Belgrade Noir Page 8
Peppy, the Belgrade police don’t chase criminals anymore. The detectives and killers sit in kafanas at the same table and eat dinner together, criminals practice shooting at the police gun ranges. If by some miracle a person is arrested, and at the end of a marathon trial is convicted, they don’t go to prison because there’s no room. The prisons are packed: it’s those who don’t pay off their bank loans, who owe for parking tickets, who don’t pay their cable bills, who are serving prison sentences. Farmers who didn’t respond to the order to root out ragweed are serving sentences. There’s no room for long-term prison sentences.
Last night on Vračar a well-known lawyer’s Jeep was blown up; this morning a bank guard was killed in Čukarica . . .
* * *
In Senjak this morning they found the lifeless body of a sixteen-year-old girl, on Zvezdara some teenagers locked a homeless guy in a shaft and left him there to die without food or water . . .
I can hardly wait to kill someone myself, for the adrenaline to flow through my veins. I’ve been useless for so long, it’s time for me to take my place in society and come back to life a bit. I just have to figure out what criteria the victim must fulfill; I’ve suddenly become conscious that I don’t want to spill just anyone’s blood.
A line of police cars rushes down the bulevar, the sirens wail. They’re simulating a major kidnapping.
“The authorities have a tremendous capacity!” From time to time someone looks at me in an unfriendly way, they probably take my words as a provocation. Then I start shouting with all my strength, and I myself marvel at my throat’s power. “While you were all sleeping, I guarded you!” After I shout that, one turns his head away and picks up his pace—an airplane wouldn’t be able to catch up to him, he’s so fast.
Do you remember, Peppy, how our own fighter planes accidentally bombed us, the volunteers, as soon as we crossed into Croatian territory? It happens, the commander explained to us later. The important thing was that we suffered no casualties, only that fat guy with the crossed bullet belts lost some of his hearing from the explosion. But in any case, he died in the first skirmish after that. What would good hearing do for him in the grave?
* * *
I recognized her immediately, even though this time her hair was blond with some multicolored streaks. She still wore a ring in her nostril. She stopped near me and squatted so she could look over Kombucha’s books. Her T-shirt pulled upward and on her back, just above her butt, she had a big tattoo, a five-pointed star with a hammer and sickle in the center.
The pimply teenagers were standing behind Ira, they were her bodyguards. I called them Tom and Jerry, after the cartoon characters. I wondered whether I should consider killing one of them. But I quickly rejected that idea. I didn’t want to separate them, and I considered it too much to kill both of them. It’s not good to overdo things, nor to throw your weight around unnecessarily. One dead person is quite enough, it would satisfy my requirements. Besides that, I sensed that they didn’t fulfill my requisite criteria for a victim.
Kombucha stopped playing his guitar and started chatting with Ira. I felt jealous, as if that tiny girl belonged to me. I could hardly restrain myself from interrupting them and acting ignorant. Ira was delighted when she saw a Kropotkin book and an issue of a literary journal devoted to Bakunin.
“Look, they’ve published his letters.” She showed the journal to Jerry. She bought both the journal and the book.
Kombucha has been a drug addict for a long time and he needs a lot of money to feed his habit, so he visibly livened up after taking the money from her.
I asked her whether she had collected enough signatures against trash culture. The smell of roasted meat came from a nearby fast-food kiosk, and the beggar Drago was drinking rakija from a bottle. She had, she told me, succeeded in collecting a thousand signatures, but she had a problem. She didn’t know who to send the petition to.
“Is there any point giving trash a petition against itself?” she asked me. Clearly this was a rhetorical question. The problem always comes down to that. And I told her so.
Kombucha went back to playing guitar, an older man tossed a few coins into his case.
* * *
Last night at the main train station a man without documents was stabbed with knives, today on Knez Miloš Street a transvestite threatened to blow up a whole building . . .
Not for a single moment did I doubt the correctness of my decision, but I still didn’t know who to kill. A young person or an old one? Woman or man? Someone I know or a stranger? A friend or . . .
Peppy, I don’t have any enemies. I never did have any. In ’91 and ’92 I fired a gun because that was the current practice. Someone in a high place had declared the Croats my enemies, on the TV they talked day and night about their crimes against the meek Serbs. I killed them cold-bloodedly, although I had nothing against them personally. The commander told us that all the great nations had committed great crimes, that ours can’t always be someone else’s prey either. You believed that and rolled up your sleeves, they called you Peppy the Beast.
But I was different. In my heart, I kept on rooting for Hajduk, the Croatian soccer team from the beautiful city of Split. If I didn’t hate anyone on the battlefield, then clearly I wouldn’t hate anyone here either, in Belgrade. And I know a lot of people. And because I don’t have a bad relationship with anyone it’s hard for me to choose a victim. But I have to take someone’s life, that’s the trend, we can’t live as if the world doesn’t involve us.
Last night someone threw a Molotov cocktail at the house of a turbo-folk music star, two children were seriously burned . . .
Along with everything else, I haven’t decided how to carry out the murder, either. Tenderly or sadistically? In my apartment, I have a Kalashnikov with seven full clips, a CZ 99 pistol with ten bullets, a bayonet with a long blade, and five hand grenades. The grenades are on my table in a crystal fruit bowl, the other weapons are locked in a wooden trunk. It won’t be easy for me to choose the means either. I know that you, Peppy, would surely use cold steel.
* * *
That day the sun beamed hot, I was in a shirt and jacket, all sweaty. A tie was squeezing my neck. I can’t be poorly dressed, what would that look like? I have to be different from the beggar Drago.
Red fireflies played before my eyes. If someone had asked me why I didn’t go home, what I was hoping to find in that crowd, I wouldn’t have known how to answer. But that person wouldn’t be able to tell me what I should do by myself in a basement studio apartment. I think anyone who spent two hours in my apartment would understand why first thing in the morning I take my blue footstool and come to this place, out among the people.
I heard that they’re going to repave the bulevar again. I have the impression, Peppy, that the spaces of beauty and freedom in Belgrade are quickly shrinking.
A man with a beard down to his waist was explaining to his hunchbacked friend that Faulkner was a Serbian writer, that only a Serb could understand The Sound and the Fury. An older woman in a blue blouse offered me a ten-dinar coin. I took the coin, but I didn’t thank the woman. I don’t have time for that, nor for explaining to her that I’m actually doing fine financially. I receive a monthly disability check and it’s enough for me. Whatever I earn unexpectedly I always give to Oliver, the kid who washes the windshields of cars that stop at the traffic light by the Vuk Monument. Washing windshields is the best job this state can offer a person who isn’t a party member. “The authorities have a tremendous capacity!”
* * *
Kombucha was running madly out of the market, knocking cabbages off stands, bumping into people who swore at him as he passed. His hands were empty, he had probably tried to steal something and hadn’t succeeded. A farmer was running after him. It would be better for Kombucha to be chased by the Sicilian mafia, I don’t believe that anyone can get away from a Serbian farmer, especially one who has the nerve to sell his produce in Belgrade.
Kombucha was hop
ing he could reach the bulevar and we would protect him. Everyone here who sells, begs, and picks pockets has some kind of cold steel: a knife, an awl, a hatchet . . . Even Miljana, the little woman who sells handicrafts, has a chunk of rock at her feet. Only Drago is weaponless, he stinks so badly that surely no one would touch him. I don’t have anything on me either, but I look dangerous.
The two young police officers were patrolling the area. The proprietors spoke to them sweetly. As I had expected, the farmer caught up with Kombucha. He grabbed him by the hair and pulled him backward. Kombucha fell down, the enemy sat on his chest, put his hands around his neck, and started strangling him. At first, Kombucha resisted, then he went limp. The young policeman started walking quickly in their direction, but the policewoman pulled on his sleeve and they went off in the other direction. Afterward, the farmer went back to his stand. Kombucha lay there without moving, and it wasn’t until half an hour later that he painfully got up and staggered toward us. His face had gone dark, unrecognizable, his neck was blue, with broken capillaries.
* * *
In Dedinje a terrier bit off a woman’s hand, four elementary schoolchildren beat a math teacher to death with baseball bats . . .
Did I imagine it, or did someone among the passersby mention Iron Butterfly? I concluded that the American rock band must be coming to Belgrade: lots of older musicians have gotten back together in order to tour here. I got the urge to go to a rock concert after not having gone to one in the past twenty-five years. The authorities have a tremendous capacity! I shouted with all my strength that the authorities had the capacity and snickered, satisfied. I knew what kind of person I should consider as a victim, the circle was narrow. The farmer who throttled Kombucha had helped me. I realized that I didn’t want to kill him, but I’d be glad to bump off Kombucha.
Peppy, I want to feel grief after the murder. That emotion lasts longer than others. This society, along with every individual in it, lacks continuity. Therefore I’m going to kill someone who’s dear to me. The first one I thought of was Ira. Then I thought the best thing would be to kill Oliver. I like him the most. Oliver is nice-looking, lively, and cheerful until a limousine with tinted windows stops next to him in the evening. Then he gets unhappy and reluctantly climbs inside.
Oliver is forced to prostitute himself because he’s supporting his sick mother and two younger sisters. I’ll definitely kill someone I like, someone whose death will make me suffer for a long time. The grief will help keep me from drowning completely. I don’t believe in the torments of conscience, just the way you didn’t believe.
* * *
Yesterday at a construction site in St. Sava Street, a supporting wall collapsed and buried three people; last night two men impersonating police officers handcuffed a salesclerk in a grocery store on Kosančićev Venac and emptied his cash register of all the money he’d made that day . . .
My day was complete—I saw Ira again. Her hair was the same color as last time. I asked her how I could get a ticket for the Iron Butterfly concert. She told me to ask Smiley. “He has everything, and if he doesn’t have something he’ll always find it.”
I told her that I didn’t know who Smiley was.
Ira couldn’t believe it. “Everybody knows Smiley,” she asserted, “he supplies all of Belgrade. This city would fall apart without him.”
I had the impression that she appreciated how I wasn’t like everyone else. I looked at her pleadingly and she promised she would get Smiley involved to find me a ticket for the concert by the group with the beautiful name, which she hadn’t heard of until then. After that, she talked for a long time about that Smiley, with great respect, admiration, and love. I thought he must be her boyfriend. “Smiley is a power,” she declared. “At the 1991 demonstrations against the government in Belgrade he wanted to charge the police cordons, he wanted to topple the Slobodan Milošević regime with his bare hands and stop the war.”
I didn’t respond, she probably wouldn’t understand my sense of humor. You shouldn’t joke with anyone these days, Peppy, every person here is a ticking bomb.
* * *
A man in a wheelchair approached me, the one who hands out leaflets all day by the Vuk Monument. His brother pushes him there every morning and leaves him, it’s unbelievable how much they look alike, maybe they’re twins. In the evening, his brother comes for him and takes him home. When he offered me a ticket to the concert, I realized that Ira’s surprise at my not knowing Smiley was well-founded. I’d seen him every day, I was pretty sure he was supplying the addicts of the bulevar with drugs. When he was in withdrawal, Kombucha would be running to him every minute. I just hadn’t known they called him Smiley, nor that he had participated in antiwar demonstrations. Which is really absurd. He had struggled against the war and wound up disabled, while I’d taken part in the war and had all my limbs. But in spite of his handicap, Smiley radiated serenity. I tried to figure out his age, but I couldn’t. He looked youthful, but at the same time, something told me we were about the same age.
“How much do I owe you, sir?” I asked him. Calling him sir didn’t really fit him, but I didn’t want to be too familiar. He laughed and asked for almost nothing, probably the ticket had cost that much at the ticket office. I don’t like it when a service fee is not included in the price, and then I have to think about how much to tip. I consider myself a miser, but this time I was generous. But Smiley returned the extra money, vehemently refusing to take a tip. I hate it when someone won’t let me pay for a service, and then I wind up owing them. I noticed that Kombucha was acting as if he didn’t know the man in the wheelchair.
“What’s your interest in this business?” I asked Smiley.
“It’s important for things to get done,” he answered, and laughed again.
A girl was raped last night in the restroom at the Hotel Bristol, a well-known actress was beaten up in the National Theater . . .
* * *
Oliver holds a half-liter bottle in one hand, a squeegee in the other, a red bucket of water sits on the sidewalk. While the cars are racing by, he fills the bottle to the top. When the light turns red, he comes up to the first car and starts washing the windshield, ignoring the driver’s disapproval. He washes slowly as if he has all the time in the world. Then he goes to the second car and does the same. When the light turns green, he goes back to the first car and takes the money from the driver. People behind the wheel get impatient, the whole line of vehicles sounds their horns. Oliver darts to the second car, the driver has already put out his hand with the cash. Oliver’s face is cheerful and because of this he gets more from the drivers than they were planning to give him. Oliver’s a great whore, he’s ideal for the role of victim. I was sorry I didn’t have a weapon with me, I would have executed him right then. Starting tomorrow I’ll carry a pistol, I’ve decided to be ready at all times.
Last night a bank employee died after a ten-day hunger strike, today a young man died in a fight between fans of the Crvena Zvezda and Partizan soccer teams . . .
* * *
Last night a teenager from Mirijevo slashed her wrists, an old woman from Dorćol drank acetic acid . . .
Ira once again addressed me as druže, “comrade.” I don’t like that Communist lexicon, but I didn’t object. She asked to see the picture from my military service booklet. She’s a marvelous girl, I wanted to kill her right then. And I could have, I had the pistol tucked into my belt, I only needed to unbutton my jacket and pull it out. I don’t know what stopped me from doing it. I would have grieved for Ira my whole life.
“You’re a war veteran?” she asked me.
“How can we have veterans?” I answered with a question. “We lost the war. We can’t have war veterans.”
“What a crank you are,” Ira said, which surprised me.
I held out the photograph. We all had long hair and beards, we looked like the bandits in Walter Hill’s Long Riders. She said I’d been handsome when I was young. I didn’t want to tell her that I wa
sn’t in that photograph. I myself don’t know why not, probably I was out on patrol that day. But despite my absence, the photograph is infinitely dear to me. It was taken in front of the cantina that Fat Ceca ran. Surely you remember, Peppy. Ceca had a heavy Mauser hanging at her hip, above the cash register it said, No Credit to Anyone. Nothing there was unclear. All around in the meadow lay soldiers, professionals, and mobilized reserves. They drank beer, wrote letters, cleaned their weapons. Some were removing lice. We were paramilitary volunteers, we didn’t acknowledge anyone’s command. At the same time, cross my heart, no one wanted to command our regiment either. The devil himself would have had a hard time paying our bills, and even harder getting our attention. Ira gave me back the photograph, deep in thought. I allowed her to walk away, I didn’t shoot her.
* * *
Some graffiti appeared on the university library building: ONLY WINNERS HAVE VETERANS. WE’RE THE SONS OF DEFEAT.
I didn’t like that at all. I didn’t want to participate, nor to inspire anyone. True, Ira for her part had already read Bakunin, but her literature didn’t rehabilitate me, nor did her defiant character. Clearly, the girl liked me. That was an additional reason for me to kill her. If I didn’t do it in time, she’d stop admiring me, and that would be painful for both of us. I waited impatiently for her to appear.
On Mihajlo Pupin Street a father-in-law shot his pregnant daughter-in-law with his hunting rifle, there was a multicar accident on Gazela Bridge with fatalities and serious injuries . . .
* * *
Before me stood a Gypsy, terrifying in appearance. I was just his height standing on my footstool. “What do you want?” I asked him. He kept silent. Although his skull was close-shaven, he irresistibly resembled Chief Bromden from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Another person suddenly spoke up. I lowered my eyes and in that enormous man’s shadow I saw Smiley. Several frightened kids were standing to one side, I recognized Tom and Jerry among them.