I get a very homesick hard-on.
And somewhere deep inside, I feel like crying. But my tears of stone won’t return to liquid form. They should make Viagra for crying. I hope they don’t notice my misty eyes, my sad mouth, or my heavy-duty hard-on saluting my homeland. It’s my language. The girl of my childhood dreams… It hits the lonely man in exile like a man being run over by a NYC truck full of tabloids (with Tony fucking Danza on the front page). Oh. Moja voljena domovina…
They look at me. I must look like a lone puppy longing for his mother. I have to say something.
“It’s the memories…,” I manage to stammer. “…of Yugoslavia.”
They turn their heads back to the screen, ignoring the heartbroken priest sitting on their sofa. Severina keeps on screaming: “Moja štikla! Moja štikla!” That would be “My high heel! My high heel!” Suddenly the doorbell rings. It has the sound of church bells. Goodmoondoor goes to the door, and I hear two men talking to him.
This is my cue.
I excuse myself and get up, pretending to go to the bathroom, but continue through the dining room, all the way to the back of the house. I open the door out on to the veranda and hesitate for a very brief moment. The icy spring air in my face, I face the fact that I’m not wearing any shoes, only my NYC socks. In the background, Severina howls on about her stilettos. I let them be my shoes as I step out on the cold veranda and quickly close the door behind me. Then I run like a crazy man out in the garden and through the next.
CHAPTER 11
TADEUSZ
Running on Icelandic asphalt in summer-thin American socks is hard on Croatian feet. Still I’m not going to cry about that. I’m a hitman, not a priest.
I let the cold be my whip as I run up the street, heading deeper into this suburb of mini-mansions. Luckily no one sees me. Everybody’s watching Severina’s štikla dance. High heels are the woman’s pedestal. You just have to worship the girl who wears them. In fact, you can measure a woman by her shoes. The more feminine she is, the higher her heel. Severina’s heels are usually as long as the barrel of a 9mm. One of our friends said he spent a night with her on his father’s boat, right in the harbor. “Making waves until the morning light.” We didn’t believe him, but of course we couldn’t prove him wrong either. True or false, he built his whole reputation on the story and ended up in fucking Parliament. Every time his face pops up on HRT, I automatically reach for my gun.
I don’t see any police cars around. No SWAT teams or secret agents with woolen caps jumping over hedges. I think the two men spoke to Goodmoondoor in Icelandic. The local police department is working for the Feds. All small nations suck up to the USA. Everybody wants their Hollywood moment. I wonder if the Icelandic police would ever do the same for the Iranian equivalent of the FBI.
I turn right at the next intersection, spotting a small delivery van from Domino’s Pizza. The engine is running. I duck behind the car. The pizza boy is standing on the porch of a nearby house, with his back turned towards me, delivering his hot pies to some hot chick with naked shoulders, a Day 6 type. I jump in the car and drive off. He comes running out on the street as I drive away. I see him waving goodbye to me in the rearview mirror. Icelanders are polite people.
I do some fast-as-a-bullet thinking as I drive the empty streets. I must not go far. The pizza van is like a bell around a bull’s neck. And Javor always told us:
“When you need to hide, you shall hide in the heart of the enemy. It’s the one place he will not search.”
All the mansions come with a double garage. Some of them are almost as big as the house itself. And in front of each one there’s parked a huge SUV beside a smaller one: his and hers. A Super Duty Ford Truck next to a Porsche Cayenne. Those people keep cars like the Bedouins keep camels. They all look brand new, their roofs shining in the white spring night. Yet those vehicles are never put inside the garage, the holy couple told me the other day. The flatroofers are only built as shrines to the golden calves resting in front of them. Goodmoondoor told me his neighbor polishes his Lexus every other week. He probably makes love to it the other week. At least many of those SUVs have been tricked out, with huge tires, putting their exhaust pipe at the ideal height for such an operation.
One of the houses has no cars in front of its double garage. I drive past it and five other houses. Then I stop, park the pizza lemon, jump out, lock it, and throw the keys into the next yard, before making a quick run for the empty-looking house. (You would probably like to see this in slow motion: the chubby priest running sock-footed on the sidewalk, like a lottery-addict too late to buy his ticket.) There is no light in the windows. At least no visible light. It’s quite hard to tell, though, since the night is bright as a prom in hell. I walk the short walkway and up three steps to the front door. I ring the bell. A dog barks in the distance. I wait a good while in the freezing cold, catching my breath. I ring again. The doorbell seems to be connected to a dog some two blocks away. Otherwise it’s dead silent. The whole neighborhood is glued to the TV. Even the trees stand motionless with excitement. I wonder if Severina will win?
A car can be heard on a nearby street. The FB-eyes must be on their way. I bring out my knife and open the door to find the barking dog inside the house. I find some slippers in the entry-way and take a quick tour of my new home. Two hundred square meters of pretty square people. An unused fireplace and some more of those lunar paintings, heavy duty stuff in heavy golden frames. Some obese sofas and a treadmill. The dog seems to be in the basement. I find the staircase and let my ears lead me to the laundry room. Once I’m inside it, I find a small, hairy dog that we used to call “a walking wig” back home in Split. The small barking machine goes into a fit until I unplug it with a quick turn of its neck. It’s as easy as breaking a chicken leg at the joint.
On the clothesline I find some silly pants, a tacky shirt, and freshly washed man’s underwear. The holy man strips and donates the collar to his fellow dog—his fellow dead dog—and says goodbye for good to Father Friendly. I put on the funny pants and shirt and quickly find my way to the no-cars-allowed garage where I begin looking for a can of paint or something close. In a messy corner, I do find some house paint. I open the can with my army knife and smear some of the white paint on my clothes and in my face. This is pure genius. I get all excited. My heartbeat goes from Bolero to Bossa Nova. I bring the open can with me inside the house and find some newspapers in the kitchen. I spread them on the floor in the hallway—some sixteen photos of the trashy girl singing for Iceland—and put the can on top. In the kitchen I find a radio and turn it on. Phil Collins screams he’s been waiting for this moment, all his life. I used to cry out loud with him when my Hanover girlfriend dumped me like an empty paper cup in a garbage can. It’s a great breakup song.
I’m just about done with everything, and completely wet with head-sweat, when the doorbell finally rings. I wait a minute and let it ring again. The sound is very luxurious, as if designed to remind the owners about their money. I then go to the door and open it. Heartbeat is Disco now. Two policemen are standing out on the porch. Black jackets, white hats.