Four years went by, and there I was in Sarajevo for the first time. No garage, no bike, my mother and father aged a good twenty years each, no one I know in the city, and no one who knows me. And I think, fine, that’s that then, it’s all over, you’ll be here for a couple of weeks, then back to Germanostan. It was a beautiful spring. I spent the day sitting in those cafés, one minute the sun burning down, the next a cool breeze, I was looking at the façades of the buildings, spotting the bumps in the asphalt, bidding a peaceful farewell to a city still mine, though I’m not hers, when all of a sudden I see someone I know coming from the cathedral, Lejla as beautiful as ever, leading a little girl of about three by the hand, the little one just like her, I’m about to call out to her, I open my mouth, our eyes meet, and she passes by. She doesn’t even recognize me. I stay openmouthed like that, an ambulance needed to come close it, Lejla goes by, and here we are, and to this day there’s one thing that’s not clear to me, and I can’t sleep when I think about it, and that is why I was joking when we rode around on the bike. If anyone can answer that question for me, I’ll do any job for them. I will, I swear it Emina, if you can tell me why I joked like that, tomorrow I’ll be Susanna instead of you.
Nora, like Ibsen’s
It was the beginning of January, the year the war ended, and Mahir Kubat found himself at Zagreb’s Central Station with no papers and fifty German marks in his pocket. The story of how he got to Zagreb, and why Zagreb and not someplace else, would take too long, it’s enough to know that Mahir Kubat had left for good and that he had no particular country in mind, but was pretty set on not hanging around anyplace too close.
A fine snow was falling, you couldn’t actually tell whether it was snow or mist, people were waiting for the tram in front of the station, Mahir had a white Adidas bag with his spare sneakers tucked under his arm and was looking at the king on the horse, who appeared to have especially positioned himself to look right in his direction, as if Mahir and the king formed part of a larger whole, having waited for God knows how long to stand here together on an early-winter evening, one across from the other, both with pretty much no show of riding off somewhere, or at least for there to be any point in doing so.
Mahir Kubat wasn’t easily panicked; he had these two Clint Eastwood frown lines on his face, and he was well aware of them, it could even be said that he relied on them; a man with these kind of furrows isn’t easily rattled, he doesn’t surrender to despair, even when as night falls he finds himself in a city without a single number he might dial.
One foot in front of the other, he headed off toward the underground shopping center to the left of the station. Down below the advertising neon blazed, from the sound system the jabbering voice of Oliver Mlakar, kids with shaved heads drank beer in front of the supermarket, and Jehovah’s Witnesses sold magazines with apocalyptic headlines. “Find Jesus Before the Catastrophe,” that’s what it said under the face of some penitent crone. She tried to look Mahir Kubat right in the eye so he might see the face of God in hers. Mahir gave her a wink and a smile. He was on the lookout for a bar where he could have a beer and not piss the whole fifty marks up against the wall. If he were someone else, and not Mahir Kubat, he would have already figured out there’s no such bar anywhere in the world.
An Ožujsko if you will, he tried it on like a local, but it came out bearing that excess courtesy characteristic of people who walk the world without papers, bereft of a single document bearing their name and photo, anything to prove their existence. He poured his beer, folded his arms on his chest, stretched out on his stool a little, and just sat there watching the people rushing by the glass window. The melody of a song from the mid-eighties floated around his head, something like I can’t explain the feeling of a slant-eyed girl in the snow. He’ll hang around in here long enough for something to happen. Mahir Kubat thinks it’s like he’s in a film and that there isn’t a film where resolution doesn’t come of its own accord. The trick is to not leave the theater before the film ends, because then you just roam the streets like a deaf whore, going from one film to the next, and then finally the panic wears you down.
Around nine there was barely a stool free. Only Mahir sat on his own, surrounded by three of them. Some whiny little homo came over, may I sit here, then nothing happened for ages, until a shaven-headed kid and a girl with a mohawk came in, both in leather jackets and high boots painted with British flags. You’re not waiting for someone? the kid asked, sit down, said Kubat through clenched teeth, sharpening those frown lines of his as much as he could.
He held his gaze on the passersby and just waited, not paying the kid and his girl any mind. Sorry, the girl took him by the elbow, do you maybe have a loosey?. . Do I maybe have a what?. . A loosey, you got a cigarette?. . No. . You’re not from Zagreb?. . Why’s that, that bother you?. . No, it’s just you don’t sound like it. . No, I’m not from Zagreb. . And where are you from, if I may ask, and it won’t cause offense, the girl chuckled sweetly, and Mahir Kubat thought she was okay. The crew-cut kid was okay too. He kept quiet and let the girl do the talking. I was from Zenica, and now I’m not from anywhere. . Aha, Mister Nobody. . No, my name is Kubat, Mahir Kubat, he said, offering the girl his hand. Nancy, she said, crooking her head, Sid, said the kid, aren’t you two supposed to be dead? said Kubat grinning. Why do you keep looking out the window, the kid asked. I’m watching out for someone. . Someone important?. . Yeah, he has to come by, ’cause if he doesn’t I’ve got problems. . If it’s not indiscreet, may I ask who that might be? The girl leaned across the table to catch Mahir’s gaze. No idea, but someone has to come by. . But you must know why you’re waiting for him. . That I know. . How long are you going to wait?. . Until he comes by. . Do you know anyone in Zagreb?. . No, but I know maybe a million people who’ve been in Zagreb, so maybe they’ll come by tonight. . Well, now you know us too, the kid banged his hand on the table. Mahir Kubat turned away from the window and looked at him, icy as he could, straight in the eye. Sid had these childlike green eyes that turned yellow just before the pupil. And you, little man, what would you know about all that?. . Nothing, just what I see. . What do you see then, wise guy?. . I see James Bond who doesn’t have anywhere to sleep and probably left his checkbook at home, so he’s a little anxious. . I’m not anxious, I am never anxious, Kubat turned toward the window again and folded his arms. Whatever, but if you want you can come with us, we’ve got a place where we all crash.