All the tables were occupied that evening. I saw many familiar faces—the cream of local government, business, and the culture scene; there were also some people I didn’t know, ugly mugs who gave me a bad gut feeling. According to an established custom, dinner was served after midnight. As we ate we chatted casually, listened to the blues, and enjoyed the intimate, almost familial atmosphere of the restaurant—all up until one idiot (who Tulip then asked unambiguously to leave the premises) called on Gonzales to tell us all what happened to Geiger and why he died so suddenly.
As much as we adored gossiping about one another, there are some stories that one just does not telclass="underline" any inquiry about them is interpreted as an indecency, and the pryer loses his place in society and is branded untrustworthy. The story about what happened to Geiger had topped the town’s list of forbidden topics for several years. A fellow I know confided in me while we were fishing for mackerel off Sveti Nikola Island that he’d heard the tale from Gonzales, but he wouldn’t repeat it for me, even when I insisted. He said I wouldn’t believe him, and he couldn’t tell it well enough because he didn’t understand everything. And again, I know several people who got a fistful of salt in the ass for having hassled Gonzales; he kept a sawnoff double-barreled shotgun without a buttstock under the seat of his wheelchair (which was the basis of the morbid joke behind his nickname—he was anything but Speedy). One barrel of the shotgun had a buckshot cartridge and the other was loaded with coarsely ground salt: just which barrel he discharged depended on the type of idiot who was giving him a hard time.
The question about Geiger made Gonzales flinch in his wheelchair; he hissed several curses to himself and in the direction of the overly curious fool, but when he saw Tulip give the fellow his marching orders he acted as if he hadn’t heard and kept eating.
The evening went nicely, and when people were starting to go home, satisfied with Tulip’s risotto, Gonzales asked Tulip and me to help him to the toilet. He was an athlete at drinking but disabled when it came to negotiating the urinal. When he’d finished and wheeled himself back to the table, he ordered a bottle of wine and invited me to join him. Tulip was busy clearing away the cutlery, a drunk was snoring at the lowest point of the restaurant with his head on the table, and Gonzales filled our glasses and took a deep breath.
“Fucking jerks! As if they were really interested in what happened to Geiger—they don’t even deserve to hear his name!” Then he tilted his head to the side a little, gave me a probing glance through half-closed eyelids, as if he’d never seen me before, and asked:
“Does your brother stay in touch?”
“More or less,” I replied, realizing it would be best not to show how much I disliked talking about my brother.
“How long has he got left now?”
“Seven years.”
“What does he say? How are the jails in Australia? Does he have to kill kangaroos or make shoes for the Aborigines?”
“He doesn’t complain.”
Gonzales laughed. “A good guy, your brother. A bit of a hothead, and too harsh, but definitely good. We went to elementary school together, you know.”
“He told me about that,” I answered.
“What else did he tell you?”
“That if ever I needed anything, or got into any trouble, I could ask you for help.”
“And so you can, whatever it is. Just tell me, and I’ll sort it out.”
I nodded and muttered a scant “Thanks.”
“But you don’t get into trouble—they say you’re not like your brother at all…”
“No, I’m not,” I replied.
“What do you mean you’re not?” he asked.
“I don’t get into trouble and I’m not like my brother at all.” I probably repeated those words with a tinge of resentment in my voice, and Gonzales didn’t fail to notice.
“Hey, just a bit of fun, sonny—no hard feelings. I like to tease people. It’s all I’ve got left. And now pour us each another glass of wine and let’s bury the hatchet, all right?”
I nodded and did as he suggested. For a while we drank in silence, then he asked out of the blue:
“Are you also interested in what happened to Geiger?”
I felt awkward because, by asking that question, he was putting me into his category of fucking jerks, but I simply couldn’t say no. I was itching to find out, just like everyone else in Budva, so I aimed for the middle of the road:
“I’d like to hear, but if you don’t want to talk about it—just forget it.”
He withdrew into himself, evidently satisfied with the company he’d found, and showing no sign that my words had registered with him, and after a while he asked me what time it was.
“Ten past four,” I replied.
“Do you need to go home? Are you late for something?”
I shook my head.
“Good—” said Gonzales, “I’ll tell you what happened to Geiger. I feel like I need to tell someone tonight, and right now you’re my best choice.” He inhaled deeply several times, as deeply as he could, like a diver filling his lungs before the plunge. Then he reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew an almost new pack of cigarettes, took one out, and began:
“Geiger was in a particularly bad mood that evening. I could tell by his voice when he rang and suggested we meet at Kaktus Café. I was tired and not sure I really felt like going out at all; I’d spent the day trying to repair the boat’s motor. But in the end I decided to go out—I needed a bit of company. Geiger was sitting out on the terrace at a table next to a big cactus and sipping his whiskey; his mobile phone lay blinking with its green cyclops eye next to his pack of cigarettes. After we’d said hello he stewed in silence; he only waved to the waiter, and when the fellow finally lumbered up to the table he ordered ‘two doubles.’ I didn’t object, although I would have preferred a beer. But, ultimately, what did it matter? It didn’t make any difference what I got blasted on that night. Several attempts to engage in conversation with Geiger simply failed. Whatever I asked, he’d reply curtly and unwillingly, and when what I was saying didn’t demand a direct answer, he didn’t listen at all.
“‘Have you seen Kefir?’ I asked.
“‘I called him shortly after talking with you. He promised he’d come later.’
“Good, we’ll wait for him, I said to myself—maybe he’ll be less grumpy and more in the mood for a chat. I’d hold out for a bit longer, I thought, and then if Kefir still hadn’t arrived I’d go home for a bit of shut-eye. I felt weariness creeping over me and was starting to feel sick of it all. Just as I was beginning to sink into gloom and despondency, Kefir turned up at the gate and yelled jovially:
“‘Whereya been, ya freaks?’
“I couldn’t think of what to say back, but Geiger obliged:
“‘Up shit creek. Whereya been yourself, ya moron?’
“The question was part of the standard repartee and didn’t require an answer, so Kefir didn’t reply; he just said hello, looked at the table to see what we were drinking and, satisfied with what he saw, signaled to the waiter to repeat the order—this time with one more glass.
“Kefir’s arrival enlivened the conversation, if you could call it that at all, since he talked incessantly, while Geiger mumbled to himself and I expended the last of my energy trying to stay awake. And I definitely would have fallen asleep if there hadn’t suddenly been an uproar: a blockhead passing by our table with a few mugs of beer and a glass of tomato juice tripped on a bump in the floor, lost his balance, and spilled the drinks all over Geiger’s shirt and pants. Geiger didn’t quite realize what had happened at first, but when he saw the red stains on his clothes he smiled and slowly began to get up from the table with an expression on his face that seemed to say: Oh, never mind, these things happen: just apologize and everything’s fine.