We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day, Ivana Bodrozic [adventure books to read txt] 📗

of small and large things along the shore tangled up in the bare branches that were still hanging menacingly over them. Nora wiped her face with a tissue, and Marko said:

“Let’s go.”

“Where?” she asked without any anxiety.

“To pick up your things at the hotel.”

Nora nodded and buckled her seatbelt.

ÄÄÄ

Just a couple of years for us

it swells like hope, like sea, like speech

like movement, like dawn, like child, like blood

like desire between us

it swells like pain

and gnaws everything before our eyes

love me like you’ve never loved

“Come in.” He unlocked the door and pointed her toward the small hallway. The space was unexpectedly light and orderly, full of wooden bookshelves with books and CD holders. The apartment had two small rooms; the hall led into the living room and then the dining area, which was next to the kitchen. The walls were white, except one, light green, which separated the living room from the bedroom. On it were posters by Danijel Žeželj; that was all. Marko set Nora’s backpack down in the hall, took her coat, and pointed her toward the dining-room table with two chairs.

“Sit down; I’ll make us some coffee.” He ducked behind the kitchen wall, and Nora had a look around the room. She felt comfortable; there was nothing superfluous. Warm colors and straight lines. On the table was a book, open, facedown. She picked it up.

Beasts love the fatherland

Beasts are the real liberators, unsurpassed revolutionaries

Beasts give the last drop of their blood

for the fatherland

Beasts howl until they are hoarse for the fatherland

Beasts claw at you, dig in talons, rip open throats

if you didn’t carry the flag you’re in for a dead man’s shroud

Beasts suck out your blood if you aren’t in the chorus, in the first trench

As soon as war breaks out beasts blow up

moral, law, conscience

Beasts know god forgives them all they do

Beasts love the fatherland and serve it loyally

Beasts are holy liberators

So for their reward they seek all the power and all the wealth.

She put down the book. The words took her to pieces inside and then put her back together again.

“Milk?”

Marko peered around the wall.

“Hmmm?” It wasn’t easy for her to make her way back.

“Milk?” he asked.

“This poetry is amazing.” She looked at him, glassy-eyed. Marko frowned, and then he realized she was referring to the book on the table.

“Ah—Idrizi, a Kosovar poet; brilliant,” he said with respect.

“Where do you get books like this?” asked Nora.

“Well . . . there are people I talk to. Not many, they’d all fit on one bus, but luckily there are a few. If you like . . . take it, I’ll get another copy.”

“Yes, yes, to decontaminate from last night’s reading.” Nora smiled.

“Oh, yes, that was definitely hard-core,” he agreed. “But, milk?” He smiled.

“Sure, sure . . .”

Soon he appeared with two cups, set one down in front of her, and took the other seat. The afternoon was quiet, as if somebody had withdrawn all the sounds from the room except for the soft sound of Chet Baker’s trumpet coming from Marko’s laptop—but that sound was distinct, separate from all others. It didn’t disturb the silence. For a time they sipped their coffee, exchanging occasional glances.

“Will you tell me what happened?” he said, finally. For a time she was quiet.

“Uh, I don’t know where to begin.” She knew exactly what he was asking of her, but she still hadn’t told anyone what happened, and everything was linked to everything else. It always is; nothing ever starts with now. It never starts with one event; there is no cause and effect, there is cause, cause, cause, and a few more times like that, and then effect. And then again. And that deeper logic that governs things, that brought them to this quiet room for confessions.

“Okay,” she said and pulled her hair scrunchy off her wrist. She drew her hair into a ponytail, sat up straight, and planted her elbows on the table. She ran her fingers over the edges of the volume of poetry. She looked at him sideways.

“My father was murdered,” she said for the first time. Marko nodded, saying nothing, letting her go on. “I never learned who did it to him or who ordered it; I know that some were involved who are still in power today, but there’s no proof. I think Ilinčić was one. I think this is why he had my room turned upside down. I think they are all somehow embroiled in this and that there’s no way to stand up to the alliance of all these criminals and the people in government. I think all this together has something to do with the mayor’s murder, but I haven’t been able to get to the bottom of how. I think they are all the same people.” Her voice was muted and deep. “Mainly, I want to find out what happened. I want to know who it was.” They looked at each other for a fraction of a second, as if the image had frozen, then blurred, and then sharpened again. Something was happening with space, time, air; something had begun to grow between them, like the sea, like dawn, and eroded everything before their eyes. Words fell short, but words were all they had just then.

“I’ll tell you everything I know.” Marko, too, was saying these words for the first time. He reached for his cigarettes on the table, but he didn’t take them out, he just spun the pack in his fingers.

“I was a reservist. I was Velimirović’s bodyguard,” he said slowly, to the end, quiet and braced for any reaction. “I was at the pit when the massacre happened. I wanted to kill myself afterward. I didn’t, but I was no longer alive. I was eighteen then, and I knew nothing about anything; I thought I’d save my mother, and I thought I was supposed to defend my homeland. Both of those things were illusions. I can’t change that, unfortunately, and if I could, I’d trade places with the people