Dana
It was an afternoon like any other at the small café nestled in the far corner of a library where Dana sought refuge on most days from the damp, cold air of the city’s late autumn.
Behind the counter, a young man in a faded blue cap with jeans ripped at the knees was turning knobs on a large espresso machine with words La Marzocco displayed across the polished chrome surface in deep red copperplate. His hands moved swiftly from one knob to the other as the machine hissed and dripped dark, aromatic liquid into cups of various sizes. The usual variety of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper with wilted pieces of greenery protruding at the edges was displayed behind the food cabinet’s glass door, next to cinnamon doughnuts and blueberry muffins.
A girl with chestnut hair tied in a loose ponytail carried orders on an enamel round tray. The soles of her Doc Martens made squealing noises as they connected with the floor-tiles and the pleats of her tartan mini skirt bobbed over the large holes of her fishnet stockings.
As she limped her way inside, Dana saw the girl and the same question popped into her head as on other days — why anyone would wear fish-net stockings with such large holes in them? Dana suspected that it was a statement of some kind, or just young people’s fashion these days, but the circles of the flabby white flesh looked even paler as it bulged through the black netting, and didn’t do the girl any favours in Dana’s opinion.
Nobody is asking for your opinion, better hurry up and check if your favourite table is free. OK, Dana responded. It was the usual exchange taking place inside her mind. She had long abandoned the notion of intense internal dialogue, as her doctor called it. The inside person routinely won arguments, issued orders Dana was obliged to follow and never failed to mock her when she deserved it. This confirmed to Dana the presence of another person, separate from her, living inside her body.
By half past two the lunchtime office workers from nearby buildings returned to their cubicles and the motley crew of aimless retirees and down-on-their-luck drifters in various states of dishevelment and personal hygiene was still a couple of hours away. It took Dana some months to figure out the best time to arrive at the library, but when she settled on half past two, she congratulated herself on the accurate assessment. Not only was that the quietest time, but the café sold all the remaining food for half-price. The inside person mocked her for thinking she had figured something out on her own, but Dana pretended not to hear it. She had learned that if she manages to keep-up the pretence for a little while, the inside person eventually gave up.
Only three of the eight wooden tables placed against the wall were occupied. Nobody was sitting at Dana’s favourite table, one furthest from the counter, squeezed inside a dimly lit corner. As she came closer, she saw a couple of empty cups and a small teapot left on the table no doubt by its last occupants. One of the two dark, wooden chairs stood askew from the table as if the person sitting on it left in a hurry. Dana drew the chair back in its place and moved the cups and the teapot to the very edge of the table for the young girl in fishnet stockings to easily pick up. Then she carefully manoeuvred her large body around the table and onto the chair backed against the wall. The pain shot like a blaze through her left side; from toes to collarbone, but she bit her lower lip and waited for it to dull. The fishnet-stockinged girl was exchanging pleasantries with a man seated two tables away. A young man with a canvas satchel across his body walked towards the bookshelves, his steps bouncing in the rhythm of whatever he was hearing through the headphones.
Dana rummaged through her bag for a notebook, an old fountain pen and her glasses. She was writing a story from a memory she was certain remained engraved in her mind with the delicate precision of a filigree. It was only a matter of finding the right words to describe it. To her surprise, not only the words eluded her, but even those she managed to summon were nowhere near right. After staring at the first and only sentence she had written on top of a new page (I remember that night) for a couple of days, Dana had no choice but to let the inside person take over.
This is what the inside person wrote:
I remember that night.
The overnight bus was full when it approached the border between Croatia and Italy. It was the late summer, and the air was heavy with the scents of flowery perfumes, and alive with the chatter of the passengers. A few giggling females leaned over the oversized bags filled with goods from the sales at the end of the Italian feragosto. Most of it was destined to be resold to friends and neighbours for a small profit. Enough to cover the cost of the trip and a few items they kept for themselves. It was a time-honoured custom that had not changed since my youth.
In the outer pocket of my bag, there was a crisp, new passport. Its photograph shows my face staring sombrely into the camera lens. The name, date, and place of birth written next to the photograph confirm that I am the person whose face is on the photograph, was born in Croatia and am the rightful owner of the travel document issued by the New Zealand Government. The evidence that the girl who left over two decades ago and the woman travelling on the bus are one and the same. Touching the glass of the bus window, I try to remember that girl.
It has been a long time since those memories were called upon. Instead of beautiful full pictures, expected from somebody travelling back to the arms of a homeland, only fragments pierced my view. Like sharp pieces of a mirror broken into hundreds of tiny splinters. As the bus reached my hometown, I discovered that the woman travelling and the girl who left do not recognise each other.
My first memory of the girl is the memory of a photograph. A black and white photograph showing the smiley face of a baby trying to stand on her chubby legs, supported by the hands of an older woman with dark curly hair. They are sitting on the grass under a wide apple tree in full blossom. They look happy. I never knew who was behind the camera lens. I suspect it was my father. He would have been the only one who could afford the camera. There are no other photographs of the baby.
Later there will be a few colour photographs showing the still, sad face of the girl carrying her school bag or playing in the snow behind the shapeless apartment block built during the height of Socialist architecture. How easy it is to employ such descriptions now, long after Socialism and its sterner comrade Communism, have been discarded into one of history’s bottomless dustbins. Those that suffered under either rejoiced, blinded by the excitement of newly arrived freedoms that heralded themselves from sparkling windows of fashionable shops and restaurants. Eventually, the blindness intensified sufficiently to lead first to slaughters, then the enslavement that followed.
Then there is a photograph of a schoolgirl standing in a row with other kids, dressed in a crisp white blouse and a navy-blue skirt, the teacher tying a red scarf around the girl’s neck. The admission to Tito’s pioneers. The youth meant to continue the legacy of the war victory emblazoned on the proclamations of the brotherhood of all working men and women, regardless of their original tribes. Some forty years later, the tribes came back armed with long memories and even longer weapons.
I remember feeling giddy when crossing the podium after being adorned in the mandatory regalia; red scarf, and navy blue Titovka cap with a shiny five-pointed red star on it. The taste of the future where each one of us can achieve anything, anything at all, was palpable in my dry, naïve mouth. It will be years before the girl floating over the podium, decorated with paper flags, unwraps the carefully disguised illusion.
The bus was nearing the outskirts of the town where I grew up. In support of a widespread myth that every émigré wishes for nothing more than to return to the bosom of the motherland, I ought to call it my town, like my lover, and such like. I have not the slightest desire to do so. Like I had no desire earlier at the border to tell the tall youth, officially inspecting my New Zealand passport, there is no need for him to labour over ill-pronounced English words for my benefit … but I did not. Instead, I indulged in using as many long English words as I could think of during the miniature exchange. The sterility of English provided the shelter of false superiority. While observing the youth’s uniform with the newly designed Croatian insignia, I remember asking myself whether he had seen my name in the passport. Had he chosen a foreign language to ensure that I understand my place is with those who deserted the motherland and certainly not with the likes of him who stayed and fought for the country’s freedom? The hand resting on the edge of the famous Soviet rifle that became a folk instrument, more popular than the saz, the accordion, the gusle looked confident. I felt as invisible as I did when learning rudimentary English amongst those born into it. It was their language, not mine, and this was his country; he fought for it, not me.
The pale light of the summer dawn started to rise over the passing landscapes. I moved my face closer to the windowpane and wished it was cleaner. It has been over two decades; the lights illuminating the highway are still the same. I am looking for the signs of recognition … this is the west side, the side where my classmates and I waited for a bus, half-frozen, on many school mornings. A strange, unsettling feeling stirred inside me. I could see the bus stop coming into view. Almost unchanged. But for the tree. I remember a willow growing behind it. Its long, melancholic branches stretched towards the ground. It is no longer there. My face is plastered to the windowpane, and I am trying to see the rooftops of the first shabby houses and the land behind them where horses used to graze. The bus moves too quickly, and the scenery dissolved as quickly as it appeared. There are smudges of my breath on the windowpane.
The bus circled the city and entered the shiny new bus station that I do not know. Tall, luxurious-looking buses with signs from various European cities are parked inside the station. A mixture of smells, sounds, and colours made me light-headed. I look for a taxi stand, rehearsing how to address the taxi driver in my mind. I had not spoken Croatian in over twenty years.
The taxi stand is behind the giant billboard displaying a Benetton advertisement; smiling kids of each race dressed in bright Benetton t-shirts. I approach the first taxi; the driver is a young man leaning nonchalantly against the bonnet of his car. His eyes are slow to register me, he looks like someone who did not wish to be bothered. Still, I ask whether he can take me to the cemetery. Which one? he asks. The question surprised me; there was always only one cemetery, and everyone knew where it was. His slow eyes rest on me, my light summer dress, my travel bag, my confused face. I turn around and hurry away as fast as the wheels of my bag allow me.
I decide to take the tram. I had always loved trams. Their wobbly blue carriages, regularly off the schedule, crammed with commuters reading newspapers, discussing daily affairs, jostling for seats, made for a cosy, welcoming ambience. My heart is slowly returning to its usual pace, my cheeks are no longer burning. I sit on the top of my bag and smiled. At the city with more than one cemetery.
Surprisingly, the tram arrives quickly. It looks different, the carriages are no longer the familiar square shape, although the colour is still blue. I am eager to climb on board, shifting impatiently from one foot to another, waiting in the queue to board. Finally, I am climbing the stairs lugging my bag behind me. The driver asks me for my ticket. I feel warmth returning to my cheeks, I did not have a ticket. The last time I had taken the tram, you could purchase the ticket directly from the driver.
I wanted to say that I am sorry. For not having a ticket. Not knowing that it is no longer possible to buy the ticket on board. For not checking about the tickets earlier. I have just arrived. This morning. From Italy. From New Zealand. I only want to go to the old cemetery. If he could, please let me ride. Just this once. I will buy the ticket later. I just want to go to my grandparents. I have been thinking about it for a long time. Years. I wanted to say it all.
But I say no word and just stand there like a mute puppet as my eyes fill with tears and a big woman behind me pushes me aside mumbling into her chin.
I turn around and disembark.
I am sorry, but we are about to close … the voice came from Dana’s left side, and for a moment, she felt dizzy, as if suddenly startled from a nap.
Yes, of course, I’m sorry … she muttered as she closed the notebook and reached for her bag. The fishnet stockinged girl aimed the nozzle of the plastic bottle towards the table, and a shower of tiny drops landed on the tabletop. She took a cloth from her shoulder and wiped it vigorously.
Dana pushed the notebook, pen, and glasses into her bag, swung it over her shoulder, and started walking towards the same door she came in. Outside, against the canvas of the steel-grey sky, a flock of starlings rustled the tree tops; swooping, squawking murmuration drawing chariots with sentries waiting on them.
