Belgrade Noir

A man in a wheelchair approached me, the one who hands out leaflets all day by the Vuk Monument. His brother pushes him there every morning and leaves him, it’s unbelievable how much they look alike, maybe they’re twins. In the evening, his brother comes for him and takes him home. When he offered me a ticket to the concert, I realized that Ira’s surprise at my not knowing Smiley was well-founded. I’d seen him every day, I was pretty sure he was supplying the addicts of the bulevar with drugs. When he was in withdrawal, Kombucha would be running to him every minute. I just hadn’t known they called him Smiley, nor that he had participated in antiwar demonstrations. Which is really absurd. He had struggled against the war and wound up disabled, while I’d taken part in the war and had all my limbs. But in spite of his handicap, Smiley radiated serenity. I tried to figure out his age, but I couldn’t. He looked youthful, but at the same time, something told me we were about the same age.

“How much do I owe you, sir?” I asked him. Calling him sir didn’t really fit him, but I didn’t want to be too familiar. He laughed and asked for almost nothing, probably the ticket had cost that much at the ticket office. I don’t like it when a service fee is not included in the price, and then I have to think about how much to tip. I consider myself a miser, but this time I was generous. But Smiley returned the extra money, vehemently refusing to take a tip. I hate it when someone won’t let me pay for a service, and then I wind up owing them. I noticed that Kombucha was acting as if he didn’t know the man in the wheelchair.

“What’s your interest in this business?” I asked Smiley.

“It’s important for things to get done,” he answered, and laughed again.

A girl was raped last night in the restroom at the Hotel Bristol, a well-known actress was beaten up in the National Theater…

Oliver holds a half-liter bottle in one hand, a squeegee in the other, a red bucket of water sits on the sidewalk. While the cars are racing by, he fills the bottle to the top. When the light turns red, he comes up to the first car and starts washing the windshield, ignoring the driver’s disapproval. He washes slowly as if he has all the time in the world. Then he goes to the second car and does the same. When the light turns green, he goes back to the first car and takes the money from the driver. People behind the wheel get impatient, the whole line of vehicles sounds their horns. Oliver darts to the second car, the driver has already put out his hand with the cash. Oliver’s face is cheerful and because of this he gets more from the drivers than they were planning to give him. Oliver’s a great whore, he’s ideal for the role of victim. I was sorry I didn’t have a weapon with me, I would have executed him right then. Starting tomorrow I’ll carry a pistol, I’ve decided to be ready at all times.

Last night a bank employee died after a ten-day hunger strike, today a young man died in a fight between fans of the Crvena Zvezda and Partizan soccer teams…

Last night a teenager from Mirijevo slashed her wrists, an old woman from Dorćol drank acetic acid…

Ira once again addressed me as druže, “comrade.” I don’t like that Communist lexicon, but I didn’t object. She asked to see the picture from my military service booklet. She’s a marvelous girl, I wanted to kill her right then. And I could have, I had the pistol tucked into my belt, I only needed to unbutton my jacket and pull it out. I don’t know what stopped me from doing it. I would have grieved for Ira my whole life.

“You’re a war veteran?” she asked me.

“How can we have veterans?” I answered with a question. “We lost the war. We can’t have war veterans.”

“What a crank you are,” Ira said, which surprised me.

I held out the photograph. We all had long hair and beards, we looked like the bandits in Walter Hill’s Long Riders. She said I’d been handsome when I was young. I didn’t want to tell her that I wasn’t in that photograph. I myself don’t know why not, probably I was out on patrol that day. But despite my absence, the photograph is infinitely dear to me. It was taken in front of the cantina that Fat Ceca ran. Surely you remember, Peppy. Ceca had a heavy Mauser hanging at her hip, above the cash register it said, No Credit to Anyone. Nothing there was unclear. All around in the meadow lay soldiers, professionals, and mobilized reserves. They drank beer, wrote letters, cleaned their weapons. Some were removing lice. We were paramilitary volunteers, we didn’t acknowledge anyone’s command. At the same time, cross my heart, no one wanted to command our regiment either. The devil himself would have had a hard time paying our bills, and even harder getting our attention. Ira gave me back the photograph, deep in thought. I allowed her to walk away, I didn’t shoot her.