Pig Boy (23 page)

Miro has set the table. One bowl is blue and the other is white. One glass is thick like a beer mug. The other is decorated with a picture of Donald Duck.

‘Now I have two of everything,' Miro says. ‘Demon, you pour brandy,
thee
brandy, I mean.'

‘I gather the Disney one's mine?'

‘You like duck? Donald?'

‘No. They all pissed me off. I didn't like any of them.'

‘I like wolf. What wolf's name?'

‘I think you mean Goofy.'

‘Ah, yes. Goofy. But I no think Goofy good name for wolf.'

Miro sits the pot of stew in the middle of the table. He hands me the ladle to serve it up while he gets the bread and butter.

‘Maybe you take dinner home for mother?' Miro suggests. ‘And remember bottle of
rakija
too.
Rakija
very good for sickness.'

‘So tell me about coming to Australia?'

The mound of bread is almost swallowed up in Miro's palms as he breaks it in two and passes me my half.

I spread it thick with butter then dip it into the stew. The meat and broth soak into the bread while the butter melts into a ring of yellow. It's a delicious mouthful.

Miro hasn't started. He's busy shaking the brandy and watching for bubbles.

‘Good brew?' I ask.

‘Not my best,' he answers. ‘It insult I give to your mother. She must wait for next brew. But tonight, Demon, maybe good if not best brandy.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘You and me friends, Demon?'

‘Yeah,' I laugh.

‘It time to tell one story,' he says. ‘You ask me about Australia. Why I come.'

‘Yes,' I say, relieved my tactics have worked and we are off the topic of my mother. ‘Tell me the story.'

Miro picks up his glass, swirling the liquid like a science potion. Then he throws back his head and drains it in one gulp. He's already reaching for the bottle before the glass is back on the table.

‘Demon?' Miro says. ‘One day you ask me, “Who is Niko?”'

I stop chewing. This is not the path I meant to lead him down. For the first time, we're sitting at a table enjoying a meal together. We don't need to talk about these things. None of it matters any more.

‘Demon?' Miro's voice is louder. ‘You remember you ask me this one day? “Who is Niko?”'

All I can do is nod. The half-eaten meat is stuck to my tongue.

‘I am Niko,' he tells me. ‘Niko Tanic.'

I hear my fork drop into the bowl. But Miro keeps talking. ‘Niko Tanic,' he says it again like it's been a long times since he's heard it out loud. ‘That my name. Not Miroslav Jovic. That name they give me. It is better for me when I come here to Australia to have Miro for name. People not find me.'

Miro hasn't looked at me, hasn't turned his face at all. Instead he stares into his glass as though he can see the reflection of someone in there.

‘Who would be looking for you?' I ask quietly. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Demon,' he answers. ‘Demon, your world very, veery different to my world. Because you live here, in Australia. You not know war. It hard for you to understand.'

Now it's clear to me. This matters to him. He has picked this time. He's waited for us to be sitting at a table, sharing a meal, drinking his brandy. Miro wants the conversation to be civilised.

My back straightens against the chair. Carefully I pick the fork out of the stew and put it on the table. ‘I'd like to understand,' I say.

‘But maybe you no like me. Maybe you no want to be friends.'

‘No,' I whisper. ‘It won't be like that.'

‘You hear this thing before, “war criminal”?'

‘Yes.'

‘I am war criminal.' It's only now that Miro lifts his face and looks at me. But in a second he's let me go and has turned away again. ‘War come to my country and boom!' He clicks his fingers. ‘Suddenly I not know, who can I trust? Who good man? Who bad? My neighbours for all my life, every morning my parents drink coffee with them. They Moslem, my neighbours. My family Orthodox. But it no matter in Bosnia. We all happy. We like family. Then war come and it all change. We all go crazy. Craaazy.'

Moe's warnings creep into my head, whispering things like, ‘my family knows what he's done', ‘you don't want to piss the Pigman off', ‘he's an evil prick'. My hands hold the side of the chair and squeeze the metal until Moe's words fade away.

‘We all forget who we are and do terrible things. Things –' Miro sucks in the air. ‘Things I cannot speak of, Demon. Things I see in dream every night. I not know man who do this. It not me, Niko. It beast. We all become like beast.'

Now my hands are folded on the orange tablecloth. But it makes me feel like Pascoe, like I'm sitting here at the table of judgement. So I tuck them under my thighs where they can't be seen.

‘I don't understand why you had to change your identity,' I say. ‘Who'd come looking for you here? In Australia?'

It takes Miro both hands to pick up the glass and guide it to his mouth.

‘My own people, Demon,' he says. ‘They come looking for me. Not Bosniaks. Not Croats. Serbs. Serbs who live in Australia. Who be living here long, long time. Maybe Ozzie Serbs who go back to their country to fight war. I think they would like to see me.'

‘Why?'

‘In war you be soldier or you be traitor. I both. But I proud to be traitor not soldier.'

‘I don't get it.'

Miro's trying to slide a cigarette paper from the packet but his fingers are shaking too much.

‘Let me,' I offer.

He slides the pouch of tobacco across the table. ‘You see my hand no good these days.' Miro holds them up; the wide palms, the thick fingers nicked and scratched from pigging. ‘Once, I proud of my hands. Tanic men have big, strong hands.' I see the boar in the back of the ute, it's neck rotated. ‘Everyone in my village know this.'

I can feel him watching my fingers as I roll and slide the tobacco-filled paper.

‘There was one man in my village called Irham,' Miro tells me. ‘We go to school together and play soccer. His sister Najwa very, very pretty. In summer times we swim and make jump off bridge together. I like that best because Najwa scared and hold my hand. Irham make best cigarette in my village. His mother and father grow tobacco leafs in garden. Irham bring leafs to me, chopped and fine ready for cigarette. Best quality.'

I pass the rollie to Miro. He doesn't take it. Instead he opens his lips and I lean across the table, putting it in his mouth then striking the match for him.

‘Pour
rakija
for me, Demon.'

After I've filled his glass I stare into my lap so Miro can smoke his cigarette and sip his drink with dignity. I don't look up until he starts talking again.

‘Last year of war I see Irham,' he continues. ‘Irham living in camp with Moslems, Bosniaks. I ask if Najwa okay and he say, yes, she go to Germany. It is good. I am happy. Happy. But next day I digging grave and I see Irham dead.'

I sit there like a mute. I have nothing to offer Miro except to listen.

‘Dejan, my boss, he see me talk to Irham. He know Irham too. And Najwa. We all from same village. But we not his friends. Irham, Najwa and me, we think Dejan, pfff.' Miro's fingers flick the table like he's brushing off an insect. ‘Like,' he says. ‘Like fly. He steal from all our houses. We know this. But now, in war, he big bully boss and he do what he, he …'

Miro stops mid-sentence. The silence kills me. I stare at the orange tablecloth until it swirls and spins and hurts my eyes.

‘Bastard.' Finally some noise. ‘Bastard!' Miro thumps the table with each word. ‘Bastard!
Bastard! BASTARD!
'

Then he closes his eyes like he's trying to compose himself, like he cannot speak another word until he does. But my eyes are open and I can see the tiny flare of his nostrils sucking up the air.

One of the dogs yawns. The tap outside drips. Apart from that it's silent.

I fill my glass along with Miro's. But he's right, I can taste it now; it's not his best
rakija
. Or would sweet tea even sit sour on my tongue tonight?

‘Miro,' I whisper. ‘Miro, you, you don't have to tell …'

Miro raises his hand to stop me. ‘Please, Demon. I must speak. I must. But it very hard for me to say these things. You must be patient.' Now his eyes are open and he continues his story. ‘Dejan know Irham all his life. He could turn other way, let Irham escape into mountain. Into safe Moslem land. But instead he shoot Irham and he make
me
dig his grave. Many, many days I think I will kill him. But he not worth bullet in my gun. So I wait. Then, after war maybe two years, one man come to see me. He lawyer. He ask where Dejan is. They want him because he know many things about bigger fish. You understand what I say, Demon?'

‘I think so,' I reply. ‘Did he want to make some sort of deal with you?'

‘No,' replies Miro. ‘But I say I not speak unless protection for my family. If they lock me in prison or shoot me, I no care but I do for my family. You see, there no secrets in village. Everyone know if someone go to Hague. So that is deal I make and for first time I go on aeroplane, to Holland.' Miro reaches for the brandy. This time his hand is steady as he pours. ‘Ah, we nearly finish.' He holds up the brown bottle, swishing around the last drops of liquid. ‘It no problem. There more under bed.'

‘So you went all the way to The Hague to give evidence about this bloke Dejan?'

‘At Hague I wear best suit. It brown with small white stripe, very smart. I buy before war for wedding of my sister. But it too big now. I have to make hole in belt for my pants no fall down,' Miro says, shaking his head as if this small detail amuses him. ‘Every day for two week I go to court. Every day I walk past big, big fountain – so much wasting water – and sit in room and answer many, many questions about what I do. But best bit is when judges ask what big bully boss do and where he live now.'

‘Did they find him?'

The points of Miro's teeth pierce his tongue as he smiles. He picks up the bottle, raising it to me like a toast and says, ‘That why it make me happy to be traitor, not soldier, Demon.'

A yellow line of fat sits around the edge of our bowls. Pieces of beef and potato stick out of the stew's gravy, which has turned to a glossy brown jelly. I have no stomach for food or drink. I haven't even moved from the chair. I want to move. I want to get up and walk around the kitchen freely like Miro does but I can't. It's like my limbs are locked.

Miro's drowning himself in plum
rakija
. He's almost sung a whole Bon Jovi album. Now he staggers around the kitchen hugging the second bottle to his chest, singing ‘Bed of Roses' in a mix of English and Serbian. But then, he has had years to digest what he's told me tonight. He has slept and dreamt and lived it. Miro is right, my world is very different to his. I almost feel embarrassed, like I'm just some soft little white boy – a pussy.

Miro finishes the song with a dramatic crescendo then takes a bow. Again I clap, but my applause is growing thin. It's time to get out of here. I can smell trouble.

‘Demon!' Miro yells as though I'm all the way over at the water tank. ‘Is truth you no like Bon Jovi because of your father? Or is lie too?' He's standing over me, shouting the question in my face. I wait for him to walk away before I wipe the spit from my eye and answer.

‘No, that's true about my father and Bon Jovi. He loved them. That's why I hate them.'

‘Oooh,' he moans. ‘I hope it lie.'

‘Well, it's not.'

‘What your father's favourite song?'

‘I wouldn't know.'

‘We ask your mother.'

‘I don't think that'd be a good idea,' I mutter.

Now Miro's back. He sits on the table, his foot kicking the leg of my chair. ‘But you like dog aaand,' he says, pointing his finger in my face, ‘… aaand you no like to kill. Yes.'

‘So?'

‘You fat. You like my cooking.' Miro grins. I'm trying to lean away from him but he reaches over, grabbing onto the neck of my t-shirt and almost lifting me out of the chair. ‘So no kill, scared of gun, love dog, fat,' he's saying, while the brandy in his other hand dribbles down my chest and into the waist of my jeans. ‘So you are just like him.
Ti si isti kao on
. I knew.'

‘Look, I don't understand what you're saying,' I answer. My hand is on top of his. I want him to stop pulling at me. But Miro's swaying left and right, twisting the top of my t-shirt into an enormous knot. ‘I think I should go.'

I try to stand up but Miro pushes me back into the chair. A fountain of
rakija
spills from the bottle. Now my t-shirt's drenched and the brandy fumes make me want to gag.