sure just what she was doing with me, and how she viewed our relationship. She came from another storybook altogether: a top microbiology student from an orderly suburban family. But more than that, she belonged to a generation cool enough not to worry about the daily forecasts of impending doom. From the moment her pubescent pimples departed, Nadia had never had any problems, or at least none that I (with my inherited insensitivity) could notice. Sometimes I thought she was with me only because a two-metre-tall lifelong unsolvable problem like me would thoroughly complicate her otherwise immaculate life and was, therefore, the only thing missing from her as yet unfinished childhood.
If I felt anything for Nadia, it was probably gratitude. I was grateful because she didn’t nag me, because she wasn’t interested in my life story, because she didn’t make a fuss that I’d never introduced her to my mother. Her light touch was endlessly appealing, and I was frankly afraid to shatter that with a story about my father, who until recently, had been deceased.
Luckily for me my dilemma was delayed that evening by Nadia’s student obligations. Our little rented flat had been invaded by a pair of classmates from her hometown: aspiring microbiologists Matthew and Nina who, along with Nadia, were drinking all our beers. These three linked studying with the endless freedom won by leaving home, and thus looked upon microbiological studies at the University of Ljubljana as heaven on earth. As I walked in the door, they were in the midst of some crucial discussion, and barely noticed me, so I was able to slip into the bedroom, shut the door, and try to get some sleep.
My study habits couldn’t have been more different. I enrolled at the uni’ only in order to get my hands on references from student services, and to help my former boss avoid paying out to the state. Years later I’d managed to convince myself that the absorption of knowledge on a daily basis might actually be a good way to bring some semblance of organization and meaning to my melee of a life, so I began, along with a crowd of fellow enthusiasts, frequenting the Faculty of Arts. On the first day they hit me with Noam Chomsky’s linguistic theories, followed quickly by child development psychology, then Slavic mythology. I did ethnology in my first year, cultural anthropology in my third, and was in no particular hurry to continue. I still liked to listen to lectures, and sometimes enjoyed a beer or two with classmates afterwards, but that was it. I couldn’t imagine indulging in regular binges with them at student parties.
I could hear the three of them arguing about some banality outside, but no discussion that evening could have pierced through my bedroom wall to disturb my slumber, and I did not need to convince myself that the three microbiologists didn’t get on my nerves. The whole world bothered me, so there was no reason for them to be a notable exception.
‘Are you okay?’
Nadia was stoned and standing in the doorway, smiling at me mischievously. She had probably gotten up to pee and en route, recalled that she had a boyfriend.
‘We’re going to get some booze. Wanna come?’
‘Should I wake you when I get home?’
Nadia’s smile grew more mischievous, which was always a turn-on but, alas, my mood was not erectile that evening.
‘No need.’
‘Fine. Goodnight.’
The microbiological gang slowly made their way out, in a cascade of drunkenly resounding whispers, but I was no closer to falling asleep. I kept thinking about tomorrow’s meeting with Dusha, about my father and everything she might tell me. Or not tell me.
I was awake when Nadia subtly stomped through the door at half past four and tried, in vain, to quietly go to bed. I threw a secret glance at her while she changed her clothes, thinking her nudity might provide some welcome distraction, but not even her young body possessed the super power to shift me out of my current state of complete emotional turpitude. She laid down next to me and fell asleep in immediate, drunken peace. Her long, brown hair smelled of pot and I thought that I might help myself to a joint, but didn’t feel like getting up and ransacking her handbag in the middle of the night. I soon heard her purr, as she did whenever she’d imbibed too much beer. I knew that I could scream and she wouldn’t hear, so I dared to speak to her.
‘My father isn’t dead. But he is a war criminal.’
‘Meet me at eleven. At the Second Aid Bar. Love, Dusha.’
Dusha never gave a damn about things like atmosphere, either in her daily life or in mine. We might as well have met in a boiler room or operating theatre. At least the message, that beeped at half past seven and woke me up, assured me that I had managed to get some sleep, after all.
Dusha arrived as sleep-deprived as I was, full bags under her eyes poorly hidden by make-up. The idea that something might have finally struck a nerve in her was a pleasant one. She ordered a double espresso and a large glass of water, and then lit up. She offered me one, and asked if I smoked, politely, as if we were strangers meeting for the first time. We sat at a table on the terrace, smoking, and I noticed that we each held our cigarettes in just the same way. I also saw that her hand was shaking.
‘I don’t have a lot of time, so just tell me what you want.’
‘I want to see him.’
‘You know you can’t. He’s in hiding. They’re looking for him.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Nobody knows exactly where he is.’
‘Do you?’
She shook her head. Dusha avoided my eyes, but did check her watch three times, and glance six times at the entrance of the bar, all in the space of a few minutes.
‘The last time he got in touch with me was three years back. I don’t even know if he’s alive.’
I quickly did the sums in my head: how many years had passed since Dusha decided to break it to me that, ostensibly, my father had died somewhere on the front. Yet now it turned out that she had been in touch with him for twelve years... In touch with a dead guy, fallen in the midst of an offensive against common sense.
‘Where did he contact you from?’
‘I think it’s better... ’
‘Where did he contact you from?’
‘He’s hiding from everyone. Why do you think?’
‘Where did he contact you from?’
‘From Brčko.’
‘Address?’
‘Why would you think he’d..?’
‘Maybe he was hoping you’d visit him? Or that I’d visit him? That we’d write... ’
‘Vlado, look... ’
‘Address!’
The waitress brought the double espresso and a large glass of water for Dusha, and a juice for me. Dusha paid immediately, saying she was in a hurry.
‘Address!’
‘He said that he wouldn’t stay at that address, that
