We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day Ivana Bodrozic (fb2 epub reader txt) 📖

the Danube River Valley. The current political balance of the city often depended on him. When there were not enough votes on the right or the left to establish a majority, Velimirović stepped in, massaging to the maximum the corrupt potential of the local political system.

By now he’d noticed Nora, and out of the corner of his eye he watched her for a few seconds, and then wrapped up his conversation and came over to her.

“Lovely evening?” he asked, smoothing his beard.

“Chilly,” answered Nora absently; she didn’t have it in her. No longer could she stomach conventional chats with people like him.

“Like to go in? Warm up? Have a drink?” Velimirović hopped about, rubbing his hands. Applause could be heard inside.

“No, thanks, on my way out. I’m done.” She tried to step around him.

“You’re not refusing your host’s hospitality, are you?” He leered, hyenalike.

“Well, I suppose I am. Yes.” Nora was already at the gate. “Nice place!” she called back as she shut it behind her. Seldom did she muster the courage for such brash repartee, and all the way to the center of the city her hands were still trembling. She didn’t feel like going back to her hotel room. Too early. The adrenaline had warmed her, so she thought she’d sit on one of the heated terraces in town and have a drink—maybe a stiff drink.

ÄÄÄ

Blue and green

how do I protect myself

from change?

by changing

As she came up to a crosswalk in the center of town, she wondered whose idea it could it have been to install equipment for clicking away the seconds in this impoverished city with its handful of traffic lights. She watched the seconds melt away on the digital display and wondered how much this must have cost, and whether somebody laundered money on the project, and then mused whether her perspective had become so warped that she saw malfeasance whereever she looked, unable now to enjoy even the smallest facts of life, like knowing how many seconds she’d have to wait to cross the street. Just as the pedestrian light turned green, Nora glanced at the first car waiting at the crosswalk and spotted the familiar face of the cab driver. He noticed her. She waved, relieved when he raised his hand and smiled, and then he gestured to her to cross the street. Nora stepped into the crosswalk and then stopped and leaned to his car window.

“Still here?” he shouted over the rumbling motor.

“Well, yes, I am,” she answered and smiled. “And so are you,” she added.

“Well, yes I am”—he nodded—“going nowhere but in circles.”

The display showed she had another eleven seconds before the cars would have the green light.

“Up for something . . . ?” She surprised herself, offering something to a cab driver she’d only met twice in her life. He raised his eyebrows, surprised, and repeated:

“Something?”

“Well, I was thinking, coffee, or a beer . . .” she said, though she looked a little tentative.

“You bet.” He was quick. “Find a place to sit over there at the 032. I’ll join you once I’ve parked”—the rest of his sentence was interrupted by the cars behind him honking, and Nora was going to have to wait for another forty-five seconds. She’d never done that before, but for some reason she felt no anxiety, nor that she was out of line. She was grateful for a familiar face this evening, for someone she didn’t know from a courtroom, the media, or the war. Caffe Bar 032 was right by the crosswalk, with nylon sidewalls around the terrace and waitresses wearing tight-fitting skimpy green dresses. She sat in the half-open section as one of the waitresses materialized at her side.

“Up for today’s special?” she asked in a shrill voice, with a broad grin. “Pelin bitters and cola, only seven kunas!” Jaw jutting, she waited for Nora’s answer.

In high school Nora had once nearly been through alcohol poisoning with bitters and cola, and she’d never tasted the stuff since, but there was something about the young woman, the hostess, and her earnest manner that made her decide to go along with it and give the bitters another chance.

“Sure, I’ll go with the special,” she said.

“Fabulous! And now you’re automatically entered into our contest!” Her euphoria seemed almost out of control, and Nora hoped the waitress wouldn’t ask anything more of her. She saw the taxi driver approaching the terrace, looking for her. He was wearing the leather jacket and jeans he’d been in the day before; he looked tired, and had a slight scowl, but when their gazes met, he smiled with his eyes.

“Excellent choice of table,” he said solemnly, though they were all the same, cramped and wobbly, organized so they took up as little space as possible.

“I’m choosy,” said Nora, shooting him a sideways glance.

He extended his hand over the table, looking her straight in the eyes.

“I’m Marko.”

“Nora,” she said. “Once again, though you knew that.”

“Have you managed to uncover anything for your story?” he asked, sitting across from her; apparently, he remembered every detail from their two brief encounters.

“Not much.” She stopped, and then chose to be sincere: “What is there to uncover? A tragic story people are getting off on, the mob who think they’re better, smarter, more ethical, that it could never happen to them. All in all, miserable people.”

“Yes, I agree.” He sounded as if he could see everything clearly. “But why, then, write about it?” He really wanted to know.

“Well, I have to. I work for the press”—she smiled—“and the real stories, the ones with something real to uncover, aren’t assigned to me.”

“Annnd heeere cooommmes the pelllin!” crooned the hostess in screechy tones, and leaning over the table, she shoved her overexposed breasts in Marko’s face, smiling flirtatiously. He moved back, with his chair, to make room for her.

“And for the gennntlemaaan? Will you try today’s little special?” As he moved away, she moved toward him.

“No, thanks; I’ll take an espresso.” He did what he could to look around,