Best European Fiction 2014 Read online

  But, a word of caution. We must be very careful whenever we say that we want something more of literature, more than entertainment, more than barely dressed plots, more than glorified film treatments—we have to be very careful, and attentive too. Because wherever there’s something more, there’s also the “search for meaning,” there are also those spiritual domains that the “hollow man of today” is supposedly seeking out: the lowest possible form of literary entertainment, whose flaccid phrases and transcendent surrogates are gulped down by readers hungry for meaning and which the hyper-productive publishing industry loves to shovel down their throats like so much new-age fast food. Because in “today’s materialistic world,” our hollowed-out, hungry souls want more and more and always more of that spiritual stuff in particular, which, as distinct from the modest policier, barely has anything to do with literature at all.

  Literature, at least as I see it, is a modest thing. It feels at home on the margins of history and of today’s grand visions of the fate of Europe and the world—whether it’s dealing with the so-called great historical and social themes or just with bits of a single human life. It’s at home wherever the fragile, vulnerable, finite human being is, enmeshed in misunderstandings with others, with the world, and with itself. And through this prism of multiple but individual human lives, it tells of human uncertainty, fear and courage, nobility and betrayal, joy and sorrow. Or else, certainly, it can be a lot more full of itself, offering no answers, just asking questions. Indeed, sometimes it asks in an innocent voice: Just where are the margins, anyway, and where is the center?

  DRAGO JANČAR

  [BELARUS]

  VLADIMIR KOZLOV

  Politics

  I come out of the dorm in black jeans, a leather jacket, and a white, red, and white-striped scarf around my neck. Today is the protest against Lukashenko.* I’m going alone—my roommates won’t be showing up. They’re just lying on their beds and spitting at the ceiling because they don’t have any money for vodka. Fuckers.

  In the street, I pass a bunch of dull, beat-to-shit people. They don’t have any interest in politics or anything else. All they want to do is buy some sausage, stuff their faces, and then sit all night in front of the television, watching some asinine series or other. Not that I hold it against them, though.

  The group is gathering in Yakub Kolas Square. From a distance I can see the crowd and a white, red, and white-striped flag. I recognize some guys from the International Relations department at the university, say hello. We stand around, smoke, wait, then move up with the other people. Somebody takes charge in front and we move forward again. We walk along the pavement to the opera house—that’s the designated area where we’re allowed to stage a protest. The main thoroughfare is out—the riot police are lined up along the pavement, waiting, so they can beat back anybody from our group. But the real danger, God forbid, is that they might drag one of us off the street and into a courtyard for some real police brutality.

  So there are some guys from other departments in the group, but I don’t see anybody from mine. We yell in Belarusian, “Disgrace!” “Lukashenko Belongs Behind Bars!” and “Long Live Belarus!” Passersby glare at us—we’re keeping them from going about their petty business, they have to press themselves against the walls of the apartment buildings to let us pass.

  Attendance is weak at the demonstration—a thousand at most. There are still some people coming straight over to join our group, but not very many. A group this size doesn’t generate much of a buzz. If we could get ten or fifteen thousand together, neither the riot police nor the regular cops could do a thing about it. Then we could stage a rally at the presidential administration building itself.

  We walk up to the opera house. There are hundreds of us with flags and “Long Live Belarus” signs, but there are even more cops and riot police. Where did they all come from? They never do anything for all the businesses that have to pay protection money to the mafia, but when it comes time to stifle the opposition, here they all are. And there are even more riot police on a bus over there. Sitting, waiting, playing cards, looking out the windows at us.

  The protest starts. A journalist is running along beside us—she was at our last protest, and I’ve seen her a couple times on TV screaming about democracy and free speech. She’s about thirty years old, sharply dressed.

  Two cops, a sergeant and an officer, are watching the journalist. The sergeant says in Russian:

  “Look, it’s that one again. Fucking whore. How she gets any work done between sucking cocks I’ll never know. Every time she just waits around for her chance to fuck with us. That bitch thinks we won’t touch her since she writes for some fucking rag. One time we pulled her on the bus, smacked her around. But then she made such a stink—free speech this, free press that, blah blah blah. You know, she actually almost got us in trouble that time!”

  “Is she married?”

  “How could she be married? She’s divorced. There’s not a man alive who could live with that kind of a bitch.”

  “You don’t say.”

  The journalist comes up to me.

  “Good day. Svetlana Ryabova, Minsk Courier. May I ask you a few questions?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  She takes a dictaphone out of her bag, sticks it under my nose, presses the button.

  “Introduce yourself first. What is your name, where do you study or work?”

  “Antonovich, Sergei. I’m in my third year at Belarus State University in the psychology department.”

  “So tell me, why did you come to today’s demonstration?”

  “Well, we’re here to express our dissent against the politics of the ruling regime. They’re the reason our country is so impoverished and our economy is in decline. Also the reason our state officials have managed to line their pockets so nicely.”

  “In your opinion, how effective can a street demonstration like this be in fighting the regime?”

  “Not very effective, because not many people come. If more would come, then the authorities would be afraid of us and would have to do something about it. But when it’s like this, they can send cops and riot police rather than listening to what we have to say.”

  “And what do you think about the state of political activism in today’s youth, in students? How would you describe it?”

  “Well, people aren’t much interested in politics right now. Some quick cash and a good time, that’s all that’s on the mind of the majority of today’s youth. As far as politics is concerned, it’s like they just don’t, well, don’t give a damn.”

  “So they don’t see a connection between our country’s political situation and their quality of life?”

  “They probably don’t. I don’t know.”

  “Okay, thanks.” She turns off the dictaphone and leaves. Everything I said was right, sort of. It’ll all be okay if she edits me a bit in the article. But what if the dean comes across the piece? A year ago they expelled three guys from International Relations because of a protest, so now they’re studying in Prague. They got invited over there for free. Lucky bastards. Some guys from their department told me they were still in touch with them—they’re still there, the guys said, and they get a stipend. It’s even enough for beer.

  The protest ends. The leaders of the political opposition make their way out to one side of the crowd and sit in their cars so they can speed off in case anything dangerous starts up. A bunch of the demonstrators start to head off too, except the very active ones, including us, the students. Somebody suggests we walk down the street to Independence Square, and we start walking. Some of us are kind of freaked out—we’re not allowed to walk on the street, which means that now we’re giving the cops the right to detain everybody. Or if they don’t detain us right away, they’ll wait, and then, when we disperse, they’ll pick us up one by one. But, fuck it. We keep walking anyway.

  There are about two hundred of us left. We hold hands so the cops can’t grab any one person, and then
walk down the street.

  Cops are walking behind us and on both sides of us, but they’re quiet and they haven’t laid a finger on anyone yet. This means they’re still waiting for orders. Not far from us are that same sergeant and officer. Ryabova appears from somewhere, catches up to the sergeant.

  “Good day. Svetlana Ryabova, Minsk Courier. May I ask you a few questions?”

  “Get out of here. I don’t talk to people like you.”

  “Why should I get out of here? Why can’t you talk to me? What does that even mean, ‘people like me’? Let me guess: first of all, women, second of all, journalists. Am I right? You, sir, are a complete jackass!”

  A few people in our group stop to see what will happen. Me too. We move up closer. Some others in our group come to a halt, turn their heads.

  “You better get out of here right now, or else we’ll take you back to the bus—then you’ll find out what happens when you fuck with us.”

  “You know what you are?” asks the journalist. “You’re a freak of nature. A total scumbag. And you know what? A loser like you can never get laid. Not with an actual woman, anyway.”

  The sergeant raises his fist. I run up and kick him in the balls. He doubles over, and the rest of the cops pile onto us. We’ve got nothing to defend ourselves with—no sticks, not even anything we can dismantle, like a fence or some concrete. We dash into a nearby courtyard. Riot police with clubs are already charging out of their bus—at last it’s their hour. They’ve just been sitting there, bored, and now they can wave their clubs around and break a few ribs.

  On the run I see two cops grabbing Ryabova and dragging her to the bus. She flails her arms and legs, trying to hit somebody. Tough luck. But it won’t be a big deal for her—they’ll keep her for half an hour and then let her go. But if they corner me, it’ll mean my ass: They’ll club me in the gut and give me five days for “participation in an unsanctioned protest” and “defying authority.” I run through an archway. A courtyard with cars, garages. Behind me are a few more from our group, and behind them the riot police. I hide behind a garage. I’m all alone and helpless in here, and I feel like I’m going to shit myself from fear. In fact, there are already two piles of dried up shit on the ground behind the garage. I pick a place where I won’t step in them and pull down my pants. It would, of course, be hilarious if the riot police took a look behind the garage and caught me in such a state. I hear a noise, some screams, from around the wall. Somebody’s getting nailed. Steam rises up from my pile of shit. I take a piece of paper out of my pocket. It says, “We belong in Europe’s class, Lukashenko can kiss my ass!” I got it from Sakovich, who’s a fifth-year. We’d scattered them all around in the auditorium. Good thing I have about ten sheets left. I wipe my ass with the piece of paper, pull up my pants, and quietly peek out from behind the garage. Two riot police are taking down a bald guy in glasses with a leather bag on his shoulder, clubbing him in the gut. The guy screams bloody murder. The bag slides slowly off his shoulder and onto the ground. The riot police drag the man away.

  There’s nobody else in the courtyard. I wait around for about five more minutes and then come out from behind the garage. It’s getting dark. I go over to the bag, look down. There are two bottles of vodka in there. That’s all. No documents or papers, nothing. Maybe I should gather them up and take them to the guys in my dorm.

  I guess this means we won! Lukashenko can kiss my ass!

  TRANSLATED FROM RUSSIAN BY ANDREA GREGOVICH

  * * *

  * Translator’s Note: Anti-Lukashenko protest rallies like the one in this story were frequent in Belarus between 1995 and 1998, but violent arrests and university expulsions effectively suppressed the popularity of the opposition movement. Still president of Belarus, Lukashenko is often referred to in the West as “Europe’s last dictator.” He is notorious for rigging elections and suppressing opposition with brutal force and political maneuvering. However, he enjoys immense popularity with a less educated portion of the Belarusian population, who believe he brought “stability” to the country. This story was inspired by opposition rallies in Minsk in the late nineties that Kozlov covered as the editor of Belarus’s only English-language newspaper. He told me that, as independent media, he had to be careful to avoid arrest at the rallies, since any non-state media was considered part of the opposition. While the story is set in the mid-nineties, there was a surge in similar protest activity in the wake of the December 2010 presidential election, in which Lukashenko was reelected. However, the authorities’ brutal crackdown on the protesters once again suppressed the scale of the street protests.

  [BELGIUM: FRENCH]

  THIERRY HORGUELIN

  The Man in the Yellow Parka

  Only after a few episodes did I notice him. He was trying to force the door to a rundown house at the corner of a derelict street. He was too far away to pick out his features, but his yellow parka made a blot on the background. In the foreground, Marion and Detective Burns were discussing their current case, without paying him the slightest mind. Vapor escaped their mouths. Winters are cold in Cleveland.

  I forget the plots of movies quickly, but I have a good memory for visual details. Don’t ask me to summarize Intimidation or Out of the Night. But I do know that in the former there’s a bridging shot in which Clive Owen passes a pretty brunette with short hair who pauses for a moment in the background to scratch her shoulder, a charmingly offhand gesture (I’d bet my shirt the director picked that take for the kernel of truth in it), and that in Out of the Night, on the wall of the seedy diner where the fugitive criminal couple hides out at dawn, there’s a Hopperesque chromo that seems to echo the lovers’ loneliness. To cut to the chase, I was sure I’d seen the man in the parka in an earlier episode of Simple Cops.

  I’d come across the series by accident during one of my nights of insomnia. My prescriptions at the time left me muddled all day and then overstimulated till the wee hours. Then, too tired to read but too wound up to sleep, I’d collapse in front of the small screen and let myself drift into its Bermuda Triangle, the watery grave of shipwrecked shows that have been exiled to the hours after midnight. Nodding off before a nature documentary, I’d doze my way through an Australian soap from the ’80s only to wake up in the middle of the nth rerun of Derrick or Cash in the Attic. This image salad would extend into drafts of dreams, and I’d wind up asleep on the sofa, surfacing only at dawn with heavy head and aching back, while onscreen a dapper weatherwoman would be announcing a day of rain ahead with a radiant smile.

  So, one night, the voice of Detective Burns roused me from half-slumber. He was clearly not happy. I opened one eye, my radar on alert. Cops. A local precinct. We were in the chief’s glass-walled office. The blinds were drawn against prying eyes. It was one of those classic scenes where the experienced “I know the streets” detective gets chewed out by his “rules are rules” superior. With a parting shot, the detective opens the door and makes to leave. Ten to one the chief will call him back for a final retort. “Burns?” Bingo. Burns—that’s his name—turns and raises an eyebrow. The chief softens up and hints he’ll cover for him, but tells Burns to be careful. Fade to black. Next comes a sequence set in the city where two officers, alerted by the neighbors, find the body of an old lady in her easy chair, already dead for a few days. Wide-awake now, I followed the episode with some interest. It wasn’t that bad. Totally watchable, even. A nice change of pace.

  A TV weekly I bought the day after informed me of the title of this particular program, and I was surprised to find myself eagerly awaiting the next episode—Tuesday at 2:30 a.m.—as if the burly Burns and his colleagues were beckoning me from the other side of the screen. I was lonely and depressed; it had gotten to the point where I would kill time checking off the name of every film I’d ever seen in my copy of Maltin’s Movie Guide. I was looking for a diversion, a buoy to cling to, anything at all. So Simple Cops seemed to fit the bill nicely.

  Off the top of my head, I’d have said the s
eries was from the beginning of the ’80s. It was a sort of poor man’s Hill Street Blues or NYPD Blue, a respectable if standard police serial, neither brilliant nor embarrassing. I suspected its creators of having launched it to capitalize on the success of Steven Bochco’s work, which had just renovated the genre from top to bottom. Simple Cops (yeesh, what a terrible title) purported to be a chronicle of everyday life at a particular precinct. The cast consisted of a dozen policemen who formed a representative sampling of the so-called American melting pot. Their work was always interfering with their private lives, and their personal problems—one’s alcoholism, another’s marital woes—were the subject of many a subplot. Each episode took place over the course of a day and depicted two, sometimes three parallel investigations that often turned out to be related along the way. Few spectacular crimes; the series tried for realism and offered up a mosaic of prosaic urban violence, all the while highlighting police routine and internal conflicts among the precinct cops, in their hierarchy, between their team and the various attorneys that became involved. Never wildly original, the writers still demonstrated a certain savvy, albeit within the limits of some pretty worn-out dramatic situations. This soothing feeling of déjà-vu was not unpleasant in and of itself; after a few episodes, as is often the case, I wound up growing fond of the characters, or more precisely, the appealing efforts of the actors—all those dependable workhorses of TV who’d lacked the dash of charisma that launches a larger career—to make their roles believable.

  The only truly original aspect of the series lay in its setting. It took place not in New York or San Francisco, nor Miami or Los Angeles, but in a town rarely featured onscreen. Cleveland, as viewers came to know it, was a strange, ghostly city, all endless thoroughfares and vast, oddly deserted plazas. The parks, the headlands, the abandoned neighborhoods, the harbor on Lake Erie, well mined by excellent location scouts, offered a wide variety of settings on which the clearly low production values conferred an almost documentary feel. At heart, the city was the series’ main character. And as in many cop shows, exploring it over the course of investigations that involved every level of society was as a pretext for an x-ray of American social ills: community tensions, deindustrialization, widespread unemployment, and massive poverty—the term “The Poorest City in America” recurred in the dialogue like a leitmotif, sometimes tinged with resignation, and other times with deliberate self-deprecation, like a joke between locals on the corner.