Jela Krecic Read online

  While she went into more detail about her attempt to resurrect Marx within contemporary economic dogma, Matjaž devoted himself to her physique. He noticed that she had small palms with thin fingers, which returned again and again to the red hair that she wound around her fingers and released only when she reached for her tobacco to roll a cigarette. As she went on talking intently he admired her lips – not too full, but rounded enough for her words to sound out brightly, for him to find her convictions convincing and her enthusiasm authentic. He was frustrated that he was unable to better detect the fullness of her figure beneath her long black jumper, but after seeing her legs in tight black jeans as she took off her leather jacket, he was convinced that her body would not disappoint.

  ‘You are so not listening to me,’ she accused, finally becoming aware of his shallow thoughts.

  ‘Of course I’m not. I’m far more interested in you, alive, than in Marx, dead.’

  ‘That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! Just because an author is dead doesn’t mean that their theory isn’t alive.’ At this point she set out on a fairly long excursus through the basic principles of Marxism, evidencing how they were entirely relevant and useful even today by invoking concrete examples from several countries. She was particularly concerned about data on how the gap between rich and poor had expanded over the past three years, and about the privileged ‘one per cent’ who were already the talk of the town. Matjaž couldn’t concentrate on the theory, and instead preferred to surrender himself to the alluring appearance of the quick-tempered beauty. When she had concluded her Marxist monologue, which at the end turned into a modern manifesto and a call for the unification of all precarious workers across the world, she realized that Matjaž had not been following at all and once again lost her temper.

  ‘No, don’t get me wrong,’ apologized Matjaž. ‘I’m a Marxist, too, it’s just that – as opposed to you – I’m interested in real-life Marxist practices.’ Brigita looked at him sceptically from beneath her arched eyebrows; it was clear that she did not like what her conversation partner was getting at. Still, Matjaž could not resist adding, with a teasing smile, ‘I’d be interested, for example, in finding out what it’s like, in practice, to kiss a girl with a pierced lip?’

  ‘How much does that interest you?’ the redhead asked calmly.

  ‘Oh, a lot,’ Matjaž replied, looking at her seductively.

  ‘It does, does it?’ she raised her voice. ‘Well, you’re not going to be learning about Marxist practices with me,’ she shouted angrily, and stormed out.

  Matjaž called out after her, saying that he was prepared to make do with just the theory, but she wasn’t listening to him any more.

  Luckily, not long afterwards his circle of friends appeared at the Billiard House: Aleksander, Karla and Jernej.

  ‘Woah-ho ho, what are you doing here? Not at the graveyard?’ joked Aleksander, reaching his arms out towards his friend.

  ‘Ah, if only I were . . .’ began Matjaž, as his friends pulled up their chairs.

  ‘Why?’ Aleksander worried, fearing that his friend was once again pining for his ex-girlfriend and feeling sorry for himself.

  ‘Ah, I met a very, very beautiful girl.’ Matjaž looked down.

  ‘And?’ Karla asked curiously.

  ‘Yeah, I then promptly drove her away – see, this is her half-drunk beer right here.’ Matjaž turned his head away, not best pleased with himself.

  ‘How?’ Karla was still interested.

  ‘I told her that Marxism interested me in practice,’ he replied remorsefully.

  ‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ insisted Karla, raising her voice.

  ‘Long story,’ replied Matjaž.

  ‘Finding a new woman isn’t going that well for you, is it?’ Jernej chimed in, bursting out laughing. Matjaž frowned at him.

  ‘It’s because he doesn’t really want to get over Sara,’ Karla said bluntly.

  ‘No, I quite liked this one, I actually quite liked her,’ Matjaž said quietly.

  ‘Really?’ Now Karla became serious, too.

  ‘Yeah . . . she was so unusual, so untamed. I’m not used to those ones,’ he said, starting to pour his heart out. But he was interrupted by Aleksander’s burst of laughter, which his friend could barely control for long enough to splutter, ‘But you’re not used to any of them!’

  ‘Thanks, man. Really, thanks. Your support is invaluable. But it doesn’t matter now anyway, because she’s gone. She ran away, actually . . .’

  ‘You’re exaggerating, mate!’ insisted Jernej, unhappy with the seriousness of the debate. He’d come out for a beer at the end of the day, and just wanted to exchange some light, easy platitudes.

  ‘I agree,’ said Karla, surprised. ‘You like her because she left. Now you can feel sorry for yourself again and complain about your cruel fate. Get lost!’

  ‘I swear, I’d do it all again to have one more chance with her!’ Matjaž said, trying to placate Karla. He wasn’t sure why she was suddenly so concerned with his private life anyway.

  ‘Don’t speak too soon, the chance could come round again before you know it,’ she replied prophetically.

  Karla wasn’t wrong. But neither did Matjaž flee in the face of this new challenge. He ran into Brigita a few days later in a bar, Respect, as she sat in the company of kindred girls and guys with badly styled clothes and hair. Matjaž peered at her between the heads of his own friends, the same line-up as at the Billiard House except that this time their friends Katja and Suzana had also joined the drinking session. Just like the rest of the group, in ten years neither of them had been able to move beyond these unproductive Friday night gatherings with the same group of friends, not even by escaping into some sort of calamitous romantic relationship.

  Matjaž couldn’t follow the conversation that was going on around him, and it didn’t interest him anyway. He was very familiar with Katja’s excessive complaining about her demanding job in PR, and it was as boring to him that evening as it had been on every Friday before then. He didn’t have anything to add to Suzana’s weekly political analysis this time, either, although he had to at least give her credit for her rich use of language. Her unbridled sharpness and occasional vulgarity were two things that had helped him through times of need after losing Sara. The fact that she was unable to find stable employment, and that her future was cobbled together with occasional French and English translation work for national television, did him good after the break-up. On the other hand, the late nights he spent with her then had threatened his own job; it was with Suzana that he learned to wait for sunrise at Metelkova more times than he would have liked.

  He couldn’t expect much from the remaining three, with whom he’d been at the Billiard House two days previously. He knew them inside out; knew what they were thinking, what they were drinking, how soon they’d order another round, what they were going to ask and how they would answer, which jokes they’d repeat and how, when and at whom they’d laugh. He was a little fed up of this same company, of the obligatory drinking repertoire, with the obligatory progression to Metelkova – regardless of the time of year, the weather and the mood of the group. He felt the only enjoyable part of the evening was his view of the lively Brigita, who knew how to relax among her friends.

  ‘What’s up with you today?’ Katja asked Matjaž. ‘Why so pensive?’

  ‘I’m not pensive, I’m just admiring the prettiest girl in this place,’ he said, looking at Katja seriously. That threw her a bit; she blushed, stroked her short black hair and smiled. ‘Who’s this beauty, then?’

  ‘Brigita,’ Matjaž retorted.

  ‘Who?’ blurted Katja, clearly a little taken aback that it wasn’t her after all.

  ‘Where? Where’s Brigita?’ Karla called out noisily, seizing upon the only interesting point of the wholly predictable, barely survivable evening.

  ‘She’s sat at that hipster table.’ Matjaž signalled subtly with his head.

&
nbsp; ‘Those aren’t hipsters’, Karla said knowingly, ‘they’re more like metalheads. There aren’t that many of them these days, but it’s a completely different scene to the hipsters . . .’ She added that she knows young people quite well, as she’s quite heavily involved with that target group at work, so she has to stay up to date.

  No one wanted to point out that Karla herself fell into this category that she so studiously researched at work. Even Suzana, her best and most critical friend, put her head in her hands helplessly upon hearing that sentence.

  In the meantime Karla had inspected Brigita closely, and nodded her agreement. ‘She really is very beautiful.’

  That sentence caught Aleksander’s attention, and he took his own much less subtle look at Matjaž’s chosen one. ‘Wow!’ he exclaimed.

  Brigita could avoid the stares of Matjaž’s friends no longer. Matjaž looked at her apologetically and waved cutely, only for her to look away and immediately return her attention to her friends.

  ‘I don’t think she’s anything special at all,’ said Katja.

  ‘That’s jealousy talking,’ Suzana retorted, silencing her harshly. ‘I think Matjaž falls for really good-looking girls.’

  ‘Shame about her dress sense,’ persisted Katja.

  ‘That’s exactly what I like, that she doesn’t know that she’s beautiful. Like it doesn’t even occur to her,’ Jernej said, surprising everyone with his analysis. Up to this point no one was aware that he’d even noticed the girl, and they looked at him quizzically. ‘What?’ he responded. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ Karla turned to Matjaž.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking about it,’ he replied, as he lit another cigarette.

  ‘Go over there and apologize to her,’ Karla suggested.

  ‘No, too risky – over there she’s surrounded by her own, and she could easily pin him down,’ said Suzana, thinking strategically.

  ‘It’s true, you have to ambush her,’ Aleksander added. ‘Like when she goes to the bathroom. Intercept her there and then pour your heart out.’

  ‘But wait until she’s done her thing, otherwise she might get irritable,’ said Jernej, sharing his urological expertise.

  Matjaž followed Brigita to the toilets and waited for her to come out.

  ‘Hello there!’ he said when she appeared.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked curtly.

  ‘I’m waiting for you,’ said Matjaž, not mincing his words.

  ‘I’m not sure what good that will do.’ She started to walk away.

  ‘Don’t be so stuck up!’

  That stopped her in her tracks. ‘Do you think you’re going to soften me up by insulting me?’

  ‘Do you think you’re going to soften me up with your icy ignorance?’ Matjaž replied, resorting to the absurd.

  ‘I think you’re quite soft enough already,’ she said, a smile appearing on her face none the less.

  Matjaž, encouraged by this friendly expression, continued, ‘Well then, can I ask you something?’ He felt like a teenager.

  ‘You can try,’ Brigita replied, feigning indifference. ‘As long as you’re not going to ask about my piercings again.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry about last time. I realize now that it was unbecoming to talk about your piercings on the first date.’

  ‘As it would be on the second.’

  ‘So we’re agreed?’ Matjaž cheered up. ‘When and where your shout.’

  Once again Brigita had to smile at his resourcefulness. ‘OK, fine. I’ll give you my email so we can arrange the details.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather give me your phone number?’

  ‘Phone numbers are given on the third date. Only if the second goes well, of course . . .’

  Matjaž felt pretty solid after being offered those few titbits. He returned to his friends in high spirits, taking more of an active role in the conversation but never forgetting to look round at the prettiest girl there by far. After a few beers, he chose to go home to bed, rather than feeling obligated to go along and wait for sunrise in Metelkova.

  He and Brigita met a few days later in Prešeren Square, so that they could decide where to head next from there. It was a cold, dry Wednesday evening in November. She suggested that they go to the Tea House, but Matjaž confessed that a confrontation with her called for something substantially more soothing than chamomile. When she explained to him that this place did also have stronger concoctions he gave in, although he had to admit to himself and to her that he was getting old.

  The change of usual location made him slightly anxious. On the way to the tea place he laid out an entire theory about how difficult it was for people to find their own crowd, but that compared to the challenge of finding your ideal local it was actually nothing. It wasn’t just about the place – there were so many of those – but also the chemistry, and therefore how the clientele as a whole respected the relationship with waiting staff. In turn, the staff had to know each customer’s every wish before it had even been expressed, quietly allow themselves to be insulted, and not resent it when rowdy groups of friends didn’t clear out straight away late at night despite being asked many times.

  He then explained to Brigita how his group once found themselves facing a trial when one part of the group (if we’re being precise, Suzana’s group of friends) wanted to change their ‘summer residence’ of Bar Petkovšek for somewhere new. After their encouragement they started to meet in Trnovo. He occasionally went there, too, surrendering to that tactless and ill-thought-out coercion, but never understood why someone should change their habits just because a few girls and boys think that there’s some promise of adventure at the other end of town. For that same reason he stopped going to Trnfest. There was a considerable array of young women there, but the sacrifice of standing in a crowd and jostling towards a hard-earned beer, not to mention waiting for the toilet, had become too much for him over the years.

  Matjaž’s declaration clearly made an impression on Brigita as she suggested, when they had reached their destination, that maybe it would be better if they turned back towards Pekovšek, so as not to leave Matjaž with any more scars upon open wounds on what was only their second date. He was grateful for this suggestion, as in the tea place he would have felt like, well, an alcoholic in a tea place. The two of them walked back along the river towards Matjažs preferred drinking spot.

  On the way, Brigita reflected on her various stop-off points around the city. She would often end up at Maček in the evenings, if she’d had a productive enough day in the library. She headed there with friends that she had made while studying in the library. In truth they were a fairly uninspiring bunch of economists and lawyers, who were handy for recommendations of bizarre YouTube videos or new television series. In terms of films her taste differed from theirs quite considerably, while other matters of art didn’t interest them in the slightest. Despite being aware of how art clings to capitalist trends and is disconnected from the working masses, Brigita was nevertheless a lover of bourgeois novels and the abstract works of Malevich, as well as a few modern artists such as Duchamp and Rothko. She also enjoyed the classics – in literature she gravitated towards Dostoyevsky, and architecturally things such as the Robba Fountain made her happy, even if it was a copy. Likewise Plečnik’s Triple Bridge, including the magnificent flourish of markets, seemed to her like a nice place to go for a walk.

  On Saturdays she liked to meet at the square with friends. She was still living at home with her parents, who had no interest whatsoever in going into town for those kinds of rituals. They were intensely religious members of the Murgle petite bourgeoisie. She added quickly that she didn’t like talking about her family, as their conservatism and stupidity caused her too much trauma. Her sister Sonja was the exception: she was like ‘a breath of fresh air’, but she had moved out and now lived and worked at the other end of Ljubljana, so wasn’t around to help her out . . .

  Over a beer at
Petkovšek their chat became more relaxed. Matjaž was interested in who her friends were, if they weren’t the law and economics misfits from the library. ‘Is it that scruffy lot that I saw in Respect?’

  ‘Which scruffy lot? Just because they don’t shop in Hugo Boss it doesn’t mean that they don’t have style,’ Brigita protested.

  ‘OK, they have style, but shit style . . .’

  ‘I dress the same way,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Well . . . you make it work,’ said Matjaž, saving himself.

  In the end she explained that they were friends of hers from primary and secondary school. For years they had been getting together every Friday. Most of them studied at the Arts Faculty and they all shared similar politics. Well, a few of them fancied themselves as anarchists and they were the ones with whom she argued the most. To her, anarchism served the ideals of neoliberalism very well, as eradicating the state and abolishing regulations would make for an even freer flow of capital. She argued with her friends about this topic nearly every time they saw each other. But despite that they were still very fond of each other. Brigita admitted that she rarely had such disagreements with people – apart from perhaps her sister – as she did with those miserable Kropotkinites. She said a few more words on the subject, about how a few of them had starting going out with each other. She pondered that maybe that’s not unusual, if people spend so much time together. ‘The world’s not as big as it often seems, especially if you’re looking to be close to someone.’

  Matjaž was strangely moved by that sentence, but she, not having noticed, carried on deliberating. Time and proximity could bring about feelings that were never there before, she added, as if in a dream. Of course, Matjaž was interested to know if she had ever formed such attachments with people who were clearly her closest friends, but Brigita clarified that she had never got close to any of the guys. They had given her clear signals at various concerts in Rog, and they’d also made hints at club nights in Gala Hala, but every time it came to that dangerous proximity, she felt like something was too much or not enough; too familiar and too strange at the same time.