So that’s how it was then, in my eighth year of life my dad had already begged me for something. Instead of feeling grown up, fear took hold. What do you mean — I beg you, don’t let her jump. If she wants to jump, she’ll jump, what’s it got to do with me, leave me out of it, I didn’t talk her into climbing up there, I was furious with him because he was scared and so weak, and because he’d begged me in that voice I beg with when I’m scared and weak and they’re going to do something terrifying to me. But that begging never works, and no one ever pays it any mind, not even he who now expects me to make amends for the fact he never learned to swim, or me to make amends for something else, something I can’t grasp, just like he can’t grasp a single one of my fears.
Why don’t you climb up there and beg her not to jump, I suggested to him like it was perfectly normal and pretty weird he hadn’t already thought of it. Dad didn’t reply, he just stared up in the air at Mom every now and then waving her arms, her smile so broad you’d think she was going burst out laughing like she did watching Charlie Chaplin films, and that she’d fall off the board. Get up there and tell her not to jump, she’ll get soaked, and maybe she’ll smash to pieces if she jumps, I tugged at his sleeve. He bit his bottom lip and yelled Mom’s name. She made like she didn’t hear him, or maybe she really didn’t hear him, and then he headed toward the diving board, his legs shaking and knees knocking like kids’ knees when they try and jump from the fourth step. He climbed up the board itself, slowly he climbed, my terrified, non-swimming dad, the dad who was scared of heights, scared of his ex-wife at heights, she who had become so strong she was taking her revenge on him and probably didn’t know why. He’s climbing up there because I told him to and because he hadn’t managed to come up with a reason to wriggle out of it. He’d lost his mind, which until that point had got him out of ever going in the sea without me thinking it weird, always having an excuse for every attempt to get him in the water, the kind of answer only big, serious fathers were capable of.
Hey, wait, what are you doing, I’m coming down now, yelled Mom when she saw him halfway up the metal stairs. She turned around on the board as if she did it every day, like there wasn’t a great height below her. A moment later the three of us were standing next to the pool and everything began to fall back into its old familiar rhythm, one in which every fear lay sleeping at the bottom of our hearts, at the bottom of a big black cave, not coming out unless a devilish someone prodded one out.
We went back to our waiter. Are you drinking and driving? Mom was confused. The waiter brought a double grappa for Dad and cloudy juices for Mom and me. That went: cloudy, cloudy, double grappa. Dad said I don’t usually drink, but today I need one, and Mom didn’t ask why do you need one today. She just said there probably won’t be any cops.
After that we went to the spring and drank our fill of the special men’s water. Are you going to become a man now? Mom laughed, it’s a bit late for me. . But for me it’s not, I said and drank another glass. Dad didn’t say anything, he drank in big grown-up gulps, gulps that could have swallowed the ocean if it wasn’t so salty. I remembered the sea and Drvenik, and that I’d never live there again. This life, this Sarajevo-and- nowhere-else life was very serious, and I already didn’t like it because in this life lived fears no one understood. Everyone had their own fears and loaded with these fears they collided with others for whom they meant nothing, were just a plaything. I had the feeling I knew what it meant to be a grown-up.
We went back to the car, the shirt was already dry. Dad put it on, you’re not going to puke, are you? he laughed, and I looked at the ground and didn’t say anything because I knew I was sure to puke, that’s how it had to be, and they’d be happy because of it. I couldn’t escape, there’s never anywhere to escape anyway, you can only lie a little, and just never in hell open your mouth when they ask you if you need to puke, or if you’re scared, or if you’re sad. Yes, and you don’t need to explain to anyone why a poor little Fićo is a poor little Fićo and why fathers aren’t allowed to beg their children.
Mom sighed like Marija in the village of Prkosi
On the last day of fall we’re going to Pioneer Valley. That’s what we agreed, doesn’t matter if it’s raining cats and dogs and the heavens themselves open, a deal’s a deal, that’s what Dad says. The three of us are going to Pioneer Valley, and we’re going to look at the lions, monkeys, and other animals. They’ll be brought indoors on the first day of winter and put in secret sleeping cages, where they’ll stay until the first day of spring. Until then only the zookeepers will see them because animals don’t like being watched while they’re sleeping. Their wanting to sleep alone needs to be respected. We’ll see them at the very end, on Sunday afternoon, and when we go, the zookeepers are going to lead them into the secret sleeping cages, Pioneer Valley will be locked up and the keys given to the mayor, who’ll look after them until spring comes. Then we’ll come back, the animals and us, and see the changes the winter has brought. I’ll never see the lions as a five-year-old again, because in the spring I’ll be six.
It’s so foggy you can’t see your finger in front of your nose, said Grandma coming back from the market. I made it there and back from memory because I couldn’t see where I was and would’ve thought I was nowhere if I hadn’t remembered the way. Now let them say I’m senile. She put her shopping bag on the floor, a head of lettuce and a leek that looked like a palm poked out, but there was nothing in there for me, and if she’d bought spinach too it was going to be a really yucky Sunday. Luckily we’re off to Pioneer Valley, and besides, it doesn’t pay to prematurely get anxious about lunch.