We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day by Ivana Bodrozic (books to read to improve english txt) 📗

the cigarettes, quite close to her hand and the lighter she was holding, and asked, with his eyes, if he might use it. Until then he hadn’t been smoking. With the edge of his palm he brushed her fingers and Nora thought how warm his skin was against the night air which was turning brisk. He exhaled smoke, looked at her, and said:

“There aren’t two sides. You must know that.”

She looked at him, her eyes questioning.

“Here in the city, as nowhere else in the world. There aren’t two sides. You’re either with them on the inside or you’re out, and then you’re outside of everything. Alone, mostly. The political parties here are merely an illusion which has reached the point of seeming to be real. And that’s why all of this is as it is.”

She understood him, though he wasn’t speaking of any one public figure or party in particular; the clarity of his thinking worked its way into her mind, through her skin, under everything. She had the feeling that he was dragging behind him two tons of something dark, heavy, and fierce, out of which he spoke. She had the sense that he knew much more about the people and goings-on in the city than he let on. During the evening she noticed how his way of speaking was a combination of the words and phrases used by both sides. He sounded so natural, she thought, maybe that was why he was easier to understand than the others; his language hadn’t been broken. When the entire world they’d lived in collapsed, the language they’d spoken collapsed, too, and after that, thinking was no longer as easy. With your language broken, with all the words that are now out of bounds and proscribed, how is it even possible to think? Marko took what he needed and was unfettered in doing so, speaking softer or harder as the moment suited him. All this went through her head as she listened to him talk.

“Velimirović and Ilinčić are sustaining an illusion? Is that what you want to say?’ she asked, nudging him to be specific.

“Stay away from those men, Nora.” His voice went deep and quiet.

“I can’t,” she blurted. She hadn’t meant to say that. She’d told him nothing about her father except that he’d been killed, nor how Ilinčić’s name had long been associated with the case of the murder of the Osijek policeman. Nor how she’d been circling around all these people, trying to persuade even herself that her trajectory was random, while at the same time inching closer to them, step by step.

“They’ve destroyed everything,” she said.

“I know. So don’t let them destroy you,” he warned her gently. “Shall we?” He stubbed his cigarette.

“Let’s,” she agreed. “Thanks for your company.” She felt a need to say something like that, though nothing of what they’d exchanged this evening fit into usual conventionality.

“I’ll see you to the hotel.” This didn’t sound conventional; it sounded natural. The waiter, already in his coat, was waiting for them to leave so he could lock up. There was nobody left in town, the rutted main street under the streetlamps looked like a fresh scar on deeply creased skin. They walked along side by side, their steps loosely coordinated, occasionally losing the rhythm when stumbing over the chunks of broken pavement. Marko walked with his hands in his pockets, but then all at once Nora slipped hers into the empty space between his body and his elbow. She was tired of losing the rhythm, and this was a simpler way to walk. Marko didn’t say a word, he didn’t look at her, he didn’t betray that anything had changed, but she felt him press her arm to his body. They no longer noticed. The walk to the hotel took no more than five minutes in real time; the other dimension eluded calculation. They stood in front of the entrance to the hotel building, where not a single light was on.

“Will you give me your number, if I need a cab?” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Of course,” he nodded, and added: “I’m here for you any time.”

She entered the number in her phone and put it back in her backpack.

“Well thanks, again.” She didn’t know how to say goodbye. “And for seeing me back—after all, I went with the special.” She extended her hand in a parting gesture. He clasped it and held it longer, more tenderly, then released it.

“Take care, Nora.” He pulled her to him, hugging her with his other arm. “And don’t stay here long,” he whispered to her through her hair.

She nodded in his embrace and then turned and left. She thought about how she still had so much to do in the city.

9.

A few years for us

do you know how I want to find you

do I know what I need to know

love me like you’ve never loved

before (early summer 2010)

One of the Croatian war veterans, Zolja, ended up in a coma that night. He hurt his head badly when he slipped and whacked his temple on the steel footrest under the bar. There was shoving, shouting, spitting, heated words, but when the men in blue charged into the café, everyone’s eyes went bloodshot. They were particularly touchy about this, our cops facing off against our war veterans, and why? Those damned Cyrillic signs.

Ante and his buddies gathered that night where they usually gathered, at Ferrari, had a little to drink, and then went off to patrol the city. Out in front of a city building a young greenhorn, a local cop, legs akimbo, stood on guard under the sign in Cyrillic, his hands on his back. His balls visibly shook when he saw them stopping, but when they started throwing stones and chanting their rallying cries, the kid pulled out his nightstick and lunged at Zolja. He struck him several times on the back, and since Zolja was already a little unsteady on