Aleksandar Tišma - The Use of Man

Jurković, not asking Vera to sit down, looked at the papers in front of her and in an expressionless voice read the dates Vera had been late to work. There seemed to be too many, but since Vera could prove nothing, she said that on those days she hadn’t felt well. Jurković raised her tiny eyes, red around the rims, and explained that unless Vera had been to a doctor, her lateness was unexcused and that legally she could be dismissed from her job. Nevertheless, she, Jurković, for the time being did not intend to resort to that extremity, taking into consideration the fact that Vera came from a family that had given one martyr to the cause, Gerhard Kroner, and that Vera, too, in her own way must have suffered under fascism, though she had close relatives who were collaborators and it was not altogether clear how she had come back from the camp alive and in relatively good condition. For that reason, Vera’s past would be looked into, and until then she should go back to work and had better guard against further infringements of the rules.

That afternoon, Mitzi arrived at Vera’s apartment, out of breath, her face puckered with indignation. Jurković had called her in and expressed displeasure with Vera’s work; she had also cast doubts on Mitzi’s motives in recommending Vera. “What’s happened, my dear? Everyone was so full of praise for you before!” Vera said nothing. She could not tell Mitzi what oppressed her, because the telling would lead to half-truths, not the final truth. “Well, say something. What is this all about? Is she lying now or was she lying before?” Vera’s silence gradually exhausted her frightened curiosity, and the habit of always doing something diverted her attention. Mitzi picked up the dirty dishes that were lying around the room, began to wash them, and soon there were shining cups of freshly brewed tea between them, and a plate of cookies. “Aren’t they good?” Mitzi asked brightly, and began to talk about old friends she had visited recently and the friends she had made. They were fine people, she assured Vera, inviting her to come the following Tuesday, because Mitzi decided that on Tuesdays she would hold a little “soirée” for her closest friends. But Vera would not go; the very thought of socializing scared her. She felt, now, as if a barbed-wire fence had been thrown up between her and the outside air, between her and the world, between her and words, between her and memories.

She withdrew into herself, this time consciously, since Vera was the only person left to Vera, being different and surrounded by hostility. She began to pity herself and to find consolation in taking care of herself. She bought better food, and sometimes skipped the dining room and cooked for herself at home a tasty supper of eggs, bacon, and onions, washing it down with a wine of better quality, for she had become more discerning. She bought some material that caught her eye in a poorly stocked, half-empty shop, found a dressmaker, and turned up at the office in a clingy new dress of artificial silk, blue with polka dots. Her hair she wore close to her face, with two bold curls turned toward her cheekbones. She tried to ignore everyone as she walked through the corridors of the Post Office and sat at her desk, with head down, but she was not ignored.

Voja, the young man whose desk was in the corner of the office, cast long, blushing glances in her direction. The men who worked on her floor brushed against her as they passed and greeted her pointedly in deep, admiring voices. This first provoked, then pleased her, as if she had opened a way through the enclosing wall of hostility, letting in the warm breath of existence. She was not beaten, downtrodden; she could still make an impression, accomplish something. Now she returned those passionate looks. She allowed Voja to meet her after work, on the way to the dining room, allowed him to find a table where they could sit alone, and laughed ambiguously at his awkward compliments.

So, she had broken down their wall, she decided as she lay on the settee, still dressed, stroking her thighs, which had become firm again, in a room warm with the approach of spring. She had divided them, she had revenged herself. And it became a pastime for her, those roving, hungry eyes — blue, brown, green — which rested on her, assaulted her, tried to slip under her dress, down her breasts, between her thighs, trapped as in a web. She recalled each male, as if they were strung out like trophies on a string, then made her selection, measuring one against another. She decided on several, like choosing decorations in a shop window: I’ll take these. And, indeed, one of her choices accosted her on her way home, the Post Office secretary, a dark young former NCO recently discharged because of a wound in his leg. “Shall we go somewhere together?”

But, walking on the street, he soon tired, his bad leg stiffened, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. They stopped at a pâtisserie, a cool place, and empty except for the owner, a Macedonian in a short white coat and cap, who stood behind the counter. They ordered two cakes each and sherbet. The cakes were floury, the sherbet too sour, but the secretary didn’t notice; he ate and drank quickly. Then, leaning over the table, pushing the crumbs around his plate with his stubby fingers, he told Vera how much he liked her, of the state he had got himself into because of her. He couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t work during the day; he had to study for his correspondence-school exam, but his thoughts kept turning to her; he would like to be with her all the time, look at her, talk to her. Would she be his girl?

Vera looked at him, at his excited, bashful eyes, the beads of sweat at the roots of his curly hair — everything about him was so soft and childlike that she had to laugh. And then she couldn’t stop. She leaned back in her chair, shook with laughter. The secretary lowered his head gloomily, and the owner leaned over the counter in surprise and then went to the back of the room to watch from there. The secretary turned red, his lips quivered, he clenched his fist and hit the marble-topped table. The plates danced; a fork fell to the floor. “Stop!” he cried.

But Vera could not control her laughter. She was not afraid of him. Here was a person, for the first time in so long, of whom she was not afraid. She waved her hand to calm him down. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll stop in a minute!” And in fact, she slowly recovered, lit a cigarette, and suddenly felt distant again. This trembling, childish man irritated her. “Pay and let’s go,” she ordered.

His hand shook as he counted out the money and got up. “May I come with you?”

She looked at him. He was handsome, slim, quivering, like so many of those who had forced her to submit and then disappeared. They were now probably dead. “You couldn’t if you wanted to. Your legs won’t carry you.” And, laughing in his face, she left him and turned the corner.

But her rudeness did not discourage him. He kept looking for her, popped up in unexpected places, but never again asked her to go out with him. Others did so in his stead: Voja, from her office, still saying nothing but looking at her plaintively, and several older Post Office workers, who confronted her in the corridors, waited for her at the dining room, stopped her at a street corner to breathe desire into her face. Even Alexa, the doorman, over forty, enticed her into his cubbyhole on the pretext that there was a letter waiting for her and tried to pinch her. Like a pack of wolves, who alerted one another that she was close by, or were alerted, perhaps, by the scent she gave off, they crowded around, baring their teeth and snapping, offering to prove their virility. The chase began to affect her. At night she was troubled by amorous dreams; in the afternoons, drowsy, she would get drunk and conjure up a man’s words, a man’s touch.