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Chapter One
The Mercury is the most prominent building in Novi
Sad. Not the tallest, because it is overpowered by the
steep glaciers of the high-rises and the sturdy wreaths of
apartment houses that the postwar population explosion
strewed over the fields at the edge of town. Nor the most
attractive, because its builder and first owner, a prewar
businessman, viewed it as a commercial venture, making
the most of every square inch and avoiding costly ornamentation.
And yet the Mercury, jutting into Main
Square, one corner rounded like the stern of an ocean liner,
running along broad, straight Old Boulevard in all its four-storied
glory (and with its somewhat narrower decklike
mansard) and boasting a continuous row of ground-level
businesses, including a department store, a cinema, and a
hotel with a restaurant and bar, is unquestionably the city's
focal point.
Miroslav Blam, who lives in the Mercury's mansard, understands
the exceptional, almost lofty status of the building
and of himself as a part of it. He is proud of his status,
though secretly, reticently so, not having come by it on his
own merit. When he writes his return address, he does not
use the generally accepted "Mercury Building" (the name
comes from the name of the original owner's company); he
uses the official though more complicated "I Old Boulevard,"
which he also uses when giving his address to
acquaintances, and only if they slap their foreheads and say,
"Why, that's the Mercury!" does he nod hesitantly, as if
yielding to the unofficial, slightly wanton designation,
while in fact concealing his pleasure. Or, rather, vacillating
between pleasure and annoyance, because he dislikes being
pigeonholed, even in so minor a detail.
Actually, the reason he is so fond of his Mercury
mansard is that it is in the center of things yet remains a
hideaway. Lift your eyes from any point in Main Square or
the boulevard and you'll say, "That's where Blam lives."
But try to make your way there and find him. First you
have to be let into the building or slip past the janitor keeping
an eye on the courtyard from his kitchen. Then you
have to climb stairs and stairs--four flights' worth, each
with dozens of doors and more than dozens of people living
behind them, meddlesome people constantly lolling on
the balconies--and only then will you come to the
mansard level. And are you willing to knock at every door
and ask for him? If you're too loud and conspicuous, he
may hear you before you find him and thus remain eternally
hidden. Yes, even if you do locate the door to his
apartment. Because the mansard deviates unexpectedly
from the pattern of the other floors, narrowing as it does to
the width of a footpath, which path, protected by an iron
fence so people will not fall to the street, looks like a ship's
promenade perched on what is entirely residential space.
Blam often visits this walkway, this place of celestial
freedom, slipping out of his apartment through a passage
tucked between the laundry room and drying room.
Parading thus along the building's edge, he has a bird's-eye
view of the Main Square's spacious rectangle and the narrow
pointed spire of the cathedral that dominates it, or of
the broad trough of Old Boulevard with its endless
processions of cars and pedestrians, or of the ravine of narrow
Okrugic Street, perpendicular to the boulevard, and the tables
in front of the hotel. True, he is so accustomed to these
sights that he scarcely notices them, his eye resting rather
on an uncommon detail, a lone, dark, pillowlike cloud that
seems anchored to the cathedral's spire, or a pedestrian, or
a pretty woman who keeps returning to the same place. He
pauses at the railing, leaning his elbows on it, eager to take
part, to merge with the crowd. He becomes the pedestrian,
he becomes the waiting woman. He knows nothing about
them, yet for that very reason he can string together images
of facts and possibilities. The image of an accident
that once took place there, the image of two beaming faces
meeting for a tryst. The screech of brakes, a cry of horror
that overcomes the crowd like a wind. She is married, but
her husband is in jail for corrupting minors and she has
phoned an old admirer and asked to see him. The pedestrian
hit by the screeching car was Aca Krkljuš's father.
Aca himself showed Blam the spot when he gave him his
drunken account of what happened. His father's leg was
amputated and he could no longer manage his leather
workshop, so Aca had to take over and give up his own
work and calling. As for the old admirer, he is probably
frightened by the responsibility involved--after all, he has
remained a bachelor (if he hadn't, the beautiful woman
would never have asked to see him): he senses she wants
him to replace her husband in the performance of certain
familial duties as well as in bed. Aca, or the pedestrian
whose choice of position on the street reminds Blam of
Aca, seems to be surveying the terrain; he needs to make a
sketch of it, a legal drawing, to support his indemnity case,
which he has also told Blam about, while the man the
woman has asked to see may have got the time and place
wrong, mixed things up, because his memory is so poor.
But the two people who are actually there waiting will in
fact exchange a few glances and hastily thrown-together
words; they will grow closer, realize their common bond
in the losses they suffered on the same spot. They will
begin to trust each other, and he will invite her for a drink
or even (because he might well be Aca) suggest they take a
load off their feet by going up to see Blam, Miroslav Blam,
an old school friend, a friend also of my brother Slobodan,
who died a tragic death in the war, Blam always comes to
hear my band, my new pieces, he's the one I told about the
accident two months ago, the accident that cost my father
his leg and me my freedom, he lives right here and he has
a wonderful wife, don't worry, I'll introduce you, he's very
understanding, and a lawyer, well, kind of, and maybe he
can give you some advice about getting your husband off,
it's right here, right in the Mercury ...
A FAR-OFF RING, a knock on the door. Aca with his sagging
cheeks, sagging nose, apologetically sagging shoulders,
and listless expression suddenly looks amazingly like his
dead brother. He pushes the pretty stranger in and introduces
her with a quick smile.
"Is Miroslav in?" he asks, winking as if referring to a secret
agreement.
"He's around here somewhere," Janja answers, giving
him a curious look. "Gone for a walk ... I'll call him."
"No, no. Don't bother. We'll find him. Just point us in
the general direction. We need some legal advice. You see,
the lady's husband ..."
Now they are out again, squeezed together in the passage,
because Aca wants to let her go first but also needs to
show her the way, and she is rather heavy and afraid the
wind will mess up her hair or lift her skirt.
The wind slams a door shut somewhere. Otherwise
nothing happens. The two of them are still downstairs in
front of the building; up here there is no one but Blam. His
fellow tenants avoid the walkway. It is hot in summer and
windy at all times. Should they feel the need for fresh air,
they go out on the courtyard terrace, where they can
drowse, shaded and sheltered, in deck chairs, where they
can chat with a neighbor, read the papers, or take the children
to play so the children won't disturb afternoon naps.
The reason Blam likes the walkway is that he can count on
being alone there, at least until someone comes looking for
him. Only until then. Because if Aca were in fact to come
up with his lady friend, determined to find him, or if there
were a search warrant out for him (and eventually there
has to be--he cannot imagine living his life without one,
without another war), the very fact that the mansard was
secluded would turn it into a trap. He would not be able to
double back to the terrace: an armed patrol would keep the
passage covered. Nor would he be able to duck back into
the apartment except through a window: in case of a manhunt,
search, raid, or blockade, all windows are closed, all
curtains drawn. Those are the rules of the game and have
been from time immemorial. All the tenants can do is peek
through the blinds, stare wide-eyed and trembling at him
out there while a man with a pistol appears in the doorway.
Where can Blare turn? His heart is pounding; he presses
against the railing, clutching it convulsively, his head bent
over the side, his only way out. He refuses to let them corner
him again, let them force him to await their orders and
to comply; no, he'll jump, he'll swing his body into the
air and plunge headfirst into the street as if diving into
a swimming pool. He feels a cold stream of air rushing
through his mouth, a void enveloping his shoulders, a lack
of support, the vanishing borders of space. His legs flop as
freely as a rag doll's, they come undone, his whole body
loses its shape, its conventional solidity, his blood runs in
all directions, everything falls apart, the whole world, the
street he is about to crash into.
HIS HANDS TINGLE, his fingers burn, the bar of the railing
digs into the bone. He spreads his hands, turns them,
observes the red stripes slowly broaden and lose their intense
hue. Meanwhile, down below, people keep strolling
along the street, going about their business, stretching their
legs. The stubborn pedestrian is still there, but the beautiful
woman has disappeared; maybe the man she was waiting
for actually came. They have no idea what is going on
inside Blam; they cannot share it, they would not understand
his fear, his terror, his certainty that the patrol will
come for him and push him to the railing. What is wrong
with him? Is he mad? Or is everyone mad but him?
Though it amounts to the same thing. For if he is different
from everyone, then he is a monster, a freak, an aberration,
ripe for being split open and having his thoughts read, for
being crammed into a cage and exhibited in an anthropological
rather than zoological garden, exhibited naked, the
better to be seen and poked at through the bars until he
produces the incoherent howls and shrieks expected of
him.
The bars behind him rattle: someone is letting down the
blinds. The noise comes from the left, which means it is
either the retired woman with bad lungs or someone in his
apartment. He does not turn to see, however; he fears the
sight he would offer to the person looking out of the window:
a twisted head on a body still facing the street, the
abyss, with a face showing signs of an overactive imagination,
an imagination more real to Blam than anything
going on behind his back. Yes, he admits to himself with
embarrassment though with a certain malice as well. That
intimate world back there, so sure of itself--Janja doing
some sewing, perhaps, his little girl doing her homework--is
very much part of the manhunt, if not in its service.
When passages are occupied, a home like that is
disastrous. Any home is disastrous if it is alive, if you depend
on it for your life's blood, if you cannot live without
it. Then the bullets hit not only you, nor can you even
fling yourself to the ground, take cover. There is no cover
when you're burdened with love and the patrol is after
you. There is no way out. You are being led to the altar to
be sacrificed. They push you on, you can't turn back, your
head hangs low.
His head hangs low as he waits to hear whether the
noise will develop into a challenge, a cry of surprise, a
death command. But he hears nothing more, nor has anyone
seen him. He slowly turns and, keeping his eyes glued
to the asphalt walkway, goes back to the passage. If he can
slip through it unimpeded, he will avoid the apartment, the
home, the trap, and direct his steps in the opposite direction,
the stairs. He will run down the stairs to the street
and freedom. He may even catch another glimpse of the
pedestrian or the beautiful woman.
