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

his feet, he buckled. The rest of them swarmed the young cop, but he’d already managed to say something into his Motorola, so soon shouts were heard from a side street; the police station was only minutes away. Ante flung Zolja’s arm over his shoulder and all four of them staggered back to Ferrari. They were pumped with adrenaline, feeling like they’d felt in the old days, and Maki, the barman, showed them pictures he’d managed to snap on his cell phone, showing Zolja being beaten.

“Goddamn, this goes straight to the newspapers tomorrow morning!”

Soon they figured out who the shithead was who was wearing our uniform. His name was Saša; nobody cared that he was ethnically Ruthenian, they’d find him. And then, not even an hour later, our cops came charging in to question everybody who knew something about the attack on Croatian policeman Saša.

“Fuck your mother!” shouted Zolja, a finger-thick blood vessel popping out on his neck.

“Come now, boys!” came from the other side, from the phalanx of cops. Just when Zolja was about to heave a bottle at them, he slipped on the beer-slick floor, fell and gashed his head deeply. He stayed there, on the floor, and for the first few seconds they thought he’d dropped off to sleep, and then dark, greasy blood began spreading under the tips of their shoes. They lifted him up; he was covered in blood, and they could have pushed two fingers into the hole in his skull. Ante told all this, firsthand, to Ilinčić, who listened closely, his hands folded. His fingers tapped the tip of his nose, and his thumbs stroked his freshly shaven chin.

“We’ll go out there again if needed; there’re plenty of us!” Ante wrapped up the story.

“Hold your horses, Ante.” Ilinčić shook his head.

“Why the hell not; should we let them pick us off one by one? What’s happened to you, old man? You used to have balls!”

“Ante, don’t you worry about my balls. Wise up. You can’t go around the city beating up cops; you aren’t barbarians!”

“The kid lunged at us, I’m telling you!”

“I believe you, I believe you . . . but you know, what if that hadn’t been Saša? And what then? You’ll kill all of them one after another? This stinks. And here, I’m reading in the newspaper that Zolja’s blood-alcohol content was at 0.2 percent. You were obviously, all of you, drunk as dogs.”

“Well, we did have a drop to drink, sure . . . We’re not children!”

“This stinks. That’s all I’ll say about it. Your actions are doing harm, Ante. You should be more in-tel-li-gent. Are you listening?” He laid his hand on Ante’s shoulder. Ante nodded.

“Here, let’s take, for example”—Ilinčić moved in his seat, leaned forward, and seemed about to say something important—“your wife.”

“What about my wife?” Ante started.

“Why, the business with the school, the way they’re harassing her—”

“They are idiots! I know them, that crazy woman, Vujanović.” Here he compressed his lips and gulped. “And my wife is an idiot; all over those kids, as if they’re hers. But she can’t be made to see reason.”

“Hey, shut up, Ante, and listen to what I’m saying.” Ilinčić interrupted him and then, for a few moments, scratched his face in silence. “We can use this.”

“What?” asked Ante, confused. “My wife?”

“Yes, your wife. That’s the least you can do, for all of us, see?”

“She won’t go along with this. Damn it, she even defends them!”

“Come now, why wouldn’t she, Ante? I’ve had a word with her; she will, of course she will. Be smart about this. Let her go to the media. Let everyone see how things stand for us here: Our teachers. How we’re being told not to attend concerts of our own songs. How we have to be careful not to go overboard in showing how much we love our country. That’s our path, Ante. Not stone-throwing and boozing, you know; use that noggin of yours . . .”

“But what now; what can I do to her? I don’t like the idea of violence.”

“No violence, for God’s sake, Ante. I’ll take care of this; you just voice support when it’s needed. Get it now?”

“Got it. And thank you. You’re the real deal, our man.”

“Always have been, always will be,” said Ilinčić as he stood up, and then he swatted Ante across the back of his head. Ante was left sitting and thinking how to win over his wife. This soured him, again; he simply could not understand how she could be so gullible and stupid. She was stuck to proving the truth, as if there were such a thing, and as if anybody cared. And because of her pigheadedness, he had to admit he was actually a little pleased that all this was happening to her. Let her see what it was like when she didn’t listen to him; maybe that would wise her up. Luckily there were still people like Ilinčić who, despite his high-level position, was willing to go the extra mile for the cause. He decided not to force anything, but he’d be a little tougher on his wife. She used to be more attentive, make the effort, try to please him. He was the one who found her the job as soon as they returned to the city. He was some ten years older and was pleased to have a younger wife. But then, bit by bit, she began talking more about a normal life. When are we going to start living like normal people? That was how she put her questions to him, but what did she mean by normal? Was he supposed to forget all that had happened and how it happened? If there hadn’t been me, goddammit, there wouldn’t be you. And so on and so forth. While the war was on, everyone treated him with awe and respect, but now, wherever he went, it was as if he were a leper. What? You expect kid-glove treatment? Damned right we do! Fuck