Wild Woman. Marina Sur Puhlovski

cleaned for them, cooked for them and along the way chatted with them and even had a drink with them, would now pay the price for having provided their services to the occupiers – because they were no longer allies – even though that had been part of their job description and they described themselves as being neutral. But there is no being neutral in wartime, there is no doing things halfway... It didn’t help if you gave some money to support the partisans, like Frane, or felt compassion for the weak and persecuted, you should have picked up a weapon and not played the fool, kowtowing to criminals. Now, deputy director, you will see what it’s like to be out in the street, said the authorities, and be grateful that we didn’t hang, execute or banish you, be grateful that you can even stay here. True, he was left with nothing, except his life, which was the greatest favour that those interesting times could render; as the Chinese famously said: God forbid you should live in interesting times.

      Meanwhile, in Dubrovnik, his younger brother was executed in the clamour to find people to blame for all that had happened, which some used to settle personal matters, like the jealous neighbour who could not forgive the executed man for being an upper-crust gentleman when he himself wasn’t and never would be, so it was onto the rubbish heap with the upper-crust gentleman, as prescribed by all wars.

      Frane’s response to all this was bronchial asthma, because that’s the easiest, you languish, everybody runs around pampering and nursing you, feeling guilty about the good health they enjoy that you had been denied, so that in the end your illness is the only problem you have left, and it takes priority over everything else. I realised this last part watching my father die for over ten years, poor man, poor thing, such bad luck, such a pity, and still young, everybody felt sorry for him, although he slept as much as he wanted, got up when he wanted, did what he wanted, read detective stories and westerns while my mother was killing herself with work, the entire burden of life on her shoulders, but she wasn’t a poor thing, a poor woman, they weren’t sorry for her – because she was healthy.

      This is what I am thinking as I see Danica and Frane off on their trip to Dubrovnik, with their battered suitcases and hand-made tote bag, made of bast fibre, bought from the blind, packed with breaded chicken, tomatoes and layer cake, which they’re taking with them on the train because it’s a long trip. Their last words of warning before they leave is, the gas, don’t forget to turn off the gas, and of course the light, don’t leave the light on all night, and also be careful not to burn anything, set fire to anything, or leave the door open when you go out, or forget the keys and have to force open the lock. As if we are children or feeble-minded; we roll our eyes but we nod yes to everything they say. After we kiss them goodbye and wave at them from the balcony until the taxi arrives, and then, laughing like crazy, return to the kitchen where breaded chicken, tomatoes and layer cake are waiting for us and I start talking about all the things we’re going to do over the next five days and what fun we’re going to have now that we’re finally alone, from cooking at home to going out, and we’ll go to the zoo and look at the animals, because I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, and the zoo is not far from the flat – I learn that actually we’re not going to be on our own because that same evening the daughter of his mother’s cousin is coming from the provinces to stay with us, somebody named Rafka, short for Rafaela I suppose, twenty-three years old, she’s coming for some medical check-ups and will be staying for three days... Almost until they come back!

      If he’d punched me in the face it wouldn’t have hurt as much as the news about the relative coming to stay, disturbing our five days, which I’d already planned in my mind, like an annoying fly trapped in a room with you, and there wasn’t an inch of room for her, let alone for her stay overlapping with our five days, and nights, when I won’t be here. The days, OK, she’ll be a pain, but the nights, now that’s a betrayal, I think to myself, in defiance of all logic – why would it bother me for his relative to sleep here? – but it isn’t just bothering me, it’s killing me, I literally go icy cold, as if it’s minus a hundred degrees both outside and in, I gasp like a fish tossed onto the quayside where it’s destined to die. I don’t even touch the drumstick he left, because he likes only white meat, or the tomatoes or the layer cake, which I love. I just drink my red wine, which I still drink even today, and smoke and run my fingers through my hair and sulk so that I stop laughing, and wonder why his parents hadn’t mentioned this relative before they left, not a word, I note, despite all the instructions they had for us. And you knew, too, but you kept quiet about it, I say. Then I’m told that his parents didn’t know about it, the cousin announced her daughter’s arrival out of the blue, when they were packing, and they couldn’t say no, and he was caught off guard, he forgot to tell me, and they probably guessed that having the girl stay would be a bother so they avoided saying anything. Blah, blah, blah... But as far as I’m concerned, all my plans have gone down the drain.

      The day that started like a joyous song has turned into the hush of a funeral and just before its end the girl appears, tubby, the white flesh quivering under her chin and forearms, with stocky legs but in a mini, she’s got no shame, I say to myself, and a biggish hawk nose, eyes close together, a bird woman, especially with her hair pulled tightly back into a ponytail, leaving her face completely exposed. She’s wearing gold earrings with red glass chips in the shape of a flower, they’re not rubies, they’re ordinary paste, I notice, I don’t wear earrings at all. I haven’t even had my ears pierced. Strangely enough, she hasn’t dyed her hair though it’s a forgettable brown, her almond-shaped eyes shoot all over the place, but sneakily somehow, as if she’s looking for things to steal from the flat, and she’s constantly grinning, but she’s not relaxed, she’s on guard. I don’t understand a thing. She’s got a great appetite, even though she’s supposed to be unwell, it’s her thyroid, she says, polishing off the layer cake, I’m surprised she even knows what a thyroid is because she looks uneducated somehow, actually she looks awkward, that’s the word that best describes her, awkward in her body, in her thoughts and in her speech, and this awkwardness somehow fills the flat, rising and expanding like baker’s yeast, pushing me out of the room. I can hardly wait to leave.