Camilla’s mother remarked that cousin Susanne was also going out with a foreigner. Dragan at once referred to a song by Leonard Cohen about a Suzanne, who ‘takes you down to her place near the river’. In Cohen’s music and lyrics, Dragan had discovered the dark depths he loved in art. He quoted from that song and then from other songs, analysing the music and the tempos and how they related to the words. Camilla smiled at him to show her support. He was trying so hard to demonstrate to his prospective in-laws what a cultured man he was. In Denmark, his education was his one claim to respectability, but Camilla knew only too well that everything he said went right over her parents’ heads. Still, they were trying to make this work, laughing, asking questions.
When Camilla leaned forward and reached across the table for the spiced herring, her mother froze. Something had caught her eye. Camilla knew what it was.
Her mother’s chair shot backwards and fell over as she jumped up and ran out of the dining room. Camilla hurried after her, pulling at her blouse to cover the oblong blue bruise that crept up to her collarbone.
Standing in the kitchen, Camilla’s mother, who also was a little too plump, was short of breath. Camilla stopped a few metres away from her. She wanted to say, ‘Why do you have to be like this, every time?’ or, ‘Why do you always think the worst of every single man in my life?’ But she couldn’t make herself.
Camilla’s mother was in tears. ‘Please, forgive me. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have run out like that.’
‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t matter,’ Camilla murmured involuntarily.
Her mother hugged her. ‘Oh, Camilla, thank you. We really try, you know. We mean so well … but you have no idea how hard it was for Dad and me when you were with Morten.’
‘But you didn’t know what he was like at the time.’ Camilla backed out of the hug.
Her mother let go. ‘We did notice, you know. We realised what was going on. And we’re so worried that someone would start abusing you again.’
Camilla was furious with her mother and she too was crying. Two months earlier, Camilla would never have dared say anything back. But Dragan had given her the confidence to speak out. ‘You don’t like him. You don’t want me to be happy!’
‘Of course we do! We only want what’s best for you!’
Camilla’s knees gave way and she sat down on the small kitchen bench with its hard, red cushions. It was where she had sat with her glass of juice and marmalade sandwiches every day after school, trying to pull herself together after yet another day of torment.
Her mother watched Camilla as she sat in silence. ‘We are pleased that you care about Dragan. I’m sure he’s good to you. I didn’t mean … It’s very bad of me.’
‘Yes.’
Again her mother tried to reach out to Camilla. ‘It’s just that … well, there have been times when we talked on the phone and when you came to see us here over the last few months and you didn’t seem … Are you happy?’
Camilla met her mother’s eyes. ‘Yes, Mum. I am.’
‘Does he make you happy?’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘And you really care about him?’
‘Yes. I really do!’
‘But then all’s well! I’m happy too. When you’re happy and if you really care for him … then everything is fine.’
46
That evening Dragan went off on his own to see some of his friends. After he had left, Camilla phoned her friend Anja to say that she’d like to drop by. Anja was a nurse. She and Camilla had once lived in the same building, but later Anja had moved to a bungalow with her husband.
Seated in Anja and Finn’s bright, tidy sitting room Camilla told Anja about the awful lunch at her parents’ place. She wanted Anja to understand how unbearable her mother was. Anja agreed, but the expression on her face seemed less sure.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I’m just thinking about what your mother is like.’
‘No, there’s something else.’
‘No, that’s all.’
It seemed that everybody could spot something in her relationship with Dragan that Camilla couldn’t see.
‘Anja, you’re my best friend. If anything is bothering you about Dragan and me, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’
‘I just think it’s great that you’ve met a nice guy. And that you’re crazy about him and he’s crazy about you.’
It didn’t matter. Camilla knew that if she hadn’t approved of Finn, she’d never have let on to Anja. While they chatted, Camilla wondered if she had made a big mistake thinking that Dragan was the right man for her. She felt that he had helped her to become braver. Why couldn’t other people see this? Or could it be, she thought, that this is exactly what they don’t like? Maybe the people around me would prefer me to remain withdrawn and insecure?
Finn came to join them, dressed in torn jeans and a purple sweatshirt. He was a slightly built man, already balding. They smiled at each other. Finn was always kind to Anja’s friends. He sat down on the sofa next to Anja with one foot curled up under him.
Camilla watched them. He was the sort of man her mother would like to see her marry. Anja and Finn were so close that they seemed like two sides of the same person. Talking to them, Camilla wondered if they had a good sex life. They could have had Sunday lunch with her parents week in and week out.
Anja was telling her about the camper van they were saving up for and Camilla kept thinking, Would I be happy with a man like Finn? My life might well be easier. Still, the sex would never be as great. You could never be sure, of course.
When Goran’s friends got together to watch videos in his flat, he always disconnected the aerial from the television. No one wanted to risk catching a glimpse of the news, not even during the brief moment before the video began. The news programmes were full of reports from Yugoslavia, and they upset everyone far too much. They would rage against the journalists’ lies and become aggressive, Dragan in particular.
Dragan watched a lot of television at home and showed more sympathy for the Serbs and their cause than he did when he was with his Muslim friends. Sitting in front of Camilla’s set, he watched the news on TV1 and TV2, as well as the news and current-affairs programmes on the BBC and CNN. He listened to the radio too, even though it often made his blood boil. He’d run around the flat roaring, hitting out, or kicking things.
At times his arguments were very convincing. Camilla believed that he had knowledge and experience well beyond what the journalists could draw on.
‘Journalists know nothing about history! Idiots! They think this is a new war! But we’ve been at war for five hundred fucking years! They’ve got no perspective!’
Camilla learned that she wasn’t meant to answer when he was in this mood. She stayed in the bedroom or went out. If she hid in the toilet, he would stand outside the door and carry on shouting.
‘In your history books about the Second World War, do they write about the Croats forcing us into our churches and setting them on fire? Do they? Why not talk about that on TV? Do we burn them alive? Camilla? Camilla, answer me! Do we burn them alive? No! We’re moving them to protect ourselves! We’re allowed to try to survive, aren’t we?’
Camilla stayed very still, hoping that he wouldn’t break the door down.
He would turn the volume up so the television reports could be heard all over the small flat.
‘But NATO attacks us all the same, Camilla! They’re bombing my country! They’re bombing my home town! What do they want us to do? — commit mass suicide? Do they want us to kill ourselves? Or just let Croats and Muslims kill us instead? Would that please NATO?’