Miljenko Jergovic - Mama Leone

Boris and Maja lost touch when the war started. He had stayed in Sarajevo, and she’d gone north. The last time they saw each other, they’d been a couple, their love beyond question. However pathetic it might sound, they parted because the war was men’s business and women were better off out of it. Boris had Maja’s phone number but never dialed it. Maja sent Boris a letter through the Red Cross asking him why he hadn’t been in touch. Boris never sent a reply. There was no real explaining his silence, maybe it was because he feared for his life, maybe he didn’t think he’d survive the war, and maybe he was jealous of her life or it was because Mr. Big had begun appearing to him even before he appeared for real in her life. A few more months passed and Maja moved farther north, Boris no longer knew her address or telephone number. Three years later he bumped into a friend of hers who wrote Maja’s number on the back of a business card, without him having asked or her having said anything. One night he lay in bed, and when sleep wouldn’t come he dialed the number. The voice at the other end burst with joy, breathlessly telling him she was married and expecting. Boris called again a month after the birth. And then again three months after that, until the seventh time they spoke she told him she would soon be visiting the Adriatic.

He got up from the table, gave Maja and Mr. Big the need-to-pee grin, and headed for the bathroom. The urinal was filthy, the tiles chipped, his stream of urine washing away the blue traces of a long-crusted detergent, the whole thing reeking like an abandoned barrack latrine where a whole company had pissed before heading off to the front. He tried to remember whether Mr. Big had gone to the bathroom and seen this, our local disgrace, but maybe it didn’t bother him. The north is too far away for our tourist specialities to offend anyone way up there. In any case, for a second it comforted him to think he was the host and Mr. Big the tourist.

He stopped by the bar, the bill thanks , the waiter smiled, I’ll be over in a second , expecting Boris to return to the table, no, I’d like to settle up here , the waiter made like he understood and smiled consolingly in total accord with the cardinal rule of his profession: accept the weirdest things as normal lest they disturb the general ambience.

He sat back down, rubbing his hands and looking at his watch. It was already past four. This has been a long lunch! Maja said. The kid was sleeping in his father’s lap. There was no more disturbing the fish bones’ peace. I’ve loved it, I’ve loved it , she repeated, me too, me too , he worried that he might sound cynical so said it twice, making it sound funny. Mr. Big already had that ready-to-go look on his face, the one he had arrived with.

Now they only needed to perform the farewell act, which was certainly less an emotional problem than one of convention. Saying your goodbyes to a person you haven’t seen for six years and maybe won’t ever see again isn’t easy. Maja didn’t have any experience with this sort of thing, such farewells obviously at odds with the philosophy of her new life. There were no dramatic farewells in the north nor could there be, there people’s goodbyes are temporary, or death or hate parts them. Of course we’ll catch up again in the next few days , she said, it’s not far for you to pop over to Dubrovnik, and we can always come back . Boris opened his arms like this so completely went without saying that nothing more needed to be said. So they didn’t say anything. Mr. Big held the kid to his chest.

They stood on the ferry gateway. We’re in Hotel Argentina , she said, not quite yet free of the unease of their parting. Great, I’ve got the number! The lie was a transparent one, but Boris wasn’t aware of it and Maja didn’t notice. Why would he have the number for Hotel Argentina, doesn’t matter, the ferry drew nearer. An elderly ensemble was playing on deck, dressed for a ball from the end of the last century, the singer on the podium not much younger than this century, his black tails looking from a distance like moths had celebrated the sinking of the Titanic on them. The singer had the gestures of old photographs, as if posing for someone or something at his death, the merry apocalypse that might just emerge as the bridge lowered toward the shore. In a soft voice, as gentle as if wiping a dust cloth over a piano, he sang away, I’d rather sail away, like a swan that’s here and gone, a man gets tied up to the ground, he gives the world its saddest sound, its saddest sound .

Mr. Big jumped in excitedly: whoa, El condor passa . Maja and Boris laughed simultaneously, their pupils catching a chance square glance. Their pupils stilled, they shared a moment of intimacy free of any other thoughts or feelings, one they would never share again. They kissed and hugged, no mention of seeing each other again, in a few days, in Dubrovnik, or on Hvar. Maja and entourage crossed the footbridge, the bridge was drawn up, the ferry set off, Maja waved from the deck, the kid waved, Mr. Big waved, his waves like signals sent to illegal aviators high in the sky. Boris held his arm in the air, moving it to the rhythm of the farewell song, left and right, away, I’d rather sail away, like a swan that’s here and gone . The ferry became smaller, Maja and her waving hand too, until she was as tiny as the brown tips of pine needles. Just before the boat disappeared behind the bay, Boris saw she had lowered her arm and turned around, or maybe that’s just what he thought he saw. He punched his hand in the air, extending his arm as far as he could. He liked that. It looked ridiculous and cooled his sweating skin.

The commotion in the train on the Trieste — Mestre line lasted half an hour. First the conductor came down the corridor, then immediately scuttled back, then a pair of carabinieri turned up, and then the conductor flew past again, returning from the dining car with a girl holding a glass of water. In Monfalcone a plump bald man with a doctor’s bag got on and was followed down the corridor by the taller of the two carabinieri, and then all was quiet. When the train pulled into Mestre an ambulance was waiting on the platform. Two paramedics entered the nonsmoking car in second class and remained there until the train was empty. Then they went back to fetch a stretcher. On the stretcher lay a black plastic bag. They exited the train ten minutes later. The bag on the stretcher was no longer empty.

At that moment a full three hours had passed since Barbara Veronesse, a retired piano teacher from the music school in Sarajevo; her seven-year-old granddaughter, Azra; and Gianni, Aldo, and Marco, senior-high students from Trieste heading to Venice for a Black Uhuru concert, had all entered the compartment. Nana Barbara sat next to the window, across from her sat Azra, look here , Nana said, this is where my grandma and grandpa were born , and Azra looked and saw nothing but grass and stone houses, look here , Nana pointed, your grandpa fought here , and Azra looked and saw nothing but grass and the odd pine tree. She watched Gianni, Aldo, and Marco out of the corner of her eye, shouting, laughing, and clapping in a completely incomprehensible language. Azra knew the whole world didn’t speak the same language, didn’t even speak English, but she had never imagined that laughter and clapping in a foreign language might sound so strange.

Nana sighed and closed her eyes. Azra watched a lock of hair fall on her forehead, the wheels of the train banging away, taram-taramtaram , the lock falling lower and lower, now just above the eyebrow, with the next taram-taramtaram it’ll be almost in her eye, no it won’t, it’ll take one more taram-taramtaram , there we go, it’s fallen. Nana’s asleep and doesn’t notice, the foreign boys holler away, what’s wrong with them, can’t they see Nana’s asleep? Azra closed her eyes, if they see she’s sleeping too maybe they’ll quiet down.