“You’ve been reading too many novels,” Mama said, as if speaking to a child.
We went back into the living room and had some coffee. Mama opened the box of shortbread. The shortbread had been made in the former Yugoslavia and was so old it had lost all semblance of flavor.
Papa kept up his patter. From time to time Mama waved an arm in the air, as if chasing away flies. Then she got up and turned on the TV. Papa started grumbling that she hadn’t been listening to him, she never listened to him, all she cared about was that idiotic box. Mama turned down the sound. She was watching a soap opera with subtitles. She didn’t need the sound.
Glancing round the room, I had the feeling things had shrunk. Even Mama and Papa seemed smaller. Everything looked older, too; everything looked as gray and shabby as the dusty rubber plant in the corner.
Papa’s words inundated the room, settling accounts, justifying actions, raging, grousing. The words had an almost physical reality. They came with old age, the lack of bladder control. He was unaware they were spurting out of him.
I don’t know how much time went by, but at one point I stood as if waking from a dream.
“Time to go,” I said. “Mother’s making dinner for me.”
They didn’t try to stop me.
“Well, now you know what our life is like,” Mama said by way of apology.
“What’s so wrong with it!” Papa barked. “We live better than people in a lot of places. And if things hadn’t happened the way they did, we’d be living better than the Americans.”
Breathing heavily, he went and pulled out three notebooks from under the table the TV set was standing on. They were large — stationery format — and hand-bound.
“Here,” he said, “have a look at these. My scribblings.”
I gave them each a kiss at the door. Papa was clearly uncomfortable. For all his attempts at a smile the corners of his mouth turned down. The expression made him look like an abandoned child doing his best to overcome the slight. It must have been the expression I was wearing when I arrived at the airport.
CHAPTER 3
I watched her pricking her finger with the needle and sucking out a drop of blood through a miniature dropper, then sticking the dropper with her trembling hand into the opening of a tiny instrument, following the numbers on the display and entering them carefully into her sugar diary: such and such a date, such and such a time, such and such a sugar content. I watched her cast a worried glance at the clock and open the fridge, take out the makings for breakfast, and lay everything out neatly on the table: two plates, two cups, two spoons, two napkins.
“You make the coffee. I’ve had to cut it out. On account of the sugar.”
I poured some Nescafé into cold milk.
“Warm up the milk. Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
“I can’t.”
“Well, I’ve got to. Regular meals at regular times. That’s the way it is with diabetes.” She sighed.
I watched her crumble the bread with her fingers, the way children do. Another of her new habits.
“You’re observing me,” she blurted out suddenly. “I feel like a guinea pig.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been observing us since the day you arrived,” she said, switching to the plural.
“That’s not true,” I said.
She picked up a moist scrap of bread and began kneading it into a ball. I felt a lump in my throat. I was going to cry. And then she would, too.
“It makes me feel you’re blaming me for something. You think I’m the reason Goran left you.”
I must not let myself be caught in this trap, I kept repeating to myself. I must not let myself be caught in this trap.
“After breakfast we’ll pack and call a cab,” I said as calmly as I could. I noticed that I, too, had switched to the plural.
“Amsterdam is in the same time zone as Zagreb, isn’t it?” she asked, moving into attack mode.
“Of course it is. You know that.”
“So it’s half past eight there, too?”
“Right, only in Dutch you don’t say ‘half past,’ you say…”
“I don’t know why, but I thought it was one hour earlier there.”
“No. It’s the same time.”
“Well, you should know.” She sighed and added, “I can’t say I like thinking of you there.”
“Why?”
“Those canals, I bet they stink.”
“Not at all.”
“But the water is stagnant. It’s got to stink.”
“Oddly enough it doesn’t.”
“Well, I wouldn’t live there if you paid me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it never stops raining and the canals have rats swimming in them.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“I saw it on television,” she lied.
“I haven’t seen a single rat.”
“You never see anything. Your head’s always in the clouds.”
It was heartbreaking, I thought. The need to give offense as I was about to leave. I was abandoning her, and she had to find a way to punish me. At one time this kind of thing would have driven me to tears, but I’d learned to protect myself. Now it was like water off a duck’s back.
“I’m going to pack,” I said, getting up and heading for my room.
She followed.
“Want to take anything as a keepsake?”
“What, for instance?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got some homemade plum preserves.”
“You made plum preserves?”
“No, Mrs. Buden. And I can’t eat them. On account of the sugar.”
“Then I’ll take them,” I said to make her happy.
She brought out a glass jar in a plastic bag.
“Heavens, will you ever learn how to pack?” she said, smoothing out the clothes in my bag. “Wrap it up in a blouse or something so it doesn’t break. Is there anything else? Any of your things?”
“I don’t need anything, Mother,” I said, zipping up the bag. I glanced at my watch and saw there was plenty of time. “Why don’t you give my things away. Maybe Vanda can use them.”
Whenever I go back, I feel I’m attending my own funeral (Nevena).
She intentionally ignored what I had said.
I mixed another coffee for myself.
“How can you drink that Nescafé cold?” she asked. “Let me warm it up for you.”
“I like it cold.”
“You always did have a mind of your own…. Why haven’t you phoned for the taxi?”
“There’s plenty of time.”
“It takes them ages to get here.”
“There’s plenty of time.”
She looked over at me, then lowered her eyes. We were both searching desperately for neutral ground.
“Let me take your blood pressure,” she offered. “I bet you never have it taken.”
“Good idea,” I said, though the blow was so stunning I could scarcely breathe.
Whenever I go back, I feel like a punching bag. I ache all over (Boban).
She brought out a plastic pouch and carefully removed the blood pressure monitor. She wound the cuff round her left arm and pressed the button with her free hand. She watched the numbers flash past to the buzzing of the machine. It was over in a minute. “Your blood pressure is normal,” she said, slightly distracted but serene.
She raised her eyes, starting as they met mine.
“I was just testing it,” she hastened to say, like a child caught lying. “I wanted to see if it was working. Now give me your arm.”