was both. You know—a little hot, then a little cold, slaps you with his left hand, pets you with his right.”
“What did he say?”
“That there is a war going on, and although Serbia is not part of it, we have to be ready to prevent it spilling over the border. So the military is doing exercises to keep people awake. All reservists are to take that seriously, and at the moment they are not. I am a symbol, he says, so popular and important, and he’s here to tell me that for the good of Serbia I have to go to one of those exercises.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He said the purpose of his visit was to warn me not to fool around when I get the call. He said that if I cooperated, they wouldn’t use me for direct propaganda. You know, no pictures of Elvis in uniform, no haircut, nothing. But I am in deep shit no matter what. Because we both know that even if Elvis doesn’t pose, selected journalists will be told that I am fulfilling my patriotic duties. And they will publish it. Otherwise, why am I so important as a symbol? And then I can go play at weddings and funerals. Or just funerals.”
“What happens if you don’t go?”
“I could end up in jail.”
“For what?”
“He showed me pictures. You, me, and Sara smoking pot.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it was at a party last summer.”
“The guy with the pool?”
“Probably.”
“I didn’t know he was a snitch. Jesus, Johnny, I took you there.”
They remained silent for a while, Johnny spinning his glass slowly, Boris smoking.
Boris sighed.
Johnny continued to spin his glass without looking up.
“I’ll talk to the General,” Boris said.
VANILLA.
November 9, 1992
His mother was chirpy as she announced that she’d serve coffee in the living room.
The living room, and not his study? Of course: generals negotiate on no man’s land. Boris put down the book he was holding and said, “Thanks, Mom, I’ll be right there.”
“You know he can’t stand waiting,” she whispered, her back keeping the sound of her voice from spilling into the hall.
Boris sighed and stood up, glancing around. When he had arrived at the apartment half an hour earlier, his mother had ushered him here into his old room to wait. Entering, he had expected an avalanche of barbed memories, but it didn’t come. The space looked smaller. As soon as he had moved out, they had turned it into a guest room. Not that they ever had any guests.
He followed his mother down the hall. The General was sitting in his usual chair, and though the newspaper was open on the table in front of him, Boris knew that he was not reading. The glasses sitting low on his father’snose were just an excuse to hold his head in a position from which he could not see him entering.
“Hello, Father,” Boris said.
“Hello, Boris.”
It had been three and a half years since he’d seen his father, except on television. His hair was still black, aside from some grey in his sideburns and at his temples. There were two deep lines at the corners of his mouth that Boris didn’t remember, but his grey eyes had the same edge as always in the same square, masculine face that Boris had hoped for when he had entered puberty, and didn’t get.
Boris glanced at his mother. There was nothing new on her face—they met for coffee once or twice a month, always at her request, always in the same café—but it seemed that she had acquired some of her husband’s aspect. He saw it only now, with the two of them next to each other: the same stiffness of their necks, their lips thinning with age and turning downward at the corners, their eyebrows somehow lighter and readier to lift.
It had taken her three days to soften up the old man enough for Boris’s visit.
The coffee was bitter and strong, served in large cups, just the way the General liked it. Only Mother’s cup was her usual small one.
Look, husband, even my coffee cup is smaller than yours.
They each took a sip.
“What did he say?”
“That there is a war going on, and although Serbia is not part of it, we have to be ready to prevent it spilling over the border. So the military is doing exercises to keep people awake. All reservists are to take that seriously, and at the moment they are not. I am a symbol, he says, so popular and important, and he’s here to tell me that for the good of Serbia I have to go to one of those exercises.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He said the purpose of his visit was to warn me not to fool around when I get the call. He said that if I cooperated, they wouldn’t use me for direct propaganda. You know, no pictures of Elvis in uniform, no haircut, nothing. But I am in deep shit no matter what. Because we both know that even if Elvis doesn’t pose, selected journalists will be told that I am fulfilling my patriotic duties. And they will publish it. Otherwise, why am I so important as a symbol? And then I can go play at weddings and funerals. Or just funerals.”
“What happens if you don’t go?”
“I could end up in jail.”
“For what?”
“He showed me pictures. You, me, and Sara smoking pot.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it was at a party last summer.”
“The guy with the pool?”
“Probably.”
“I didn’t know he was a snitch. Jesus, Johnny, I took you there.”
They remained silent for a while, Johnny spinning his glass slowly, Boris smoking.
Boris sighed.
Johnny continued to spin his glass without looking up.
“I’ll talk to the General,” Boris said.
VANILLA.
November 9, 1992
His mother was chirpy as she announced that she’d serve coffee in the living room.
The living room, and not his study? Of course: generals negotiate on no man’s land. Boris put down the book he was holding and said, “Thanks, Mom, I’ll be right there.”
“You know he can’t stand waiting,” she whispered, her back keeping the sound of her voice from spilling into the hall.
Boris sighed and stood up, glancing around. When he had arrived at the apartment half an hour earlier, his mother had ushered him here into his old room to wait. Entering, he had expected an avalanche of barbed memories, but it didn’t come. The space looked smaller. As soon as he had moved out, they had turned it into a guest room. Not that they ever had any guests.
He followed his mother down the hall. The General was sitting in his usual chair, and though the newspaper was open on the table in front of him, Boris knew that he was not reading. The glasses sitting low on his father’snose were just an excuse to hold his head in a position from which he could not see him entering.
“Hello, Father,” Boris said.
“Hello, Boris.”
It had been three and a half years since he’d seen his father, except on television. His hair was still black, aside from some grey in his sideburns and at his temples. There were two deep lines at the corners of his mouth that Boris didn’t remember, but his grey eyes had the same edge as always in the same square, masculine face that Boris had hoped for when he had entered puberty, and didn’t get.
Boris glanced at his mother. There was nothing new on her face—they met for coffee once or twice a month, always at her request, always in the same café—but it seemed that she had acquired some of her husband’s aspect. He saw it only now, with the two of them next to each other: the same stiffness of their necks, their lips thinning with age and turning downward at the corners, their eyebrows somehow lighter and readier to lift.
It had taken her three days to soften up the old man enough for Boris’s visit.
The coffee was bitter and strong, served in large cups, just the way the General liked it. Only Mother’s cup was her usual small one.
Look, husband, even my coffee cup is smaller than yours.
They each took a sip.
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