“That shithead—what a fucking monster.” Just then her cell phone rang, and the secretary announced, her voice trembling:
“Mrs. Arsovska, I am calling to inform you of a tragic event”—and then she burst into tears. Brigita waited patiently at the other end of the line for the secretary to pull herself together.
15.
Hunger
hunger steals my touch
hunger steals my soul
now (fall 2010)
“You’re back! And the article is in my inbox,” the editor declared by way of a greeting. Nora instinctively moved her cell phone away from her ear with a deep sigh.
“And hello to you, too,” she greeted him politely, and then went on so he wouldn’t have a chance to launch into one of his sermons: “You won’t believe what just happened! This morning! I’m right on the spot; the press conference will be within the hour, or two at the most.”
“Nora, what are you talking about? Where are you? You cannot still be there! You’d have made it back from Beirut by now. Send the article in immediately; we’re in layout tomorrow.”
“The mayor’s been murdered.” Here she paused for effect, and when she could tell she had his attention, she went on: “Last night or early this morning. No public statement yet.” She raced through the words.
“What? Did I hear you correctly? You’re there?” She could hear the adrenaline surging through him at the breaking news.
“Yes, you heard me. I’m doing what I can to connect the dots.” Then, surprising herself, she added: “I can do this.” For a time, all she heard was silence; she could hear his brain working, the gears spinning.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck . . .” He seldom swore—only when he was at a total loss for a pithy, snide comment. “Fine, follow this through. Write down, word for word, everything you’re hearing and send it in.”
She made an effort to sound collected and professional. “As soon as I have something, I’ll be in touch.”
“So what’s up with our Anna Karenina?” Her editor sometimes liked sounding smarter than he actually was.
“Almost done. I have a meeting with the ex-principal, and then I’ll wrap it up. There you go. I’ll ask her about the mayor, too, given their history . . .”
He interrupted: “I’ll expect that this evening . . . By the latest tomorrow morning, with ribbons and a bow.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she answered.
“I’ll be waiting.”
When she’d hung up, she decided not to think about her Anna Karenina who wasn’t an Anna Karenina. Instead she wondered whether she should text Ms. Arsovska to remind her of their date, or simply keep to their agreement and head over to the Hotel Lav and wait for her. She decided it would be better not to text, which might give the ex-principal an opening to put off the meeting yet again. She left the eerily empty hotel lobby and stepped into the chill morning fog. In the distance, where the Vuka flowed into the Danube, was a large white stone cross that appeared ghostlike. Unable to take her eyes off it, she mused on the dense network of symbols you trek through in a life. If you don’t read them correctly, any step you take may be the wrong one—and, depending on how rigid is the society you live in, it might be your last. Actually, you are best off mastering the language of symbols to perfection. Otherwise, if you know them only intuitively and avoid considering their deeper meanings, simply embracing the symbols as reality, you’ll end up hoping against hope that the trek will turn out well. Intuitives, simpletons. On the other hand, if you know your symbols you can manipulate them—and also manipulate the people who run on instinct, using both as your weapons. The least useful is if you are cognizant of the symbols’ profound irrationality and work to expose them, without recognizing their value over time, or the sheer violence they have acquired. Turning away from the cross, she glanced at the red brick of several nearby apartment buildings, the area where Marko had said he lived. She imagined him in bed. Her thoughts were involuntary, just images taking shape in her mind without prompting. Marko was waking and moving around in bed, the sheets were white—“What is wrong with you?” she muttered to herself, and rummaged for the pack of cigarettes in her purse. On the surface the city still looked the same; nothing had changed since the night before. The only difference was that the city was at its most animated in the morning, particularly around the outdoor market, where the average age of the people breathing life into it was about sixty. She decided to take a walk and kill the half hour left before her appointment. She tugged the sleeves of her jacket over her hands. Her skin felt taut and dry. The last few years she’d been suffering from an unusual allergy: whenever there was a sudden change in temperature, whether from hot to cold or vice versa, all the exposed parts of her body reddened and itched unbearably. Simply put, her immune system was unable to adjust to sudden temperature changes, and she had no idea why. Her organism was attacking itself so it wouldn’t attack someone else: this was what she’d once read on the subject. She could tell that pale-red blotches were creeping across her face, and there was nothing she could do. She slipped through the crowd around the market tables of green stone and watched the faces of people who were closely examining the fruits and vegetables. She studied each face and couldn’t help playing her private game: subtract twenty years and reconstruct their lives. She imagined these same faces and the hands—picking through the peppers and lifting the tomatoes for a sniff—clenched
