For half an hour the five of them didn’t budge from their chairs. The girl held her hands in her lap, looking at the floor. She didn’t move, she almost didn’t breathe, she was tense and looked like she was remembering a song she had heard long ago, one she’d start singing the second she remembered it, she’d just start singing, out loud, not concerned with who was around or where she was. The two Russians really were Russians, and motormouth Russians at that; first they whispered stuff to each other, past Vukota who was sitting between them, then they started laughing and talking real loud, one second Vukota was taking spray on the right cheek, the next on the left. He stared straight ahead, as lost as he would ever be in his life, as far from home as anyone had ever been. He thought how perhaps it would’ve been better if he’d never remembered Grandma Rina, if Grandma Rina had never even existed, and that if it had occurred to him to leave couldn’t he at least have done it the way other people did? How did other people leave? He didn’t want to think about it, but he was sure they must’ve left better than he did, because if they’d left like him, no one would have gone anywhere, everyone would’ve remained in the city waiting for their grenade or bullet.
To keep from bursting into tears at the terror of his fate, Vukota did what was always helpful and healing in these kinds of situations: Out of the corner of his eye he started spying on the girl; you know, the standard drill — I’m a man and I’m looking at a girl. She really was beautiful, one of those ones you didn’t have the guts to fall in love with, but you never got the chance anyhow, because you only ever met them in passing and never got to introduce yourself, but you would see them and ache, that real deep-seated ache somewhere in your chest. You try thinking about them and you always think, they can’t be someone’s girlfriend, because you only see them when they’re on their own, and you can’t imagine anyone who’s deserving of such a girl.
It was like she couldn’t hear the Russians; she focused on her spot, trying to remember her song, wound tight as a string on a guitar — not on a guitar! — maybe on some other instrument, one Vukota had never laid his hands on, maybe a string on a zither. Yeah, she was as tight as a string on a zither, and under a spray of Russian spit Vukota tried to work out what country she was from, but God help him it was really like there was no such country in the whole of Eastern Europe. Frankly, there was no such country in all the Europes of this world, eastern, western, whatever. Christ, what kind of country lets a girl like her end up number 678 in some distant Israel.
He stopped thinking about his fate, in fact, he was ashamed his own fate had even crossed his mind. From the get-go he should’ve been playing the role of the hero, saving this blond beauty — this daughter of Samokovlija’s imagination, this one-off blond Jewess — from general servitude, not to mention this audition. He thought how good it would be were he to get up right now, go over to her, take her by the hand, and lead her out, but in his head there was this pathetic little Vukota, a little scared monster, all panicked, telling him for God’s sake don’t do it, you don’t go up to any woman like that, she won’t stand up, you don’t pull her by the arm like you want to rip it out of her shoulder, like you’d pluck a star from the ceiling of a kid’s room that’s not your own. Vukota understood what the little monster inside was telling him: You go up to that girl and grab her by the arm — you’ll end up in the nuthouse. Crazy, and not even a Jew.
He tried to look away from her. The Russians kept the spray coming and he faced the other direction, hey, the little Romanian, he’d completely forgotten about him. The Romanian had his mouth open like he was a bit retarded, gazing transfixed at the beauty. Have a good gawk, numb nuts, said Vukota. His own voice gave him a fright, but no one had heard it. The Romanian definitely hadn’t, he was in a daze, zoned out to everything happening around him. Thank God we didn’t have that kind of socialism, thought Vukota, and thus comforted, turned back to the girl. Left and right it rained and thundered, the Russians not quitting for a second, but it was like in those songs from after the Second World War, rain or thunder couldn’t stop Vukota: He stood there in a drenched raincoat in the middle of a destroyed city, a city of which there was nothing left, the rain just poured down on Brest that day, as it once had, and Vukota wanted to know her name, to speak it right now, and hell, loud! He wanted her to finally turn around, he wanted to know where she was from, and to tell her: you got it, sweetheart, that’s where we’re going. I’ll tear up my number, you’ll tear up yours, and we’re off to your whatthehellwasthenameofit country. There in your hometown, we’ll meet again as total strangers.
The fat secretary came in squawking silence over there! The Russian precipitation cleared, and the director and assistants took their places. Number 675, said the assistant on the left. The little Romanian jumped up and finally closed his mouth. Where are you from? the assistant asked. From Albania, replied the little Romanian, who, no shit, wasn’t even Romanian. From Albania, the three of them were surprised, Vukota too. They’ve got Jews in Albania nowadays? It didn’t matter anyhow, the kid didn’t know the first thing about singing and ten seconds later the director had cut him off and the secretary showed him the door, soft-soaping him with we’ll call you if we need you.
It was Vukota’s turn. Bosnia and Herzegovina, he replied to the assistant on the left. Take it away, the secretary squawked. Not thinking too much about it Vukota started singing the first folk song that popped into his head. Look at me, Anadolka, I offer my heart, with almonds that you may smell so sweet, with sherbet that you may long for me, he looked in her direction, she looked back, gripping her chair, oh my, your locks so red aglow, do they fill you with such sorrow so, she kept watching him, her eyes shining as if someone had mistakenly let the ocean into the room, were I to suffer such sorrow so, I’d never let you see such woe, Christ, she knows the song, she’s opening her mouth like she’s singing, but so that no one else sees her, so they think she’s just yawning a bit, it’s easy to hide words, every word can be hidden, remain unspoken, but when you sing — that’s hard to hide. . Oh my, your face so white, is it sorrow or is it fright, no, it’s not possible, he would’ve seen her, he would’ve seen her in Sarajevo, but he hadn’t seen her, no way, the ocean flowed from her eyes and rushed down her face and over the whole room, it washed over Vukota and everyone else, but they didn’t notice, they didn’t have the eyes to see, they didn’t know what it meant when an ocean gushed over deserts of dust and thick foreign tongues. Enough, said the director, Vukota wanted to sit down, no, you’re done, someone will call you tomorrow, you’re through, the fat secretary signaled toward the door. Vukota turned around, wanted to say something, but what could he say now he was on his way?