Aleksandar Hemon - Best European Fiction 2013

“Seven years.”

“What does he say? How are the jails in Australia? Does he have to kill kangaroos or make shoes for the Aborigines?”

“He doesn’t complain.”

Gonzales laughed. “A good guy, your brother. A bit of a hothead, and too harsh, but definitely good. We went to elementary school together, you know.”

“He told me about that,” I answered.

“What else did he tell you?”

“That if ever I needed anything, or got into any trouble, I could ask you for help.”

“And so you can, whatever it is. Just tell me, and I’ll sort it out.”

I nodded and muttered a scant “Thanks.”

“But you don’t get into trouble—they say you’re not like your brother at all…”

“No, I’m not,” I replied.

“What do you mean you’re not?” he asked.

“I don’t get into trouble and I’m not like my brother at all.” I probably repeated those words with a tinge of resentment in my voice, and Gonzales didn’t fail to notice.

“Hey, just a bit of fun, sonny—no hard feelings. I like to tease people. It’s all I’ve got left. And now pour us each another glass of wine and let’s bury the hatchet, all right?”

I nodded and did as he suggested. For a while we drank in silence, then he asked out of the blue:

“Are you also interested in what happened to Geiger?”

I felt awkward because, by asking that question, he was putting me into his category of fucking jerks, but I simply couldn’t say no. I was itching to find out, just like everyone else in Budva, so I aimed for the middle of the road:

“I’d like to hear, but if you don’t want to talk about it—just forget it.”

He withdrew into himself, evidently satisfied with the company he’d found, and showing no sign that my words had registered with him, and after a while he asked me what time it was.

“Ten past four,” I replied.

“Do you need to go home? Are you late for something?”

I shook my head.

“Good—” said Gonzales, “I’ll tell you what happened to Geiger. I feel like I need to tell someone tonight, and right now you’re my best choice.” He inhaled deeply several times, as deeply as he could, like a diver filling his lungs before the plunge. Then he reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew an almost new pack of cigarettes, took one out, and began:

“Geiger was in a particularly bad mood that evening. I could tell by his voice when he rang and suggested we meet at Kaktus Café. I was tired and not sure I really felt like going out at all; I’d spent the day trying to repair the boat’s motor. But in the end I decided to go out—I needed a bit of company. Geiger was sitting out on the terrace at a table next to a big cactus and sipping his whiskey; his mobile phone lay blinking with its green cyclops eye next to his pack of cigarettes. After we’d said hello he stewed in silence; he only waved to the waiter, and when the fellow finally lumbered up to the table he ordered ‘two doubles.’ I didn’t object, although I would have preferred a beer. But, ultimately, what did it matter? It didn’t make any difference what I got blasted on that night. Several attempts to engage in conversation with Geiger simply failed. Whatever I asked, he’d reply curtly and unwillingly, and when what I was saying didn’t demand a direct answer, he didn’t listen at all.

“‘Have you seen Kefir?’ I asked.

“‘I called him shortly after talking with you. He promised he’d come later.’

“Good, we’ll wait for him, I said to myself—maybe he’ll be less grumpy and more in the mood for a chat. I’d hold out for a bit longer, I thought, and then if Kefir still hadn’t arrived I’d go home for a bit of shut-eye. I felt weariness creeping over me and was starting to feel sick of it all. Just as I was beginning to sink into gloom and despondency, Kefir turned up at the gate and yelled jovially:

“‘Whereya been, ya freaks?’

“I couldn’t think of what to say back, but Geiger obliged:

“‘Up shit creek. Whereya been yourself, ya moron?’

“The question was part of the standard repartee and didn’t require an answer, so Kefir didn’t reply; he just said hello, looked at the table to see what we were drinking and, satisfied with what he saw, signaled to the waiter to repeat the order—this time with one more glass.

“Kefir’s arrival enlivened the conversation, if you could call it that at all, since he talked incessantly, while Geiger mumbled to himself and I expended the last of my energy trying to stay awake. And I definitely would have fallen asleep if there hadn’t suddenly been an uproar: a blockhead passing by our table with a few mugs of beer and a glass of tomato juice tripped on a bump in the floor, lost his balance, and spilled the drinks all over Geiger’s shirt and pants. Geiger didn’t quite realize what had happened at first, but when he saw the red stains on his clothes he smiled and slowly began to get up from the table with an expression on his face that seemed to say: Oh, never mind, these things happen: just apologize and everything’s fine.

“But Kefir and I knew very well what was brewing: Geiger had decided to beat the cretin up; he just didn’t want to frighten him with a yell and have him run away before he got his thrashing. We saw it coming: the cretin fumbled around at our feet, muttering a paltry apology, trying in vain to clean the blotches off Geiger’s pants with a tissue. Kefir held onto Geiger while I urged the poor fellow to move before it was too late. But he didn’t listen and bent down to reach the patches on Geiger’s lower trouser legs—just in the right position for Geiger to deliver a mighty kick in the head. We heard the sickening thud of the shoe connecting with his face. He recoiled and fell down on the floor, and the waiter reached for the phone to call the police. None of the cretin’s buddies showed any inclination to stand up for him. Kefir went up to the bar, paid the bill, and impressed upon the waiter that he keep this to himself. Then we left the café.

“We loitered around town for a while and peeped into a few bars, but there were none that took our fancy. As glum and silent as Geiger had been earlier, he now chattered incessantly and laughed just for the sake of it. Kefir and I looked at him like he was loony at first, but soon we started laughing too, especially when he imitated the cretin bending down and fumbling with his tissue. All in all, it had been an eventful evening out.

“It was getting toward the wee hours and we were tired of walking and complaining that none of us had come into town by car. Just as we were about to go our separate ways, Geiger suggested we spend the rest of the evening at his place.

“‘But it’s late,’ Kefir objected.

“‘Come off it—you call this late?’ Geiger argued.

“‘Shall we?’ Kefir asked me, not wanting to decide.

“‘If the idiot wants to listen to our whinging and has a bottle of whiskey on offer—I’d say we go!’ I resolved.

“Every time I went to Geiger’s place I was surprised, as if I’d never seen it before. The space he lived in didn’t appeal to me at all. Back then I didn’t know why I felt so uncomfortable, and when I finally found out it was too late to do anything about it. Geiger had studied architecture and was one of the best students of his generation. People who understood the town’s needs predicted a successful career for him, but unfortunately nothing came of it. In the early nineties, every turd from Podgorica and Belgrade who’d made it rich had to have an apartment in Budva (it was a question of power!), yet the developers’ mafia didn’t find my friend a suitable associate. Once I asked him why, and he replied that their interests didn’t square with any serious definition of architecture. ‘Any silly bugger with a diploma can design those sterile holiday hovels,’ he spat, and added after a moment’s reflection: ‘I hate this town from the bottom of my heart, believe me, but I don’t hate it as much as they do!’