“Children?”
“One girl.”
Mrs. Krkljuš heaves a deep sigh, as if Blam has confirmed her worst fears.
“I told my husband you’re here. He wants to see you.”
“Mr. Krkljuš?” Blam asks, getting to his feet.
“Wait a minute!” says Aca Krkljuš angrily, pushing Blam back into his seat and turning to his mother. “Leave us alone, will you! Blam’s here to see me! Me, understand?” The blotches on his face turn redder, and a quiver runs through his hollow cheeks. “Look, bring us something to drink.”
“I only have coffee,” she says with tears in her eyes but does not move.
“There’s no need,” Blam interjects to smooth things over.
But she does not seem to have heard and leaves the room.
Krkljuš bursts into laughter, but tries to suppress it by pressing his hand to his mouth. “Wait,” he says and, going over to the bed, stoops down, bends over, and comes up with a small green canvas suitcase. He opens it, shuffles impatiently through some magazines and notebooks, and pulls out a flat bottle with a yellowish liquid sloshing in it. “Have some,” he says, holding it out to Blam on his knees.
“I’d rather not.”
Krkljuš nods approvingly, then unscrews the tin cap, tosses his head back, and takes a few quick gulps. He exhales, lifts the bottle to his lips again, and takes one long swallow. Then he screws the cap back on and drops the bottle into the suitcase.
“Open the window, will you?” he says to Blam with a wink.
Blam goes over to the window and opens it. A few tiny raindrops graze his hand.
Krkljuš starts covering the bottle with the magazines and notebooks, but pauses. “Would you like to see some of my new things?” he asks hopefully.
“Sure. Let me have a look.”
Krkljuš takes a blue, a yellow, and another blue notebook from the stack in his hand and, still kneeling, lays them out, open, on the soft quilt of the unmade bed, but they close by themselves, so he bends one back and runs a trembling middle finger over the pages filled with music.
“These are melodies. All I have to do is arrange them.” He bends back the yellow notebook impatiently and taps his finger on a page where the notation is neater and in black ink. “This one I sent to Raka, and he wrote back that it was worth orchestrating.”
“Where is Raka?”
“In Germany, didn’t you know? Frankfurt, I think, for now. He’s got his own band! You can do that in Germany. The Germans have no time to make their own music.”
“You could have it played here too. With all the festivals.”
“Maybe you’re right. I’ve actually been thinking of submitting a piece to Opatija. Want to hear it?”
“Sure.”
But just then the door opens, and in comes Mrs. Krkljuš with a tray. Aca shoves the suitcase under the bed and gets up, shaking his knees free of cramps. “Later,” he mumbles.
“So you opened the window,” Mrs. Krkljuš says in a shrill, suspicious voice, still standing in the middle of the room with her tray.
“Blam was having trouble breathing.”
The woman narrows her eyes, then lifts her head and sniffs the air.
She puts the tray on the table with a caustic “Hm” and turns to Blam. “I’d let Aca go his own way if my Slobodan was still alive and there was someone else to look after the business.” She sighs and makes a face. “See if it’s sweet enough.”
Blam picks up a cup of the steaming coffee and takes a sip. “Thank you. It’s perfect.” But because Mrs. Krkljuš does not move, he realizes he must drink it all in her presence. Hot as it is, he ingests the coffee in small swallows and puts the cup down.
“Now we can go and see my husband.”
Blam looks over at Aca, unsure of how to respond. Aca is peering down at his as yet untouched cup, as if waiting to be left alone. Blam stands and follows Mrs. Krkljuš out of the room.
They go into the entrance hall, Blam keeping close behind the small woman because the light is so poor, but then she reaches out and opens a door, and suddenly everything is light again.
They go into the room. It is larger than Aca’s or looks larger because it is less disorderly. It has two old beds, an armchair, and a wardrobe that doubles as a kind of room divider. A door frame shows just above it.
Old Mr. Krkljuš is sitting in the armchair. He is wearing a pair of pajamas with a sweater pulled over them. He seems to have put on weight since the last time Blam saw him (and until two years ago he saw him often in the doorway of the shop: tall and with a protruding stomach, but with narrow hips and shoulders), and his face is bloated and moist with sweat. From the waist down he is covered with a blanket that slopes off to the right.
“Hello there, son,” he says in a tremulous, gentle voice by way of greeting. “You can sit here.” He motions to the bed next to him.
Blam takes a seat.
“You can smoke.”
“No, thank you. I’ve just had a cigarette.” He reaches into his pocket. “Would you like one?”
“I’ve given up smoking since all this began,” he says sadly with a wave of the hand, then lays the hand carefully on the part of the blanket that is slipping. “Had to give up everything. But worst of all”—he leans over to Blam and waves the limp hand in the direction of the wall behind the bed—“is that Aca doesn’t obey me anymore. Just drinks.” He shakes his head. “And my Slobodan, my wonderful son Slobodan, is gone.” His face is suddenly inches away from Blam’s. “You know what happened to my Slobodan, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Blam says, more hastily than he would have liked, almost boastfully. To mitigate his haste, he adds, “My parents were killed in the raid too.”
“They were?” says Mr. Krkljuš, coming to life. “Then we were together. I didn’t know, I didn’t know. Where did they die?”
“In the street, apparently, near their house.” Blam justifies the vagueness of his answer by adding, “I wasn’t living with them at the time.”
But Mr. Krkljuš does not notice. “My Slobodan, he died in the Danube,” he says, shaking his head sadly. Suddenly he looks up at Blam with renewed interest. “Are you Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“Then I have something to ask you. It’s been on my mind for ages. Do you know any Jewish lawyers in Novi Sad?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Really? Not one?”
“Not one.”
“Hm.” The old man huddles deeper into the armchair. “Nobody does.” His face gradually resumes its defiant look. “Würzmann is no longer with us, is he?”
“No, I don’t think he came back from the camp.”
“That’s what I heard too.” His eyes seem to be pleading with Blam. “What about Vértes?”
Blam shakes his head.
“I see. Aren’t there any young ones?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Hm. And I gather you have nothing to do with the law.”
“No. I work in a travel agency.”
“I see, I see.” His voice is indifferent by now. Suddenly he turns to his wife. “Isn’t the water hot yet? My back is freezing!”
Mrs. Krkljuš, who has sat there listlessly until now, stands up, takes the pot off the hot plate on the bedside table with the edges of her apron, and removes the lid to let some steam escape. “Where’s the hot-water bottle?”
“Here behind my back,” says Mr. Krkljuš, bending forward impatiently.
Blam stands. “Let me help.”
“No, no,” says Mrs. Krkljuš, shaking her head. “I’m the only one who can do it.” She puts the pot back on the hotplate and turns to her husband.
“Well, I’ll be going, then,” says Blam. “I hope you feel better soon.”
“Yes, yes,” the old man responds distractedly, searching behind his back with one hand as his wife bends over him, concerned. “Goodbye. Goodbye.”