Yugoslavia, My Fatherland Read online

  Wedding guests’ cars which, from our balcony, looked like overly-­decorated wheeled wedding cakes, took over our square, and the accordion played in the parking lot for the disabled, and people who came from very far, with their hard-obtained visas, to walk my mother from one entrance to the other, all howled the ‘song of their homeland.’ At the same time, they were passing around a hipflask of schnapps, and hastily preparing themselves for the gala event, which they anticipated would be the indisputable peak of their partying careers. Young women, who had successfully turned into their mothers, with a lot of help from lipstick, danced arm in arm to folk music in front of the bike storage space. Young men who, for this occasion, replaced their mandatory tracksuits with their fathers’ oversized blazers, applauded them from a safe distance, while their sweaty uncles offered them drinks, and proudly patted each other on the back. Aunties of all ages adjusted their over-tight dresses, pretending that they didn’t care that they couldn’t buy a new custom made outfit for this occasion, which their moustached husbands had been promising since 1987. A few children, decorated like Christmas trees, ran around, and young dads had to catch them before they ran off into the street, and all the while two girls took pictures with twenty different cameras.

  The accordion player was just carrying out a music request made by ‘uncle’ Blagoja from Geneva, and the oldest wedding guests wound back to ‘the good old days’ with the sounds of the ancient hits, when I came out of the apartment building with a scared and confused Dusha, and suddenly found myself in the midst of this pack of the most foreign people I had ever had the chance to meet.

  I was fifteen years old, and everything in this world was a nuisance, but that my mother got married in front of everyone at a public gathering of Serbian migrant workers most resembled, for me, a recipe for a social suicide and lifelong virginity. So by way of protest, I put on the rattiest pair of jeans I had, and sagged them even lower below my arse than usual. A Chicago Bulls cap was on my head, with the clear intention of suggesting to these retards that there was a world out there which was versed in the wonders of electricity and tap water and Michael Jordan.

  The final touch to my wedding attire was a pair of earphones in my ears, which would have thrown Dusha off track on any other occasion, but on her wedding day she didn’t even mention them, because she was simply not interested in me on that occasion, nor anybody else, for that matter. That day, she was just an indifferent observer of the circus parade that, waving Serbian flags, first stormed Ljubljana Castle for the civil ceremony, then invaded an orthodox church in its wedding zeal and, for the grand finale, took over a factory canteen on Airport Road. Somewhere between deteriorating industrial plants and the railroad, we were welcomed by freshly-roasted piglets and even more freshly-tanned singers and seven less-than-freshly-uniformed waiters who, yawning with great dignity, served two kinds of food and three kinds of drinks.

  All this time, Dusha’s thoughts were elsewhere, but her absentmindedness was interpreted by Serbian guests as immense happiness because she, a Slovenian, was marrying a genuine Serb. Her silence was justified with the notion that the woman couldn’t get over her good luck, and at least three proud owners of a bouffant hairdo swore that they had also been beside themselves on the most important day of their lives, and that they hadn’t been able to speak for three days after their weddings for all the excitement. So Dusha just nodded and smiled, while the horde of drunken Serbian uncles, cousins and other hairy slobs, most of who were not actually related to any of us, passed her around, and their wives gave advice for a successful life alongside a ‘piece of good Serbian meat.’

  The newlywed Dragan managed to get close to her that day only to put the ring on her finger and swear that he took her to be his lawfully-wedded wife, and then he was kidnapped again by his ‘relatives,’ so that they could tell him, while consuming litres of the strong stuff, as many Balkan jokes as possible, all at the expense of that naive moron who had allowed his woman to convince him to get married. But unlike Dusha, Dragan accepted this game with open arms, and he was drinking and dancing and – probably the worst realization for her – was no more refined than the other participants in their celebration.

  On that miserable day, I was too offended not to gloat over her poorly-­hidden appalled gaze, as she watched her new husband, shirt widely unbuttoned shirt, stuffing German Deutschmarks into the shirt pocket of the accordion player and, hugged by two friends, yelling ‘This is our last eveniiiiiiing,’ and then sending her drunken kisses from the other side of the factory canteen. I was too young not to enjoy her nose-dive, although even today I’m overcome by a special kind of discomfort, whenever I think of the slightly over-age bride, sitting alone at that long wedding table, full of gnawed pork bones and plastic glasses, kindly smiling at revellers inviting her to join them in the Kolo dance.

  The only extenuating circumstance for me was that these merry Serbs correctly recognized in me a creature from another planet and that, after a few failed attempts to communicate, quickly gave up. They let me sit in the corner with earphones in my ears, giving them the opportunity to develop theories about ‘how the West destroys children,’ and establish that ‘it’s completely logical that we couldn’t live with them.’ This was the first time I found myself in the role of a representative Slovenian as I obviously was in the eyes of the Serbian guests. Despite this, that was an endlessly long and exhausting day for me, and when Dusha finally approved my departure, I left without looking back on those few drunks who wanted to say goodbye to ‘Dragan’s new son,’ after our unforgettable gathering, with kisses and hugs.

  At the exit, my path was intercepted by the quick steps of a mystery man in a nice blue suit, who had spent the evening quietly sitting in the corner of the hall, and only when he stood right beside me, did I recognize a familiar face from the TV. Mr. Stanežič asked me if I knew who he was, and then he had a weird ten minute friendly, patronizing speech about how I should allow my mother to get on with her life, and that I would understand her when I was older, and that my father would have surely wanted this, if he had still been alive. I didn’t listen to him, and I didn’t take the bit I did hear too seriously, because I was convinced that he was just another person who had consumed a litre or two too much that night.

  A little later, I carried out an immediate self therapeutic detox at home, with a combination of cranking up my favourite band, Public Enemy, and watching some German soft-core porn, which assisted my masturbation, before I finally fell asleep on the couch in front of the glowing TV. This was an urgent fade out, in which Grandmaster Flash and bouncing German boobs joined forces to erase all the images and sounds of the past day, including the voice of Branko Stanežič.

  

  For four days and five nights of Dusha’s honeymoon in Montenegro, in the peace and quiet of the empty apartment, I figured out that I was none the lonelier alone than I was with her, and that nothing I could call a family existed in this world. My father was still dead, my mother was lost, and I came to the conclusion that I didn’t have anyone who would ask me, with genuine interest, how I was, what was bothering me and what my problems might be.

  My primary school classmates, including Daniel, had scattered, overnight it seemed, to their respective carpentry schools and schools of commerce or postal services, and other vocational secondary programs, while I ended up in a grammar school, among the unknown faces of young men and women from various small towns, where the most carefree children of this world lived, children who had never heard of Arkan, or known in which country smouldering Vukovar was located. These kids watched me in awe, because I was from a bad part of town and because my name was Vladan Borojević, and they would’ve been unable to see the difference between me and other guests at Dusha and Dragan’s wedding. I had nothing in common with these kids, who had counted numerous friends before the school year even began. Compared to them, my ex-classmates, who wore sweaters stuffed into the widest pant
s, listened to techno and folk music, and were ready to fight if someone didn’t believe them that a child must, by law, be baptized, seemed like completely unrelated human beings.

  Kids from the high school skied in France; they played tennis; visited European capitals; skated and tried pot. They were kind and clever and they listened to professors during lessons, and were afraid of unannounced verbal tests and unexcused absences. Those kids couldn’t care less about Serbs, Croats and Muslims, and most of them didn’t even distinguish between them. They didn’t ask each other about their fathers’ names, and didn’t fight about who started the war in Bosnia. They didn’t have cousins who had been drafted into the army, uncles who were left without their legs, grandmothers and grandfathers who were exiled, or aunts killed by grenades. Grandmothers bought these high school kids scooters, uncles promised them jobs in their companies, and cousins lent them their course notes.

  To find a friend among them was even harder than to keep in touch with the classmates from back home. While Dusha was enjoying her honeymoon, I didn’t have anybody to call up and meet with after class. I was somehow isolated from the world, stuck in our small apartment, thinking about my loneliness and feeling sorry for myself long into the night. I impatiently waited for midnight, when the porn program started, distracting myself with unenthusiastic masturbation, and slipping into deeper depression after each orgasm. It would be an overstatement if I said that I missed my mother, but in some weird way I was pleased with her presence, when she returned and took her part of our common space.

  It was at this point that I decided to run away, even though I was totally unprepared for such a move, without a detailed plan, no idea where and how. But at that point, it seemed this was the way forward. I was fifteen years old, and I felt I was old enough to take care of myself. It seemed to me that all I still got from my mother was lunch money. The only thought running around my head, while I packed my things to leave for the unknown, was that I would soon have to make my own rent money. That I would soon have to start working.

  These feelings interrupted my growing up, and forced a decision in me to go out and live in the world of adults, by their rules. It was a kind of teenage rebellion, which no one was there to nip in the bud. When I was banging my hot young head against the wall, no one sobered me up with two slaps, and explained to me how very idiotic this idea of my independence was, and how devastating it might turn out to be for me.

  Offended as I was, throwing my stuff into a bag, I probably looked like a schoolboy getting ready for his class trip. Dusha probably didn’t even take me seriously, but thought that I would come back as soon as I had calmed down a bit, and that we would talk in peace then. I seriously doubt that she would have let me march out of the apartment, if she had felt for a second that I wasn’t going to come back. But Dusha couldn’t have known that, because even I didn’t know exactly where I was headed. I only wanted to get away from her, away from the traitor, away from everything, and I had no idea how far my childish flight might take me.

  20

  Dusha set me up with a meeting with Brane Stanežič, over at his company’s offices, in a leafy neighbourhood of Ljubljana. I was welcomed by a kind secretary, who gave me some coffee and juice, smiled at me every few minutes, and apologetically informed me that the director’s meeting was going on longer than expected. I had been nervously moving from seat to seat in the grey marble waiting room for almost an hour, before Mr. Stanežič finally appeared and invited me, arrogantly and without apology, to follow him into his office. He was just as official as on TV, and even less recognizable, and I was wondering how much plum schnapps it would need to turn this uptight bureaucrat into the human being from my memory.

  He didn’t turn to me immediately. Instead, he started looking through the papers that awaited him on his desk. I stopped at the office door, watching him until he showed me, with this hand, to sit down. Then he buried himself in those papers again and browsed them, always returning to the first one, reading individual sections, comparing them and doing everything a person with a tie can do in his office with a stack of paper. Meanwhile, an unpleasant feeling arose in me that this person was bending over backwards to show me that there were more important things for him in this world than my visit. But then he did me the honour of leaving the paperwork on his desk for a second and turning to me: ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘I’m looking for my father, Nedelko Borojević.’

  His suspicious gaze finally paused on me for a longer period, which I felt was a success.

  ‘I got some information that he might be in Slovenia.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘My Uncle Danilo is sure that the last time Nedelko called him was from Slovenia. And one of his letters suggests as much.’

  ‘Yeah. So what do you want from me?’

  ‘I thought...actually Dusha thought...that you might be able to help me find him.’

  ‘Well... Vladan, listen. Let me tell you straight away. In Slovenia, we don’t hide people accused of war crimes. It’s very simple. No one here can offer him the logistical and financial support that a person accused by an international court needs in order to facilitate years of hiding. Such support must be institutionalized, if you know what I mean. Saying that Nedelko Borojević is in Slovenia would be saying that this person has the support of local political leaders, or of at least of the local security services. I believe that you realize yourself that this has no logical basis. Such institutionalized support in European systems isn’t really possible, what with the dispersed power, well-organized legislation and efficient supervision authorities, both military and in terms of security. And besides... Vladan, believe me that it’s in no one’s interest, especially for modern political leaders, I mean really in no one’s interest to hide a war criminal.’

  His gaze wandered back to the papers. For him, our meeting was more or less over.

  ‘If that was all you wanted from me, I’m afraid we’re done. As you can see, unfortunately I can’t help you find Nedelko.’

  ‘You sent Dusha those letters, didn’t you?’

  ‘I can’t help you. If I could, I would. Believe me. For Dusha’s sake.’

  ‘You can at least tell me who brought you Nedelko’s letters from Bosnia.’

  ‘Vladan, I hope you don’t really think I had regular contact with a person accused by The Hague Tribunal, at any time. These are serious accusations. You know?’

  ‘In his letter Nedelko mentions a person he refers to as J, who brought his letters to Slovenia. He always had a connection here. You just seem to fit the bill.’

  Silence misted the room, but this time it was slightly different than the silence into which we had entered a few minutes ago. Brane Stanežič suddenly woke from his bureaucratic comma, and the atmosphere filled with tension.

  ‘How’s work, Vladan? Still with those vending machines?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you satisfied?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I still think you should finish this study of yours as soon as possible, but okay... The important thing is that you’re doing well and you’re satisfied. You have a girlfriend, don’t’ you? Nadia?’

  It had been ages since Dusha last asked me what I did for living, and I doubt that she knew about my belated wish to get a university education. I was even more convinced that I had never told her my girlfriend’s name. Which could only mean that Mr. Stanežič knew a lot more about me than he should, and that if he wanted to intimidate me this way, he was doing a good job.

  We stared into each other’s eyes, and I tried to hide the fear growing inside me, and reflect back an equally threatening and scornful gaze. But Brane just gave me a benign smile. He had defeated me in his game, and was determined to show me that he was well aware of having done so.

  ‘Look, Vladan, I know that you want to find your father, and that it’s hard to accept the fact th
at he’s wanted for war crimes. I understand all that. But this won’t get you anywhere. If you’re asking me, then I’m telling you what I think about this. You’ll find Nedelko when he wants you to find him. Not before. Do you understand?’

  ‘And what do you think I should do in the meantime? Stare into the air?’

  ‘I don’t know, Vladan, I really don’t know. Try to live a normal life. That’s all that I can say.’

  I couldn’t imagine what exactly that could mean, that I would find Nedelko when he wanted me to find him, and I knew even less how to live a normal life. I only realized that Brane Stanežič was just another dead end and that I was back to square one. So as I drove my car, I had this feeling, all the while, that I was driving in the wrong direction, and the closer I got to my destination, the more tempted I was to turn around. But I was left clueless as to how to continue the search for my runaway father, and I didn’t want to just turn away from all that awaited me at home, not without a plan. So I entered the apartment that day feeling like a loser, walking away from the scene of the lost fight, empty and helpless. It was more than just disappointment, which Nadia accepted as people accept any unpleasant characteristic of their partners. My return home this time was a forced capitulation, which I couldn’t accept. Her gaze read in me another painful defeat, but was also carrying a revelation. A revelation that difficult times were ahead of us.

  

  Who knows how long I lived the so called normal life, aware that time was passing only because Wednesdays came after Tuesdays and then, most of the time, came Thursdays. I went back to work maintaining coffee vending machines, had lunch in the Stegne Industrial Zone, spent time among storage containers, called Nadia after work and asked her if she needed something from the shop, and went to the supermarket across the street, and smiled at saleswomen, who knew that I was buying a round loaf of white bread and skimmed milk, a shopping list that they thought told them everything about me, and maybe it did. I also started going to the faculty again, and listening to lectures as aimlessly as ever before. I had a beer now and then with new and old fellow students, who were getting ready for exams and exchanging notes. But transience was stolen from all these days that I was struggling to get through, waiting for something or someone, but nothing changed, everything just remained the same. Wednesdays were like Tuesdays and Tuesdays were like Mondays.