A Spare Life (22 page)

That is what our meetings with Darko amounted to until New Year's Eve 1993, which we spent at his house, with the friends with whom we had gone to the convent. We listened to classical music and church hymns, then to the group Anastasija, then more classical music. It was still the Christmas fast, and we ate Lenten food. The only thing that reminded us that it was New Year's Eve was the tree his parents had decorated before they left to celebrate at a restaurant. The tree was large, sparkling, decorated with many colored lights and ornaments. Its gaudiness reminded us that it was New Year's Eve, even though we just wanted to spend the night as simply as possible, far from the New Year's Eve atmosphere in our homes or on the TV. At midnight, it was inevitable, however, that we would all wish each other a Happy New Year. Everyone wished each other a Happy Holiday with a hug, Srebra and I, as always, hugging everyone jointly, touching them with our faces. They grasped our heads with both hands and hugged us at the same time, which somehow seemed more natural. But Darko hugged me first, lightly, his hand across my back, wishing me a Happy New Year. Then he held Srebra's head in his hands, just below the ears, looked into her eyes, and said, “I love you.” At that same moment, he kissed her on the lips. I felt his breath, there, on my left cheek, his cheek nearly touching mine, but he didn't move. He closed Srebra's mouth with a long, deep kiss, holding her head the whole time, which caused a pain in my temple. Our joint vein gushed; our blood had never poured through at such frightening speed; Srebra's entire body pulsed, and she transferred that throbbing into my head, then down to my chest. Afterward, she couldn't catch her breath. She dragged me to the bathroom, and we locked ourselves inside. I was overcome by uncontrollable laughter, but Srebra began to cry, quietly, controlling her voice. She was sinking into tears, I into laughter. We finally calmed down. We sat there, each of us half-perched on the lid of the toilet, and brushed our tears away. “He loves you,” I told her, and she said at the same time, “I love him.”

Someone knocked on the door. It was Kristina. She said Sanja had to pee. We went back out to the room. Darko was in the kitchen, cutting Lenten baklava at the counter. The others were sitting and listening to Kosta talk about a woman, their neighbor, who had kept her dead husband at home for seven whole days. “Her son,” he was saying, “forbade anyone to tell the press, which is why you haven't heard about it. Listen: as soon as he died, his wife called his work, saying he was sick and wouldn't be able to come in. Then she called her own employer and said she was sick and they shouldn't expect her. She went to the store to buy food, then called her son and told him they had decided to take a trip to the village. They had some vacation days, and so he shouldn't try to contact them. Then she shut herself up in the apartment and spent all seven of those days with her dead husband, rubbing him with rakija to keep him from smelling. She stripped him naked, covered him with a sheet, and watched him the whole time, talking to him, telling him all sorts of things. She would turn on the television, lay down beside him, and make various comments. Once, God forgive her, she even wanted to have sex with him and, though she thought at first she wouldn't be able to, she took his hand and poked it down there, God forgive her. That whole week, we smelled something coming from their apartment, until it finally became intolerable and we called the police. When they came and opened it up—what should they see but the wife, dressed in her finest. She told the police, “You can take him now.” She told them everything—I think she had gone crazy—and they took her away too. They called in a service to come clean the apartment, but I think it'll smell like a corpse forever; in our apartment we sit under blankets with the windows open. It's unbearable. Just think, that whole time, she thought he would come back, that he would be resurrected. “He was so good. I was certain he would rise again. He had no ill will toward anyone, and he was always helping people,” she said. That was all true. None of the other neighbors in the building were like him. She said that, during those seven days, she argued with him about her unfulfilled dreams, but also recalled fond memories and did to him everything she had been unable to do, because he had been a very shy and good man,
humble and pious.” “God save and protect him,” some of those who were listening said, and we slowly got ready to leave. Darko came in from the kitchen with a bowl of mandarins, and we peeled and ate them, all three of us looking at the floor. As we left, Darko said to Srebra, “I'll call you.”

And he did call her. Srebra, melting with pleasure and love, held the receiver to her left ear, and every word she heard I heard as well, but I don't know if Darko was aware of it, perhaps thinking he was whispering expressions of love to her privately. But I did hear them, until it occurred to me that I could use earplugs so they could at least talk freely; I was aware of Srebra's discomfort in returning such tender expressions to Darko. She was embarrassed next to me, not so much by me, but more by the closeness of our ear canals and our mouths, so, no matter what they said, all four of our ears heard it. We couldn't see each other's eyes, except in a mirror, but our noses always smelled the same smells. We bought a whole bag of cotton earplugs, and whenever Darko called, I stuffed some in my ears. While they didn't completely block out the sound, they were like a wall between their intimacy and me. We met Darko nearly every day after class at the university, and after every Sunday service. We met too often for the situation I found myself in, though their situation was perhaps even more difficult. But while their love was new, they moved past my presence as easily as through a tightly stretched Chinese jump rope, giving themselves over to each other, even though I had to be there with them whether they liked it or not, and they had to be with me. That was the first time I was witness to a love affair. I watched how it developed, how their feelings changed, how their small sweet games of seduction, rejection, attraction, connecting, distancing, and drawing closer again played out. All this was taking place in their souls, almost without anything physical, because Darko was considerate of me, but I was still aware that carnal desire burned between them. I thought that if Srebra hadn't known before what it was for the clitoris to tremble with desire, she would learn now, since sex wasn't even required for that. It was enough for Darko to stroke her leg, or put his arm around her waist or even a bit higher, closer to her breasts. I think they were most aroused when, upon greeting or leaving one another, they'd kiss while, behind my glasses, I closed my eyes, the cotton in my ears, gritting my teeth. I wasn't angry with them, nor did I envy them. I just wanted to fall through the earth because of the unpleasantness, the embarrassment, the powerlessness. Most of all I was powerless,
because I didn't want to be, but had to be, the third wheel in their relationship. Through no fault of my own, I was witness to their tender moments, although honestly, they were both very considerate, as considerate as two people in love could be. Perhaps it was Darko's faith that prevented him, in those intimate moments, from grabbing her hips or breasts or peeling off her clothes, and Srebra, I believe, just wanted, more than anything, for him to embrace her, and she him; to hold each other close while I tried to move my body as far away as possible from them and not make unnecessary contact. But it was difficult, because the spot where our heads were connected would ache. That piece of skin would stretch to its maximum tautness, and my temple would throb and throb. We would be struck anew by the strength of the pain even though we had felt it since childhood, since our birth, when, according to Grandma, we cried at every small movement of our heads until we passed out. We no longer cried but stoically endured the pain that was the proof of our Siamese deformity; I wore a back brace all the time, because my spine and neck hurt constantly, but Srebra wore hers only at home, because she was embarrassed Darko might run his hand along her shoulder and feel the strap beneath his hand. We hadn't been to a doctor for a long time, but it was likely our backs needed physical therapy, if not an operation. At home, we hid Srebra's relationship with Darko as much as we could, although our mother eavesdropped on their phone calls or came into our room without knocking, asking where we had been, why we had stayed on campus so long, whether we were going back downtown, and with whom, and why, and all sorts of other things. Even though we were students approaching the end of our university studies, we still received no allowance, except for our bus passes and enough for a bun or something at school. Our father wrote checks for the books and things we needed for school. But we simply had no money to go downtown, for mascara, or even for sanitary pads, because we saved every penny anyone—usually our aunts—gave us, and counted them like young children.

The first time we were going to go out for pizza with Darko, we saw that we didn't have enough for even one pizza, let alone two. We asked our mother for some money to go out for dinner. “I don't have any money, but there's a bit of change in the ashtray—just take it,” she said, annoyed that we had even asked her such a question. Our mother had been given the large crystal ashtray at work for International Women's Day, and it had stood for years on the dining-room table, even though no one ever smoked in our house. In it was a small pile of coins, more than thirty of them. We spilled it out on the bed in our room. We counted all the money, and it turned out we had just enough for one pizza, the least expensive one. “We'll just say we already ate and two pizzas are too much for us,” I said quietly. But Srebra shot back loudly, “Is she crazy? We're supposed to go downtown with these coins?” I was certain Darko would offer to pay the bill, because he was always generous, and he came from a wealthy urban family—his father was an architect and the vice president of the opposition party, and his mother was a councilor in the parliament. Still, we felt humiliated as we stuffed the change into my purse, which bulged as if the coins might tear it apart. We thought about how stupid it would look if we emptied the purse out in front of the waiter, making him count the coins and stuff them into his small change purse while everyone at the bar laughed because the ones over there with the heads had collected change so they could go out for pizza—mental cases no doubt—and what was that normal-looking guy doing with them? He must be crazy, too. But what else could we have done? Our mother lay on the small couch in the kitchen, angry at the whole world, though for no clear reason, except now, most likely, also because the ashtray was empty. Srebra reached a decision that day—the incident with the coins pushed her from the axis about which our lives had always revolved. Darko paid for the pizzas that evening, and when we got home, Srebra pretty much ordered me to give her my purse. She opened it and poured the coins into the ashtray. Our parents were already in bed, perhaps sleeping, but they surely heard the coins clinking, ringing out as they hit the crystal ashtray. Our parents didn't get up, and the next day, they said nothing. But that day at the university, Srebra said,
“We're going to the administration office.” I complied. Behind the counter stood the clerk, an old woman knitting a sweater. Srebra dragged my head along with hers up to the window and firmly asked how one could submit an application for a scholarship.

“For what kind of scholarship?” the woman asked. “There are two, one based on need, and the other based on merit. For those such as, such as…” She couldn't find the right word and said only, “There aren't any specifically.”

“Both kinds,” Srebra said, as if she had not heard the last sentence. “We're both eligible for need-based, but she's also a star student: all her grades are nineties and hundreds,” I said, not wanting to present myself as a talented student with my Cs and the occasional B. “Then it would be best if you put in an individual request for an academic scholarship,” the woman said to Srebra. “Those stipends are bigger.” Srebra filled out the papers. “You will be notified in two months,” the clerk said, then, leaning toward us and taking a good look, she said, “Why don't you go to the dean's office as well? When they see you, they might be able to help you with something. Plus, the dean is a member of the awards committee.” When Srebra told Darko over the phone that she had submitted an application for a stipend, he said, “My mother will arrange it. She'll call the dean.” In less than a month, Srebra received notification that she would get a monthly stipend through graduation, and the first installment would arrive the following month. We didn't say anything about it at home. Srebra wanted to take revenge on our mother for the coins in the ashtray. Although the stipend was hers, she gave half of it to me. “Why?” I asked. “Keep it for yourself; it's yours.” “You're my sister,” Srebra responded, and I felt my face turn red, my heart nearly bursting, and, a moment later, our joint vein surged. I felt like crying, sobbing, drowning in my own pathos. Instead, I said ironically, “Ah, I'm your sister now that you have Darko…that's why I am a sister to you now.” Srebra didn't respond, just turned to some notes, and I immersed myself in a book by Ted Hughes, who had won that year's Golden Wreath prize for poetry at the Struga Poetry Evenings festival and who even came to Struga. On television, I saw him surrounded by so many people that I thought he might need bodyguards. Maybe the organizers were afraid someone would attack him, throw an egg or a tomato at him, because in literary circles, everyone knew he had been Sylvia Plath's husband, the poet who was so filled with despair that one day, she put her head in the gas oven and asphyxiated herself. I thought about how Srebra and I couldn't commit suicide that way, even if we wanted to, because a standard-size oven only had enough space for one head. We could have hanged ourselves, but what chandelier would hold two
bodies, two ropes? And it would be difficult to shoot ourselves in the heads with a pistol, since that would mean me shooting with my right hand into my right temple, then passing the pistol to Srebra to shoot herself with her left hand in her left temple. But how could I give it to her if I was already dead? But if we poured hydrochloric acid into two glasses, and then said: “one, two, three, bottoms up”—that would be certain death. Why did such thoughts enter my head? Was it Christian to think about suicide? Srebra clearly didn't think about suicide, while I seemed to place the temptation before myself, contemplating the process. I imagined doing it with Srebra, and that somehow eased my spirits. But later, I would feel ashamed to look Saint Zlata Meglenska in the eye, and I would beg her to pray for me, for us. At Sunday services in Krivi Dol, I would feel wonderful, but the blessedness lasted only a day at most. My brain automatically repeated the Lord's Prayer before I slept, before an exam, before a date between Srebra and Darko, at difficult moments. It was somehow a part of my being, in the same way that the icon was never not in my pocket. Jesus Christ was most present in my life when I was at the edge of insanity or despair—or already inside it. But in my ordinary, everyday life, it was as though he wasn't there. I felt he had given up on us, and I no longer hoped that a large sum of money would fall from the sky so we could go to London to seek the best surgeon at separating Siamese twins. Even if we saved Srebra's stipend, we would need at least twelve years to collect enough money for such an undertaking. So we didn't save it, but bought new stockings and exchanged the rags of torn-up old tee shirts and underwear for real sanitary pads when we had our periods. We bought ourselves perfume and a few blouses that could be pulled up over our legs, went to the theater, and often insisted on paying the bill when we went out with Darko. At home, they noticed that we had gotten money somewhere, and one evening, we heard our mother tell our father that there were two bottles of perfume, some shampoo, and other new things in the cupboard. “Where are they getting the money from?” she asked. “They must be going out with young men.” “God only knows,” answered our father. “Who knows what they're up to, where they're going, and with whom? Sotir says he
saw them getting out of a Lada—someone was bringing them home from downtown.” Our mother added, “They've been a problem our whole lives. And it's your fault. You made them like this. You let them get away with anything and now look. People are going to talk. People talked anyway, but now they'll talk even more.” Our father flew into a rage, almost shouting at her, “You think you know everything. You've all devoured me. Now it's my fault that you're all brainless.” Srebra pulled me with all her strength, and we marched into their room. She shouted, “We are not whores. We are not. We are not whores!” Our mother only said coldly, “Go ahead and shout. Give Dobrila a laugh.” Then Srebra began to cry, and I began to cry, and through her sobs, Srebra told them that she was getting a stipend, a stipend, because she was a talented student, because her grades were all nineties and hundreds and it was no longer possible to live with them—why hadn't she aborted us, since she did not love us? Why had she given birth to us at all? Srebra said all sorts of things in her rage. But I was silent. I let her blow off steam, free herself from the burden of her pain. I just moved my head in rhythm with her turmoil and alarm. For several days thereafter, we didn't speak to them. We grew even more distant from them, if such a thing were even possible. And Srebra's rage didn't end. One day, while they were at work, she had us climb up on the armchair, and from the empty space between the shelving unit and the ceiling where they kept blankets covered in plastic and wrapped in pages from the newspaper
Nova Makedonija
, towels, and a bathrobe, gifts for those starting an independent life in one's own home with one's own family—some of which would never be used—we took down the imported Ambassador brand fleece blankets our Aunt Milka had given us for our high-school graduation: green, beautiful, and soft. We brought them to our room and gathered up the greasy worn-out blanket that smelled of old and dusty fibers, which had covered us since childhood. We rolled it up, took it down to the dumpster, and then set the two new blankets on the bed, one next to the other—now we each had our own blanket. Now, when we lay down on the bed to read, we could each wrap ourselves up completely to our chests in our own blanket. Our mother noticed immediately, but kept silent. We
were home less often, so we argued with her less often. We were at the university, or a café, or a bakery, sometimes at the movies or the theater, or at the home of one of our friends from the convent outing, where we talked while drinking tea and listening to soft Byzantine music. It was at one of those gatherings where I first heard that there was something called a chaste marriage, in which the husband and wife didn't sleep together. They didn't make love, but loved each other in other ways: through respect, understanding, conversation, prayer, confession, communion, liturgies, and everything else that belonged to the ascetic Christian life. These were people who loved each other, not sinfully, but sacredly, in their spirits and souls, but not with their bodies, so carnal desire was foreign to them. They did not make love even to produce children, but led a type of monastic life in the world. “But we'll have children, right?” Marina asked, taking Kosta's hand. Srebra's cheeks turned red. Darko shifted in his chair, and Srebra and I, seated on the small couch, just stared, bug-eyed. “There is nothing more difficult in the world than a chaste marriage,” said Ivan. “I guess that is how we will have to live,” Darko said, and everyone turned toward him, then toward us. Everyone already knew that Darko and Srebra were together, but they didn't know where to put me in that relationship, whether it was natural, given by God, and a blessing to be in such a relationship. Srebra said nothing, barely breathing. I gulped, stock-still. Darko and Srebra had never spoken about marriage, about children, or a shared life before. It was self-evident that it would be impossible. “Indeed. How are you thinking of living in the future?” Kristina asked, because we already knew that in the summer of 1994, even if they didn't graduate after the June term, Sneže and Ivan, and Marina and Kosta, were going to get married at the same time on the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary at the KaliÅ¡ta Monastery near Struga, because they wanted Father Seraphim, their spiritual father and one of the best Macedonian scholar-priests, to marry them. Srebra and Darko were silent, as was I. We had no answer to her direct question. I liked the fact that such questions were discussed openly in this group of friends, that it wasn't friendship for the sake of friendship, that here, interpersonal relations developed, everyone looked after
each other, a sort of tenderness reigned, a kind of love, something humane, warm, filled with trust. I felt we could depend on these people. I knew we could call and ask a favor or for their help. They were friends in the truest sense of the word. And now they were interested in the question of how we would live, because we also were looking forward to the completion of our coursework, when all that remained was our senior thesis before we were done. How quickly the years of study passed! As long as those too long years of fighting lasted across Yugoslavia—especially in Bosnia and the blockade of Sarajevo, where civilians were still dying—so short seemed our studies, for Srebra, at least, because she enjoyed it so much and lived for her studies; for me, because I didn't enjoy it at all, and wanted to race through and be free of it as quickly as possible. In the meantime, Darko had come into our lives, and, it appeared, did not want to leave, and Srebra didn't want to leave his. I had nowhere to go. I was dependent on their decisions and God's help. “I don't know,” said Darko. “Don't ask us about that. It is all so complicated.” So we closed the topic, and the discussion turned to the war in Bosnia. Andrej said that, naturally, he supported the Serbs. “They are Orthodox,” he said. “Who should I support if not them?” Everyone looked at him flabbergasted, and most heads bowed or turned aside, as if away from some unpleasantness, shame, disgrace, from what else, I did not know—their faces red, some unknown spark in their eyes, hands sweating. My temple and Srebra's communicated with agitated beating. At the tips of all our tongues were words, statements, likely different ones, but from no one's mouth did the truth erupt, a truth that, this time, wasn't shared, wasn't universal but individual, conditioned by each of our conceptions, whether radical or not.