Miljenko Jergovic - Mama Leone

He had a bovine nature too. Hopelessly devoted to Rajna and Kosta, he was scared of everything else: dogs, cats, children, people. He scampered away like they were aliens, aliens who might be stronger than you, or smarter as well, but you weren’t sure, and who might turn you into a pumpkin, a mouse, or something even more terrible as an experiment. Kosta took him for long walks in the park and called out after him — hiding in a bush, under a car or a bench — because some little munchkin had scared him to death again, opening his arms to hug him, burbling doggie, doggie .

Željko seemed to have completely changed his masters’ lives. Kosta stopped reading the paper from cover to cover, he’d leave it on his desk and do other stuff, like flick through dog-food brochures, buy Željko rubber bones, cabbage- or carrot-shaped toys, or a red collar with his name on it. Rajna learned how to arrange things in the house so she could reach Željko’s food, and the dog would follow her everywhere she went. She’d wheel around the apartment the whole day, talk to the dog, try to explain things you couldn’t say to people, and he looked at her the very way you expect people to look at you, but the way only dogs do: straight in the eye, with endless trust and a hope that nothing is lost and that all is well and that everything will stay the way it is, because time has stopped and days no longer fly by, nothing is evanescent or perishable. With Željko’s help Rajna learned how to get from her wheelchair into the armchair and back. He’d sit firm in place, she’d grab a tight hold of his head and perform a maneuver she couldn’t explain to Kosta, and which, so she believed, she had learned from the dog — and presto she was in the armchair. The grip didn’t work when she tried it using Kosta arms. He offered that she grab hold of his head, but that didn’t work either. They laughed until they cried and were happy for the first time. Željko brought the rubber cabbage over and dropped it down in front of them, his contribution to the fun.

My life has completely changed since Željko’s been with us , said Kosta raising his glass of slivovitz. Bless his good mother, we have to look after our president , said Ensign Pehar clinking glasses with Kosta. The president has to have his bodyguard. . Only I don’t know who’s looking after whom, we him or he us. One day Rajna was telling me about when a cockroach scooted past, and Željko took off under the table!

They had homeowners’ association meetings every Tuesday, fortified by a few short ones and a little cheese. Pehar would methodically put notices up, but no one else ever came, so he and Kosta completely forgot they had any neighbors. Pehar insisted on spending at least five minutes talking about “building infrastructure,” a pedantry that amused Kosta no end, but he accepted the game all the same. Later they’d chat about anything and everything, mostly about life, which for both he and Pehar had taken some strange turns. The ensign’s wife had died in childbirth in 1958. Seventeen years later, his son, a high-school senior, put a bullet in his temple using Pehar’s service pistol. Left on his own, Pehar had spent his life between home and the barracks, until five years ago, as soon as the election results were out, he was pensioned off, or rather, hounded out of the army because he didn’t fit within the “new organizational structure.”

I don’t believe in God, but I’m sure he’s been punishing me for some thirty years or more. When Anđa died, I knew that’s what he was doing, and I told him, go on then, do your work, and I’ll do mine, but I won’t believe in you. And when one day I didn’t have a son anymore either, I told him, okay then, now you’ve taken everything from me, but I’m not giving you anything, you do your work, but you’re not getting an empty shell from me. And that’s how things stand to this day, he’s punishing me because I don’t believe in anything to do with him, and I’m alive and I’ve still never asked myself why I’m alive , said Pehar, completely at ease, as if he was giving his report before taps.

Maybe that’s how one manages to live, thought Kosta, reconciled with both his own and Pehar’s story.

Željko was almost two when Rajna suddenly got it into her head that the dog needed to learn something. She tried for days. But when she’d say shake hands , he’d try to jump into her lap, four legs and all. When she’d say bring the ball , he’d lick her on the nose, and on the command on your mat , he’d wag his tail and think he was going to get a biscuit.

The dog doesn’t know anything , she said to Pehar that Tuesday when he came by to collect Kosta for their meeting. Of course he doesn’t when no one’s taught him , Pehar replied, clicking his heels, creasing his forehead, and transforming himself into a soldier from a Socialist film journal.

Željko, play dead! he thundered. Željko put his tail between his legs and his head down and began, as if ashamed and not knowing what to do with himself, to turn in a circle in the middle of the room. Željko, play dead! he yelled again, pushing the dog to the floor. The dog looked at him confused, and was then even more confused when Pehar gently patted him, turned to Rajna, and in a somewhat more restrained command, as if addressing a sergeant in front of a regular soldier, said: Rajna, biscuit! Rajna handed him a dog biscuit in the shape of a bone and Pehar gave it to Željko, who was already beside himself with surprise.

That night they skipped the homeowners’ association meeting, but Željko had learned the first thing in his life: to play dead and get a biscuit for it.

Rajna and Kosta repeated the Željko, play dead! game over and over.

The dog quickly understood that the game gave his masters incredible pleasure. Later, whenever he sensed Rajna was sad or that Kosta had come home from work a bit uptight, he’d lie down of his accord and play dead. He knew it would cheer them up.

It was a Sunday, a week before Christmas, when Rajna’s condition deteriorated. The nausea started in her stomach, spread through her body, and settled in her thoughts and head. Everything’s messed up , she said just before her head slumped over.

Kosta ran to the telephone, the dog paced around the room, out of sorts and whining. The ambulance was there in ten minutes.

In the morning, Kosta was there standing in front of a hospital room holding a plastic bag full of oranges. They didn’t let him see Rajna. She’s sleeping now , said the nurse. How long’s she been asleep , Kosta asked. The nurse didn’t answer him.

The doctor was tall and blond. Like a German in a Partisan film. Except he had sad eyes, and neither Germans nor doctors have sad eyes.

An aneurysm , he said. . She’s asleep?. . No. Your wife’s not asleep. . She’s awake? The doctor shook his head and lowered his gaze. She’s alive?. . Yes, she’s still alive .

On the way home he didn’t know what to do with the oranges. He had to dump them somewhere because he thought someone, some angel, might be betrayed if he should simply carry them in over the threshold. The oranges.

He went into the post office, people were busy filling in their payment forms, he put the bag down on the counter and walked out. He didn’t have to run, Kosta was already invisible to them.

He sat in the armchair and smoked. Night fell, and the things in the room disappeared one after the other, but Kosta didn’t turn the light on. At the other end of the room sat Željko, watching him. One needs to believe in God, thought Kosta. I’ll tell Pehar that tomorrow. He has to believe because he knows God exists. I can’t because I don’t know that. The cigarette had burned down between his fingers. He tried to pull himself together and decide what to do. To turn on the television, turn on the light, go to the kitchen, to the bathroom, wherever, to give Pehar a call, take Željko to the park, to do something, anything. . Everything he thought of dissolved before his eyes. He looked at the glow of the cigarette, which had already completely burned down. He stubbed the butt out and started to cry. He knew the telephone would ring any minute now. No one had to tell him that.