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

Lav, just a few hundred feet off, boasted four stars and was on the brink of bankruptcy, much like the rest of Croatia. Government ministers came here for anniversaries, the occasional businessmen showed up, and potential investors dragged themselves all the way to this city at the easternmost edge of the country. The place was a hard sell. Why trek to this inland city on the Danube when they could go to charming Istria, by the sea? Everything here had sunk into a black hole: money, people, hotels, children, initiatives, projects.

For months there’d been predictions swirling of a rosy future, and rumors of billions scheduled to materialize at any minute from a mysterious Chinese investor for a project known as The Port, the construction of a new canal between the Danube and the Sava riverways. Tales were spun about a tariff-free zone. For several decades now in the port zone—serving both Croatia and Serbia, the two countries the city belonged to—mournful, rusty tugboats had been moored next to towering cranes, which mostly went unused, although the port was one of the few local businesses that was not losing money. Every twenty to thirty years, a bona fide head of state would show up and wave from the deck of the good ship Golubica, deliver the baton for a nationwide annual relay race, declare an end to the war, or offer a formal apology for the latest bloody spree in this oh-so-peaceful place.

Hotel Danube might have looked shabby that autumn evening, but the price was right. Nora preferred to avoid dwelling on its past, the goings-on during the war, the people who’d stayed there. All she cared about was having a place to sleep so that the next day, as early as possible, she could do her interviews, setting aside all that really interested her to focus on the love story with its tragic denouement.

2.

Someone’s watching us

everything’s not lost

there’s something I have gained

before (spring 2010)

“Tell me, Brigita, what’s worrying you? I am no goldfish granting magic wishes, but there’s plenty I can do.”

“What can you do? I mean, specifics.”

“When are you up for reelection?”

“I am all set for the next three years, as far as that goes. What I want to know is what I’ll get if I endorse you. What you get is obvious enough: four more years, the port . . . But what about me? What about my family friends? I mean, my posse, if I cross the aisle to support you . . . And not just that; you know how they see things.”

“Fine, Brigita, look: I’ve moved Ante now; he runs that association and has a vote. He won’t cause any more trouble, and when he raises his hand in support, everyone else will follow suit, like dogs peeing in a row. You’re fighting for the city, everyone can see that, and you’re fighting by supporting me, even though I’m across the aisle. Nobody has the right to call you to account—”

“Sure, sure, we’re all fighting for the same things, but what do I get except a kick in the teeth for colluding with the enemy?”

“Look, bringing you onto the supervisory board will be a breeze. I’m a member of the port board now, and I’m not compensated. But as soon as I have the election in hand, I’ll withdraw and pass the chair on to you, Brigita. There’s an easy two-thousand-kuna honorarium there. And other tasty opportunities will come your way! When we get to nominations, you’ll move ahead—a seat on the Commission for European Integration; you’ll fly two, three times a month to Brussels. There’ll be other opportunities. Per diems. All the rest. And I should tell you . . .”

“Yes?”

“Our mutual benefit aside, you’re perfect for it.”

“Listen, I’m embarrassed to raise this, but I’ve heard people all over town are saying my appointment is a done deal. I find this a little . . . you know . . . It makes me look bad. I thought our arrangements were private.”

“Brigita, I’ll say this just once. They’re shooting in the dark, wild guesses. You’re a smart cookie. And I, as mayor, say that because unlike other men who may see work with women differently, I adore women, and that’s my problem. . . . I believe friendship functions far better between women and men.”

“No such thing.”

“Friends? A man and a woman?”

“No such thing.”

“Okay, well, I disagree with you there, but you’re young yet; you’ll figure this out for yourself.”

“I’ll sleep on your offer and be in touch.”

“Of course. I look forward to hearing from you.”

Brigita hung up and switched off her recorder. She got up from the leather desk chair in her high school principal’s office and stood by the window, half-hidden behind the thick, dark-red curtain. There were teenagers in the schoolyard, standing in groups and smoking. They weren’t socializing across the chain-link fence that split the playground in two, and only now and then, when cigarettes passed through the links, did their generational solidarity override the divide. A mere fifteen miles away, neighboring Osijek had none of these problems, but nobody in the city gave a thought anymore to how ridiculous the divisions were. Irritating nonprofit organizations came to visit from time to time, trekking through the elementary and secondary schools; there were associations founded by Scandinavians to promote reconciliation, innovative educational models, studies done of the region, shared classrooms. From the nonprofits Brigita heard sob stories like one about two little boys named David who’d grown up in the same apartment building and loved playing together until they started going to day care, where the playground was split down the middle by a fence into the Serbian and Croatian play areas, so they sat on either side of it for days, playing through the links. She was barely able to push the do-gooders out of her office. The civil associations were oh-so-sensitive, she thought while listening to their whiny presentations about the rights of children and transgenerational trauma.