Aleksandar Hemon - Nowhere Man

“Jesus,” she said, “this is like a fucking beach. All you need is a volleyball net.”

“You’ll never understand male bonding,” Maxwell said.

Aaron filched a pomegranate seed from Maxwell’s cereal bowl. Pronek claimed he wasn’t hungry, even though he was starving because he didn’t want them to watch him while he was eating.

“Jozef used to have a band too,” Rachel said. “Didn’t you. Jozef?”

“No kidding!” Aaron said. “What kind of band?”

“Blues,” Pronek said.

“A blues band?” Maxwell shook his head. “Wait a minute, did you come from a family of slaves?”

“No,” Pronek said, “but the Bosnian music is like the blues.”

“Bosnian music is like blues,” Rachel said.

“Oh, leave him alone,” Aaron said. “It is frightfully cute.”

“So did you, like, have a blues name? Like, Blind Joseph Jefferson or something?”

“Well,” Pronek said, and sighed, “it was Blind Jozef Pronek. That’s me, Jozef Pronek.”

Aaron and Maxwell high-fived each other and guffawed. Pronek tried to laugh too, but his throat was hoarse and Rachel wasn’t laughing. It seemed that he had been stuck in the kitchen all day long.

“Oh, boy,” Aaron said, and wiped his eyes. Maxwell examined Pronek’s face, then Rachel’s: “Blind Joseph Jefferson and Evol, love in reverse. You breeders crack me up.”

Aaron was drumming on the steering wheel with his fingers, and Maxwell was slapping his thighs along with the music.

“Do you know what this is, Jefferson?” Maxwell said.

“No,” Pronek said.

“It’s Bitches Brew, the bitchin’ Miles,” Aaron said. It sounded hysterical to Jozef, but he said nothing.

“Stop calling him Jefferson,” Rachel said.

“Hey, Blind Joseph Jefferson, the Czech blues singer, it’s no joke,” Aaron said, and cackled.

“I also was in the band that played the Beatles music.”

“Man, how old are you — sixty-seven?”

They drove through a maze of bending suburban streets — ghouls and pumpkins and plastic tombstones still strewn on dun lawns. The sky was gray, the drizzle sparkled under headlights. They could see porch lights going on and empty living rooms flickering around the TV, a silhouette moving across the window frame.

“Hundreds of serial killers are breeding in these basements as we speak,” Maxwell said.

“You grew up in the suburbs,” Rachel said.

“He just hasn’t been caught yet,” Aaron said.

“Hey, it was different, it was a loving family.”

“Sure it was. You had a green lawn and a garage, unlike anybody else,” Aaron said, and turned up the music.

There was a single plastic skeleton hanging on the lightless porch. Pronek had a vision of a body hanging, its flesh rotting and falling off in chunks, and he coming up to the door to canvass.

“I canvassed this house,” he said, to no one in particular.

“That wasn’t you,” Rachel said.

The door opened and a flood of light fell on them. A shorn-haired woman with wide hips and narrow shoulders stood in the middle of it, like an apparition. The steel ball in Pronek’s stomach started grinding his intestines.

“Hello, Mom,” Rachel said, and kissed her on the cheek.

“Howdy, Rebecca,” Aaron and Maxwell said in unison.

“Good evening,” Pronek said.

“This is Blind Joseph Jefferson,” Aaron said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Maxwell said. “Every night he gets naked with your daughter and does naughty, naughty things. Naughty.”

Rachel’s mom looked at Pronek stone-faced, her lips straight and tight — Pronek could see the sinews on her neck tensing.

“Is that true?”

Pronek gulped and glanced at Rachel, who was looking at Maxwell and shaking her head.

“Yes,” Pronek said, “but. .”

“Oh, stop it!” Rachel said.

“I’m just kidding,” Rachel’s mom said. “Come in.”

“I was in Sarajevo once,” Rebecca said. “Long time ago, in the sixties. I was on my way to Dubrovnik.”

“Dubrovnik is very beautiful,” Pronek said, although he had been there only once, for half a day.

“I liked the old town in Sarajevo, those old Turkish shops and beautiful mosques. People were very nice.”

“He’s nice too,” Rachel said. “Too nice.”

“Did they have, like, little curtains over their faces?” Aaron asked.

“Oh, no,” Pronek said. “That was long time ago.”

“I met a Bosnian man there. He took me to these coffee shops and we drank strong, oh, my God, strong coffee from little cups and there was this sad music coming from the radio. He told me — very good English — he told me I must enjoy life because life is short.”

“He just wanted to get into your pants,” Aaron said.

“Jesus,” Rachel said.

“Well, he did,” Rebecca said, and threw her head back, releasing a fluttering laughter-bird toward the ceiling.

“What kind of music was that?” Maxwell asked.

“I don’t know.” Rebecca shrugged and pointed at Pronek. “Ask the native. It was very sad is all I remember.”

“It was probably the sevdalinka. It is sad, but it is so sad that it makes you free. It is like the Bosnian blues.”

“Do you know any of those songs?” Maxwell asked.

“Yeah.”

“Sing.”

“No.”

“Why don’t you sing us a song?” Rebecca said.

“No, thank you.” Pronek’s palms were sweating.

“If you do,” Aaron said, “Rebecca will let you get naked with her daughter and do naughty things.”

“Fuckin’ naughty,” Maxwell said.

“Please!” Rachel said and blushed, smiling.

Pronek cleared his throat.

Snijeg pade na behar na vo e;

Snijeg pade na behar na vo e;

Neka Ijubi ko kod koga ho e;

Neka ljubi ko god koga ho e. .

Ako ne e nek’ se ne name e

Ako ne e nek’ se ne name e

Od nameta nema selameta

Od nameta nema selameta. .

He finished in a soft sussurous voice, allowing the last breaths to leave his lungs before he closed his mouth.

“That was beautiful,” Rebecca said, and clapped.

“That’s a beautiful song,” Maxwell said. “What is it about?”

“I don’t know how to translate,” Pronek said.

“Try,” Rachel said. “Please.”

“The snow falls on the flowers in the spring and the fruit, and it is strange time.”

“That is strange,” Aaron said.

“And one dog wants to become the wolf. He goes to the forest and is free, but some men want to kill him.”

“Why?” Rebecca asked.

“I don’t know,” Pronek said. “Because they have guns. And then it later says like this: If the dog is lucky as he is unhappy, he would go back home and be free.”

“That reminds me of a Chinese proverb,” Rebecca said, “that says: It’s better to be rich and happy for a hundred years than to be poor and miserable for one day.”

Rebecca kissed Pronek on the cheek and he could smell her perfume and alcohol breath. He wanted to kiss her too, but instead just said: “Thank you.” It was cold outside, snow flurries flying out of the darkness into the light, like moths, some of them sticking to their clothes and then melting away with a sparkle.