Compatriots

Compatriots

What then? I’d divorce my wife. No. Yes, I would. I’d invite her over here. She wouldn’t like it here. No, no I wouldn’t get a divorce. I’d leave her just where she is. And I’d send her a hundred dollars a month. What’d she do with a hundred dollars? What’d she spend it on? There’s nothing back home for her to spend it on. I’d send her fifty a month. Even fifty’s a lot. Hold on, let’s work this out. I took a drink and began calculating. “It’s a lot,” I said aloud.
The waiter came over. “Yes?”
“Nothing, my friend, nothing,” I said. You big thug, I thought. You’ve been flapping your ears again. I looked up. She was coming back. “How goes it?” she asked. She sat down.
“O.K.” Her suggestion was still worth giving some thought to, I decided. It really would work out cheaper for both of us. And what business was it of mine what she did or how she lived? It was her life. And I wouldn’t even have to pay for it. Doesn’t that take it all?
She interrupted my thoughts. “Now you go to the gents.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Never mind why,” she said. “Just go.” I walked past the lobster. What a nose! I thought as I went into the lavatory. How much rent does she pay for that room of hers? It can’t be more than seven or eight dollars. Strange, who’d have thought I needed a piss so badly. I guess one could live with her after all. Of course she’s a bit headstrong, but then what woman isn’t. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. She’s herself and I’m myself.
An old man came into the lavatory. What a terrible thing old age is, I thought. It makes a monster of you the moment your back is turned. Who knows what sort of an Adonis he was as a young man. Now look at him. He can’t even hose down the trough properly.
I went back to the bar. The red-haired man was sitting beside her. In the place where I had been sitting. So soon? I wondered. And now? What was going to happen to me? She hadn’t told me anything. I’ll go over to them, I decided. My money’s still on the table.
I started, walked slowly, pretending my legs weren’t steady.
“Oh,” I said. “A new friend. Glad to meet you. My name’s Stanov.” I could have kicked myself. Why the hell did I have to let him know my real name? Why? Why? I tried to sit down.
She called the bartender. “Waiter.”
“Three more Canadian Clubs,” I said when the bartender came.
“This man’s annoying me,” she said. “Clear him out of here, will you? You can’t even have a quiet drink with a friend because of creeps like him.” “Hey! Wait a minute!” I said.
“Haven’t you got an appointment?” asked the lobster. “Mulim vas7” I said. “I don’t understand him,” said the lobster to her.
I had forgotten that he didn’t understand Serbian, so I repeated the question in English. “Are you asking me if I’ve got an appointment?”
“Yes, you,” he said quite simply and openly.
“Me?” I asked.
“You,” he said. Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he added, “don’t you get it?”
I winked at her. “So, he’s the one, is he?” I asked.
“How d’you like that for nerve,” she said. “He even winks at me.”
“Mike!” shouted the lobster to the bartender. “If you don’t throw this drunk out, we’re leaving.”
“Steady, steady,” I said. “Misunderstanding.”
“How long do I have to put up with this?” she asked. The lobster stood up. He reached for my jacket. Oh, no you don’t, mister, I thought. Nobody touches me, and you’re not going to either. I raised my fist. I was going to let him have it right in the kisser.
What happened?
“What happened?” I asked again, this time aloud. And I looked around me. I was lying in the street. A few people were standing around me. A cop was running up towards me from the other end of the street.
“Why do they drink when they can’t take it?” asked one of the bystanders.
Just look at the swell coat he’s wearing, I thought. He went on talking about something.
“They shouldn’t be allowed to serve drinks until they’ve seen the money,” said another.
“I paid for everything I drank. I even paid for hers as well.”
“He’s drunk,” said the man in the coat.
Then I saw the old man from the gents. What’s he going to say, I wondered. I smiled at him.
“We’ve met before—in the lavatory,” I said. He turned around and went away.
“Get up,” said the policeman.
“Of course,” I said, and I got up.
“Break it up now,” he said to the crowd. They slowly began to drift away. “What’s all this?” he asked me. “Threw you out, did they?” Then, without even waiting for an answer, he said, “You wait here till I come back,” and he walked into the bar.
Not a bad cop, I thought. He wants to get at the whole truth. He ought to. After all, what’s the government paying him for? But while I was still thinking about this, I remembered her words: “I know what I’m doing.” She really did. Why the hell did she have to go and pick on me with all these Canadian fools around.
The cop came back.
“Beat it,” he said. “Get lost. And don’t let me find you on my beat again, or I’ll run you in.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Hold on, will you. Let me explain. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know,” he said. “So beat it.”
Who knows what kind of a story they fed him in there.
“She and I—we’re from the same country,” I said, just for the sake of saying something.
“You don’t say,” he replied.
I better shut up, I thought.
She came out of the bar with the lobster, arm in arm. “Ask her,” I said to the cop.
He asked her, half mockingly. “This guy here says you’re his friend; he says he’s from your country.” He’s very polite all of a sudden, I thought. They’re all in league—the lot of them.
She turned around, looked at me over his shoulder, and shouted, “From my country, huh? Him? That’s what they all say.” She went off with the lobster.
“Beat it,” said the cop.
No choice, I thought. So, of course, I made myself scarce. What’s all this mean? I wondered. And I answered the question myself.
To hell with the lot of them. I’m broke. Then I added, aloud, “Why did they have to pick on me? Goddam ’em.” Everything would be different, I knew, when I sobered up. I set off for home.
I’ll write to my wife. I’ll write her a long letter. To hell with my wife, to hell with them all. I’m going to the Ukrainian girl. It’s always good with her. Then I won’t have to worry about food, at least till next payday. I passed another cop and greeted him most politely. He wasn’t the same one, but it made no difference, no difference at all. Absolutely no difference.

Translated by: Ilija Čašule

2018-08-21T17:23:47+00:00 February 1st, 2001|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 19|0 Comments