Aleksandar Hemon: Love and Obstacles

“You make a right turn here,” Carlier said, “and you are in Rwanda.”

We turned left, got out of town, and drove through the fields of black lava rock surrounding intermittent islands of jungle verdure. A gray mountain beyond the green-and-black landscape exuded smoke; the earth appeared unearthly. “Nyiragongo,” Carlier said, as if the word were self-explanatory.

The Karibu Hotel consisted of huts scattered along the shore of Lake Kivu, which, Carlier told us gleefully, contained no life: the last time Nyiragongo had erupted, the volcanic gases killed every living creature in it. Sestra and I shared one of the huts, redolent of clean towels, insecticide, and mold. As she unpacked, humming to herself, I stared out the window: a pirogue glided unhurriedly on the wave-less water; the sky and the lake were welded together without a joint; a pale moon levitated in the haze. The sun was setting somewhere; everything was returning to darkness after an unhappy day out.

The ban on my wandering seemed to be suspended here; I left Sestra sprawling on her bed, happily attached to the Walkman. Heart of Darkness in hand, I took the uphill path going past other bungalows. I was hoping to escape dinner with my family; I needed to be elsewhere and alone. On the way from the airport they felt foreign to me, not unlike hired actors mindlessly performing gestures of care and kinship: Tata in his absurd pith helmet; Mama smirking, routinely scared of the future; Sestra approaching everything with useless curiosity—I could remember that I used to love them, but I could not remember why, and I was terrified.

The carefully trimmed hedges were moist with dusk; low, mushroomlike lanterns flickered by the path. I walked onto a terrace extending from a vast restaurant hall. At its center, like an altar, was a table laden with food and flowers. And there, with his back to me, picking slices of meat and chunks of fruit, mounting them on his plate, was Steve Spinelli. I recognized his triangular torso and narrow hips, his claw curls and cowboy boots. For a blink, I considered sneaking out, but then he turned—a veritable hillock of victuals on his plate—and looked at me with no surprise whatsoever.

“Look what the bitch dragged in,” he said.

He walked out onto the terrace, and I went with him to his table; he offered me a seat and I took it, determined to leave as soon as possible, before Father caught me here. Without being asked, I said:

“We are going to Virunga National Park tomorrow, for a safari.”

“It’s a fun world, Blunderpuss,” Spinelli said. “Getting funner every day.”

“Is Natalie with you?”

“She is.”

“Why are you here?”

He dug into the foodstuff with a spoon and chewed heartily with his mouth open, ignoring me. Between spoonfuls, he puffed on a cigarette, then put it back in the ashtray.

“For a vacation,” he said. “And while I am here, I might as well discuss an important matter with your father.”

“Like what?”

“You, maybe. Or maybe not. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

I grabbed his Marlboros and lit up. The possibility of a drug-laced cigarette crossed my mind, but it tasted good. He seemed to speak to me from a space in which no life mattered—all the roles and purposes had already been assigned, and I did not know what mine were. I fidgeted and tapped the ashes from my cigarette until the ember broke off.

“I hear that you are a good volleyball player,” he said. “Did you like Antonyka?”

“How do you know him?”

“I know a lot of people. Anton is a remarkable gentleman, as well as a communist cocksucker.”

He waved at Carlier, who was just walking into the restaurant hall accompanied by a tall man with sideburns and a scaphander Afro. Carlier spoke to the man brusquely, pointing at the meat tray, then at the flowers—there was some disorder to be redressed. “I know Carlier too, for example,” Spinelli went on. “We used to run guns to Angola together.” The tall man took notes, looking at Carlier with dismay, which tightened the muscles and sinews in his forearms. I envisioned him suddenly punching in Carlier’s face, blood spraying onto his white shirt, Carlier falling to the ground and screaming for help.

“Your dad also played with you and Anton, didn’t he?” Spinelli said. “I bet you played pretty good together.”

Carlier left the tall man to deal with the problem at hand, and dropped into the chair next to Spinelli. He pulled a pipe out of his breast pocket, with his pinkie picked some detritus from its mouth, but didn’t light it.

“Whipping would be too good for Monsieur Henri,” Carlier said peevishly.

“One day, Carlier, he’s gonna slit your throat,” Spinelli said. “And I’ll cry over your corpse till I can piss no more.”

Scoffing with approbation, Carlier picked up my book, looked at it without interest, and put it down. I took it from his hand and bade them good night.

The mushroom lamps cast a feeble light on the path, but on nothing else. The lava gravel crunched under my feet. Obscure creatures rustled in the black trees and bushes. The sky was splattered with stars, smeared with the Milky Way. I was lost; I could not remember the number of my hut, identical to all the others; the path seemed to be a circle.

I don’t know why I behaved like a lunatic. I heard footsteps coming down the path behind me; I stepped off into the darkness and ducked behind a tree with a precise clarity of action; somebody had already done it once and I was just repeating the exact motions. I dropped my book; whatever was concealed in the tree shuffled its way higher up, and I did not dare pick up the book. The tree bark was smooth and fragrant, my hand sweating against it. The footsteps stopped.

“Come out, Blunderpuss. I can see you.”

I was afraid to move or look at him, exhaling to the end of my breath, then inhaling through my nostrils, getting air-headed and elated as if that were the way to make myself invisible. Something fell on my head from above—a leaf, an insect, monkey hair—but I did not brush it off. It was so easy here to forget everything, to lose all bearing. An army of insects screeched at a high, buzzing pitch, as though cutting through a steel cable; then they stopped. I stepped out on the path.

“Let’s go and say hi to Monkeypie,” Spinelli said. “She’d love to see you.”

“Maybe later,” I said. “I must go.”

“She’s crazy about you, you know. She talks about you all the time. She’d love to see you.” He put his arm around my shoulders; I felt the weight of his forearm on my neck, as he softly pushed me forward.

Their room smelled of burnt sugar; the ceiling fan was dead. Natalie lay on her side, her hand tucked between the pillow and her cheek, a tranquil smile on her face lit by the bedside lamp. Around her biceps, a loose rubber rope twisted. On the nightstand were a syringe and a spoon and a burning candle. I was an instant behind myself: I saw what it all was, but the thought could not encrust itself with meaning. Spinelli caressed her forehead with the back of his hand and moved a stray hair from her cheek.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she, so peaceful,” he whispered. “Would you like to fuck her?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

“She’s a little out of touch, but she’d love it, believe me.”

“No, thank you.”

“What’s your problem, Blunderpuss? When I was your age I had a hard-on twenty-four/seven.”

He stood above her with his hands on his hips. I couldn’t move, until my knees got so weak I sat down, my back to Natalie. In her oblivion, she did not budge when I leaned on her belly. I had reached the farthest point of navigation. Dear Azra, the leaves have covered my path. I do not know if I will ever see you again.