Diary of Interrupted Days (14 page)

Johnny cracked the door to check that it was Boris, then let him in. They hugged without words. When they entered the kitchen, Mira was having coffee at the table, her hair still wrapped in a towel.

Boris stood there, waiting for Johnny to say something, but she was faster.

“I’m Mira,” she said, extending her hand, “Johnny’s ‘sister in arms.’” She smiled, putting quotes around her words, and Boris shook her hand and introduced himself. Johnny poured another coffee and put the cup in front of Boris. Then he sat down.

“I don’t have much time,” he said. “They took us all to Croatia. We were thrown into combat with the Candyman and his men. I can’t tell you what happened but the Candyman saved our lives. Mira’s and mine. And now I have to run because two of the Candyman’s men were killed and he will blame me.”

“Jesus, Johnny, slow down a little,” said Mira. “Even I don’t understand it, and I was there.”

Johnny looked at her, then touched Boris’s hand. “I’m sorry, man. I’m all fucked up.”

Then Johnny retold the story. Boris interrupted occasionally, and Mira filled in the gaps. When he was done, Boris just sat there, smoking and staring into his coffee cup.

After a minute or two, he looked up at Mira, then at his friend. “Did you call Sara?”

“I’ll go fix my hair,” Mira said and went into the bathroom.

“The first thing this morning. She didn’t answer.”

“Do you want to try again?”

“No. It was foolish of me to call in the first place. The Candyman promised to give me some time before reporting the murders, but I can’t trust him. They could be tapping my phone already.”

“Where will you go?” Boris said.

“Amsterdam, probably. Maybe it won’t be Amsterdam. But you’ll know as soon as I settle down a bit. When the news spreads, there will be two groups after me: some of the Candyman’s criminals and the army. The army will almost certainly tap Sara’s phone. You have to warn her. We will have to communicate through you until we know more. Is that okay?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

The hair dryer hummed.

“Johnny, I got Sara two applications for Canadian visas. I think she’s filled one in for you.”

“I can’t make it for the interview, Boris. But that’s good.
You two go and I’ll find a way to join you. I don’t exist anymore, man. I am Robert Dylan now. I can go anywhere but here.”

“Robert Dylan?”

“Yeah. That bastard the Candyman has sense of humour, doesn’t he?”

“What about her?” Boris pointed his chin in the direction of the bathroom.

“She’s going back to Munich. She lives there with her boyfriend.”

The hair dryer stopped.

“I can’t carry much with me,” Johnny said. “You will have to help Sara move my stuff out, and then she should cancel the lease. I’m sorry, man.”

“Stop apologizing, Johnny. You’re just taking the shortcut. We’ll all leave this snakepit.”

“We’ll get through. We will. Screw the bastards.”

“I’ll help you pack,” said Boris.

“No. I’ll do it. You should go. I really am dangerous company now.”

They stood for a second, face to face. “Have a happy New Year,” Johnny said. They hugged each other and kissed three times.

Train number 340 to Budapest crossed into Hungary at quarter past one that night, after a short, uneventful stop at the border. The two passengers in the second-class compartment of the last carriage sat across from each other by the window, looking out into the dark, unknown land.

For the couple sitting at the patio table at JoJo’s in Yorkville, fourteen degrees Celsius apparently meant chilly. He was dressed in a green raincoat with a thick black lining, boots, and a leather hat. She was in a long brown sheepskin coat, with a woollen shawl around her shoulders and a beret on her head. The passersby were mostly in shirts and jackets, sneakers, although a few young men in T-shirts were probably pushing it. The Canadians did not give up on their summers easily, and a few of those who passed the couple gave them strange looks, as if their clothes would invite winter before its time.

Boris didn’t care. Being where nobody knew you was his first taste of perfect freedom.

Until an hour ago, Sara and he had been painting their newly rented apartment. Then they opened all the windows to help the paint dry and came here. Perhaps the draft, when it charged into their living room on the tenth floor, made it seem colder outside than it was. Maybe they
overdressed because they had been told that Canada was a cold country, and you want to dance to the right tune. Or it could have been the chill inside of them, from the trip, from the change. This was not a tourist visit, this was the real thing. Emigration—what a thunderous word.

Sara’s profile was softened by the shawl, and the beret made her look almost mischievous, but her face was serious. Did she regret? Boris sighed and pulled a cigarette out of the pack. He lit it, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke come slowly out of his mouth.

Rather than thinking of the big leap, Boris had restrained himself to taking a series of small steps—that had been his strategy when it had become clear they would be leaving for Canada. One worry at a time, one happiness at a time—a chain of happy links. His lungs were clear although he had been smoking for fifteen years, said an unhappy doctor on contract with the Canadian embassy after examining his X-rays. Relief. His teeth perfect. His suitcase sound. His record collection sold as a whole to a passionate collector who would take good care of it. The slides of his works organized. Several of his paintings, verified for export by the Ministry of Culture, rolled up and ready to go. Sara’s and his documents translated, the English versions with big red happy stamps on them. Books packed. Clothes packed. A few more books tucked in. Their mothers had been brave at parting—a few tears, some spastic kissing, some words of support. The minibus on time. A decent espresso at the airport. An easy flight to Paris and then on to Toronto. A clean hotel with more stars than it deserved on Charles Street. Silent tears one night while Sara slept next to him—but
that was all right, it was the first cry of a newborn. A promising ad and an agreeable apartment in a highrise on Isabella Street. A trip to
IKEA
and several hours with a screwdriver and a hammer afterwards. God created the world from prefab. A good shower. An afternoon with paint and now a patio table for two in Yorkville.

It was mid-October, 1993. Ten months into a chapter that started with New Year’s Eve.

Boris did not tell Sara about Johnny. What could he have said? That he had seen him, that Johnny had indeed been with the Candyman, that the Candyman had saved Johnny’s life by killing two other people, and then had spared the life of Johnny’s lover, who was taking a shower in the apartment when Boris visited? No fucking way.

Truth is for those who own it, because they paid its price, they have the cuts, the bruises, the broken bones. His truth, Boris’s truth, was that he did not know what to make of Johnny’s story. He believed his friend—believed every syllable—but he was not sure if Johnny understood what had happened to him or that it had changed him. All right, he had tried to stay true to himself, but the wall does not choose the colour painted on it.

He wouldn’t remain silent about seeing Johnny forever—he owed it to Sara, if nothing else—but stories need the right opening.

When he met her two days before New Year’s Eve, she asked him to come with her to a party. Their original plans had revolved around Johnny—he was supposed to play a big New Year’s concert—but now everything was in shambles. It turned out to be a theme party. Everyone was dressed in
lamé and danced the bump under slivers of light from a disco ball, of which the hostess was especially proud. The props and the music carried the guests back to their teenage years, and the party quickly fell into bad jokes, rude behaviour, and drunken yelling. Sara looked embarrassed most of the evening, and they left right after midnight. In the cab, she told Boris that she wanted to spend a couple of days at her father’s cottage on Kopaonik Mountain (her parents had divorced when she was five). By the way she spoke, it was understood that he would go with her. He remembered the night of January 2 now, sitting in Yorkville. He would never forget it.

The snow started falling in the early afternoon, and then it suddenly sped up while the last drifts of light climbed up the pines. In just a few hours, the blizzard had turned the thin, old veil of white into a thick cloud, and then stopped as abruptly as it had started. The two of them had dinner during the storm—Tom Waits singing on a German shortwave radio station—and after it calmed down, they decided to take a walk. When Boris opened the door, a pile of snow fell into the room, covering his feet, and they stood at the doorstep, looking out at the enchanted trees. Their earlier tracks had disappeared, the animal tracks, too: everywhere they looked there was only virgin snow. Slowly, they walked a few yards away from the house to sit on a small snow cloud covering the wooden beam beside the gate. A few scattered lights in the distance glittered like the crystals of memories.

Then Sara said, “Bosnia is in that direction—one war. Croatia’s over there—another war. If we hold our breath,
we can probably hear the cannons.” Boris remained silent. “I know that Johnny was in Belgrade. I went to his apartment yesterday. Your cigarettes were there. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He couldn’t figure out how to answer.

“You wanted to spare me something. Was he wounded?”

Boris shook his head.

“Johnny was with a woman, right?”

Boris held his breath.

“I see.”

A mild gust of wind shook some snow off a branch, and it fell in slow motion.

Sara spoke again, very quietly. “I feel as if I have lost my fingers. I cannot hold on to anything. I wish I could sleep through the winter. Have the slow dreams of spring. You wouldn’t let me stay out here tonight, by any chance?”

Boris put his arm around her so lightly it almost floated above her shoulders. She stayed as she was, not leaning on him, but not pulling away.

“Where was he going?” she said.

“He wasn’t sure. He mentioned Amsterdam.”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

“He tried. You didn’t answer. He had to go. He had deserted.”

“Why hasn’t he called again?”

“He said he was going to call when he got settled.”

“He left with the woman?”

Boris nodded.

She let out a sigh.

“Come with me to Canada,” he whispered.

What was he thinking at that moment? Later, in Belgrade, when he replayed the conversation, he persuaded himself that it was an honest proposal. Canada meant distance, meant clean, fresh, balm, healing. Canada was simply an idea. Was that not a good moment to tell her everything about Johnny? She did not ask for more, she could not handle more. You don’t hurl the truth at someone in such a frame of mind. And he didn’t tell a single lie.

That was how it all started, that was the beginning of this side of the world. The rest was speed, was blur.

They returned to Belgrade with something new between them. They started seeing each other more often, discussing the details of the new life they were planning. One Sunday he realized that they had been together every day that week, and he was not that surprised. What was unexpected, though, was the change in his attitude. He felt better than he had since the war had started, stronger. His focus had shifted from the grey streets around them; they—in their small talk—had already moved to skyscrapers with glorious vistas of Toronto. He liked that he now knew how much sugar went into her espresso, that she knew it was always sparkling, never still water, with his coffee. She knew his favourite jacket, and teased him about it (it was torn on the left shoulder, and roughly patched). He learned that she could not stand watching people biting their nails, and he started biting his occasionally, something he had never done before. They touched often, but that was nothing special—everyone touched everyone in Belgrade. Without talking about it, the café in the bookstore on the Square of the Republic became their favourite place.

One day, Boris offhandedly said that Sara’s chances of getting a visa would increase if they were married—fictionally, of course; she laughed, and he did too. They discussed the number of their fictional children. Boris said he had a fictional father. And then, another day, Sara asked him to marry her. And he agreed. They set the wedding for March 7 at noon. There was no reason for a celebration—this was strictly business. It would just be the two of them, their witnesses, and their mothers.

In the second half of February, Boris received a strange phone call. When the unknown male voice asked for him, Boris replied that he did not know Boris Bulic, that he had only recently moved into the apartment. The man asked if Bulic had left a forwarding address, and Boris said no. He offered to take a message, just in case the ex-tenant came by, but the man hung up. Boris was not sure what it was—whether his father wanted to keep him in the country by sending him to the army or if someone was trying to trace Johnny through him—but he stopped answering unexpected phone calls. He warned Sara to do the same. The times are strange and people are mean, he said, and it’s healthy to be paranoid. His phone kept ringing at odd times, sometimes early in the morning. Sara reported the same thing, and Boris feared for her safety.

A few days before the wedding, Boris found a message in his mailbox from Johnny’s drummer. He read it then threw it away. He would not think about that. The cab was finally cancelled, the lost chance was found again.

The night before the wedding, a freakish cold wave swept over Serbia. In Belgrade, the temperature fell to
minus seven, and the snow that had begun to melt turned to ice. Their cab hit another car a few hundred yards from the door, and Boris arrived at his wedding with a bandage covering a cut on his left cheek. Sara’s mother fell and broke her finger on the steps outside the registrar’s office. In their wedding pictures, they joked later, they looked like a gang who had kidnapped a beautiful woman.