I realized this was why they’d held the games, to bring people together, get them drinking, and learn something. Drunken people declare their insights as if they’re truths. At first, the always lively and savvy Zvonko “Democracy” Horvat trailed right behind them, but he gave up after half an hour. He leaned on the locker-room wall, muttering weakly, his face pale.
“All together like this, it isn’t quite as glaring how really awful we all are…” This was the first and last thing I heard him say that sounded genuine, that broke through his know-it-all mask. He seemed to have made peace with something and no longer needed to prove anything. Grateful for his sincerity, I stood near him while Franz disappeared somewhere around the bar, where I’d seen his father trying to mooch a beer.
That evening, terminally ill Zvonko “Democracy” Horvat and I—knowing we were seeing the same things, though we hadn’t exchanged a word—watched how everyone in the village, no matter how ordinary they might’ve seemed, flaunted how truly remote they were from each other, living in solitude and isolation. Behind the walls and fences, behind the identical facades and hedges, behind all that had been created to minimize difference, there were thousands of jarring images of pain and longing nobody else could’ve understood, and an enchantingly poignant music, silent to the alien ear.
We were all suffering, that much was clear. For a moment, standing next to Democracy, I was happy because I felt I wasn’t really alone, we were all the same. Then Mladen showed up. He got out of his car in his mechanic’s jumpsuit with a gentle smile. His teammates gathered around him with gravitas, and shook his hand solemnly, as if he’d just returned from a distant land. One of them thumped him on the shoulder and asked how he was doing. He shrugged and said, “Life goes on.” The group settled by the bar, where Bogdan, already drunk, was insulting people and telling them they were clueless about soccer. They ordered a round, and Mladen pointed to Franz’s old man and said they should give him a drink, too. Franz’s dad made his way through the crowd to Mladen, flung one arm around him, and started talking, all the while holding Franz by the collar with his other hand. When I saw Franz was standing there like a statue, eyes fixed on the floor, and could tell nobody had any idea he was terrified, I ran over. When I pushed my way through the crowd, I heard Franz’s father stammering: “My boy will be helping you out—hear me, Mladen. A child mustn’t get away with something like that. Come over here, Franz.”
“Well, that’s fine, he doesn’t need to start today, we can wait for tomorrow,” Mladen answered, but Franz’s dad interrupted him.
“No way, today he starts, enough of this idling around. Come, Franz, go with Mladen. You’ll be done in a few hours’ time.”
Franz, frozen, stared at the ground and waited for Mladen to drag him away. I mustered every ounce of courage and declared: “Mladen, Franz didn’t steal them goalie gloves.” Mladen looked at me, and I thought I saw surprise in his eyes. But not fear. He knew I didn’t have the guts to say what I wished I could say. And even if I had, nobody would’ve believed me.
“I stole them and gave them to Franz,” I said louder, because nobody seemed to hear me. I stopped breathing from terror and shut my eyes. “I’ll come and help you,” was the last thing I managed to say. I’m not actually sure whether I said this out loud or not. When I opened my eyes, Mladen, beer in hand, was pushing half-dead Franz into the back seat of the car. Franz looked over at me just before the car door closed.
“Ajitam, tiaw rof em. Ll’ew nur yawa. Uoy n’ em,” I heard him say, surprisingly loud and clear.
“Uoy ’n em, Znarf, uoy ’n em!” I hollered after him, and two drunks at the bar laughed and whooped at me.
I somehow made my way over to Zvonko “Democracy” Horvat, crouched down beside him, and burst into sobs. Bacawk and Chickichee sat next to me and said I should calm down and wipe my eyes, people shouldn’t see me crying. I was sick and tired of them and that hellish village.
I asked Zvonko if I could come over to his place, watch TV—cowboy movies—look at his empty beer cans, whatever, just to push away the thoughts of Franz. Zvonko was jittery and weak, he didn’t say a word all the way home, and once he got there he drank glass after glass of water. I took off my sneakers and curled up in misery on the sofa. I must have dozed off at some point; I’d become completely still and was staring blankly. I was alarmed by a loud thump from the next room, a sound that brought to mind a huge, fleshy insect, an insect the size of a horse, smashing into the side of the ceiling lamp.
I sat up on the sofa. Something inside me could already clearly imagine what I was about to see. The fear of what I’d see was less than the fear I’d be stuck forever on that sofa, turned to stone, so I stood up and went into the hallway. Zvonko was hanging from a noose tied to a wooden post on the attic stairs. At first I couldn’t see the rope because the house was dark and the rope was thin, so it looked like Zvonko was floating. As if he still had the stamina to be polite, he twisted and jerked in silence, holding the noose with both hands. As if he’d changed his mind when he saw me. As if he’d realized that the only thing to outlive him would be the image of his helplessness etched inside me. I ran over and tried to hold him by the legs and lift him up. He was heavy and kicking wildly. I managed to get both feet several times, but then he’d flail and kick me away. He never made a sound, neither of us did, nor did any of Zvonko’s memories as they watched the macabre dance. Not again, I thought. I had become an outright monster, even to those who were on my side.
I’ve always had dizzy spells when I find myself in hugely important situations. Maybe because I imagine those moments hundreds of times before they happen, invent a picture of what they’ll be like, but then I always have to bind my fantasy to the reality. Zvonko’s foot twitched, the big toe jerking upward, all the rest pointed firmly downward. I saw this because he had a sock and slipper on one foot but the other was bare. I looked up and saw his face was red and his tongue blue. His eyes were huge. It was strangely dazzling.
When he stopped flailing, I hoisted him up briefly, but he jerked backward for the last time. Since I didn’t want to let him go, I lost my footing and hung briefly from his feet. I heard a crunch somewhere above me, and I thought I could feel it through my arms, too. It reminded me of when Granny nibbled a chicken foot from the soup and pulled it apart. His body was still, and I knew he was gone. My head was resting on his pelvis, and I felt moisture on my face. He’d peed, I realized. I took a few steps back and sat down in the corner without taking my eyes off him. He swayed back and forth and shuddered once more, but his face was dead and serene. He didn’t stick out his tongue or bug out his eyes, at least no more than usual. He was utterly peaceful, and I thought he could see everybody who’d left our village during those days, and maybe he saw my dad. They were all together and could have a good laugh about this mess.
I don’t know how much time passed before somebody found me, all I saw was dusk settling in. I was lucky, because usually nobody ever came to visit Zvonko. But Pišta stopped in to borrow an extension cord for the light over the bograč stewing station. He walked right in and from the door saw me sitting, back against the wall, wearing a frozen grimace, staring at the body. I think Pišta was never the same after that.
“Oh, oh, oh,” he repeated, quavering, as if shooing evil spirits and monsters away. He grabbed me, tucked me under his arm like a puppy, and ran out.
Mom was motionless and mute in the stairwell when I appeared at the door with Stankec and his colleague. First they wanted to talk with Mom, so they said I should go and play. Bacawk and Chickichee were waiting for me in my room, as if they knew I’d lose my mind for good if I were left alone. They told me Zvonko had left everything in order, he’d written a farewell note and set out all of his documents on his desk, as well as money for the funeral expenses and the wake.