We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day by Ivana Bodrozic (english books to improve english TXT) 📕

hero, the silly boy with an excess of testosterone. Nora was allergic to the phrase “gave their lives.” Nobody would give their life if they were asked to in so many words, and certainly not the life of their child. The life was taken; someone committed murder, and that was all there was to it. Ever since she’d been aware of the world around her as a child she’d seen this going on, and though it tried to shape her, as it shaped so many of her dear childhood friends—she could barely remember the flavor of life from before the war—somehow she managed to hang on to a sideways perspective. She glanced sideways at Ilinčić, slowing down as she passed by him. He was just as reptilian as he’d been the day before, but this time more morose. She nodded to him in greeting, but he didn’t even blink, staring straight through her. This confused her; she went over to the other side of the restaurant and sat at a table with her back to him, feeling a chill creep up her spine. Then her cell phone rang.

“Are you eating?” asked her mother.

“You won’t believe it, but here I am having breakfast,” answered Nora gently.

“You’re right, I don’t believe you, but so be it. Where have you been? You haven’t called.”

“I’m working on an article, so I’ve been all over the place; I thought I’d give you a call when I got back to Zagreb.” Nora made her excuses. That was mostly how they talked, she and her mother. Not too close but never too far, either. Her mother didn’t want to smother her with concern and burden her daughter with her own troubles, so she kept her distance, and Nora didn’t want to burden her mother, so she told her hardly anything about herself, her real self. At one level their relationship had frozen long before everything happened, which explained the questions about food, warm clothes, weather. Although both of them, through the codes, felt every shade of mood and concern in their relations.

“But where are you, exactly?” asked her mother.

“In Rijeka, something about the shipyards.” Nora sounded relaxed, although she was only a dozen miles from the epicenter of the central trauma of their lives. “How’s Bleki doing?” she added quickly, with interest.

“Oh, like the old dog he is; we just got back from a walk.”

“Just be careful. I’ll call you in a few days; maybe I’ll swing by once this crazy business wraps up.”

“Oh, do; last time he barked at you as if you were a stranger, it had been so long.”

“I will, Mother, don’t you worry.”

“Take care, Nora.” Nora could tell she was about to say something more, but the silence at the other end of the line was replaced by the monotonous, intermittent dial tone. Nora, too, had been about to say something more, but she gave up. She watched her cell phone screen, refreshing it when it went to sleep. Her mother wasn’t one to be harnessed by the system; she fought on alone, the way she felt was right. Every once in a while, people would show up who would encourage her to capitalize on her sterling integrity, but she refused every privilege and asked for only one thing—the truth about her husband and punishment for the perpetrator, especially for whoever gave the order. Nothing more and nothing less, even if it meant turning the world upside down. Lost in thought about her mother, she was distracted by audible whispers among the waiter, the receptionist and, she assumed, the cook. They were gesticulating and shaking their heads, and when they noticed Nora watching them with curiosity they withdrew to the side, conferring with a conspiratorial air. Nora gestured to the waiter to ask for another cup of coffee, but he didn’t notice. He only came over to her table after several attempts.

“Yes?” he said, in a contrite half whisper, clearly wanting to say more.

“Another coffee, please.” The waiter nodded, with such a deeply worried expression that Nora simply had to ask:

“Is something wrong?”

He lowered his gaze even more somberly, as if grateful for the question.

“What?” she added when she saw the game he was playing.

“The mayor,” he said, his voice trembling, and then he stopped and stepped closer: “Our mayor was murdered.”

“What?” Nora rose automatically from her seat. The waiter gestured helplessly with his arms spread wide and shook his head, staring skyward through the ceiling.

“How? When? Does anyone know who?”

“Last night, apparently . . .” As to the rest of the questions, he merely shrugged. Nora groped for the cell phone in her purse and, dialing her editor’s number, she peered over the waiter’s shoulder. Ilinčić had left, but she knew she would have to stay on in the city.

14.

Garden

teach me how to garden

I need my own garden

now (fall 2010)

It was as if she had all she’d ever wanted. The most compelling illusion that could possibly exist, and it came in the form of white cast-iron garden furniture strewn carelessly about the large, neatly mown lawn around the house. A house in the nicest part of town, not far from the water tower, with a charming view of the river. A branch of the powerful Danube almost in the backyard. A maid. A well-behaved twelve-year-old child who had, fortunately, inherited from her only the shape of her eyes, and a husband she could wrap around her little finger. She could never completely understand his unquestioning devotion and the simplicity with which he perceived the world and life. Barbecue on the Štrand beach, hours in the garage with old motors, and his transistor radio, twice a month in the dark, without fail. This suited her perfectly, and he was of real value to her. Despite this, she’d always predicted this would not suffice, that one day, no matter how things went, she’d find herself on this overpriced, uncomfortable garden furniture, awaiting news from the past that would plunge the entire carefully