Diary of Interrupted Days (26 page)

Tomo drew the curtains aside. The man in bed moved his head a little but did not wake up.

“Johnny?” Tomo said. “Johnny?”

The man blinked, then opened his eyes. “What time is it?” he said. His voice was hoarse.

“Time for lunch, Johnny. You’ve slept enough.”

“They gave me those pills again.”

“I told you, Johnny, they had to do it before today’s measurements. They needed to make sure no unnecessary worries inflicted your brain waves.”

Tomo helped him sit up, and propped the pillows behind his back.

“They’ve been keeping me here forever. I want to go.”

“Soon, Johnny. Soon, I promise. Don’t argue with the doctors. By studying your case they can help others. That is good. The unit here that deals with brain injuries is world-renowned. You’ve talked Italian, and you’ve never been to Italy or studied the language. They have to make sure you’re not going to slip into that again, or something equally unpredictable.”

“If it’s about the unpredictable, they’d have to keep me here forever.”

Tomo smiled. He removed the tray from the trolley and helped Johnny position it in his lap. Then he sat on the chair.

“I brought you something special today,” he said after Johnny started eating. He pulled a book from somewhere inside his hospital uniform and held it up. “Look.”

He put the book on the bed in front of Johnny and returned to his seat. Johnny was still very sleepy and it took some time for him to take the book and look at its cover. He continued to chew, looking at the picture on the jacket.

“Good photo, isn’t it?”

“Not bad.”

“It’s just been published. Your new biography, Johnny.”

“Great,” Johnny said. “Then I don’t have to remember anything. I guess it’s all here.”

“No, Johnny, you have to. You have to. I flipped through it. Some parts of it are bullshit—they don’t like some of your songs that are really beyond their comprehension—but they do go into detail about your eleven concerts in a row in Kulusic, and they have some really good photos from your work with Pankrti. I didn’t know anything existed from that period. Did you?”

“I kind of remember that there was a photographer around. Some tall guy. Blond. Yeah, Canon.”

“Very good. He had a Canon.”

“No, it was his nickname. He actually had a Hasselblad and his name was Krstulovic. But they called him Canon because … I can’t remember why. Shit.”

“No, no, that’s good, very good. See? It may be just a trickle now, but it’s coming. What else can you remember from that session? Were there any girls around?”

“Was Sara in while I was asleep?”

“I don’t know. I just got here.”

“Wait, what day is it today? It must be Friday. You don’t work on Fridays.”

Tomo remained silent. Johnny continued to eat, flipping through the book.

“Sara is very pretty, man.”

Johnny looked at him. “Yes, she is.”

“What is the problem, Johnny? You can tell me.”

Johnny sighed and let the book to close itself. “She loved someone that’s not me anymore. I don’t know who I am now. I don’t know who she is.”

Tomo thought for a while. “Does that really matter, Johnny?”

“Of course it does.”

“But she’s here, every day. She’s by your bed even while you’re sleeping. She helps you shave, and wash, and eat. She loves you. Whoever you are now, she loves the new you.”

Johnny did not say anything.

“Don’t you like her?”

“A lot.”

“There. That’s all that matters. Is that a letter?”

Johnny turned to the nightstand and took the envelope in his hand.

“Why does Tomo want to refresh my memories? Why is it so important for him?”

“He is fighting for
his
memories, Johnny,” Sara said. “If
you
don’t remember, so many things in
his
life will be lost. It would be as if he had lived an illusion. There’s been a war, people have been displaced. Some of them didn’t even bring pictures with them. Their friends are dead or far away. Your music is one of the few things that tie it all together.”

“Isn’t that an overstatement?”

“Do you have any idea how many people would be lost if someone erased the Stones or the Clash from our memories?”

“Was I that important?”

“In that space we used to call home—yes. You were that important.”

He looked at her face. Sara was serious. She sat on the edge of his bed, touching the watch on her left wrist with
the fingers of her right hand. He had seen her every day for the past few months, enough to know that something was not right today.

“Still, he can be strange.”

“You have no reason not to trust him. He’s done so many wonderful things for you. Did you know that he actually bought it?” She pointed at the guitar propped up on the other side of his nightstand.

“He said he had borrowed it. I asked him to take it back.”

“He bought it. A nurse told me. And he doesn’t even play the guitar.”

Johnny looked again at the instrument, and slowly nodded.

“Listen, maybe you can learn how to play. You were good once, maybe you can do it again.”

Johnny moved to sit up. She leaned forward to help him, but he stopped her.

“Oh, god, I didn’t tell you the best news. They’re going to publish your book!”

“What book?”

“Your diary. I sent a copy of your notebook to one publisher only, because I knew someone working there. And they thanked me for that. They want to speed it up. They don’t want to wait until the war is over, they want to publish it now. Much more material is needed, so you have some work to do.”

“Isn’t it funny?” he said. “My memoirs are being published while I’m trying to regain my memories.”

She looked at him, pursing her lips approvingly.

He sighed. “Did you know that there is no such thing as selective memory loss?”

“Says who?”

“Take a look.” He reached underneath his pillows and fetched an envelope.

Sara opened it. She recognized the handwriting.

Boris wrote:

   She cried like an expert, without a sound. Her head was bent a little to the left, her shoulders rounded. The tears from her eyes fell sideways, towards her ears for a brief moment, before they returned and gathered in the corner of her mouth. She had no makeup on and the wet path was clean, clear, and shiny. She put the letter in her lap, and continued to cry as she looked out the window. It was raining outside again.

Johnny touched her hand very slowly, very lightly. Five cells of his fingers against five cells of her skin.

“They called me this morning, Johnny. Boris is dead. He was killed during an air raid on the bridge to Belgrade.”

The door opened quietly. Johnny turned slowly and saw Tomo. The Reverse Man stood there, not sure whether to enter, because he saw Sara’s tears. There was an expression of pain and confusion on his face, a silent apology. Johnny nodded his head for Tomo to come in. When he was still hesitant, Johnny pointed at the guitar. Tomo picked it up and handed it to him. Johnny put his fingers around the neck, pressed down on the strings, and hit them with the nail of his right index finger, sliding his left hand at the same time. The sound that came out of the wood was like a scream.

All of the characters in this book are real: they live in my head. Any likeness to people who do not live between my temples is coincidence. While the historical frame for the events described in the novel is rather accurate, I had to resort to some compression. For example, the conference on Yugoslavia at Innis College in Toronto was held later than it happens in the book. Some of the events in the war section did take place, but not in that area, or during the period, described. And the village where Johnny ends up was not modelled on any existing community.

There are four people I wish to thank here. Having them on my side means so, so much. In no particular order:

When I needed Joanne Mackay Bennett’s wit and wisdom while writing this novel, she didn’t ask any questions, she just helped.

Anne Collins is my editor at Random House Canada. Her laser cuts deep and cures manuscripts without leaving scars. Her passion for books is unrivalled. It’s an honour to have her as a friend.

Behind every one of my books there is a woman. Silvija
Jestrovic is behind this one. It was conceived one night during one of our conversations after our daughter, Ana, had fallen asleep. She is the warmth.

Branimir Štulić is a poet and a fighter whose work keeps inspiring me. His poems have taught me that words are not only units of language, but drops of blood that keep this world alive. Some of his verses have provoked a few of those “quoted” in this novel.

Finally: this is a night book. Parts of it were written on two continents, in five different cities, on five different computers, two of which died in the middle of the work, almost taking down the manuscript with them. Some snippets were handwritten in five different Moleskin notebooks, and on a Palm T|X. The original synopsis for the book was dictated into a telephone. But all of this work was done between 10:30 p.m. and 2:00 a.m.