As for herself, she thought it was too late for a normal life like the ones Mladen read about in Arena or saw in movies. She kept going only because he seemed to want to hide it from the world. Until he began bringing boys home.
Bacawk said she almost fainted when she saw Franz and me climbing out of the trunk of Mladen’s car, and she complained as much as she dared, but it was as if nobody heard her. The next time, he brought only Franz. She saw them from behind the house, near the garage. Mladen was explaining how a goalie had to be flexible and that Franz had a muscle in his back that wasn’t loose enough yet. He told him to bend over, this might hurt, but that’s what he deserved for not stretching every day and getting all the exercise he needed. Mladen pushed him over a tin barrel that stank of stagnant water, cussing at him. Franz couldn’t bend any farther at the waist, so he bent his knees. Mladen kicked him in the knee. Franz straightened his leg momentarily, huffed air painfully through his teeth, and bent his knee again. Mladen’s comments became garbled, raging grunts, and Franz could no longer pull away. His white soccer shorts were down around his knees. He couldn’t close his legs because Mladen’s were there between them. In the dirty water, aside from the reflection of his face, Franz could see pollywogs wriggling restlessly whenever his pained gasp sprayed saliva with drops of blood.
“‘Huh? What’s that whining? You think you can punish me, you little cunt, huh? No sniveling! Want more? You’ll get yours. What’s with the groaning? No groaning. You piece of stinking shit. I’ll shove yer shit straight back in.’ That’s how he talked, as if the kid had done something bad to him,” said Bacawk, sadly.
Milica watched the scene all the way to the end, she saw him shove two fingers into the boy’s mouth with one hand and grab him by the hair with the other; she watched him drop the boy to the ground like a beaten dog, how he panted and used his own sweaty T-shirt to wipe the shit off his dick.
The teacher was trying to sing a song about a chicken and an egg, and I could barely manage to keep from throwing up.
“Comrade Teacher… I mean Teacher, ma’am, I ain’t feeling so hot. I’m sick. Please may I be excused?”
Angry that I’d interrupted her, she said I should take my things and go home.
When I got out into the fresh air, I felt better, but I couldn’t erase the image Bacawk and Chickichee had etched in my mind with their whispers. They traipsed along with me, first on one side and then on the other. I was too weak in the knees to get away from them.
Milica was able to watch only because she’d already made up her mind. Mladen came in to get the chocolate, and she stood in his path, and for the first time she mustered all her courage and said: “And you think that’s normal? God help me, you son of a bitch, you damn-blasted piece of shit, you think that’s normal?”
Mladen laughed in her face, hissed, “Stop your squealing,” and out he went.
“Fuck you, you asshole, you ain’t coming near me again,” she said, even though he couldn’t hear her anymore. Later she fed the child, made dinner, and stared at Mladen while he ate. He looked a little tired; while he chewed, his only sound was an occasional coo at the child perched in its high chair.
“You were waiting for a boy to show up who wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what you did to him,” she said finally.
“What’s eating you now?” he said, bored.
“Well, why not fuck me? I have nobody to tell, either,” she hissed through her tears.
He jumped up from his seat, threw his plate, towered over her, and said: “Say that one more time, and I’ll beat you down into the dark mother earth, I swear. Am I clear? I’m asking, am I clear?”
She stared at the table.
“Now you’re quiet, you bitch. You’re pushing me, pushing! I have had to put up with horrors, but enough’s enough.”
When the child and Mladen had fallen asleep, it was clear to her that she could never lie in that bed again. She sat motionless in the living room. All she could think about was stabbing Mladen in the heart with a butcher knife.
She’d already stood up to get the knife, but somehow she couldn’t do it. She poured herself another glass of water because she was getting overheated at the thought of what she was contemplating. And the more she drank, the more she felt this was all her fault. And how much better it would be if she were gone. Better for her child, better for Franz.
Finally, almost with a smile, after she’d checked to make sure Mladen and the child were sound asleep, she lay in the bathtub, took nail scissors, and made two deep incisions in her flesh. She began to feel cold when she saw the blood gush out, but she was glad Mladen wasn’t looking at her and couldn’t hurt her anymore.
“But why didn’t you say something if you were there? Why didn’t you help her?” I turned and yelled at Bacawk. Milica was the only witness besides me and Franz, the only one who knew what Mladen was like. Nobody would understand what Franz was saying, and nobody would believe me.
“Why didn’t you help her, you lousy rats?” I hollered. “And why didn’t you help Trezika and Mladen and all the others?”
Chickichee said calmly, “Nobody sees us but you. They used to see us when they were small, while they were still scared of us. Later, out of fear, they don’t see or hear us, even when we’re around them all the time.”
I walked past my house and to Franz’s. His old man, a big fat bearded man with dirty hair and an unusually shrill voice, opened the door. He looked as if he’d just woken up. With unusual courtesy, he told me Franz wasn’t feeling well but that he might be going to school the next day, if he wasn’t running a fever. I asked whether I could see him, to give him his homework. From the door, the house smelled of feet and knitted sweaters that hadn’t been washed in a while. He told me I’d see Franz at school and shut the door.
I came home and cried on the steps until my sister saw me and asked what was wrong. I said my head was feeling crummy and it wasn’t anything too bad.
The next day they buried Milica. Mladen and all of Milica’s family were tearstained, and everybody who’d gathered was disturbed. When I saw him, all in black, pushing the stroller with the child, I wasn’t entirely sure whether Mladen really could be such a bad man. A person who cried as much as he was crying couldn’t be all bad, I thought.
After the funeral, Mom and I stood with the folks who’d come, and I listened in. The men said it wasn’t right that the police were interrogating poor Mladen like a criminal, and the women wondered how he’d manage now with the child, and why such bad things always seemed to happen to such nice people. Somebody said he was still young, and maybe, once time had passed, he’d find somebody else. Pišta said he’d heard there was somebody going around at night and talking people into killing themselves.
“Well, well, nothing makes a bit of sense anymore.”
“In Slavonia, there’s a war going on, people are shooting each other; meanwhile here we’re doing the killing all by ourselves.”
“There don’t seem to be any way to make sense of how these people are connected.”
“Everything is connected.”
“Aw, Zvonko, don’t you start with that muck. Nobody can know who’s connected to whom.”
“Maybe they were in a sect? And swore to do this?”
“Come now, please. What sect? Hush. We just buried Milica. Show some respect.”
“Still, maybe somebody went around egging them on. There’s talk that somebody’s going around persuading people to kill themselves.”