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

gravestone and turned to find her way out of the cemetery. Not far from the tall iron gate stood two figures in the dark. Uncle Stanko, her father’s colleague and war buddy, was leaning in close to a lithe, petite woman. They were deep in heated debate, not expecting there’d be anybody at this time of day at the cemetery. Brigita and Velimirović were discussing the terms for a joint coalition or collaboration, the constituting of the new city council if Brigita’s party, as was more than likely, won control. Now that the mayor had been eliminated, the money from the lease of the port could be doled out to help them secure the votes they needed for their own unprofitable ventures, for them to reap the most and the city to receive the least. This was a bigger handout than what had come before. Velimirović was prepared to agree to everything, as long as he was part of the ruling platform. The greatest challenge and the most difficult piece from his side was to weather the shitstorm over the Cyrillic signage. This had to be handled as prudently as possible. They’d divvy up the city: we get the cemeteries and the halo, you get a few street names and the experience of being part of Europe. Play dumb and leave the hogs to devour each other; toss in the occasional media spin and soothe the dogs that were straining at their leashes. To pick up where they’d left off and insure more decades of hatred. In the darkness of the cemetery by the gate they began looking more and more like each other, their talons and fangs mingled.

22.

Weary

inhale me, exhale me

relax me, release me

bring me, take me

place me, leave me

leave me

now (fall 2010)

When he shut the door behind him she knew where he was going. Without a goodbye. He’d been texting before he left, perched on the edge of the bed, while the whole time under the skin of his face his jaw was tensing and releasing. She saw herself go over to him, stroke his hair, tuck her knee between his legs and take away his cell phone. She saw herself do this from the chair where she was sitting. But she did nothing, she didn’t move, though she knew that only one tender gesture would have been enough for the earth to spin off on an entirely different orbit. She didn’t have the strength for it, even if in her deepest self she wished she did. She had to keep her grip and do nothing; this was the easy way out—let him go so far away that he’d never come back. Once she was alone, she made the bed, tidied the desk, washed the dishes. Dawn. She folded his clothes and buried her nose in his shirt sleeves. For a long time she inhaled his scent; it took her back to a street, years ago, where chestnut trees bloomed, to the smell of her gray terrier’s wet fur and roasting corn, and it made her think of all the shades of green of the river in August. In a flash she could see herself lying on a sofa, wearing his shirt, while outside a soft gloom settled, and his hand was resting on her belly, which was starting to swell. Even thinking this, risking so much, was unbearable. They’d have to take on the entire world. Sooner or later something would happen to one of them, and the rest of her life would be reduced to remembering and waiting. Plan B was more bearable; she’d chosen Plan B in advance. Now all she’d have to do was to live out the rest in a blur, and an end would come, as it always did. The amount of torment in life was always proportionate to the amount of earlier happiness; for happiness one needed courage, a touch of madness, and at least a small reserve of faith. But she’d long since spent whatever reserve of faith she had. She took a shower and dressed, opened his laptop, and went online. On YouTube she typed in “Ekatarina Velika, ‘Love,’” pressed pause, and watched the words scroll up on the screen:

I’ve always slept

with your name on my lips

you’ve always slept

with my name on your lips

and wherever I go

your hand is in mine

and when I wish to speak

I say we

She walked out of the apartment. Slowly, to the police station. The city was stirring; children were going in their separate groups to their separate Serbian and Croatian schools, nuns were gathering out in front of the hospital again, meanwhile up on the second floor the doctors were sterilizing their instruments, on the bench at the bus station a drunk was dozing. Everything was the same as it ever was. At the entrance to the police station Inspector Grgić bumped into her, nearly knocking her down. When he saw who it was, he seemed to wake up.

“You, again!” he snapped. “Not now, I’m in a rush; I’ve had a report of a murder! Come back this afternoon.” She stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

“I know,” she said, looking him straight in the eye.

“Look, I’ve no time for nonsense right now!” He was irritated.

“I did not come with nonsense,” she said quietly.

“Ma’am, the laptop can wait. Meanwhile it seems like everybody in the city is getting killed!” he shouted.

“Ilinčić. I know.”

“What? What do you know? How?” he asked.

“May we step inside for a moment so I can tell you?” she asked in a low voice.

“Ohhh . . . wait.” He took his cell phone from his pocket and swiveled away from her. “Go to the hotel; I’ll be there in ten.” Then he swiveled back:

“Right this way, but please, quick and to the point. Please.” He was at his wit’s end. Nora nodded. While they passed through the station waiting area, Melania Gmaz shot up out of one of the plastic chairs as soon as