Relief

I’m sprawling comfortably in the shade, with my feet on the railing. Pero is sitting leaning his elbows on his knees. He’s a bit subdued, he doesn’t like heights. I always laugh when I remember him once saying that he likes height but only at a distance. But my ninth floor is quite normal for me. When I go down to someone on the fourth floor, I have the feeling that I would be able to step out of the window and take a walk, it’s so low down. I’m on holiday, Pero hasn’t had a job for the last ten years… I’d far rather sit with him, because we don’t have to talk, and if I had gone to Crikvenica – no, I’m not going to think about that now. Mira is… no, I won’t … It’s summer… it’s good that she and the little one have gone to the sea, they’ll both have a good rest, and I’ll have a good rest and get ready for the new school year. I mean, fuck the bloody headmaster and some parents: let the children do this, let the children do that – school’s not a parliament, for God’s sake! You daren’t look a little sharply at a child these days, without its parent storming in: ‘You’re inhibiting my child!’ And the little genius is already in the third year, and hardly knows how to write a single letter by hand! All they do is strum on a keyboard. Soon no one will be able to write any more.

I take a beer from the table. I look around. My Zagreb relaxes me. Maybe because the view is always the same. Apart from when they dropped those two or three bombs. That column of smoke by the theatre… They were aiming at ballerinas, fucking bastards… To the left and right: buildings, high-rise; down below: the wood around Bundek; opposite: the detached houses of Trnje; in the distance the green of Zrinjevac, the cathedral, then Sljeme; then … Europe, then… the sky; then… maybe a black hole, why not? I always maintained that information was eternal, everything is eternal, nothing is lost, nothing is forgotten, you can’t destroy electrons. And electrons remember. For ever. And that guy’s only now changing his theory, what’s his name, begins with H … The one in the wheelchair, um… Oh, fuck it … To the left, above the Zagreb hills, there are a few clouds. They could come to something. Please God. Here – I’m only sitting, but I’m dripping with sweat. It’s sultry. I put the bottle to my lips, but I hear Pero:

‘What do you think, what’s worse, having your tongue or your eyelids cut off?’

I think it’s a joke, so I laugh: ‘Where the hell did that come from…?’ but I see that he’s quite serious.

‘It doesn’t matter, what’s worse: no eyelids or no tongue?’

‘No tongue of course!’ I say without thinking, but I see him screwing up his face, so I hurry to justify my position: ‘Imagine only saying: m-m-m… your whole life.’ I want to be witty too. I mean, that’s what you have to do with these has-been lads, you joke, you swear…

‘And not being able to sleep your whole life?’

‘I think …’ In fact I give up straight away. I don’t feel like thinking about it. And I don’t think about the fact that there was something hard, almost aggressive, in his tone. I’m feeling lazy. And it’s stifling. And outside nothing’s stirring. Not a breath of air. Just two or three cars on Freedom Bridge; everyone’s left the city. I nod my head towards Sljeme. ‘It’s going to rain.’

‘When I was a kid I read about an Indian torture…’

A bird flies past. A crow, or a rook, or something. Like the one the kids once caught behind the school. They pulled its wings off, the monsters. They were playing ‘Animal Planet’! I don’t think I’ve ever slapped anyone so hard as I did little Hodak. And I should have hit his father as well, then let the dad and his son complain that they were inhibited… This one’s flying fast. I watch it go. I hear Pero moving. He’s breaking the foil on a little card and shaking a few greenish pills on to his palm. His hands are shaking.

‘What’s that?’

‘From the doctor.’ He picks up a beer, takes a long swig.

‘Listen, beer and pills don’t really go together…’

He puts the bottle down on the table, still holding it with his outstretched hand. He makes a face, as though a pill has got stuck in his throat or he wants to throw up. I want to ask him why he’s taking them, but I say:

‘Bitter?’

‘That’s torture.’

‘Pills?!’

‘Bugger pills! No eyelids …!’ He’s frowning, his face contorted.

‘I didn’t sleep for nights because of that… Not now either… I don’t sleep.’ He looks up at me: ‘A knife, then they take hold of your eyelid with their thumb and first finger, stretch it and snip! The skin’s gone!’ He shudders. ‘Like circumcision!’

‘What a comparison…!’ and I wonder – where did he get the word ‘circumcision’ from? I want to tell him that I was in Montenegro some years ago, in Bar, and some guy was having his son circumcised and invited eight hundred guests, and everyone brought a gift of money, but he’s carrying on, as though he’s moved away somewhere else.

‘Both the top and bottom lids. And blood is pouring into your eyes. You can’t wipe them to save your life …’ I imagine at once that I’m wearing a rough woollen jumper, and raise my arm to rub my eyes … ‘And you can see everything around you. Try sleeping!’ He looks at me as though I was arguing with him. ‘And the sun’s baking…! And the wind’s blowing over your eyeballs, and dust is falling into your eyes, and flies, all kinds of shit sticks to them, thorns jab into the white of your eye, into…’ His voice is increasingly hoarse. ‘…your cornea, into… your pupil, into your brain, into your fucking cunt. Into your marrow… I’ve been through all that…’

‘In a dream, I’m glad to say…’ I say, getting up, and I put a hand on his shoulder as I pass. ‘I’m going for a pee.’

Žac

I didn’t realise he was so emotional. It’s obviously really got to him, but what can I do? I’m surprised he never mentioned it before. OK, we haven’t met up for a while, although we live in the same apartment block – he on the second, me on the ninth. I invited him up here for a beer, nothing more, because… there’s no one else around. And he’s the best of men, we’ve known each other… for ever. We were at elementary school together. He didn’t get on at school, but he got some sort of training. Honestly, the salt of the earth, he’ll do anything for you. Fridge, toaster, short circuit, something needs to be carried – just give him a call, he’ll fix it. He never takes money, it’s got quite awkward. We’re all like that, those of us who’re left in the building, everyone knows something. I come off worst, fuck it: I write their funeral orations. I teach their children and I bury them. I always make the whole crowd weep, and they like that. I’ve already seen off six people in our block. When poor Marijan was killed on the Kupa, his was the first funeral I spoke at …

There’s a spider in the corner by the toilet. Fuck it, if Mira was here… ‘Go on, little one, enjoy yourself, we’ve got another ten days…’ I’ve told her a hundred times – don’t kill spiders! She says I’m superstitious. I’m not superstitious, but – let it be, for God’s sake, it’s alive, what have you got against it? My stream is stopping. I take a little piece of skin on my cock between my thumb and forefinger and rub it a bit. Then I take hold of my eyelid, and stretch that too. Identical! Where did he get that idea? Hey, are you crazy? I say to myself. Sometimes he really surprises me. Like when he fucked with Jura …

‘Hey, remember Jura …’ I say when I get back to the balcony. He’s staring straight in front of him. It’s all quite black over Sljeme.

‘I can’t wait for it to rain.’

‘The tongue’s nothing.’

‘Oh, that’s enough!’

‘Why won’t you let me finish?’

‘I’m not stopping you, but …’

‘So why are you interrupting me? You always want everything your own way. That’s what all the lads say. And you haven’t a clue!’

What’s he mean, ‘all the lads’? Bugger him. I, with my teaching diploma, make no distinction between any of them, I mean, here I am with him, having a normal conversation. I’m not like Žac, or rather Dr Vidmar… strutting about, fuck it, he doesn’t know anyone in the block any more. I look at Pero. Who the hell are you to tell me I haven’t a clue …

‘About what?’

‘You haven’t a clue what happens.’

‘When?’

‘When your eyelids are cut off.’

‘Oh, fuck your eyelids!’ I point to his bottle: ‘Drink up and I’ll bring some more, and stop going on about it…’

‘There, you see, you’re interrupting!’

I can’t stop myself, but I stare straight at him, idiot that I am, and say: ‘It hurts. It takes a genius to know that?’

‘You see, you haven’t a clue! First it stings, then it hurts …’

‘Same bloody thing!’

‘It’s not the same bloody thing! It’s all a process. First it stings.’

How persistent he is, damn it. If he was always so systematic, he wouldn’t keep being out of work. He can hold out only for a few days. A thought flashes into my mind: once, long ago, maybe in the eighth grade, I tore his jacket. Accidentally, we were kids, and I knew it was new, and they were poor. He cried. That bothered me for ages. Fuck it, I didn’t mean to. Maybe he’s getting his own back? Suddenly he hits me on the shoulder, startling me. ‘Look!’ He separates his upper and lower lids with the thumb and forefinger of both hands and stares at me. His eyes bulge, the whites are suddenly large, and in the centre the corneas are yellow – in fact for the first time in my life I see that he has yellow eyes – and as he stretches the lower lids downwards, they show their pink lining. He looks like an idiot, sad and stupid at the same time. ‘And imagine if you were like this, not for a whole lifetime, for a week. That’s enough… Try it, try it!’ He doesn’t move his hands. ‘Go on!’ Then he leans towards me: ‘Well?’

‘Oh, come on, the kids in my school do that.’

‘You do it! Come on…!’ and at that he kicks me on the shin under the table.

It’s like an electric shock. All my nerves flare, my body jerks, my blood starts to race. He didn’t kick me hard, but …

‘What the fuck?’

He’s still got that idiotic look – mad, innocent, dangerous. He doesn’t seem to notice that I have completely lost it. Or he doesn’t care. Or is that what he wants?

‘Well?’ he says.

I look at him. ‘Is it because of your jacket?’

‘Jacket? What jacket? What are you waiting for? Come on!’ He kicks me under the table again.

‘Wait, then!’ Fuck you, what the hell are you thinking of! Suddenly I don’t want to stop myself, I take a swig from the bottle, then bring it crashing down on to the table, close my eyes tight, then open them wide and lean towards him. ‘There! What now?’

He leans his elbows on the table and stares at me.

I stare back at him. Like, who can hold out longer? Just look at him: he’s not stirring. Just staring like a basset hound. In fact it’s as though I am seeing him for the first time. In fact, he has no expression on his face at all. It’s stupid – this could lead anywhere. OK. We’ll do it, and then we’ll go down to the bar. I can’t stand insistent people. Besides, it’s easier for him. The sun is lower in the west now, and it’s glaring underneath the cloud straight into my eyes. Well, that’s enough of that: I turn towards the city. I can sit like this for three hours. Sljeme has already disappeared. It’s going to be some storm! I need to blink, but I won’t. Out of spite! Bugger him. Since he’s driven me to it, then we’ll keep going to the end! I move my eyes rapidly from left to right. I can feel him still gawping wide eyed at me. As though we’re in a madhouse. And I’ve let myself get drawn into this! I can cheat – how can he know whether I’ve just blinked or not – only, what for? Besides, fuck it, it stings, it really does sting.

‘I’ve had enough.’ I want to pick up my beer casually, but my hands fly up of their own accord and I start rubbing my eyes.

‘You see?’ He’s still holding his lids open. He says hoarsely, ‘You see how it stings?’ His lips seem to be moving by themselves between his hands. ‘Afterwards it burns as though lasers were boring straight into your eyes.’ Only then does he lower his hands. There are deep lines under both his eyes. He closes them tight, but doesn’t rub them, just shakes his head. He doesn’t open them. Tears squeeze out between his tightly closed lids and slip down his face. He doesn’t wipe them. I turn away from him, I can’t look at him like this ... I feel uncomfortable, embarrassed. I hear him saying: ‘It doesn’t hurt till later,’ but in a muffled voice, he must be wiping his eyes and face with something now. As though he is choking, or really crying. But I still don’t check. I don’t like it when someone dumps all their demons on my table. Fuck you, mate, we’re not that close, I’m not interested… But he carries on:

‘Then your veins start exploding…’ I glance at him again. He’s grimacing, as though his capillaries really were bursting. ‘Then your eyes dry out. Like dried figs … like crackling… like shit …’

‘Come on, don’t give me all this crap,’ I say, standing up abruptly and collecting the bottles. I hear him getting up, shouting after me:

‘There, you see, you won’t give in!’

What the hell’s got into him? We’ve only drunk a couple of beers … Unless he’d been drinking before he came up to my place. And who knows what sort of pills he’s on. Maybe he can’t stand the air pressure. The bio-meteorologists are right, it affects … But that’s enough, no more funny stuff! We’ll just drink this, then down we go to Toni’s. I’ll buy him one drink, and then I’m off. I don’t like it when you’re having a drink, and someone starts snivelling.

I chuck the empty bottles into the crate, take two new ones out of the fridge and go back to the balcony. To my surprise, Pero is standing by the railing, looking down. I leave the bottles on the table and go over to him to see what he’s looking at. Nothing. Just then someone comes out of the building. Oh, I know her at once even from this height.

‘Look, it’s little Iva,’ I say, and actually I want to make him think of guys’ things to forget what we’ve been talking about. ‘Dad’s an idiot, but Mummy’s … Eh?’

Her mummy used to be a stewardess. She never came to parents’ evenings, but she always caught me in the lift, like, listen, I know what your job’s like, but I’m having a bad time, you know, my husband… A mobile rings. It’s not mine. Her husband got several years in clink. Some hanky-panky, financial engineering. It rings again.

‘Your mobile, Pero.’

‘Eh?’ As though he’s on another planet, fuck it.

‘Your mobile.’

I point at his pocket. ‘It’s ringing.’

‘Eh!’ He takes out the phone. ‘Hullo?’

Little Iva is already disappearing behind the block. She must be going out, to town. I used to give her nothing but top marks, because of her mummy. But now, not a word of thanks, she doesn’t acknowledge me. She’s a cheeky kid, she walks cheekily, her hair swings on her head. Sixteen. When I see her in the lift, those low-slung trousers, below the belly button, thin skin, taut … fuck me if I won’t lose it one day and run my hand over her flat little belly. It’s unbearable! How do the boys manage with them? And I don’t know what I’ll do in two or three years’ time, when my little one gets into that kind of thing… Who can look at that? Her little tits have already begun. Like little Bibica Ban in the second row of desks. Maybe I should have gone with them to the sea, to begin getting used to it. That always gets me going, like now, I can feel it, my ears are burning, my cheeks are tingling, I run my hand over my forehead – I’m sweating.

It’s hot as hell. It’s hard to breathe, those cigarettes will kill me, bugger them with their cigarettes. When is it finally going to rain! It’s already reached the Sava, it’s overcast, clouds, leaden. There’s no sun any more. This is the worst. And little Iva will get wet, Mummy’s treasure. Or she’ll scuttle into some fool’s flat and have it off … She’s bound to have long ago…

‘You don’t know me,’ I hear Pero say into the phone. I didn’t even notice him sitting down. He’s got his profile towards me, he’s staring out into space. ‘No one knows me.’ He’s nearly shouting now.

‘Hang on a minute…’ I want to tell him to calm down, because the neighbours, the next-door balcony, they’re the limit, you can’t have the radio on remotely loudly without them calling and saying it’s bothering them. Pero’s looking at me, but he’s saying into the phone:

‘You don’t know me, I tell you!’

A different man. Cracked up. Must be the pills. I have a mind to take the bottles back, but he picks his off the table and pulls at it. What on earth was I thinking of, bringing them…?

And what the hell was I thinking of, when we met in the lift, and I invited him to my place for a beer? What have we got in common, the fact that we went to school together – fuck school!

He’s plastered, the slob, and he’s drugged himself, and now… OK, it’s better that he drinks it up and gets completely legless, then I can shove him into the lift. Just look at him! Boy, are you drunk, you idiot!

A violent gust of wind. All of a sudden. I turn round.

The storm!

Down in the little park, the trees are swaying wildly. The wind is howling. Cartons and plastic bags fly through the air. Just let the first drop fall, just let it start. It’ll do this fool good as well. I look at the sky: get on with it!

And: it starts! The first drop bursts on the ledge. If there had been a fly there, it would have smashed it, the drop was so heavy.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘It’s started! Rain!’ I run my hands through my hair.

‘That’s good! See how much easier it is to breathe,’ I say, inhaling. Ozone, fresh air! Power! ‘Come on!’ I shout, into the rain, as though all my problems are solved. Downpour, deluge, horizontal rain, torrent. I turn round, and shout delightedly: ‘Hey, man, get this!’ I stretch out my hand to encourage him to stand up.

But he goes on sitting as before. He waves my hand away.

‘You don’t know me either… You don’t know anyone!’

He looks at me – viciously, damn it.

‘What the hell’s got into you, enjoy it, look…!’

‘You’re a fool!’

Well, fucking hell! Suddenly something gives in me too. I’m aware of it, but I can’t stop myself:

‘You’re talking crap, what the fuck are you on about! You’ve been banging on sadistically for the last two hours, some shit about eyelids, you’re slobbering like an idiot, you’ve developed a whole theory …’

‘It’s not a theory!’

‘What’s “not a theory”? First it stings, then it hurts. It’s a process…’

‘I know that!’

‘You don’t know a fucking thing!’

‘I know it!’ He roars! He looks at me crazily. He’s shaking.

Suddenly I go numb. My body knows. I know what he’s going to say. He speaks:

‘I cut a guy’s eyelids off! Like this!’ As he made the movement, I could feel myself stiffen. He’s transformed. ‘I took a prisoner of my own! I cut them off! To see what would happen!’ Then, through his teeth: ‘So don’t you talk shit!’

I’m reeling. He gets up, like a zombie, knocks over the table, falls backwards against the wall, stops himself, awkwardly. He’s grey.

My back is sodden with rain. He pushes himself off the wall. He tries to hold himself up on the table, but the table gives way, he falls towards me. I grab him to stop him falling, but he grasps me. He disgusts me and I’m scared. He’s saying something. I hear glass shattering.

‘Mira will kill me if the windows break!’ I grab the excuse. I push him away with all my strength. I rush into the other room: the windows are wide open, the rain is pounding on to the parquet floor. I struggle with the curtains, my spine is tingling with fear, I turn round to see whether he has followed me. I close the windows. Bloody, fucking hell! The floor is soaked. I run into the bathroom for a cloth, there isn’t one, I grab a towel. I don’t look towards the balcony; the most important thing for me is not to see him. The most important thing is to pretend that there’s no tension, that I’m carrying out routine actions. And not to hear him. I run back into the room, throw the towel on to the floor and mop it with my foot – I’m afraid of bending down. Rain is beating against the window. It’s suddenly stifling in the room. I can hear my heart thumping.

‘Hey, you still alive?’ I shout, as casually as I can, as I rush to the bathroom. I throw the towel into the bath, and use another to dry my hands. I go to the kitchen; from there I look on to the balcony, but … he’s not there. A new wave of fear breaks over me: he’s hiding! He’s going to kill me, fuck it! I don’t know when I farted, I can just smell it. He’s confessed to what he did, now he’s probably ready for anything. ‘Hey, where are you?’ I shout, but there’s no answer. A chill runs down my spine. ‘Pero!’ I glance frantically around me. I’m burning.

Damn your eyes, are you lying in wait for me? I quickly take a knife from the drawer. I’ll defend myself, fuck you, this is my apartment, this is where I live with my wife and daughter, and you’re not bloody going to… I’ll cut your throat! Where are you?

I hide the knife along my arm, go to the toilet. I think, maybe he went in there while I was in the other room. I lean against the door: ‘Pero! You having a pee?’ I don’t know whether he’s going to rush the door or leap on me from behind. I shudder from top to toe. I look round, then knock. Then again. I hold the knife ready. I open the door – he’s not there. I go into the bedroom, then my daughter’s room, I peer round the door, back to the kitchen – he’s nowhere.

He’s gone, damn his bloody nerve. You chose me to tell about the man you killed, fuck it? I throw the knife down on the table. I don’t give a flying fuck for you or your eyelids or the war or your nerves. Not in my house. The knife is lying with its blade upwards on the table. I quickly put it back in the drawer so as not to look at it. It’s a good thing he’s gone, anything could have happened. He could at least have let me know, bugger him, and not left me shitting myself with fear… My hands are shaking as I take my mobile from my pocket to call him, but then I say, out loud: ‘But who gives a fuck, you idiot.’ You come here to tell me … I put my phone back in my pocket. ‘You have to dump your crap in my life?’ I light a cigarette.

I’m shaking all over as I pick up the chair and table. It’s exactly like when that Pole met me in the underpass. Afterwards I dreamed about him, and now I’ll dream about this lunatic. His nose was running, but he said that he had come to defend us, and that we didn’t know how to appreciate that. A mercenary, fuck it. That they had a graveyard where they buried them. What did I care! He held me by the arm and wouldn’t let me go. Fuck off!

Now it’s pouring steadily. Calmly. A summer downpour. I stretch my arms out in front of me, palms up, and raise them to the rain. Drops beat on me, exploding. I bend over so that they fall on my head.

As though I’d been struck by lightning, as though I was weight-less! Pero is lying in front of the apartment block! Crumpled. I can’t see his head. Several people are standing round him, some are running out of the block opposite. I hear an ambulance siren. ‘Don’t touch him,’ I shout. ‘Wait for me!’

But this is my moment! I take a step back from the railing. I stand calmly, my arms by my sides, and close my eyes. I stand for a moment or two. Then I step out decisively. I climb onto the railing, straighten up, press down on my feet, spread my arms, breathe deeply, and one, two, three and – there – I soar! I hold my breath in my lungs until I feel secure. The rain bothers me a bit, I haven’t flown for a long time. I make a circle at the same height. I enjoy the tension in my shoulders. I shout from up here: ‘Now you see you should have come to school that day! Then you'd be able to fly!’ I move a little away from the building, then come back. On the fifth floor, I pick some flowers at the Marković flat as I pass. The ambulance arrives and a man and woman in white slowly get out of it. They are struggling to open an umbrella. ‘Hey, Pero, don’t worry,’ I shout. ‘I’ll speak at your funeral!’

The people in white have almost reached him, so I drop down more quickly. At the second floor, I slow down. I spread my hands, my fingers, it’s a big effort, but I stop. Before they get to him, I throw him a flower.

I rush out of the main entrance, push some women aside, reach him before the ambulance people, stand over him and shout: ‘Did you jump on purpose? Did you fall by accident?’ My legs give way, I fall on to my knees in his blood diluted by the rain and ask the corpse in a whisper: ‘Did I push you?’