Zagreb Noir Read online

  Table of Contents

  ___________________

  Introduction by Ivan Sršen

  PART I: A PERFECT OUTING

  A Girl in the Garage

  DARKO MACAN

  Travno

  Crossbar

  JOSIP NOVAKOVICH

  Maksimir

  The Old Man from the Mountain

  IVAN VIDIĆ

  Jarun

  The Gates of Hell

  RUŽICA GAŠPEROV

  Downtown Central

  PART II: KNOCKING ON THE NEIGHBOR’S DOOR

  Horse Killer

  MIMA SIMIĆ

  Dubrava

  It All Happened So Fast

  ROBERT PERISIC

  Črnomerec

  Night Vision

  PERO KVESIĆ

  Tuškanac

  Numbers 1–3

  NADA GAŠIĆ

  Zvonimirova

  PART III: DOWNTOWN FREAKS

  Wraiths

  ZORAN PILIĆ

  Downtown East

  Slices of Night

  ANDREA ŽIGIĆ-DOLENEC

  Borongaj

  Headlessness

  DARKO MILOŠIĆ

  Mirogoj

  PART IV: ON THE LOOSE

  She-Warrior

  NORA VERDE

  Lanište

  Wiener Schnitzel

  IAN SRŠEN

  Rudeš

  Happiness on a Leash

  NEVEN UŠUMOVIĆ

  Trešnjevka

  Sin el Fil

  About the Contributors

  Bonus Materials

  Excerpt from USA NOIR edited by Johnny Temple

  Also in Akashic Noir Series

  Akashic Noir Series Awards & Recognition

  About Akashic Books

  Copyrights & Credits

  Introduction

  Surviving to Tell the Story

  Translated by Ellen Elias-Bursac

  I was maybe ten years old when my grandmother took me and my cousin to the movies one afternoon. This was in the second half of the 1980s, a romantic time from today’s perspective, especially in the Croatia, or rather the Yugoslavia, of the day. Yugoslavia—comprising six republics with equal standing—fell to pieces in a bloody war that began in 1991. But a few years before, no one would have believed this communist state would ever cease to exist, begun as it was in the most tenacious antifascist armed movement in Europe during World War II, led by Marshal Tito. The socialist institutions had been functioning for nearly fifty years, workers and peasants had been given access to education, there were low levels of unemployment, and most families could afford a small, domestically produced car. Again, from today’s perspective, this sounds like a middle-class dream.

  To conjure for you what kind of society this was: during the forty-five years of the socialist system in Zagreb there was only one bank robbery! The perpetrator, never apprehended (as I recall from the stories of my childhood), acquired a magical aura—he strolled right into a branch of the most powerful Croatian bank in the middle of the day on the main Zagreb square, emptied the safe, armed with a Yugoslav-made pistol, and disappeared forever—children and, I must say, adults leaned toward fairy-tale explanations: if you were able to elude the Yugoslav police you must be a master with supernatural or, at the very least, illusionist powers. The man somehow made himself invisible—first to the passersby on the street, and then to the powerful secret service who collared most other criminals within twenty-four hours maximum, and only needed a few more days to bring the person to justice. Today, bank robberies in Zagreb are news that seldom capture any attention unless someone is seriously injured.

  From time to time during the 1980s, films would find their way to Yugoslavia from the West, with a few years’ delay, so it is now impossible for me to pin down exactly which year it was and how old I would have been, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I remember almost everything: the cracked pavement on the city streets, the thousands of wads of chewing gum stuck to the sidewalk, and the hundreds of cigarette butts littering the tracks at the tram stops. The traffic cops wore silly white belts over their gray-blue shirts, the cheap restaurants served beans and sausage or fried fish that smelled foul, and through libraries wafted the fragrance of bygone times, because at that point they still hadn’t introduced air conditioners or air fresheners. Movie theaters were also places that stank a little, but there wasn’t a child who disliked them for that; everyone was eager to gaze at the big screen. Another plus for the youngest filmgoers during the socialist period was that there were no age limits in effect. Any child could see any film showing in any movie theater. They can do the same, theoretically, today, but back then there wasn’t even a thought given as to whether something might be appropriate for children. And that was the very best aspect of the system.

  And so it was that our elderly grandmother, who had survived World War II and always kept an eye out for the nearest place into which she might duck in the event of a sudden bomb attack, was able to take me and my cousin, the little rug rats that we were, to see Angel Heart by Alan Parker starring Mickey Rourke and Lisa Bonet. This was a movie that a ten-year-old boy should definitely not have been watching. But I did, thanks to my grandmother who was always reading detective stories and had liked the tagline on the poster, Harry Angel has been hired to search for the truth . . . pray he doesn’t find it.

  The movie shows all sorts of violence, sex, blood, racism, magic, and Satanism; in the end the devil himself appears, and, hats off to film director Parker, Satan (played by Robert de Niro) does not come across as trivial.

  As we left the movie theater my cousin and I nodded just once to each other—we knew the film had aged us and everything had changed; suddenly I could see how, decades earlier, tanks had rumbled over the cracked pavement, I saw how people around me, grimacing, were spitting those wads of chewing gum onto the ground, and the cigarette butts at the tram stop were discarded by workers with wracking smokers’ coughs that signaled slow, painful deaths.

  This Zagreb which suddenly laid itself out before me was the grimy little provincial town that Miroslav Krleža, the great twentieth-century Croatian writer, portrayed in most of his books. A town which was relatively well connected to the rest of central Europe—the drive to Budapest isn’t long, one is in Vienna even sooner, it’s just a little farther to Munich, and you get to Trieste and Venice in no time. Because of its location, Zagreb was already at a key intersection in the Middle Ages; in the eighteenth century it took its place as the definitive capital of Croatia, within the Hungarian Kingdom, part of the Austrian Empire. This distinction as the capital has meant that money has poured into the Zagreb city coffers over the last three hundred years. In the late nineteenth century the city was transformed into an appealing middle-European city with charming architecture, typical of lesser well-tended towns throughout the region.

  An important dimension of Zagreb life is also its transience and inconstancy. It has never managed to hold on to anyone who wasn’t forced to stay there. In the literature you won’t find a single foreigner in love with Zagreb, because to be in love with Zagreb is more or less the same as falling for a single mother who has nine children—theoretically possible, but even the most generous groom would have to realize he would be giving much more than he’d get, and for most people this is simply off-putting. Those born in the city (you are free to imagine them as the nine children) are inured to the unscrupulous winner-takes-all gambit, the emotional blackmail that tramples everything in its path, knowing no one wants this place. It is unwanted because of the burdens it brings, its potency, its brazenness, its naked greed, its stink—in short, its love of life. In Zagreb, as became clear to me when I was stepping out of the movie theater, there is a meeting of a contin
ental optimism and a Mediterranean relativism, and this is why the city has never found its peace. Its restlessness has enthralled me, and for years I have tried to delve into the wellspring of the vitality that gives the people who live here their boundless cynicism, arrogance, and ambition.

  There are, in its restlessness, certain elusive qualities, a slippery charge that young people are best at recognizing, those who have nothing to lose, who are ignorant enough of the fragility of their existence that they are prepared to risk even their lives. An example of this was when Zagreb high school students stood up to the fascist government when it seized control of the government in 1941 after Nazi Germany occupied the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. The new government imposed racial laws and members of all undesirable ethnic groups were dispatched to killing fields and concentration camps. All high school students were summoned to Maksimir Stadium, one of the pivotal locations in several of the stories in this book, and at the end of the “sports exercises” held on one half of the pitch, all Jews and Serbs were ordered to step over onto the other half. After the summoned students began to obey the command and step over, several Croats stepped over with them and soon all the high school students joined in and crossed over to the other half of the pitch. This was a symbolic gesture of defiance to a division the fascists had thought would be easy to impose. They were wrong.

  However, young people are seldom asked for their opinion, and it is even more rare that their opinion is taken into account. That day, the day we watched the movie, it became clear to me that I didn’t have much time left to get to know my city better. I hopped on my bicycle and within a month I had traversed all of Zagreb from one end to the other. This freedom I had as a young boy is yet more proof of how different life in that long-ago age under the iron socialist hand was, more peaceful in a way. My parents were not at all worried about me being out wandering for hours to the farthest corners of the city, such as the elite residential quarters on the lower slopes of the Sljeme hills that loom over Zagreb to the north, neighborhoods that had been built by bankers before World War II. I enjoyed riding through Trešnjevka in the spring when fruit trees bloomed in all the little gardens in front of the modest family shacks. And when the trees were in full leaf and green grass grew lushly around the open sewers, even the factory neighborhoods like Žitnjak and Dubrava did not seem out-of-bounds or repellent. The Sezession center of the city acquired a romantic sheen during the spring rains and it was fun spraying the passersby when I raced through the puddles on the uneven streets.

  All this was irretrievably lost in the years of the war that soon followed and now I feel that, by watching Angel Heart with Mickey Rourke roaming through postwar New York, I was looking into Zagreb’s future, a future that was far from rosy; indeed it was gray, embittered, enriched with all a postwar period brings—war profiteers, major and small-time criminals in the new authorities, unnatural surpluses and shortages, convoluted morals—with a sweep that pulls no one along with it; its sole constant, an unquenchable desire for life.

  The story collection here before you will guide you through several different perspectives on the city; each of them exposes Zagreb’s neuralgic points: Robert Perisic, Mima Simić, and Pero Kvesić take us directly or indirectly into the war years of the nineties and the air of uncertainty and fear that ruled over fragile human lives, while Nada Gašić’s story reminds us of the multiple layers of trauma embedded in a city that has purged itself of its unsuitable inhabitants several times during the last century.

  The beginning of the book offers incredible angles and fascinating views of locations that inspire both great ambitions and tragic endings, both of which Zagreb’s inhabitants have borne remarkably well. It opens with a tale by Darko Macan that provides an ideal urban legend for the sleepless nights of thousands of men and women in Zagreb who prefer not to stick their noses into someone else’s business. Ivan Vidić has sketched a plan for the renewal of a Yugoslavia in the realm of the Balkan underworld, and Josip Novakovich has transformed hooligan violence into a fateful perpetuum mobile at the Zagreb soccer stadium; while in Ružica Gašperov’s story, anyone who has fled from a situation because of societal censure will be able to recognize herself.

  Several of the stories remind us that among us there are others, people we abhor, people Zagreb has never accepted, who live right next door and abhor us in equal measure. Zoran Pilić explores the character of an anonymous city loner; Darko Milošić speaks out about the social stratification of on-duty freaks, and Andrea Žigić-Dolenec plays with violence as a leitmotif for contemporary Zagreb life.

  At the end of the book surface the veiled frustrations of “creeping fascism,” as Naomi Wolf, supported by the ever-present naming system, terms the phenomenon of the upsurge of intolerance in society. Nora Verde thrusts us into a nighttime action by a young Zagreb activist, while Neven Ušumović reveals how a slow-moving retiree can preserve his pride even after all the reinterpretations of the history through which he has lived.

  The authors of Zagreb Noir peer deep under the skin of this old city on the banks of the Sava River, some of them checking it out from above, at a safe distance yet with the precision of a surveyor. Some of them look it right in the eye, facing off in round after round of an exhausting boxing match. All of them have succeeded in creating a convincing and amazing gallery of characters, people we avoid because they move through the city at night, stick to the side streets, congregate in garages, cheap bars, hospitals, and are up to their elbows in suspicious activity.

  Come on in, neighbor, for just one glass . . .

  Ivan Sršen

  Zagreb, Croatia

  September 2015

  PART I

  A PERFECT OUTING

  A Girl in the Garage

  by DARKO MACAN

  Travno

  Translated by the author and Tatjana Jambrišak

  The rumor that there was a girl in the garage underneath the She-Mammoth—arguably the biggest building in the Balkans at the time it was built—started a week before Christmas. A married couple was storing their kid’s presents in their garage unit when they heard odd noises from next door. A moment earlier the wife had told the husband they should sell the unit, since they hardly ever used it.

  “Once or twice a year,” she said. “We store apples when my family sends them and we hide presents at Christmas. We should sell it.”

  “The market isn’t right,” said the husband, who really liked the idea of having a garage, his own space, no matter how empty.

  “Hush! Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  She was listening close to the concrete wall between their place and the unknown neighbor’s unit. “I think I heard a noise,” she said.

  “That was me talking,” he attempted a joke. It sounded more bitter than he intended.

  “Hush!” she said again, listening at the metal door painted a tired shade of dark green. “I think there’s someone inside.”

  “Probably a dog,” he said.

  “Why would anyone keep a dog in a garage?” she frowned.

  Perhaps somebody really wanted a dog but had a wife who wouldn’t allow pets inside, thought the husband but said nothing. “What do you think it is, then?” he asked instead.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but it’s definitely something alive. Come, listen!”

  Hesitantly, he approached and listened at the door with her. There was indeed an occassional scratching noise behind the dark green door.

  “Perhaps it’s a cat,” he said. “Somebody locked a cat in there by mistake.”

  “I don’t think it’s a cat,” she said.

  “A rat, then. Too much food stored in here and the rats found out. No, wait . . . perhaps it’s a pig!”

  “A pig?”

  “A suckling,” the husband said. “A Christmas dinner.” His mouth watered at the idea of the succulent, crispy flesh of a freshly roasted piglet.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Who’d do such
a thing?”

  “Okay, why don’t you just tell me what you think is in there,” he sighed.

  “A girl.”

  “A girl?”

  “Slave trade, you know. It happens. It’s called human trafficking now and it’s real,” said the wife, who had recently seen a poster at the library. An emaciated model, carefully made up to look as if crying, had been watching her pitifully from the poster, apparently chained to the wall in some godforsaken basement. Or in a garage, why not in a garage?

  “A suckling is a ridiculuos idea but a girl isn’t?” The husband shook his head. “I’m glad you set me straight.”

  “I’ll knock.”

  “Oh no you won’t!” he said. There are some things you just do not do. You do not knock on another person’s garage door any more than you take a look at his penis. It is simply not done.

  She knocked.

  The silence answered. After a number of long seconds, some more scratching came. Then silence.

  “It’s a girl,” the wife said. The model on the poster reminded her so much of her younger, pretty self.

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “Otherwise we would hear something more. I don’t know, muffled screams or something. C’mon, think, if someone locked you in there, what would you do? Just scratch a little or raise all kinds of hell to attract attention?”

  “Maybe she’s really, really scared,” the wife said. “Maybe she feels really, really trapped.”

  “Well, if it’s a suckling, it’s fucked and it knows it. C’mon, let’s go already, it’s cold down here.”

  The wife conceded to his voice of reason and went, but the image of a beautiful girl in the garage would not leave her. She thought about calling the police or the number from the library poster but feared sounding ridiculous. So she turned the whole thing into an amusing anecdote for her friends and acquaintances, thrilling anyone who would listen to how she believed there was a girl in the garage. But there was none, right? There could be none, right? Just a rat or a piglet for somebody’s Christmas table.

  The anecdote idled around the She-Mammoth—five thousand people living in the building on top of each other—retold in the dull moments of waiting for an elevator or in line at the supermarket on the terrace level. It would have died a quiet death if not for Domagoj Delić, a fifty-year-old veteran whose war nobody cared about anymore, whose only family was the sister living a hundred miles away and who had too much time on his hands. Domagoj Delić decided to rescue the girl from the garage.