other, upcoming drama. * ** “For fuck’s sake, what are you doing with your life?”

“Well… nothing.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to fucking tell you. That’s what I’m talking about.”

The monkey doesn’t give a shit about the drama. Sometimes he grins and takes a look at the TV, sports program. Just like everyone, he’s waiting for the weather forecast.

“And what the fuck is this?”

“It’s a monkey.”

“I can tell it’s a monkey, Lovro! It’s illegal to keep it the apartment… you wanna go to jail?”

“But look at it! With that moustache, it looks like some German emperor,” he defends his acquisition, describing the monkey as a royal tamarin. He stresses out the world royal as if he’s brought home a wandering princess, not some kind of a forbidden, exotic animal. Lovro has always wanted a monkey, he likes Tarzan… Comic books in general. And once in a while a man should please himself.

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“You don’t show up to work, I’ve heard they’ve already found someone to replace you. You don’t answer your phone. I came to check if you’re dead, for fuck’s sake. And you, alive and kickin’, bought a fucking monkey!”

“Well in a way…yes.”

“Come on Lovro, screw you.”

The monkey and Lovro sit, the door slams shut.

They’re left alone.

Lovro likes his peace, and one’s peace is a broad term to define. Lie down. Listen to the radio. Watch the doves at the window. Smoke a joint. Rest, sail. The monkey’s an ideal companion for such a life! Who cares what others think? He glances at the animal: it’s about half a meter tall, with a long tail that tirelessly folds. Its fur is black and shiny, only on its chest a white clod of hair, like a white shirt under a tailcoat.

He smiles happily. Tarzan has some good use of Chita; they embark on adventures together, jump down the waterfalls, swing on wines. The two of them don’t have to explore the jungle; it would be too much of a hassle. It would be enough if the monkey wagged his tail to the kitchen, wash the dishes, fried the eggs sunny-side-up. Ran down to get cigarettes, paid the bills.

Wouldn’t you want such a monkey? *** The idea was actually very simple and that’s why it was so brilliant; the monkey had to be trained to do basic chores.

And this is how Lovro’s life project, called Consuela, began. He came up with the targets, set a timeline, defined checkpoints; laundry for the first week, then scrubbing the toilet, vacuuming and paying the bills online. The bar had to be set high.

The monkey was a fast learner. You needed to show him, not more than twice, how things are done and that was it. Some would be suspicious of the speed at which this primate became more and more like human, but Lovro was as happy as a pig; he could easily spend a few days in bed, or, if he was in a really good mood, move over to the window and watch the

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doves watching him. He threw one task after another at his monkey, and in a couple of weeks the monkey learned to make the cabbage rolls, wash the curtains, fix the water heater, roll a joint.

But, for Lovro, the Consuela project had one, more and more annoying constraint: the monkey went outside only at night. He would sneak out into the darkness and throw the thrash out, sort bottles, shovel the snow. But the night shift didn’t solve Lovro’s daytime troubles; someone still had to buy the groceries, get the newspaper, talk to the postman; there were various daily endeavors that needed to be done. This was why, one day, he put sunglasses on the monkey’s nose, a hat on his head and lifted the collar of his coat. He tucked the grocery list in the monkey’s hands with the exact change. Lovro gave him a pat on the back so that he would stand us straight, and, imagine this; the monkey now looked like any guy with a moustache: any minor Eastern Bloc tourist or a hipster from Zapruđe.

From the balcony, Lovro watched the monkey waggle across the playground, disappear in the local store and, after several minutes, leave with a bag full of groceries.

Lovro clenched his fists and threw his hands up in the air. The day was sunny and warm, the clouds wandered above the antennas, Lovro screamed HURRAY, the doves whisked up from the metal ledge, someone cursed and closed their window, and the rest of the neighborhood just didn’t get the magic of the moment.

It was a good day. *** The first word the monkey learned was “a joint”, and Lovro, the proud teacher, kept teaching him all the beauties of the language. Soon the monkey made comments about anything and everything, the referees, possibility of the currency appreciation, the selection of porn movies that came with Lovro’s TV package.

This unusual gift was something Lovro understood as a magic promised but delivered afterwards. His monkey now stood side-by-side with Chita or Caesar, and that was something! And the more he understood the uniqueness of his hairy roommate, the more determined he was to keep him for himself. He was not interested in magazine covers or the scientific background. Instead, he was even more focused on the training whose main goal was to get to the point when the monkey would take Lovro’s place in anything he could think of. He approached the task delegation so thoroughly that his muscles started to atrophy due to 16

chronic indolence, and it was not long that he started going out of breath when walking from one side of the apartment to another.

It’s not that he liked it anyway, all the walking.

He loved watching the red gleam of the sun on the tin-covered high-rises of Zapruđe; one of the most beautiful sunsets in Zagreb, the gold spilling all over the tin, the laundry fluttering below the windows from which the mothers call out to their future failed footballers. He grew up in those tins, and at times he got together with a couple of his childhood friends. Maybe “friends” is a word too intimate for the people who gathered at his place, drinking and smoking until late at night and persisted, for years, in making fun of that fat pig Niko Kranjčar who’d betrayed their beloved FC Dinamo. None of them knew about the monkey. When they came, once a month or not even that often, he’d hide the monkey like a whore hiding her age.

That night when the boys rang the monkey opened the door and hid in the bedroom before they got in. One of the guys brought brandy from Lika. They got more drunk than usual. Lovro dozed off a bit, the schnaps went straight to his head so it fell on his chest. Not even the debate about the number of real fans coming to the local football stadium could keep him awake. The more heated the discussion became, the more often he looked at the bedroom door. At some point he saw the monkey: he peeped through the door and winked. It dawned on him: Lovro was so sure about his masterpiece, and the boys were hammered anyway, so why not give it a try. He staggered into the bedroom, put his t-shirt and sweatpants on a monkey, fixed the monkey’s hair, in a modern way, and whispered to its ear: “Dinamo is the champion, but Rijeka has the atmosphere!” and sent him into the living room. The boys and the monkey kept talking late into the night, Lovro was amazed: it was more than he dared do imagine. He fell asleep on the floor, next to the door slightly open, listening to the boys laughing. He woke up in bed, in his pajama.

Monkey, you’re the man, a hairy legend! *** People rarely called Lovro on the phone. Apart from the pollsters who every now and then tried to sell him a subscription to Playboy Magazine, his apartment was strangely quiet. That black phone in the corner would go off sometimes, rarely, and fill the room with an extremely

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odd sound. It would reverberate loudly and kind of nervously, like an air raid siren, only meaner, as if barking, or arguing. When that happened, Lovro knew exactly who was calling.

“Fuck… It’s the ex… Again… Monkey, monkeeeey! Come on, pick up the phone, answer the shrew,” Lovro said, begging the monkey. “Pick up, I can’t talk to that bloodsucker, I don’t know what more she wants… Pleeease monkey. Come on, do it for your Lovro, please, you do it…”

The monkey was ironing in front of the TV, but the phone rang persistently so the monkey finally gave in, fixed his moustache, and waddled to the phone. He turned his back to Lovro and – picked up the phone. That’s how Lovro got rid of the final stress in his life, and the monkey took over the communication with the outside world.

One morning, between the two bites, the monkey asked for the number of Lovro’s ex.

And he didn’t say ex, no, not cold like that, he said it exactly like this: “Fattass, give me Lana’s number.”

Lovro felt a stab in his stomach, something similar to jealousy, except with more hair.

“She’s fucked up, monkey, she’s no good… No good, trust your man on this.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, I asked for the number.”

Lovro reluctantly gave in and recited the number. He didn’t want to argue. His life was perfectly aligned, and he couldn’t imagine it without the monkey. The thought of it ran shivers down his spine.

The monkey and Lana talked several times a week. They weren’t very long, those conversations, some would say they more looked like some sort of a report, a status meeting, only warmer, more private. Sometimes they would raise their voices, but Lovro thought the monkey navigated the relationship towards some safe, less stressful port. And although it kept its recognizable sour, sassy and proud tone, even the phone rang more serenely when she called.

One morning the monkey happened to go and get bananas from the market, and the phone rang loudly. It’s her! Lovro jumped so suddenly up from the sofa that he became dizzy.

He carefully approached the black machine. The phone rang. He observed it for a while. The

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phone rang. She always found a way to reach him. Except that now he was happy about it. He put his hand on the phone, waiting for it to ring again.

“Hello.”

“Hi, how are you?” she asked happily. Lovro stood paralyzed from all the happiness streaming through the receiver. Look how happy she is?! Monkey, you motherfucking traitor, you hairy pussy! He decided to fight. He wanted to tell her about some new doves, about that one cloud that broke the neighbor’s antenna and about many things happening through the window of his life, but he just couldn’t. His thoughts faded and disappeared in the darkness before they came to his mouth; and the words, they balled up like a burdock to a sweater, and everyone knows a man is helpless when it comes to burdocks.

“You seem strange,” she said. “I don’t think I wanna talk to you today.” And she hung up. *** After one loses the duel, it’s only right for a gentleman to bury the pistol, unless you’re the one being buried. Lovro lost, and that was the one thing he couldn’t forgive. The monkey was supposed to be his Chita, his companion, he was supposed to help him around the house sometimes, good lord, not take over his life, become him, or better than him; Lovro is Lovro, the fucking monkey is not Lovro. And goddamnit, neither is Lovro a monkey!

Their coexistence became the necessary evil. The monkey continued to work around the house, and Lovro pouted so successfully that he didn’t even leave the bed. When he felt hungry or thirsty, he would puff and huff until the monkey brought him something to eat.

“Well, monkey, it took you long enough.”

“Yeah, let me starve to death.”

“You shouldn’t have bothered, it’s been hours.”

He stopped walking, or he simply couldn’t. He crapped in his pants, pissed all over the wall. He didn’t mind, the only thing that mattered was to show the monkey who was the boss.

Who was human, and who was a fucking animal.

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That morning the noise in the hallway woke him up. He leaned out of the bed and saw the monkey dressed in his finest suit. The monkey stood in front of the mirror trying on a hat, fixing his tie and twirling his moustache.

“Monkey… Dude! What are you doing?”

The monkey acted like a deaf cunt. He opened the box in which Lovro kept his best shoes and nodded, satisfied. He put them on and jumped around the spot a bit. Lovro screamed in anger: “What the fuck?! Those are MY shoes, the shoes are mine!”

Lovro rolled out of the bed and crawled to the center of the room. Now he saw most of the living room; the monkey waddled over to the phone.

“Eh monkey, making another call, are we?!”

The conversation, during which monkey turned over to Lovro a couple of times, was short. The monkey nodded, slowly and seriously, as if the things they were talking about were going to be hard to explain to Lovro, but someone would have to do it. Finally, the monkey said thank you very much and repeated the address, the floor and the apartment number. The monkey explained he would now leave the apartment because it was impossible to stay around, but requested that, once he came back, the animal was no longer there.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked. No, I don’t care where you put him. The Osijek ZOO? Sure, please do. As long as it’s out of my home.”

The monkey slowly hung up, went into the hallway. There, he lit a cigarette and took one last look down the hall and to the bedroom. Lovro was still on the floor, looking at the monkey. You could see the fury and fear in his eyes.

I created you you monkey monkey monkey one of the two kept saying.

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Old, Old Boys You can meet them in the shade on the benches, playing chess or cards. Nearby a metal radio is screeching the news from Channel One. Later on, they hook their plastic bags , green and red, on their fingers and drag them along the street, waiting at crossings, feeding pigeons, things like that. They appear lost although they walk straight forward. It has to do something with all the spare time they have, something with that spare time and the days slowly passing by.

At the local pub they sit at the bar, that’s where you’ll find them. The old Indian chiefs, their feathers dry, now clench their beers instead of their tomahawks. Absently, they watch the screen above the bar. There are some images on it, this world behind the glass does not ask for their permission anymore.

It hasn’t always been so. And I’m not talking about the times when they were young, I know nothing about that. They still have some passion left, oh yes, the knotty fuckers, they smolder and wait for their five minutes to come. And that’s why I’m telling you this.

It was yet another sticky summer. The sun burning the grass in parks, the sky is white, glistening from all the heat, windows glowing, cars crawling down Žerjavićeva Street. They were sitting on the bench in the shade, sipping beer out of dewy cans. A day just as any other.

Lujo took a look at his shoes. He frowned, and then figured it out: “Boys, we can do better.”

“Sure we can,” they said and brought another round. Lujo was drinking, thinking, and then said it again: “Boys, we can do better than this.”

“Sure we can,” they repeated and took a step back into the shade.

Lujo, for the third time, said: “Boys, I’m telling you, we can do better.”

“Sure we can, sure… but what exactly?” “…This”, Lujo said and somehow vaguely looked at all of them. “We can do better.

What kind of a party is this? Benches, beer. We used to do things; we pushed buildings, burned tires, we used to do it all, no problem. Remember that?”

They got lost in thought, they, the old, old boys, then they clucked their tongues and said: “Why not? Let’s fucking have a time to remember!”

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Lujo closed one eye. He shaped his hands into a lens, as if taking a panoramic scene, going from the French Republic Square, to Ilica and Svačićeva Street, and on, to the Esplanade Hotel. “The town’s here, just waiting. Missing us.”

“Sure,” the boys said, “but we can’t make it without him.”

Lujo nodded seriously. He needed to be found. He’d been a no-show for a while now, but every kid knew: there’s no party without Badger.

And the old boys headed into the woods. They climbed up the dewy slopes, rested on the tree stumps, shouted with their palms cupped around their mouths. The young leaves fresh and shiny, the sun flashing through treetops, one could hardly ask for a better view. The forest was big and quiet, but the old boys were stubborn. They sneezed, sniffled, staggered. Beams of light broke through the trees like yellow flags, they reminded them of spotlights. At the day’s end, in the thick shade, they found Badger. He was lying on some ferns and picking teeth with grass. He was nothing like the guy they remembered, but these days – who was; his fur shabby, moustaches gone gray. He stooped a bit too, but he said anyway: “A partey? Of course!”

They went back to the town, gathered the old gang, put on their finest suits, and got out to the streets. The fresh fashion from Graz and hey, fellas, where you’ve been?

Badger sneaked into a shaft below the Croatian Energy Systems Company. He bit through the thick black cable that said “Krško Nuclear Power Plant”. The whole town went dark. They put lanterns on the windows. The fireworks lightened up the streets, the fanfares echoed.

The old ladies said finally, or whatever it is that the old ladies say when they’re happy.

They hanged pearls around their necks, lifted their skirts and danced. Badger’s back in town, they whispered, hopping around.

For those few summer days, Zagreb was on the map. The Germans and the Brits heard about the party, they left grandkids in playschools, grabbed their old girlfriends by the hand, and landed to Pleso. Badger, knee-deep in Mayor Bandić’s colorful fountains, directed everyone north: “Straight ahead, guys, till you see the crowd. Straight ahead, naturlich.”

The Flower Square was Rio. Endless parade of old, old boys and their girlfriends, Hawaiian shirts on their backs, cocktails with colorful straws in their hands. Above their 22

heads, in the darkness behind the window, wet pillows and squeaking beds. Blue pills and artificial hips put to the test, you know what they say: you only live once, and the hospitals work nine to seven.

Thursday was a little Friday, Friday was a carnival, Saturday was a serious knockout, Sunday was the after. Lujo sobered up around Wednesday. There were no Germans or the Brits around. Even Badger disappeared. Lujo squinted through the blinds. He heard the morning birds chirp, tucked his hands under the head, opened his eyes and said: “Good morning, Zagreb,” and fell asleep.

It was a good night out, it’s been long since he had so much fun.

The squeak of metal wheels wakes him up. They’re dancing and swirling across the green floor. A wooden tray on wheels, pushed by a girl in white. Toast, butter, jam. Tea in a metal cup.

“Lujo, breakfast,” says the blonde.

Lujo puts one foot to the ground, then the other. The floor is cold at first, the sky above is metallic, the lightning flashes somewhere above the town. Behind the grimy windows the summer is passing by. It’s dawned. Lujo takes a look across the room where the old, old boys sleep like babies, IVs and plastic tubes attached. He yawns, stretches and runs his fingers through his thin hair. He looks at this beautiful girl and says, “Therapy… Must I do it today? I’m tired…”

The girl looks down the hallway, pauses for a moment or two in a wide stance, and offers him a wild smile, shining as only beautiful girls do when you surprise them with lilies, a clever line or a daytrip to Sljeme, and then says: “No, Lujo. Today you don’t have to do anything. Nothing at all.”

“Then we can do everything,” he says, pulling the tubes out of his arm, running and jumping onto the food tray. The wheels catch speed and Lujo dashes down the hall, framed by the light coming from the window, the tea spilling, jelly wobbling, Lujo spreads his arms like wings and goes faster and faster, the girl runs, pushes the cart, her sandals clack, she laughs and they laugh, the smell of cleaning supplies, appalled faces behind their backs, a shout or two, hey, this is not the way, but the wheels buzz louder and louder, and they’ll use the steps 23

at the end of the hallway for a final and further jump-off, and then who knows what happens?

You need to catch speed, hold someone’s hand, ride this wave, and open your eyes wide.

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