To Bosnia With Fear
1.
The Odeon falls among the most advanced and prestigious movie theaters in Belgrade; its audio equipment delivers crystal-clear sound and its seats are wide and fluffy. For the price of one ticket you could see two movies somewhere else in town. Still, you consider yourself lucky if you can buy them at the cashiers; the line is long, and by the time it's your turn, they run out of tickets. You are with your latest girlfriend and she gets upset -- and you get upset. You'd like to show off in this God-forgotten city, to catch your own piece of glitz, and you know that this very moment you look like a complete uncompetitive idiot; helpless and full of it. There's only one thing you could do then, and you do it: you buy two tickets from one of those scalpers. They rip you off -- no hard feelings, pal, business is business -- you're boiling inside, but she's happy and her glimpse shows some respect. Is that what we call having fun big-time in this stinking city? Is it?
But, you learnt the lesson; next time you show up your pocket is thick, and you don't go to the cashiers. You know these suckers bought more than a half tickets before it was even open. She, behind the thick glass, she's a nice lady -- but her son is sick, and you know yourself what hospitals offer unless you grease a few palms. You know that well. Or her lover is one demanding son of a bitch, and being beaten isn't exactly a song of joy, is it? After all, we're only creeping humans.
Alex Zorman has been-there-done-that, so when he and Tanya go to the Odeon to see Jurassic Park, he knows what to look for. Or he thinks he knows. As it turns out, prices are tripled -- there goes the dinner he carefully planned. Tanya tries a phrase, "Who cares about dinosaurs, that's for kids anyway", but his pride is shivering in the rhythm of the T-Rex's steps. He waves his hand and pays obediently. One day he's going to show the finger to this blood sucking city and it's Philistines, he meditates in a small-town-losers manner. It had enough of him, ate enough of his flesh, enjoyed enough hot baths in his blood. He'll stretch his finger as far as he can, ready to risk a self-inflicting injury. That day will come.
The door opens and people rush inside, elbowing their way; as if they've mistaken it for the U.S. Embassy issuing green cards to the first hundred. The seats carry numbers, but a moviegoer might find matching them troublesome: usually a rude, heavy-set bastard is sitting there, staring at him provokingly. He doesn't need harassment in front of his escort, so he grabs the closest seats available and tries to scare away the newcomers.
Music is already playing, and the atmosphere softens to chit-chats and social activities -- mostly shouted across the hall -- and the fella starts believing this city has its upper crust other than mob kings and political mobsters. He might feel at home here; as long as he doesn't take it for granted.
Alex spots a familiar-looking guy two rows down. His name is Vladan Haos. He could have anybody killed right here and right now, and walk out with his beau and his gorillas undisturbed. Who's going to ask a single benevolent question to Vladan Haos? And that fatso ten yards to the left of Vladan. Nice piece of cholesterol, that Pumbaa, ah? That's the CEO in the Ministry of Culture. They don't have culture, but who says they can't have a ministry?
Alex is twenty-two, six-two, an active water polo player; and his two hundred twenty pounds draw some respect. A very limited amount, indeed, in the city with no respect for mild-looking students; where the sheer force, engraved in the face, is the best visa for every pass. Or the best pass for every entrance.
So here he is, Alex thinks, paying three times more -- which is actually six times the regular price -- fighting the hooligans and watching the back of his head for flying pumpkin seeds. Is that what they call fun? And the film, isn't that silly kindergarten stuff only record-breaking proof of miserable taste and transposing concept of life? What is he doing here, in this hole, with this sensations-thirsty crowd; with this girl next to him seemingly enjoying the movie? Who's nuts here?
On the other hand, who is he to blame anyone, sitting here and being a good boy during the baptism: the priests are singing in deep Old Church Slavic, faces are fading towards the reinstated Christianity; emerged from decades of, "Orthodox? How does that spell?"
That glass of water, its surface trembling, that's it. It's going to stay the way it is before or after the show; a simple glass of prehistoric water and a simple tremble, vulnerable and sincere at the same time. Surprisingly or not, they make glass out of sand. That's the fact. So water stays in water-friendly environment. The pool he attends three times a week to play his sport of choice, that pool is made of cement mixed with sand. Its user-friendly bottom watches young water warriors from the underneath, their strong legs fighting the gravity. Unfortunately, being strong doesn't mean being tough, or being wild; or self-confident. He's never been afraid of fist fighting, no, sir, but he doesn't like the touch of human body. Training water polo means he has to deal with his worst nightmare every time he jumps into the water. Probably that's the reason why he's been training water polo instead of swimming.. It's a morbid life, and someone has to live it.
There's a big-guy-dinosaur and there are two small-time dinosaurs; the latter are trying to catch a few tasty-smelling creatures, two-legged as well. There's tension, there's a drama unfolding; the audience is taking sides. "Eat these morons, kids first!"
Tanya keeps her soft mouth open way too long, her breath waves her breast. She's a voluptuous handful of flesh, her horny look jerks right down below. She's aware of it damn well. Once in every while Tanya can afford to be a pal, and as long as he doesn't count on her, he's safe. He wishes her excitement is sexual, but she's never like that with him. Should he buy a copy of this mass-opium and have it handy when the night-time comes? The twentieth century is dying slowly but surely -- pretty soon the beast will be dead and naked, with people dancing around its smelly corpse -- so Alex better behave and follow up the technology. It's a virtual life virtually everywhere, and it might help if he asks himself every morning: is it really him who's waking up? Or that is just a castanedian joke of his alter-ego?
And now he has no alternative left: he's been trying to avoid it, abstract it, ignore it -- and, of course, it doesn't work. It's here, its around him, he breathes it. Water trembles in the glass, he can hear mumbling voices behind the horizon, he can smell the burning bodies. He better check his feet for burns after stepping on truth. Where's Anton? He is not here. Where's George "Monkey"? He is not here. Where's Peter? Not here. What about Steve? Forget Steve, he's There. Steve, not Stephen? Forget them both, both are gone -- There. And there is only one question never to be asked -- because everybody knows the answer, and they know it'll scare the shit out of them again: Where's There?
Living in Belgrade, people go to the Adriatic Coast for a vacation. When people live in Belgrade and go to the Adriatic Coast for a vacation, they have two choices: they can go through Montenegro, or they can go through There. A kid sits in the back of the car, wolfing a sandwich supposed to be eaten on the way, some hundred miles down the road. His dad takes the steering wheel, his mom knows-it-all. And, it goes without saying, his little sister feels like peeing right that instant. Then they all go. There's a good fifty percent chance they'll be going through There. But these are fairy-tales times.
"There" used to be inhabited by good, open-hearted people; hospitality was their middle name. People tried, and tried, and they couldn't tell -- or, in first place, they didn't care to tell -- the Muslim from the Serb. Croats were there too, but who could tell. The kids' dad, he probably knew, but he didn't care neither; or he was a born actor. The kids' mom, she didn't know, but she was only a woman. And women, they don't care about politics. Bad for them. So everybody kissed good-bye their sixth sense of danger, until it was too obvious and too late. The overture was long gone, friendly home-sick tenor was singing, and singing...
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