My Cat Yugoslavia Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Translation copyright © 2017 by David Hackston

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in Finland as Kissani Jugoslavia by Otavan Kirjapaino Oy, Keuruu, in 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Pajtim Statovci and Otava Publishing Company.

  Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This translation has been published with the financial support of the Finnish Literature Exchange.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Statovci, Pajtim, author. Hackston, David, translator.

  Title: My cat Yugoslavia : a novel / Pajtim Statovci ; translated from the Finnish by David Hackston.

  Other titles: Kissani Jugoslavia. English.

  Description: First American edition. New York : Pantheon Books, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016025721. ISBN 9781101871829 (hardcover : alk. paper). ISBN 9781101871836 (ebook). ISBN 9780375715235 (open market).

  Subjects: LCSH: Gay men—Fiction. Emigration and immigration—Fiction. Yugoslavia—History—1980–1992—Fiction. GSAFD: Bildungsromans. Classification: LCC PH356.S838 K5813 2017. DDC 894/.54134—dc23. LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/​2016025721.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101871836

  www.pantheonbooks.com

  Cover design by Oliver Munday

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  People on a Mountain

  The First Meeting

  Chapter 2

  The Second Meeting

  Chapter 3

  The House on the Left

  Chapter 4

  She Wants All the Linen

  Chapter 5

  The Moist Earth

  The Women Who Wished Her Luck

  Chapter 6

  The Cuticle

  Chapter 7

  First Revelation

  Chapter 8

  Second Revelation

  Chapter 9

  The Wedding Night

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  The Alchemy of a Nation

  Above the Balkan Sky

  The Town

  Chapter 11

  The Snakes

  Chapter 12

  The Imam

  Chapter 13

  Options

  Chapter 14

  My Yugoslavia

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Salvation

  Chapter 17

  Years and Cigarettes

  Chapter 18

  Migrants

  Part III

  Chapter 19

  A New Life

  Chapter 20

  A Phone Call

  Chapter 21

  The Cat

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Da bi se jasno videla i potpuno razumela slika kasabe i priroda njenog odnosa prema mostu, treba znati da u varoši postoji još jedna ćuprija, kao što postoji još jedna reka.

  In order to see a picture of the town and understand it and its relation to the bridge clearly, it must be said that there was another bridge in the town and another river.

  —Ivo Andrić,

  Na Drini ćuprija (The Bridge on the Drina), translated by Lovett F. Edwards

  I

  The first time I met the cat was something so utterly mind-boggling, like seeing the bodies of a hundred handsome men all at once, that I painted it on a thick sheet of watercolor paper, and when the painting was finally ready and had dried properly, I carried it with me everywhere I went, and not a single person walked past me in the street without answering the question, “Your Highness, may I introduce you to my cat?”

  0:01 blackhetero-helsinki: anyone up for some fun and games???????

  0:01 Chubby-Sub28: mature dom—wanna chat dirty?

  0:01 sneakerboy-jyväskylä*: …

  0:02 OuluTop_tomorrow: skinny guy for meet?

  0:02 Kalle42_Helsinki: younger in Turku? bj next week?

  0:02 Järvenpää: anyone nearby?

  0:02 Helsinki_Tourist: butch guy to fuck my face…? NOW!

  0:02 Rauma_BTM: porcelain cheeks need stiff cock. any takers?

  0:02 Tampere_guy for younger: tampere

  0:02 N-Oulu: three-way fun? couple in Oulu

  0:02 Tampere_guy for younger: tampere city center

  0:02 Cam30: chat / cam2cam?

  0:03 EasternLad_btm24: HOOK-UP?? MY PLACE!!

  0:03 VilleHelsinki: fit top/vers guy 185/72/18/5 looking for fit vers/btm guy for meet NOW

  When Ville’s message popped up on the screen, I stopped reading. An hour later Ville was standing at my door saying hi, and I said hi, and he eyed me up and down from my toes to my hairline. Only then did he pluck up the courage to step inside.

  “You’re good-looking,” I said.

  Ville mumbled something. His movements were awkward. He took a step backward. At times he leaned against his right arm and at others he held it behind his back. But I knew how to play this game. No, I mean it, I said, you’re really good-looking, I was a bit surprised when you turned up, I’d imagined something else altogether, imagined everything you’d said about yourself was a lie. That’s what I would have done.

  “I can go if you want.”

  His voice was timid and bashful, as though it belonged to a small child, and he turned his eyes away and gave a somewhat demonstrative huff, as though he was trying to convince me of something. I don’t normally do this kind of thing, perhaps, or I only signed in to the chatroom on a whim, I don’t know what I was thinking. As though he wanted me to know that he’d already thought of everything that could happen. He might have an STD, he could be anybody, he might hurt me, you never know.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I said and tried to grab him by the hand, but he snatched it away and hid it behind his back.

  I understood him better than anyone else. Why would a man like him do something like this? Why didn’t he go back where he’d come from? He was a successful-looking man of just over thirty, he had combed his hair back, and his handsome, angular face appeared from the folds of his scarf and coat collar in such a way that he could have had anyone, he could walk into any room and choose whomever pleased him the most. He took off his shiny new leather shoes and expensive-looking coat and hung it on the rack. His clothes smelled clean, his pin-striped shirt was made of thick, smooth fabric, and his jeans hadn’t even creased around the knees, though they fitted his legs like a pair of tights.

  For a moment he stood in front of me without saying anything, until the forced silence began to bother him and he slipped his hand around my lower back, pressed me firmly against the wall, and kissed me roughly. He gripped my wrists in his palms and pressed his thigh against my groin, as though he was afraid I might say something like I fancied him or that I knew how angry all this can make you feel, how I understand him and the world he came from: professional parents, I know, you can’t tell them you like men, oh I know, it’s not the kind of thing you just tell people.

  I hate this too, all of it, I wanted to tell him, ask him how we ended up here and why it has to be like this, but that’s not something to say to a remorseful man, because
loathing is so much stronger than anger. You can give in to anger, you can get over it or let it take over your life, but loathing works in a different way. It burrows down under your nails, and even if you bite your fingers off, it won’t go away. But I didn’t say anything to him, because between men there are no questions. There’s no abuse, no reasoning.

  His long nails scratched my back and shoulders, his neat row of teeth knocked against mine; I caught the smell of strong cologne on his neck, the feel of moist deodorant in his armpits. He pressed himself tightly against me and wrapped his legs around mine, his muscular thighs squeezed at my sides, and there was a sense of determination in his rounded shoulders. How beautiful he is, I thought for a moment, and how lucky I am that he’s come. His wrists with fair, downy hair, the backs of his hands covered in bulging veins, his straight, smooth fingers and well-groomed nails, the fitted shirt, its top buttons undone and beneath which I fill my nose with his scent, his collarbone propping up his chiseled pectoral muscles, the elegance of his tapering chest and the seduction of his waist, his tight but well-fitting jeans that sit so snugly round his thighs that the contours of his leg muscles look like they were etched with a blade. I thought, How perfect a man can be.

  He kissed my neck in the dark hallway, and though nobody could see us, though we could barely see each other, I started to see him differently as he slid a warm hand beneath my shirt. I wanted to believe that I could let go of my inhibitions because ultimately we’re all animals, we can’t do anything about it, it’s what we’re programmed to do. And judging by the strength of his grasp and his short, agitated breathing, he thought so too.

  He tore off his shirt in the hallway and nipped at my shirt so that I could feel the warmth of his breath through the fabric. I pushed him away for a moment, pulled myself from his hands; he staggered against the wall and stood looking at me with his large blue eyes. Then I pulled him with me over to the bed, my sheets still smelling of detergent, and I looked at Ville and forced myself to take from this encounter everything I could. Now that it was finally going to happen.

  He took off the rest of his clothes and started to smile. D’you want it, he asked, winked at me, held my shoulders, and pushed me down.

  “Everything okay?” he asked once I’d finished.

  “Everything’s okay,” I said and thought of all the messages Ville must have received after posting in the chatroom. And of all of those messages, he chose me, because my message was the most striking, the most desirable, my strategic measurements the most alluring. Everybody wanted him, but he wanted only me, and I loved that.

  He turned me upside down to return the favor.

  “Does it feel good?” he asked, his sharp tongue almost dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  “It feels really good,” I said and instinctively pushed his head down.

  “You’re good-looking,” he said.

  “What was that?”

  “You’re a good-looking guy,” he repeated.

  —

  Afterward the room began to smell. He and I. We smelled. What we had just done smelled, our thoughts smelled. The whiff of latex was on our skin, the sheets, every surface, it clung to the air throughout the flat. The sheets were damp with sweat. As he stretched his arm behind his head, I noticed that his deodorant had faltered, and his breath was different now. Heavier, smelling of meat and onion.

  “Thanks,” he began, eventually.

  “No problem.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good,” he said and gave a cough. “I’d like to see you again.”

  “Yeah, maybe…Coffee?” I asked quickly and stood up even more quickly, wrenched the window open by the handle, kicked into a pile the clothes he’d shed across the floor, picked up the duvet, which had fallen beneath the bed, and switched on the lights.

  “At this time of night?” he said, sat up almost startled, and pulled the covers over his legs, pressed a hand against his abdomen, and squinted his eyes, somewhat bewildered.

  His skin gleamed against the bright light like a freshly roasted joint of pork. He scratched his shoulder and asked me to turn the lights off.

  “Yes, at this time of night. Want some?”

  “I can’t,” he said, seeming to judge me again.

  “You’ll have to go now,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I want you to leave.”

  He stood there gathering his clothes as I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. I placed a coffee mug on the drain board, measured two teaspoons of instant coffee, two sweeteners, and a drop of milk.

  “Could you go, please?” I asked.

  He’d switched off the lights and seemed to flinch at the question, at the voice that broke the silence, or at how quickly I’d appeared at the bedroom door.

  “I’m going, all right?” he said as he pulled a sock over his big toe.

  I went back to the kitchen, poured water into the mug, mixed the coffee until it was smooth, and tasted it. Then I poured it down the drain.

  1

  I proceeded with barely perceptible steps, as though I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. I’d been there once before but hadn’t dared venture farther than the entrance. But there they were for anyone who wanted them. You could buy them, just like that. Anyone could acquire one and do with it as he pleased. Nobody was asked to explain why he was buying one, or what for; was it a spur-of-the-moment decision or had he been thinking about the project for a while already?

  Anyone could lie once he reached the desk: Yes, I’ve already got all the equipment. It’ll be coming to a good, loving home, a terrarium three feet by three feet by six feet. I’ve got everything it needs: a climbing tree, a water bowl, places to hide and plenty of wood chips, everything you can think of, mice too. I’ve been thinking about this for as long as I can remember.

  I could feel their presence in the soles of my feet, which were tense and clenched. There’s no mistaking that sensation—the shudder that runs from the base of your spine and down your legs, that winds its way along your neck into the back of your head, the muscles as they tense until they are numb and unresponsive, the hairs on your skin as they stand on end as if to attack.

  The woman behind the counter quickly appeared beside me. I was standing by the gerbil enclosure and looked in bewilderment—no, in admiration—at the creatures’ complex silhouettes and wondered how they got through life with their stumpy legs and long tails.

  “Been thinking about a gerbil, have you?” she asked. “It’s a nice, low-maintenance pet, doesn’t need much looking after. You’ll have it easy.”

  “No. A snake, actually,” I replied. “A large snake.” I watched her face and expected a different kind of reaction, surprise or astonishment, but she simply asked me to follow her.

  We walked down into the basement, past freezers and shelves of dried food, past cages and specially designed toys, past glass cubes of terrarium animals, cockroaches, locusts, banana flies, and field crickets. The smell of death hung everywhere, hidden beneath the cold-warm aromas of wood and hay and metal.

  They were kept in a darkened cellar space because the air was damper and the conditions imitated their natural habitat. The door wasn’t opened and closed all that often, and they weren’t on display. Many customers might have declined to go down there for fear of stumbling across one of them. Their mere shape was enough to drive many people into a panic.

  The snake department was divided into two sections: poisonous snakes and constrictors. There were dozens of them, an entire storage unit full of them, stacked one on top of the other, the bulkiest and strongest on the lower shelves and the smaller ones on top. They came in all different colors: the lime-green tree pythons gleamed like bright neon lights; the thick yellow-striped Jamaican boas appeared before my eyes like the tastiest cake at a banquet; and the small orange corn snakes and brown-striped tiger boas had wrapped themselves into tight knots.

  They were in glass terrariums
, stripped of their might, wrapped round their climbing trees. Some of them had stretched out along the length of the terrarium, bathing their skin in the water bowl and digesting their food. They all shared a sense of profound melancholy. Their lazy heads turned slowly as though they were bored, almost humbled. It was sad. To think that they had never known anything else.

  “These have been imported from a breeder abroad; you can’t catch these in the wild,” the woman began. “So you can handle them freely, but bear in mind that snakes generally enjoy being left to their own devices.”

  An image of the place they had come from appeared in my mind, because I’d seen videos on the Internet of the factories in which they were bred. They looked like the back rooms at fast-food joints: full of tall shelving units, stacked tightly with black, lidded boxes where the snakes lived until they grew large enough to be sold. At the bottom of each box was a small layer of dust-free wood chips and a single branch. They had never seen daylight or felt the touch of the earth, and now they were put on display in spaces mimicking natural conditions. Do they ever learn that all lives are not equal?

  —

  I ordered one there and then. A boa constrictor.

  The terrarium arrived first, and I assembled it myself. Its new resident was delivered to my apartment separately in a temporary box. Where do you want it? Yes, that’s what the driver asked. Where do you want it? As if it was of no significance whatsoever, as if the delivery box contained a flat-pack bookcase and not an almost fully grown boa constrictor. I asked him to leave it in the middle of the living room.