Miljenko Jergovic - Mama Leone

Down there in the pines, poor little Fićo’s down there , I tap Uncle Naci on the shoulder. Fićo, who’s that?. . He’s not a person, he’s a car. He flew off the highway last summer and nobody’s come to get him yet. . Maybe that’s because he’s just a wreck and he’s no use to anyone now. . No, that’s not the reason. It’s because Fićo doesn’t have any family anymore because they all died, the driver and the two passengers. . Poor things. . No, last summer they were poor things, but now Fićo is the only poor thing. They took them to Bjelovar and buried them there because they were from Bjelovar, but Fićo stayed down in the pines, even though he’s from Bjelovar too. I saw his license plates. . Doesn’t matter where a wreck’s buried. A wreck is just a heap of junk. . Fićo isn’t a heap of junk, he’s a poor little Fićo and he was their car. Someone loved him once . Uncle Naci shrugged and the Duck shrugged with him — there you go, now let him say the Duck might be a heap of junk one day too — just like grown-ups always shrug when they don’t understand something and you have to explain it to them. Nothing is forever, so what if someone used to love him. Now he’s a heap of junk, end of story , he said. Are dead people a heap of junk too? I asked, and I knew what he was going to say in reply, just like I knew that dead people actually meant my grandpa. Quit your babbling , Grandma cut in, and Uncle Naci just drove and kept his mouth shut all the way to Sarajevo.

The city was steaming and empty. The river stunk like a million people had forgotten to flush a million toilets. I came to the conclusion that someone had to be responsible for all of this, or that I was being punished for something I hadn’t done but for which I’m being punished anyway, and everyone knows about it and now treats me like I’m a jailbird or a prisoner of war on some Pacific island, in a film where Japanese people scream and shout, women write letters, and Lee Marvin lies tied up in the sand, the sun burning his eyes. Poooo! I said as we passed the National Library. You little brat! Mom tried to hit me, but I moved out of the way in time. She’s been pissed since we arrived. Don’t think she doesn’t love you , Grandma whispered. I made like I didn’t hear her; I moved farther away, dead set I wasn’t going to say anything else. That I was never going to say anything else ever again. I don’t care if the Miljacka stinks, she can yell all she likes, anything can happen, but I’m never saying anything ever again.

The whole problem is that my mom is scared of me. She’s not scared of me per se, she’s scared because she’s got a kid. She wasn’t scared before because Grandpa was alive, because we were apart a lot and then she could see how I was growing up. When someone’s always there with you, you don’t notice how much they’re changing, they’re always the same to you and you only see their bad sides. Since we came to Sarajevo forever, Mom and I have discovered each other’s bad sides. I don’t know all the bad things she’s discovered about me and I don’t want to think about all the bad things I’ve discovered about her, but it’s like we’re really disappointed in each other, and that most of all, we’re disappointed because we’re scared. In the fall I’ll be going to Silvije Strahimir Kranjčević elementary school; I don’t know anyone there and I don’t want to get to know anyone. I want to be invisible and only show up every now and then, show my face to my dead grandpa for example, who is nice because he keeps quiet and doesn’t get angry, he doesn’t do anything, but he still exists somewhere, in my head, in Mom and Grandma when they avoid opening the wardrobe where his ties are still hanging, still crumpled in the spot where he tied the knot.

Dad arrives like the guy from the ads on TV. He takes something out of his pocket or briefcase, says something important, and for the rest of the day this sets the tone for all of us. This is possible because Dad only comes over once a week so he has six days to think something important up. Today we’re going to take a good look around our local environs and we’re going to drink miracle water from a special spring, just for us men , he said, packing us into the Renault 4. I felt a little like puking but tightened my tummy to stop it slipping out, and when a bit slipped out I’d swallow it. You need to puke? Mom asked on the approach to Olovo. No! I said. That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth: The second I opened it I puked right down Dad’s neck while he was driving. He just sunk his head down a little bit between his shoulders, his neck getting shorter somehow, and kept driving until we got to the first road-house. He stripped off his shirt and went over to wash it at the hose. He was wearing an undershirt that looked like a fishing net, his gray hair poking out everywhere from underneath. From behind my dad looked like a monkey someone had dressed in a human undershirt for a laugh. Don’t worry about it , said Mom, but for chrissakes, next time don’t lie, if you need to puke say you need to puke, it’s fine . I was real surprised neither Mom nor Dad was mad at me. Normally they get mad about much smaller stuff. When you say you’re fine, act tough and make like there’s no way you’re going to puke, no one holds it against you even if you do. I don’t know why it’s like that, but the next time I need to puke I won’t let out a peep either.

Let’s hit the road , said Dad. The shirt was on a hanger hanging out the window to dry. Mom kept looking back to see how I was doing, and Dad drove in his undershirt, from behind looking like those truck drivers you see in American films. A stranger who caught a glimpse of us at that particular moment would’ve thought we were a happy family who did everything in life together. In actual fact, maybe back then we were a happy family, and maybe our life consisted of two parts that alternated back and forth, on and off, something like that. In the first part they were divorced and lived their totally separate lives. She was sore because he was how he was and because fate had had her meet him, and he was sore because he hadn’t known how to hold on to her and had done everything wrong, and grown men aren’t allowed to do everything wrong. Only Mom and Dad knew the truth about that first part, nobody else, and if they did tell other people anything about themselves and their dead marriage, then — and this I’m sure of — they only told lies or said things to shift the blame. In the other part of their life, which occurred once a week or twice a year, the two of them were a happy family, bound to me like horses tied to a waterwheel plodding one behind the tail of the other, never touching the whole day through.

We arrived in Kladanj. The hotel was empty; the receptionist stood at the counter, head resting on the guest book, asleep on his feet. The waiter was whistling one of those songs where there’s a couple who love each other, but one is sick and the other gloomy. He carried a big silver tray, his face contorted in a grimace, and it appeared a distinct possibility that when the song was finished, he was going to slam the tray against the wall, rip his waiter’s jacket off, and throw himself in the river, heartbroken that whatever had happened in the song had happened. I don’t understand why people sing and whistle those kinds of songs if afterward they’re going to feel so bad they want to smash stuff.

What can I get you? the waiter said, having forgotten to change the expression on his face. Two coffees and a Coca-Cola , said Dad. We’re out of Coke! the waiter shot back. Fine, a cloudy juice then , Dad quickly recovered. Coffee, coffee, and a cloudy , the waiter translated the order into waiters’ language, and showed up a couple of minutes later with his tray balanced like a circus act. The coffee cups and juice glass slid from one end of his tray to the other, but they never collided, and he didn’t spill a drop either. Pleased with himself, he completely forgot the song with the sick and gloomy lovers.