Aleksandar Hemon - Love and Obstacles

“You can’t get it up, can you,” he said, chortling. “You can’t get it up. Let me show you something.” He quickly unfastened his eagle-buckled belt and let his jeans drop down. His dick leapt at me and stood in my face like an erect cannon. Its head was perfectly purple; the blue veins seemed to be throbbing.

“A solid torpedo, and ready to explode,” Spinelli said, and stroked it. “Do you wanna touch it? C’mon, touch it.”

Natalie sighed but did not open her eyes; the candle flickered, nearly going out. With indescribable effort, I finally stood up and pushed him away. “Hey!” he said, stumbling backward with his pants at his ankles. Still, I expected him to grab me from behind as I was walking out, I was ready for him to smash my head against the door until I blacked out, but nothing happened.

Outside, a tremulous lightwake stretched itself toward the cataractous moon. My heart was playing the bridge from “Stairway to Heaven,” but beyond the noise in my veins, beyond the limp limbs, beyond the cold-sweating skin, was a serene flow carrying me away from everything that had been me. Up the path, past an oddly azure pool with a school of insects drowning in it, I walked back toward the restaurant.

And at the restaurant there would be my family: my sister picking the green beans off Father’s plate; Father slicing his steak, still wearing his pith helmet despite Mother’s nagging; Mother parting the mashed potato and carrots on Sister’s plate, because Sister never wanted them to touch. I would take my place at the table, and Father would ask me where I had been. Nowhere, I would say, and he would ask me nothing more. You’d better eat something, you look so pale, Mother would say. My sister would tell us how much she looked forward to our safari, to seeing the elephant and the antelope and the monkey. Tomorrow is going to be really great, she would cry, clapping with joy, I simply can’t wait. And we would laugh, Mother, Father, and I, we would laugh, Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, hiding desperately our rope burns.

Everything

Before I opened my eyes, I listened: Against the sound wall of a clattering train, two male voices; one of them was mine-deep and spoke with a southern Serbian accent; the other was mumbly and uttered words with the inflections of a Sarajevo thug, the soft consonants further softened, the vowels stuck in the gullet. I wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but there was gurgling in the bottle neck, the crackling of a burning cigarette.

“France,” the Sarajevan said.

“Refused entry.”

“Germany.”

“Refused entry.”

“Greece.”

“Never went.”

“Refused entry.”

“Got me there,” the Serbian said, and chortled.

The train slowed to a stop; I heard the doors opening. One of the men got up and stepped out of the compartment; the other followed him. I opened my eyes; the doors slid shut. They pushed the window down and were smoking. A man and a woman ran toward the train, each with a couple of suitcases banging the sides of their calves—there was a gash in the woman’s leg. I contemplated escaping from the compartment: I had a bundle of money and my life to worry about. But my fellow travelers pressed their butts against the door, the Y-crack peeping out of the pants of one of them. The train lurched and started moving; they flicked their cigarettes and came back in. I closed my eyes again.

“Did you know Tuka?” asked the Sarajevan.

“No.”

“How about Fahro?”

“Which Fahro?”

“Fahro the Beast.”

“Fahro the Beast. His nose was bitten off?”

“Yes, that Fahro.”

“I didn’t know him.”

“Which cell block were you in?”

“Seven.”

“Rape?”

“Burglary.”

“Burglary was Six.”

“Well, I was in Seven,” the Serbian said, peevishly.

“I was in Five. Manslaughter.”

“Nice.”

“I was a little drunk.”

“Life is death if you don’t have a little drink every now and then,” concluded the Serbian wisely, and chugged from the bottle. They fell silent, watching me. It was not unreasonable to believe that they could smell my fear and were just about to cut my throat and take the money. When I sensed one of them shuffling his feet and moving toward me, I opened my eyes. They were staring at me with bemused expressions.

“The child’s awake,” the Sarajevan said.

“Where are you headed?” the Serbian asked me.

“Zagreb,” I said.

“What for?”

“To visit my grandfather.”

“If Grandma had balls, she would be Grandpa,” said the Sarajevan, for no apparent reason.

“Do you have a pretty sister we could be very nice to?” the Serbian asked, and licked his lips.

“No,” I said.

My grandfather was dead, and when he was not, he did not live in Zagreb; I had a sister too. The truth was, my destination was Murska Sobota, I had a wad of money in my pocket, my mission to buy a freezer chest for my family.

Some weeks before I set out on this journey, my father had summoned a family meeting. “There arrives a time in the life of every family,” he had said in his opening words, “when it becomes ready to acquire a large freezer chest.” The ice box in the fridge was no longer spacious enough to contain the feed—meat, mainly—for the growing children; the number of family friends was so large that the supplies for an improvised feast had to be available at all times; “the well-being of our family requires new investments,” abundance demanded more storage. My father used to like meetings like this, the family democracy game. We often had to sit through such a congress so we could vote on a decision he had already made. There were no objections this time either: my mother rolled her eyes at the rhetoric, even if she wanted a freezer chest; in the usual seventeen-year-old manner I made sure I was visibly indifferent; my sister was keeping notes, much too slowly. She was thirteen at the time, and still invested in the perfection of her handwriting.

But to my utter surprise, I was unanimously elected to be the purchaser of the freezer chest. Father worked in mysterious ways: he had tracked down the biggest chest—the six-hundred-liter model—available in the lousy market of socialist Yugoslavia; he somehow discovered that the best price was in Murska Sobota, a small town deep in Slovenia, not far from the Hungarian border. I was to take the night train to Zagreb, then a bus to Murska Sobota; I was to spend a night at the hotel ambitiously called Evropa; the next day I was to deliver the money to someone named Stanko, and that was where my mission ended. Stanko was to arrange the shipment, and all I needed to do was come back home safely.

The Sarajevan looked at me intently, possibly deciding whether to do me in because I obviously lied. He wore a suit and a tie, but his shoes looked shitty, the soles peeling off. Blinking very slowly, as if his eyes were counting time, he asked me:

“Do you fuck?”

“What?”

“Do you fuck? Do you use your dick the way it is supposed to be used?”

“A little,” I said.

“I love to fuck,” the Serbian said.

“There is nothing sweeter than a fuck,” the Sarajevan said.

“Yeah,” the Serbian said wistfully, and rubbed his crotch. He had tattooed knuckles; he wore a leather jacket and shoes so pointy that it seemed he had sharpened them so they could easily penetrate the skull.

Despite her voting for my deployment on the freezer-chest mission, my mother had worried about my traveling. I was excited: Murska Sobota sounded exotic and dangerous. This was the first time I would be away alone, on the road by myself, my first opportunity to live through experiences from which many a poem would spring. For I was a budding poet; I had filled entire notebooks with the verses of teenage longings and crushing boredom (always the flip side of longing). I equipped myself for the expedition: a fresh notebook; extra pencils; a book of Rimbaud’s—my bible ( As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers / I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers . . . ); packs of Marlboros (rather than the usual crappy Drinas); and a single contraceptive pill I had gotten in exchange for Physical Graffiti, a double Led Zeppelin LP that I no longer cared about, as I had moved on to the Sex Pistols.