Under a Croatian Sun (25 page)

The next day, I had a call from Manchester. I’d been in quite frequent contact with the coach since he left, and he was full of questions.

‘Was the defence good?’

‘How did they play the spinners?’

‘Did they keep their heads down?’

‘Did Domigoy manage to control his swing?’

‘Is Petar still changing his action or has he learned how to stay with the same one?’

It was good to know there was someone up in Manchester thinking about us.

Now that we had acquitted ourselves with honour, I resolved to take a firm line on getting opponents drunk and body-liners. From now on, there was going to be no more dithering morality and cocks crowing thrice. I had just read
Cricket
, written in 1884 by A.G. Steel and The Right Honourable Alfred Lyttleton, and was fired with moral purpose (A.G. Steel scored the first Test century against Australia at Lords and The Right Hon. Alfred took four for eight at an Oval Test, bowling in his wicket-keeping pads!) In the book, I also found a rather telling passage:

I considered putting a translation of it over the bar at Zoran’s and issuing a few rebukes.

I
t was interesting to see how quickly the cornerstone of communism (collective housing), was being eroded by the cornerstone of capitalism (home ownership). In the bars, the talk of politics was rapidly being superseded by talk of price per square metre. However, the bar-proppers were beginning to find that the problem with property matters was that they weren’t things that you could argue about – and what was the fun of talking about something you couldn’t argue about?

Ever since I’d had my head bitten off by the rude neighbour after the Ministry of Agriculture’s visit, I had tried to avoid arguments, but I now saw that getting involved in arguments was a sign of belonging.

I think I missed a lot of the best arguments, which seemed to hit top gear around midnight. Bozo usually missed them, too, as he left even earlier than I did. As early as nine, I’d catch him looking furtively at his watch dreading the time when he had to
return to Nora, or, even worse, when Nora might appear at the bar and order him home.

Bozo and Nora’s ‘matrimonials’ were fast becoming an open-air entertainment for the village. Zoran and the bar-proppers found it very entertaining, but Marko and Ivana worried. We were on our way to the Town Hall for a meeting with the Mayor one morning, when we heard Bozo’s voice shouting: ‘If you go to that damn sister of yours, I will never speak to you again!’

Turning the corner, we saw Nora flouncing past him towards the car.

‘Woman!’ hollered Bozo. ‘If you dare get into that car, I am leaving!’

Nora grabbed the handle and yanked open the door.

‘I’ve had it with you! You dare get into that car and I’m off!’

Nora got in and slammed the door.

‘If you don’t get out this minute, I’m off to my mother’s and I’m never seeing you again!’

Nora started the engine and jammed it into gear, but let the clutch out too quickly and the car lurched forward like a kicked dog before taking off down the street, its wheels spinning up the grit on either side.

‘And I’m taking the children with me,’ shouted Bozo to the back of the disappearing car.

Heads appeared in nearby windows as Bozo shrugged his shoulders and trudged dejectedly back into the konoba.

Continuing on our way, we passed Marin sitting on bench. He was looking about as downcast as a Copenhagen mermaid, so we stopped.

‘Tanya went to Split for the football match two days ago and she won’t answer my messages. I don’t know what’s going on.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Ivana brightly. ‘She’s probably having a
grand time catching up with her old school friends and looking at the shops.’

Marin didn’t seem too convinced, but, as our meeting was in five minutes’ time, we left him sitting there, like a character in a Greek tragedy. It was a painful sight.

Erik was already outside the Mayor’s office and we went in to find the Mayor and his cronies already round the table. He got up to greet us, smoothing his hair down nervously.

‘How good of you to come.’ He motioned for us to sit. ‘How’s your boat? Just the sort of boat you need for these waters. You must be so happy with it. And I’m glad to hear you’re now in touch with the Dalmatian Sailing Association about the sailing school. Of course we’ll do all we can to help. It’s so important to attract visitors and have things for young people to do on the island. Suitable activities on our island is at the top of our priorities! I’ve always said that we must…’

Ivana cut him off. ‘Are you by any chance suggesting that the nightclub outside your office is a “suitable activity”? As, if you are, I’m telling you that it not only makes life a misery for your ratepayers, but a lot of visiting yachts up anchor in the night and leave because they can’t put up with the noise. I imagine none of them will be coming back in a hurry.’

‘Perhaps they were just going to fill up with fuel and they came back later.’

‘In the middle of the night! Are you joking?’

The Mayor started to say something but Ivana carried on. ‘And we’ve found out that the place only has a licence to function as a café. How come you’re allowing a nightclub to operate when you know very well they don’t have a licence?’

‘I don’t know how it all happened,’ he flustered. ‘We had no idea the café was going to be a nightclub.’

‘What? With all those speakers they were putting up right in front of your front door?’

A dark colleague with thick hair coming up out of his shirt whispered something into his ear.

‘Maybe the Department of Environment could help you?’ said the Mayor.

‘You must have received their report by now, damn it!’ exclaimed Erik, steam blowing out of his ears. ‘What is going on in this office? Is everyone asleep or are they just looking in the other direction?’

‘Well, it’s hard for the police to do too much. Some of the staff are their friends.’ He laughed uncomfortably and looked at his two sidekicks for help.

‘We can’t go around closing people down just because we don’t like their music,’ said the dark one.

‘But they don’t have a licence,’ repeated Ivana. ‘If you can’t close them down, who can?’

‘Give us a bit more time and we’ll sort it all out, you’ll see,’ said the Mayor patronisingly. ‘Now let’s be a bit patient and see how things go.’ He got up to terminate the meeting and thanked us profusely for coming.

We left with a definite fobbed-off feeling.

‘Something funny is going on in that office,’ said Erik, as we went to Marko’s for a strategy meeting.

‘And something to the benefit of the Mayor and his friends, no doubt,’ I said. ‘That dark one who kept whispering to him is obviously up to his hairy neck in whatever’s going on.’

‘Oh!’ said Ivana. ‘I thought he had a roll-neck sweater on.’

It was time to invoke the mainstay of British politics – the petition. If we got the whole village to sign one and presented it to the Town Hall and the national newspapers, that might get
the place closed down. So we bought some clipboards, typed out a statement and, as one does in suburban England, we sallied forth to knock on doors.

To our amazement, no one wanted to sign.

‘I’d like to,’ said the petrol-pump attendant, ‘but we don’t want to upset anyone.’

‘Once your name gets on to the files, it never comes off,’ said the baker.

‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ said Nora. ‘Someone in Bozo’s family is trying to get a job in the government and it’ll be a black mark against him if they see our family name on a list of protestors.’

‘We’ve lived here all our lives,’ said the builder. ‘I don’t want to make enemies in Split.’

‘You should be very careful yourself,’ said the postmaster. ‘Immigration might have your name when you next come back into the country. They can give you trouble.’

‘The nightclub owners might recognise my name,’ said Filip. ‘And they’re a mean lot, those people.’

Even Zoran wouldn’t sign. ‘I’ve got my own projects to think of.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Zoran! Don’t be so damn selfish! Now’s the time to stand up and be counted, not skulk behind your bloody bar. Get a grip on yourself, man!’

‘You’ve just had too much to drink,’ said Zoran derisively and laughed. ‘Gets you quite offensive, doesn’t it? I like you better like this. Have some more wine. You’re not such a stiff-arsed Englishman when you drink.’

‘The rigidity of my buttocks has nothing to do with it,’ I said stuffily. ‘You’re just avoiding the subject.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like here. If that lot who own the nightclub see my name there, they could have a quiet word with one of their friends in the Planning Office. They all know what
I’m tryin’ to do. You don’t want that happenin’. Doin’ business is difficult enough out here without problems like that.’

‘But they’re driving everyone to distraction with their ruddy music. You’ve got to stand up to them!’

Zoran grunted. ‘When the mouse gnaws at the pot, the cheese inside gets frightened.’

‘And what the hell does that mean, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Think about it,’ said Zoran and with a mocking grin disappeared out the back.

From the moment the nightclub started, Ivana had wanted to go directly to the owners with a lawyer and sort it out, but, thinking that going over their heads would make the village think we were throwing our weight around, Erik and I had put her off the idea. She was now adamant.

‘But we don’t want to get involved with lawyers,’ I told her. ‘We’ll land up dealing for months with benches of Balkan judges, and we’re not up to that.’

‘After dealing with you and a Croatian housekeeper, a bench of Balkan judges would be a walk in the park!’

‘Why don’t we wait and see how things go?’

‘Why do you always do this?’

‘Do what?’ I said, knowing very well what she meant.

‘You know what I mean! Soft pedal, that’s what! You always do it and it never gets us anywhere. Look at the way you used to fall over backwards for your clients – and half of them never paid you. I’ve been living in fear of being turned out by the bailiffs ever since we met. I knew it was a mistake to marry you!’

She telephoned the nightclub office and the conversation didn’t last long. ‘That wasn’t very nice,’ she said, putting the phone down. ‘Someone’s coming over to see us, but, if he’s
anything like the one I just talked to, I don’t think it’s going to get us very far.’

I went to Zoran’s to tell the cabal.

‘Are you sure you’re won’t get a visit from the Mafia?’ said Bozo.

‘Maybe you oughta think about plastic surgery and a one-way ticket to South America,’ said Zoran irritatingly.

‘Thanks for the support.’

‘Well, at least you won’t have to worry about a surprise attack. You can always recognise Mafia guys. They wear suits too large in the shoulders; call themselves names like Tony “The Finger” Cannelloni or Giulio “The Screwdriver” Ravioli, and they carry on eating when the man at the next table falls into his soup. But don’t you worry. If they do turn up, we’ll be ready for them!’ He gestured to the bar. ‘Bozo “Big Belly” Sanda, Zvonko “Turnip Face” Karela and your good friend Zoran “Mr Wiseguy” Karusa will be here to protect you! You don’t have to worry about a thing, my friend. In an ex-war zone, there’s still a lot of heavy armament under everyone’s beds.’

Zoran continued making unhelpful suggestions until he was interrupted by Luka and Domigoy coming in covered in sweat and carrying their cricket gear.

‘Two bottles of your coldest Karlovac, Zoran,’ said Luka. ‘We’re celebrating! Domigoy has finally got the hang of chipping the ball to the off.’

‘To the what?’ asked Zoran.

‘That’s the right to you,’ I said.

‘Don’t give me that sport-babble,’ he grunted. ‘We’ve had to put up with communist politico-babble for the last fifty years, and we don’t want any more of any babble.’

‘Well, excuse us!’ said Luka testily. ‘Some call it human communication.’

‘Yes,’ said Domigoy, oblivious to the barbed exchange. ‘I’ve really got the hang of what that Indian player with the big hair does on the video. You just flick the bat at the ball. I’ve really got it now!’

‘Well, I’ll give you a towel and you can have a turban, too,’ said Zoran sarkily. (He’d been in one of his spiky moods all day.)

‘Oh, come on, Zoran,’ I said.

He exhaled and pushed his lank hair back with his hands. ‘I’m just so damn pissed off with everything today.’ He looked up at Luka and grunted. ‘Well, does this mean Croatia might have a team that actually wins something for once? That’ll be a change. In the last World Cup, we lost to East Timor or someplace else I’d never heard of.’

‘Well, we’ll get beaten by both East and West Timor at cricket if everyone carries on like you do,’ said Luka, before draining his glass and picking up his gear. ‘Anyway, I’d better be getting back or I’ll be in trouble with Aunt Sida. She’s run out of cigarettes, and you know how crabby she gets when she’s nicotine deprived.’ He slung his bag over his shoulder and left.

No one said anything, but we all knew that the reason he was going home wasn’t Aunt Sida. It was Anni, his wife. A familiar pattern had recently appeared in the marriages of club members. I’d seen it before. The first stage is when the wife or girlfriend watches her beloved clad in crisp, manly whites striding across the greensward and is in full support, but soon comes stage two, which is a decline into resigned acceptance. Go on, play the silly game, the wife tells herself. At least she knows where he is and he’s not off having an affair with her best friend. Then comes stage three when the phrase ‘You and your cricket’ begins to be heard quite often around the house, and stage four is when the phrase becomes ‘You and your f…ing cricket!’

Maybe I should have warned them.