Diary of Interrupted Days (15 page)

In April, Sara and Boris had an interview at the Canadian embassy, and the official told them they had passed. In late May, they received their papers.

They continued to live separately. Boris sold a few of his works to get some money for their new beginning (minor stuff at humble prices, but everything counted). Sara, in the meantime, went into some sort of slow mode. She did not tell anyone that she was emigrating, except her parents. She wasn’t saying goodbye to her friends, she did not want to change anything in her apartment, she just wanted to pack her two suitcases and leave. At times, Boris was afraid that she had changed her mind, but he didn’t ask. He knew she was walking a thin wire across an abyss, and he wanted her to keep stepping towards him.

In the summer, two tabloids speculated about Johnny’s whereabouts. One of them claimed he was in the U.S., recording his new album with studio musicians. The other one was closer to the truth, in a perverted sort of way: in spite of his being an opponent of the war, Johnny was a true patriot, the article said, and had decided to volunteer on the side of the Bosnian Serbs. Currently, the hero was on leave somewhere abroad, avoiding the local media. In late August, a government-controlled
newspaper published a vitriolic commentary about how the times had changed: those who were once considered criminals were now investing their own money and lives in fighting against the Croatian and the Muslim separatists, while those who opposed the war—“the so-called intellectuals”—were in hiding, waiting for the apocalypse to pass, so they could return to earning money from the same people they never cared about. As an example of the first group, the author explicitly mentioned the Candyman and a few other minor gangsters, while in the “so-called” group was Johnny, among others.

Sara never discussed these articles with Boris. She never mentioned Johnny at all. But he did not take this as a sign that she had lost interest in his whereabouts.

Finally, Boris booked the plane tickets from Budapest for October 6. On the evening of Tuesday, October 5, the red minibus peeled off from Slavija Square and, before they had even settled properly in their seats, the lights of Belgrade were behind them. There were four people with them on the bus, silent and teary-eyed. The driver played some disco music, trying to wash their brains, but it did not work.

Their flight arrived early in Paris, and they had time to take the Métro into the city for the afternoon. They walked through the Latin Quarter, dined in a fine restaurant, and went back to the airport hotel when they were already sweetly tired.

The room was so tiny the TV dangled from the ceiling, the reading lamps were on the wall, the coat hanger was suspended above the door. The soundproofing was poor, and
every few minutes they heard another plane taking off. It was difficult to fall asleep in their narrow bed. They watched television until after midnight, and Sara fell asleep first. Boris set the alarm, muted the TV, and continued to watch.

He didn’t know what time it was when he woke up, but there was still no blue in the sky and the TV was still on. He got up, pressed the power button, and went back to bed. Sara’s body sensed his and she shifted towards him. He lay on his side, smelling her hair, her warm ass in his lap, and did not move. His dick rose and stood firm, pulsating against her thigh. He was sure this was a dream. After a while Sara simply put her hand behind her back and took him. He drew his right arm under her body and pulled her closer. Her back arched and he put his left hand on her belly, then slowly slid into her panties. She had shaved on the sides, leaving only a slim strip of hair around her pussy, like a bridge to a better world. It felt like his whole body had narrowed into a shaft. She moaned in her sleep and lazily pulled his foreskin up and down a few times. He touched her and the electricity shook them both. She lifted her left knee to her chin, he moved a little lower and was suddenly in her. Her hips rocked slowly, front and back, far and close, take and give, go and come, come.

Just thinking of it all made him feel as if he were dreaming. But it was Yorkville, they were on a patio, on a sunny October afternoon, far from any winter, and a slim girl in tight black pants was standing next to their table.

“I need an espresso to stir me up,” Boris said to the waitress.

“If it’s safe to wake up now,” Sara said.

Boris suddenly felt that the chain of happy links was finished. The necklace was around his neck and it was surprisingly heavy.

Although Sara could not relax until she and Boris had some tangible opportunity within their reach, she soon discovered—with surprise—that she enjoyed their first days in Toronto. After mostly empty shelves in Belgrade stores and worried faces in the streets, this place was full of light. Other than where the skyscrapers clustered in the financial district, the sky felt bigger, more generous here. And the low buildings seemed encouraging because they were scalable.

For the first few days they went to bed early, their bodies still on Belgrade time, and woke up at odd hours of the night, making coffee and talking for hours, sometimes even taking a walk on the streets before they started smelling of gas and greed.

Following the map of all immigrants—from furniture stores to dingy dollar stores, from supermarkets to drugstores—they always chose an unknown street. They wanted to keep meeting Toronto. And they wanted to extend their honeymoon, begun on that Paris night.

Boris seemed happy. Something pushed Sara to be more of everything. She was kinder during the day and sluttier during the night, she wanted to make nice food for them, she avoided anything that might be perceived as irritating. At first, she liked this new her, and thought that it must have come from the magic of the blank sheet of paper they suddenly had before them. Or perhaps from having sex again. But she was also confused, because this new woman was pretty much everything the old Sara had never wanted to be. She was too bland, too “if you please.”

One day, Sara called her mother, who slipped in another “now that you have left me alone” speech. Buying indulgence, Sara offered a set of comforting lies. Mom, the apartment is unbelievably large (a junior one-bedroom). Boris has enough money so that we can live for a year, even if we don’t earn a single cent (in two months, they would be out on the street). We have met some very wealthy people (stepping suddenly onto the street, they were almost killed by an expensive-looking Cadillac; the tinted windows slid down and the driver and his passenger both yelled at them). Those who are dealing out guilt think they rule, but are manipulated in self-defence.

Was she intent on pleasing Boris because she felt guilty? About what?

Two weeks after they arrived, Sara got a job at Mr. Satt’s store, selling cameras and video equipment, minimum wage plus commission. She had lied on her résumé, as someone back in Belgrade had told her to do, saying that her father had a photo-equipment store where she’d helped occasionally when not ordering merchandise and doing the bookkeeping. Also, she had lied about her qualifications, claiming to be only a high-school graduate.

Of course she did know something about video cameras and editing units from her years on television, and Mr. Satt was happy with her attitude towards his customers. He was in his late forties, with fair skin and mild manners. There was something vaguely Scandinavian about him, but he never spoke of his background. His accent—not distinct enough to be pinpointed—could be detected only occasionally. He
preferred to spend his time alone in the small office on the upper level at the back of the store, where he could scrutinize the main floor through a two-way mirror. The store was on Yonge Street, only two blocks from where they lived, and full of glass and halogen light. There was a room at the back, a tiny studio actually, with a kitchenette, a breakfast table, and even a comfortable couch. Sara brought a few magazines from home, a cheap vase she had found in the garbage on Yonge and filled it with red flowers. She liked to take her breaks there, though nobody else did.

Soon, the Romanian sales clerk, a skinny, dark-haired girl, observed, “You spend too much time in the cage.”

“The cage?”

“That’s what we call it because that is where Mr. Satt keeps his wife. She is not good in her brain, you know. We call her Mrs. Upsatt.”

“I’ve never seen her. Is she dangerous?”

“I don’t think so. She just throws words at you. But she can really make you tired with her stories.”

It was her first Saturday, their busiest day. They sold most of their stuff on weekends, since people seemed to need time when buying video cameras. Sometime after five the influx of customers started abating, and Sara went to the kitchenette to make a coffee.

A woman was lying on the couch. She was turned away from the door, gazing into a mirror she had propped against the wall. With one hand, leaning on a pillow, she held back her dark hair. Her back was elongated, and there was some elegance in the way her body filled the space. Although she
was dressed, it felt as if she were naked. The late light coming through the small window in the back of the room was the colour of cream. For a second, Sara thought that she was looking at a Velázquez painting, perhaps a vision of Venus, a giant poster someone had put there to make fun of her. Her first reaction was to go in and tear it apart. But there was no Cupid in the picture.

“Close the door, please,” the woman said. Only then did Sara notice that she could see the woman’s face in the mirror. She closed the door behind her.

“Who are you?”

“Sara.”

“You are new.”

Sara nodded. “I started on Monday.”

“Not in the store. In this country.”

The woman sat up, and turned to face her. “Can you pass me those nuts from the shelf, please?”

Sara saw the small plastic bag that had not been there before. She handed it to the woman.

“Thank you.” The woman’s voice was deep and calm and did not change in pitch as she spoke. “You don’t find it funny?”

“What?” Sara said.

“That a nut asks for nuts. It is almost like being a cannibal.” She stared at Sara. When Sara did not react, she said, slowly, “Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Perfectly well. I don’t see what’s funny.”

“Hmm.” She tore the bag open and started picking out nuts one by one, with two fingers only, watching Sara’s face all the time.

Sara started to feel annoyed, but refused to show it. “I wanted to make myself a coffee. Would you like some?”

“No. I can’t drink coffee. But you go ahead. What is your name?”

“Sara.”

“You don’t look Jewish.”

“I’m not. I’m Yugoslav.”

“Then you must be a Serb. Sara the Serb.”

“How did you know?”

“Mr. Satt says that only Serbs say they come from Yugoslavia. Everyone else says their nationality.”

Sara stood motionless by the coffeemaker.

“I didn’t want to offend you, Sara,” the woman said.

“I’m not offended. Is it true what you said? Is that really so?”

“I don’t know. I don’t meet many people. Ask Mr. Satt.” The woman stood up and put the bag with the nuts on the table. “I am Luz. Let me make the coffee.”

It was their first Halloween ever—there was no such holiday in Yugoslavia. Boris asked the man in the German delicatessen on Church Street about it, the only person he knew in Toronto besides Sara. The man enjoyed explaining the rituals of the night to a newcomer, and then sold Boris a bag of mixed candies, which he hung on the inside of the door to their apartment. Their building—a block away from the gay village, and large enough for individual tenants to go
unnoticed—was full of transvestites, prostitutes, junkies, dealers, and gay couples. But the kids still might come, the man had said.

Sara returned from her job early that afternoon. Another girl had come to work by mistake, so Sara took pity on her and gave her the shift. She took a shower while Boris made dinner. They sat at the table and watched the world news on their small TV as they ate. The food was good. In the liquor store Boris had picked up a free magazine that had some recipes. This one was supposedly from Bosnia.

“Do you think this is some kind of solidarity?” Sara asked. “That they want so badly to be in sync with the news that they called this Bosnian?”

“Irritating, isn’t it? We ran away as far as we could, and politics is still infiltrating our food.”

“But look: it contains ingredients that were never available back home.”

Boris said, “I remember once passing by a restaurant in Amsterdam that claimed to have authentic Serbian cuisine. The dessert was something made of anise and whipped cream and avocados, country style.”

“Right. Just something that your typical Serbian peasant would make at the end of a hard day—whipped cream on top of avocados. And anise?”