We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day

Nora. Though she could see that Nora saw and understood everything, they never spoke of it. Then she got her first dog and wandered off on longer and longer walks by the sea. They each managed by living in what each could handle; too great an intimacy would have undercut the monotony of their everyday lives, and losing the monotony would have made things unbearable. By the time Nora was fully independent, the distance between her and her mother had grown, and there was no longer a way back. The door had already long since been shut. All that was left was to feign an average existence, to turn herself into the Nora who studies, the Nora who works, the Nora who goes out with friends and gets into superficial relationships that never go on dangerously long. She succeeded in repressing all the names linked to what happened to her father, though they did occasionally resurface, when a political party needed to trot out the never-resolved incident. She shielded herself from thoughts about it, while doing everything—as if following the ABCs of textbook psychology—to bring herself back to it. She studied journalism, planned to work on research, took a job at a political weekly.

While she was doing what she could to access the Internet and read the emails from her editor, she noticed Josip Ilinčić sitting at one of the nearby tables, and it flashed through her mind that perhaps this was the very table where Oliver had sat. Over the last two decades everybody had come to think of Ilinčić as the local sheriff; evidence had never been put forth that he’d committed any crimes. He dabbled in all things war-related and the war’s aftermath. In the postwar years, the focus was on privatizing what had been public property. Through one of his more controversial moves he became proprietor of the Hotel Danube. He glanced over at her; nothing about her held his attention—or maybe, if only for a moment, the sight of the laptop on the table. Nora eyed his half profile: he was sitting there in a black leather jacket, a cell phone in each hand. On the table in front of him there was nothing but a glass of mineral water. She felt an inexplicable repulsion at the way he commanded the space around him. His legs were long and sprawling; the low armchair he was sitting in was too cramped for him. As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up from his two cell phones and eyed her over his eyeglasses. Nora didn’t flinch; she gave the slightest nod. Then she went back to the screen, which kept refusing the password. She looked around for the waiter. When he saw Nora gesturing, he rose sluggishly from the bar stool and ambled over at a lazy pace.

“Sorry; the password doesn’t seem to work for the Internet.”

He didn’t say a word, just sighed deeply.

“I tried several times,” continued Nora, “but it won’t take.”

“I’ll bring you another one,” he said reluctantly.

While the waiter was on his way back to the bar, Ilinčić, who was now watching Nora with interest, summoned him with the snap of his fingers, whispered something to him, and sent him off. The waiter disappeared behind the bar, and when he came back to Nora’s table he was noticeably more courteous.

“There; this should work,”—he put a slip of paper on the table— “and the boss wants to know what you’d like to drink.”

“Oh, nothing, thanks, no need. I just wanted to check my email; I’m about to leave.” She leaned forward as she spoke, with a grateful wave to the boss.

“A quick drink; come on . . . you don’t want to hurt his feelings,” insisted the waiter. Ilinčić was already on his way over to Nora’s table with a frozen smile.

“Please—I’m grateful for the offer, but no thanks.” Nora didn’t understand what he hoped to accomplish by insisting.

“Aren’t you our guest?” asked Ilinčić when he reached her table.

“Yes, but no need . . .”

“How long are you staying, if I may ask?” Ilinčić eyed her openly.

“Another day, maybe two,” she answered briefly.

He nodded without taking his eyes off of her, then he reached into an inside pocket, took out a laminated business card, and offered it to her. She took it, read the name and title, and then looked long at his face. There was something reptilian in his gaze. Long ago she’d read a book about the work of the brain and remembered the part about the difference between the brains of mammals and reptiles. The limbic part, key for emotions, was lacking in reptiles and was to blame for what humans called a “lack of affect.” The missing piece.

“And you are . . . a tourist?”

“A journalist,” she answered, and then extended her hand. “Nora Kirin.”

She hadn’t expected the transformation. Ilinčić pressed her hand, and there was still no sign of anything in his eyes, but his lips quivered strangely, and he tried to mask this by lickng them.

“From around here?” he blurted.

“No, from Omiš,” Nora answered evenly, feigning confusion. The last thing she needed was for him to tie her to Osijek.

“I see . . .” mumbled Ilinčić.

“Here we are, a little cherry cordial for the lady.” The waiter inserted himself into the narrow space between the two of them.

“Well, thank you.” Nora raised the glass and tossed it back. “I’m off to the poetry reading.” She slipped her laptop into her backpack and returned to her room, skipping steps. She couldn’t explain what had brought on such a feeling of discomfort that she’d fled without even checking her email. As soon as she shut the door behind her and was in her room, she turned on the shower and ran it for a long time; the water was only tepid, and under the light it looked yellower and yellower. The water pressure was so weak that after she’d showered she felt no better. Still, she decided to