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  McSWEENEY’S

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Copyright © 2016 Olja Savičević Ivančević

  Cover and interior illustrations by Sunra Thompson.

  The publication of this book was supported by a grant from the Ministry of Culture of the Republic of Croatia.

  All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part, in any form.

  McSweeney’s and colophon are registered trademarks of McSweeney’s, a privately held company with wildly fluctuating resources.

  E-ISBN: 978-1-940450-86-5

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  www.mcsweeneys.net

  Contents

  Eastern

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Western

  Farewell

  About the Translator

  About the Author

  EASTERN

  Stranger, the law does not protect you here.

  —Graffito, Main Jetty, Split, Croatia

  1

  SUMMER 2009 CAME TOO EARLY. This meant that ferocious heat had been building up ever since the beginning of May: the spring roses were expiring in the parks and stone troughs.

  At the end of July I packed all my belongings, abandoned the borrowed apartment where I had lived through several lost years and set off for home.

  My sister met me in the kitchen of our old house with her suitcase already prepared for her departure. During our conversation lasting an hour and a half, she got up from the table four times, once to pour me some milk and three times to go to the bathroom. Finally she came back with her lips colored bright pink, which surprised me, but I didn’t say anything. She hadn’t used that color lipstick before. While she was talking to me, she sent several text messages, and then finally she stood up, straightened her skirt, and set off along the lengthy corridor and down the stairs. Ma was lying in her room on the lower floor, surfing channels.

  They said goodbye briefly, at the front door, I heard their voices, and I watched from the balcony as my sister disappeared around the corner, behind the baker’s house. For a moment she was an unreal apparition in a real scene, a simulation. I finished the cold coffee in her cup with its smudge of pink lipstick.

  Before she vanished, my sister had told me something of her daily ritual with Ma over the past month. It was precise and simple: they rose early, always at the same time, and spent at least twenty minutes over coffee. Then, before the sun was too hot, they set off on foot, one behind the other, along the main road to the cemetery. In summer, the thin strip of earth beside the road, barely wide enough for two narrow feet, turned to dust. Between the road on one side and the brambles, groundsel, and unplastered houses on the other side of an imagined pavement, dust rose up, getting into your eyes and throat and between your toes in your sandals.

  “D’you know some folks eat earth?” my sister asked my mother as they trudged through the dust, beside the main road. “It’s called geophagy.”

  But Ma responded tangentially, as she so often did these days: “Dust to dust, better be buried in earth than immured in concrete.”

  “Death don’t bother me none,” my sister broke in. “Fuck death. You can get used to it too, I’m sure.”

  “Course it don’t bother you.” Ma was offended. She shook the dust out of her clog and strode on, chin in the air, with all the dignity of a future deceased person, one step ahead of my sister.

  After they had washed our grave and cut the rotted stalks off the flowers, they would make their way down to the beach with a more sprightly step.

  “It’s calm and quiet as a microwave,” my sister had remarked as they passed through other people’s gardens and desiccated orchards.

  At the beach, Ma took squashed pears and bananas out of the paper bag in a plastic bag in a Tupperware box and offered them, with her famous Hollywood smile (which ought to make any normal person feel a bit better, observed my sister). But she thought Ma used to just pluck that expression out of a folder or the big straw basket she toted around wherever she went. And it seemed to her that sometimes Ma would produce that smile, the ace from a sleeve of mass-produced expressions, at the wrong moment.

  Their togetherness would come to an end with their return home, after lunch, when my sister would withdraw to her room upstairs till suppertime and try to get on with her own work, even though she was on holiday (she’s a schoolteacher). Ma would then feed ginger Jill, settle down in front of the television, and announce: “My serial’s starting.”

  Minerva, Aaron, and Isadora had decided to investigate the true identity of Vasiona Morales. She was a very dangerous woman who had to be separated from Juan.

  In Ma’s eyes all serials are important, and equally so.

  She would fall asleep in front of the TV, wrapped up to her ears, although at the time the temperature didn’t fall below thirty even at night.

  The day I left Zagreb, my sister told me she was terrified that Ma was going to overdo her sleeping pills—she didn’t stir under the sheet, she didn’t even breathe, just occasionally farted in her sleep.

  “She’s dreadful,” Ma said of my sister after she’d left. “She says terrible things. I don’t get it, Dada.” That’s what I’m called—Dada, that’s the name my parents gave me.

  When I accompany Ma to the highway, the heat rises from the earth: by seven it’s up to one’s ankles. On dry mornings, just after midday, it starts grilling down straight from the sky. In town it’s worst around five p.m.—the salt air begins to sweat and everything that moves passes limply through treacle, while the song of a million sounds is transformed into a steady, electric hum that hypnotizes.

  Although she’s perfectly upright when she sits or stands, when she’s walking Ma rolls over the edges of a line. Cisterns and refrigerated-fish lorries hurtle past a few centimeters from her shoulder. Maybe there’s just no place anymore for a non-driver in traffic, I reflect.

  “They should be shut up in pedestrian gulags, those idiots don’t realize their life’s on the line,” my sister said once, I think it was when we were driving in her ex-husband’s turbo off-roader to Daniel’s funeral and some kids suddenly tore across the road.

  “Pedestrians have to be loved. Pedestrians created the world. And when it was all done, cars appeared,” I said. Everyone looked at me as though I was nuts. “It says that in a book somewhere,” I added.

  I was sitting in the back on sticky fake leather, surrounded by wreaths of palm branches that pricked my bare arms, among arrangements of chrysanthemums and bunches of blowsy roses with big red ribbons. The wreaths had mauve ribbons and names written in gold felt-tip.

  “So folks know who’s sorry,” my sister remarked, which was deemed inappropriate.

  “My, but we’re primitive,” she then added, closing the window out of which she had tossed a still-lit butt the color of blood. “Things like this prove it. Every love’s weighed, see, the bigger the death notice, the bigger the advertisement, the more marble on the grave or gold on the cross. More cash, more love. Chucking money around. The more luxurious the vacuum cleaner he gives the young couple, the bigger the brother’s love, s’all the same. There’s no such thing as a poor relation, just a tight-fisted sod who doesn’t love you,” she turned to tell me.

  I was sweltering among the prickly wreaths, trying not to crush the flowers and watching people picking cherries beside the cement works. They had ladders, caps, and blue aprons. They looked contented in their manual toiling. I wondered whether cement dust scattered over them as they pulled down the branches with their long-handled pincers. I remembered that dust as being like a soft carpet; it was an agreeable memory.

  I didn’t answer my sister and t
hat provoked her to keep on talking, sentences that flew like projectiles around the absence of my reply. Her former husband, a peaceable and transparent type, soft and stiff, said: “Okay, calm down, now.”

  As we walk along the side of the motorway, my mother is transformed into a mole alongside a poster of a pastoral center on which is written JESUS LOVES YOU, then into an extinguished glow-worm beside the discount store and into a minus sign when moving beneath a larger-than-life-size, washed-out poster of our very own “Hero Not War Criminal,” General Gotovina. We walk on in the dust beside the road by the petrol station, on a path barely wide enough for two narrow feet. The speed limit here is sixty, but people drive at least eighty and a little further on, the four-lane fast road comes to an end and drivers lose all sense of speed. Farmers in their tractors are known to come out onto the highway from one of the un-made-up side lanes and slow the traffic down to a crawl.

  Until recently there was also horse shit on the highway, but not anymore. It’s become too dangerous to drive a cart and horses there. And I think there’s just one man in the whole town with a horse now; it’s illegal to keep a horse in town now, but he’s the old blacksmith, and they’re just waiting for him to die in peace, if Ma is to be believed. What’ll happen to that horse when the blacksmith dies, I wonder. There used to be a smithy in the Old Settlement run by that old man, in the port where the restaurant La Vida Loca is now. But it closed the year Daniel was born. I remember the sound of the shoeing, the horses neighing at the darkness and fire. I was still very small, and I looked at things from a distance, staring out of the summer light that hurts the eyes, into the open darkness of that building. I was still very small when along the street where we lived one would hear hoof beats on the worn stone, an unreal sound the way the sound of a Ledo van inviting you to have an ice cream during the afternoon siesta is unreal. Willy Wonka has come to your town too.

  But there are no longer fresh horse droppings in the streets. Dogs shit and no one picks up after them, just as they didn’t after the horses. But no one’s going to throw dog turds at you, you can be sure. That really would surprise me.

  When the shape of my mother in the distance becomes a line—a horizontal line, a minus, rather than vertical, as one might expect, because of the glare on the road—I turn and hurry toward the house, along the concrete stream beside the new buildings for disabled veterans. There used to be all kinds of rubbish and treasure in that stream: in springtime it would hurl itself over the trash barrier. Since it’s been cleaned out and lined with concrete, I’ve noticed that a ribbon of slime trickles along it, congealing into green mud in summer.

  “You could go to the cemetery on your own tomorrow,” I suggested to Ma the day after I arrived. “I’ve got things to do in town, it’s quite important,” I lied.

  Ma smiled at that, exactly as my sister had said she would, producing her Hollywood smile at the wrong moment. She had nice teeth, a gold incisor in her lower jaw. Sometimes she would tap her teeth with her fingernail to demonstrate their firmness and health.

  “Mother looks like a smiley on speed,” I told my sister over the phone, later.

  “See what I mean,” she replied, blowing smoke into the receiver at her end.

  I told her I found Xanax, some Prozac, Diazepam, Praxiten and Valium on the floor, under the dresser in the kitchen in an ancient boiled-sweet tin along with plasters, Aspirin, and cough pastilles. Ma wasn’t even hiding them, as my sister had presumed—or else Ma knew that one of the best places to hide things is where they can be seen. Yet last winter she had thrown them all into the bin, I saw her do it.

  “Where on earth does she get them?” asked my sister, incensed.

  It’s not hard, I thought. Half the student hostel was on vodka or wine combined with Valium, sedatives, and other bits and pieces that can theoretically only be got on prescription. They’re cheaper than sweets.

  “Leave her some Lorsilan to help her sleep,” my sister advised. “Anything else you find you can chuck down the toilet.” I flushed it several times, but one blue Prozac capsule kept floating back to the surface. In the end, though, even that persistent one disappeared.

  Later, as I sit on the swing on our balcony, I can see out over the roofs. Our neighbors greet me from the street and I wave back.

  When Ma appears—first a minus sign, then a mole—from the west, behind the baker’s house, I wave to her too. As soon as she reaches the door, I tell her: “I’ve decided to stay for a while, Ma. Could you take Daniel’s things out of my cupboard?”

  She’s standing in the cloakroom, in front of the washbasin, rubbing soap into her hands under a jet of water.

  “Yes,” she says, turning off the water, drying her hands with a stiff towel.

  “S’no point taking flowers in summer, they all burn up in a day,” she adds thoughtfully.

  * * *

  “I’ll use the rebate on my pension,” says Ma later, dividing the melon with a blunt knife as we sit in the hybrid dining-living room we call the tunnel, “to fix up the grave.” She says she’ll put the shares she’s sold into my account. “You never know, one day you might want to finish your degree.”

  I say: “Okay. But I’ll keep it for my own pension. By then folk’ll be able to go to the moon. Although your shares won’t be enough for even two minutes on the moon.”

  “At least you’ll be able to go to the moon,” she concludes thoughtfully, and, nodding, she drags her slippers behind the green curtain that divides the kitchen from the improvised room.

  “You’re hungry,” the green curtain shouts now. “But there’s no fresh bread. I couldn’t get none, the Albanian closed early. Give me a moment, I’ll make some French toast.”

  I don’t like French toast, I begin to say, why can’t you remember, but I change my mind and say: “Fine.”

  Behind the curtain I hear the clink of tin plates and eggs being broken, milk gurgling.

  “Did you know that swallowfish molt when they come back south from the north? Their feathers fall out, and they grow scales and fins so they can swim again.”

  I sometimes tell her idiocies like this to amuse myself.

  “Everything’s possible after Chernobyl,” she replies, beating the egg yolk, milk, and sugar together briskly. “The Mišković woman from Lower Street gave birth to one child with three fathers.”

  * * *

  My room is a box in a house of boxes.

  At a time I don’t remember, this was a cellar full of barrels, then it was used as a larder, so there are no windows in the room. Just a narrow door, a narrow table, a huge wardrobe with a large Crying Baby Doll on top of it, and a bed, with a few of Daniel’s leftover ancient film posters on the walls, mostly westerns. There’s a dry olive twig tucked behind one of them, in memory of John Wayne.

  Before it was Daniel’s room, and before it was mine, that catacomb on the ground floor, in the depths of the house, was where my mother’s gran had lived, motionless, a blind and immobile diabetic. Five years in the dark, without moving, entirely conscious.

  “Santo Subito,” said my aunts and some women whose particular faces under their permanent waves I can’t remember. There was one blind woman who never protested or complained much, which is a sound reference for sainthood. She recited her prayers with thin lips that had once been full. In the old photographs of our great-grandmother my sister noticed the same thing: “A smoker’s lips,” she remarked, grinning.

  There was nothing that ancient woman would rather talk about than love, with a lot of spice. As we grew up and she began to fade, the old lady’s youth became ever more unbridled, until in the end—in our recollection of her past—she was canonized as the insatiable one.

  She buried three husbands, gave birth to five children, and in her mature womanly days she was able to scythe a field of brambles, fennel, and asparagus—so it was said—and then eat two kilos of shellfish for lunch and wash them down with three quarters of a liter of red—so it was said. She swore out loud and fr
equently and prayed with equal fervor.

  Throughout her stay with us, Mother systematically disinfected the little room, I remember. There were mothballs in all the cupboards, the odor of lavender and camphor in the corners.

  “She’s afraid the old girl’s going to fall to pieces on her, any minute now she’ll be dousing her in formalin,” said my sister. “Or quicklime.”

  The embalmed old lady, fairly emaciated, was not much bigger than me or Daniel then. She was vanishing before our eyes, day by day, on her high bed, with heaps of quilts, from under which she squeaked: “Children! Oh, children!”

  My sister and I sometimes pretended not to hear her, I remember, but Daniel was something else, it didn’t bore him.

  There’s a song from those days that Ma often sang around the house:

  You’re a heavenly flower

  Beloved by all each hour

  You are the one I love

  All others far above

  And she went out alone, not a word to her mother

  To pluck roses for her dearest lover…

  Later I sang that song to Daniel, and Daniel sang it to our great-grandmother while she lay with her open, watery eyes in eternal darkness.

  “Hey, Gran, do you see everything in black and white, like hell?” he asked her.

  “Hell’s no black, hell’s green, and shiny with plankton. Inside me too’s all green, like a Martian’s ass.”

  Daniel used to press his eyes deep into his skull, I recall.

  “Then your eyes turn over and you see inside, into yourself,” he said.

  He pressed his eyes until he began to feel sick, yet he didn’t, as far as I know, see a yellowy-green light. He didn’t see that until later, one summer when the sea blossomed with seaweed full of phosphorus. During the day it looked like a puddle of dung, mare sporco, but at night every movement we made would scatter into fluorescent bubbles.

  “And heaven?”

  “Heaven? There be no heaven. Aah. Just hell, right here, on the black earth!” the old lady moaned in pain. Then she added: “O, santo dio Benedetto, holy shit. Come, come, my little dove, sing that Not a word to her mother.”