Miljenko Jergovic - Mama Leone

Uncivilized are these young folk: You don’t who they are, let alone what they are, yet they pinch and tease you, talk to you when the mood strikes them, not even introducing themselves. It wasn’t like this in Nana Erika’s day. You knew the rules and your place. The first rule was that strangers — young, old, doesn’t matter — weren’t welcome in her house, and if you came knocking, you had to introduce yourself, announce your purpose, say whether you were a guest, the postman, or after a particular number or street. And now look; her Zagreb apartment is full of them. Maybe that’s the custom, the done thing here, she won’t protest if it is, but then they should tell her so, not leave her to linger alone among so many strangers.

Only Lujo’s her own. Sometimes late at night he comes to her, takes her hand and caresses it, like back when they locked eyes as kids at the source of the Bosna’s waters, and at such times Nana Erika discreetly, so no one hears, asks Lujo, for the life of me, who are all these people, all these young folk? Instead of telling her the truth, Lujo’s eyes well with tears and he grips her hand and starts fumbling. Nana Erika knows Lujo’s fumbling, they’ve been sixty years together, and she doesn’t miss a beat, but she doesn’t interrupt. She lets him go, every sentence leading him ever further into a lie: Rika dear, they’re our children and grandchildren, your Tvrtko and Katarina, and Klara and Josip. Don’t you remember: a big snow had fallen when Klara was born, and you and I had been in Teslić and were on our way home. The train was stuck the whole night and the telegram just said “Katarina’s given birth,” so we didn’t even know if it was a boy or girl. Do you remember us waiting the whole night through and the conductor bringing us tea and saying, “Fear not, madam, every train arrives sometime, and so shall this one too.”

Her Lujo is dear to her, but even so she can no longer forgive his not telling her the truth (what kind of truth might she dare not be told?), and as he moves to kiss her good night, she turns her cheek to him, like she has never done before, and he knows something’s not right with his Rika, he knows Rika doesn’t like it when they fumble their lies, least of all when they’re Lujo’s lies. What children, what grandchildren, who knows who they belong to and what they’re doing in her apartment, if this is indeed her apartment, and if you are allowed to have two apartments in your old age: one torched in the war, and a second here in Zagreb, a city she’s never even seen, yet where she now has an apartment. She would need to plumb the depths of her brain, not to mention her morality, to figure out whether this might be possible or allowed, or whether it’s something else. Maybe this isn’t her apartment, maybe she and Lujo are just staying with these young folk and their parents until the war is over, until they go home, draw down a loan, and roll up their sleeves to rebuild what is given to be rebuilt, starting life over from the beginning. But then why didn’t he just tell her this, that they were among strangers, she could deal with that, she’s dealt with worse things in life, but she can’t stand a lie.

All shall be revealed on Christmas Day, and that’s the day after tomorrow. Everyone will gather around the tree, it’s already decorated, when Nana Erika will ask them who they are and whose are they, and if she’s in their apartment or they’re in hers. They won’t be able to lie, there’ll be too many of them, and people don’t know how to all suddenly lie the same lie, and how would they dare lie beside a tree so decorated, on this a holy day when every dishonesty and hypocrisy, every dirty look and vile thought count a hundred times more and are entered somewhere in heaven’s ledger.

Nana Erika is sitting in the armchair in front of the television, her legs covered with a big Russian shawl. The shawl is black, scattered with whopping red roses, as whopping as her Lujo’s lies. She runs her hand slowly over the roses, caressing them, imagining they are the night sky above Treskavica light-years ago, the flowers in place of stars, the sky reflected in two mountain lakes as if in two eyes in which everything might drown. Nana Erika hasn’t forgotten anything; she remembers the roses instead of stars and the lakes on Treskavica, and if she thought of Lujo’s words now, she’d burst into tears. You’ve forgotten this, you’ve forgotten that — she hasn’t forgotten anything under the sun, nothing worth remembering, not even those things it would have been better had never happened.

A boy stands in the doorway looking over at Nana Erika. She doesn’t let herself be thrown, though she knows the look he’s giving her, she just strokes her roses. Nana, let’s go have dinner, everyone’s at the table . Nana Erika lifts her head; her glasses on the tip of her nose, a whippet of anger would be enough for them to fall into her lap. But Nana Erika doesn’t get riled, she lets the boy take her hand and help her from the armchair; her legs feel the weight of her body, every bone bending, every muscle trembling, every vein trying to hold it all together. She had never been conscious of her body, hadn’t been aware of it carrying or moving her, but now she knows it well; Nana Erika and her body have finally become one, and she’s happy, because life’s not easy with your soul on one side and your flesh and bones on the other, always out of kilter. The boy led her step by step to the dining room; her shawl had slid to the floor, left lying in front of the armchair; how careless and sloppy, he’s not going to pick it up, that’s all right, someone will take care of it, someone will teach these children how to behave, even this one walking at her side; she’s not one for worrying the worries of others.

A grand long table covered with a white tablecloth. At its head sit Nana Erika and her Lujo, around the sides the strangers. There are more of them than usual. All look to the two of them; Lujo has rested his hand on hers, as if afraid of something, perhaps all these unfamiliar faces. It’s okay, Lujo, it’s okay, it’s our turn now , she whispers to him, and he squeezes her hand.

How far is it to Bethlehem? Not very far , sang Nana Erika. They should listen; they need to learn the song and how to sing. Tonight there shall be no lies, tonight, after the song it shall be known, who is father to whom, who son to whom, and what she and Lujo are doing there in Zagreb with this crowd. They all close their eyes and start singing, but they don’t know the words, and some of them don’t even know how to sing. Nana Erika picks up on that immediately; she’s got an ear for these sorts of things, for thirty years she sang in the Sarajevo Opera choir and from a hundred harmonic voices she knows who’s messing things up.

The song at an end, Nana Erika gently laid her head to her chest. Lujo shook her arm, but she didn’t wake. She hasn’t had enough sleep , he whispered as if apologizing. Everyone began nodding their heads to an invisible rhythm, staring at Nana with the same look she used to stare at her roses. It’s a shame Nana Erika couldn’t see this, because if she had, she would have recognized their eyes and maybe come around to the idea that Lujo hadn’t been lying after all, that everyone here really was a child or grandchild.

Merry Christmas, Nana , the girl was sitting on her bed offering her her hand. Christmas? What do you mean Christmas? We haven’t even had Christmas Eve . The girl laughed aloud: we have, we have, but you slept through it. . Slept through it? Child, you don’t know me. Erika Potkubovšek never sleeps through Christmas Eve and don’t you be cheeky with me. We haven’t had Christmas Eve, and there’s no Christmas without Christmas Eve . The girl looked sheepish — and so she should have, caught lying like that — and left the room.