I started hanging out with Günter, with whom I went out for beer almost every evening after the course. Usually, he’d slip me a note that said something like: "I’ve had a rough day. Will you go to the Bermudadreieck with me?" Instead of writing "dreieck" (triangle), he’d draw a triangle. Oh, how I waited for those little notes—without them, I’d have been so bored. They reminded me of the notes we used to pass in school during class, the ones that said: "Dajana, I love you." Of course, it never said who wrote it. I didn’t dare turn around in class because I was embarrassed. My head buzzed: Who? Who? Who? It "ruined" fourteen days for me, as I spent entire nights wondering if it was Davorin or someone else… I never found out who wrote it.

But let’s go back to the beginning of 1991. The Bermuda Dreieck is part of Vienna’s first district, named after the Bermuda Triangle because, supposedly, people "disappear" there. Probably because they’re drunk... And it’s also one of the few parts of Vienna I actually like. It’s right in the heart of the city, with streets full of Beisln (Austrian pubs), something like what we had in old Ljubljana, except there are three times as many, and the streets crisscross in such a way that when you’re a little "round" (tipsy) and not from around there, it feels like a labyrinth—easy to get lost in. Even if you’re not "round" at all. Ah, how I adore Viennese pubs. They smell of beer and cigarettes. They have that old café tradition, beautifully decorated in Art Nouveau style, still carrying the spirit of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, Klimt, and all those artists from a hundred years ago… Or they’re completely run-down. There are a million of them, and I even worked in some…

Of course, I was immediately up for it. We drove off in his car—typical for people living in Vienna. At least ten years old, dented, full of cigarette butts and ash (I can hardly remember anyone in Vienna who didn’t smoke), with crumpled papers and receipts on the passenger seat. This was the kind of car that never went to a car wash (waste of money—well, maybe for a wedding, or you’d just borrow one then), just sat outside on the street waiting for rain.

So off we went, hoping to find a parking spot nearby… and we did. We sat in that Beisl in the evening, surrounded by young people drinking beer or eating pre-made sandwiches and pancakes, the whole place loud and lively. The atmosphere was just right for a pub. We drank beer and ate. In between, we talked about music. Because it was so loud, we had to repeat things.

"What do you like to listen to?"
"Huh?"
"WHAT DO YOU LIKE TO LISTEN TO?!"
"Laurie Anderson. I saw her concert in Ljubljana recently. I like… strong women. Artists who have something to say, women I can identify with."

We talked, almost shouting to hear each other, drank beer, and got increasingly "round." I started feeling strange around him—typical for me when I start developing feelings for someone. I was afraid he’d start "pushing it." I was a little infatuated with him, but I would never have dated him, let alone slept with him. God, I remember how Ingrid talked about him, how she was in love with him, and suddenly, so was I. Stupid girl, why did I have to go through this? It didn’t mean I "had anything" with him.

So… I started acting the way I usually do. I liked him. But he wasn’t allowed to go too far. I was drawn to his confidence and stability—qualities I didn’t have much of myself. Funny how men just don’t get that some women only want friendship. I could’ve been a man, and we could’ve had a great time—if only he hadn’t "remembered" I was a woman and tried to "cop a feel." I didn’t want anything with him, didn’t want to start anything, because I knew we weren’t right for each other and nothing long-term would come of it. So why "start" anything at all? But why not go for a beer if we had fun together… Why couldn’t we just enjoy ourselves without "trying" anything? God, men! Yeah, it’s great when we’re together, but they always have to push it and ruin everything. Awful, these men…

The more he pushed, the more he repelled me. The more he ignored me, the unhappier I became. I should’ve ended this game long ago… But there I was, with him in the pub. In the end, he had to drive me "home," to Tonko’s.

"I know you like me, you’re just afraid to admit it. Your eyes… You draw people in with them," he said, finishing his beer.
"I do like you. But I’m not in love with you. I just enjoy being with you," I replied, a little nervously.
"You have such devilish eyes. You’re half angel, half devil!" he said, his voice rising slightly.
"Is that good or bad?" I asked.
"I love you," he said.

Well, there we were! Now what? In an instant, I was in a different movie. I hated him. I didn’t know what to… My head was spinning, but not from alcohol—probably from all these stories and people wanting something from me.

We drove back along the Wienfluss (Vienna River). More like a canal running through the city. I don’t remember what he was saying. Actually, he wasn’t saying anything. He was completely silent, lips pressed together. Driving recklessly. It was around midnight or later. I noticed the U-Bahn (Underground) running alongside the river had stopped.

"Sometimes you look at me with such malice it shakes me," he said.
"Yeah. I know. Sorry," I sighed.

A moment later, I blurted out: "Can you stop the car?"
Günter quickly pulled over.
I got out.

I don’t even know why I said it. I can’t believe he actually stopped and that I’m really stepping out. I slammed the car door so hard it made a loud bang.
"Fuck you, idiot!" I said—not too loud, just in case he didn’t hear… He doesn’t understand the language anyway, but still… maybe he’d get it on a thetan level (soul, in Scientology terms).

The tires screeched… and… he was gone!

I stood there, watching.
I couldn’t believe I’d actually done that. I started feeling sorry for myself. Oh no, not that. First, I checked where I was, got my bearings. My bag with money and a map was still in the car. I relied on my gut feeling that nothing bad would happen. I walked along the U-Bahn tracks—I had to get to the 12th district, where Tonko lived. I walked and walked. Vienna isn’t Ljubljana, where you can cross the whole city in half an hour. Vienna has 2 million people (including suburbs), as many as all of Slovenia. I’d been walking for about half an hour, no one on the streets, just the occasional car.

Suddenly, at the end of the road, in the middle of an intersection, I saw a figure. My blood froze. "Okay, no panic," I told myself.

I reached him. He approached and said: "Hello." From his looks and accent, I guessed he was Turkish.
"Hello," I replied. I knew communication was key in these situations.
*"I missed the last U-Bahn and I’m walking home. Do you know the way to the 12th district?"* I asked where he was from, confirming my guess—Turkey.

He spoke broken German, staring straight into my eyes. I remembered how kind people in Turkey had been when I’d stayed there a few years ago, so I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.

But I felt… awful.

I had 50 schillings in my pocket—enough for a taxi. I asked if he’d walk me to a taxi stand. He agreed. Along the way, he mentioned he lived nearby, had a bed, and that I could stay with him. When we reached the taxi, I sighed in relief. "He’s just lonely and unhappy," I thought, "like me." I watched him until he disappeared from sight.

I tiptoed into the apartment. I heard Tonko turn in bed and mumble. Just like back home, when I tried to sneak in "invisibly" in the middle of the night.

(db, written in Ljubljana, 1994)<\/p>

translated by DeepSeek<\/em><\/p>

BERMUDA DREIECK
Začela sem se družiti z Günterjem, s katerim sva po tečaju skoraj vsak večer hodila ven na pivo. Ponavadi sem od njega dobila listek, kjer je pisalo nekaj kot: “Ich habe einen schweren Tag hinten mir. Gehs du in Bermudadreieck mit?”
Namesto besede "dreieck" je narisal trikotnik. Oh, kako sem čakala na te papirčke – brez teh listkov bi mi bilo tako dolgčas, to me je spominjalo na listke, ki smo si jih dajali v šoli med poukom, kjer je pisalo: “Dajana, ljubim te.” Seveda, ni pisalo, kdo je to napisal. V razredu si nisem upala obrniti, ker mi je bilo nerodno. Po glavi mi je brnelo: kdo? kdo? kdo? To mi je “uničilo” štirinajst dni, saj sem cele noči razmišljala, če je bil to Davorin ali kdo drug… Nikoli nisem izvedela, kdo je to napisal.
No, ampak povrnimo se v začetek leta 1991. Bermuda Dreieck je del prvega becirka na Dunaju, ki se imenuje po Bermudskem trikotniku zato, ker baje ljudje tam “izginjajo”. Ker so pod gasom, najbrž… In to je tudi eden izmed redkih delov Dunaja, ki mi je všeč. Gre za del Dunaja v samem osrčju mesta, kjer so ulice polne pajzlov (nemško Beisl), nekaj takega, kar je pri nas v stari Ljubljani, samo, da je tega trikrat toliko in da so ulice počez in povprek in ko si malo "okrogel" in nisi ravno od tam, je podobno labirintu in zelo enostavno se je tam izgubiti. Tudi če nisi čisto nič “okrogel”. Ah, obožujem dunajske pajzle. Smrdijo po pivu in po cigaretah. Imajo tradicijo kavarništva, so lepo secesijsko opremljeni, kjer je čutiti še duh k.und k. monarhije, Klimta in vseh teh umetnikov izpred sto let… Ali pa so čisto klošarski. Itak je milijon pajzlov in v nekaterih sem celo delala…
Jasno, da sem bila takoj za to. Odpeljala sva se z njegovim avtom, tipičnim za ljudi, ki živijo na Dunaju. Star vsaj deset let, zgonjen, poln cigaretnih ogorkov in pepela (skorajda se ne spomnim na človeka na Dunaju, ki ne bi kadil), nametani papirčke in papirje na prvem sedežu. To je avto, ki se ga nikoli ne pelje v pralnico (škoda denarja – no, mogoče za poroko, ali pa si ga takrat izposodi), temveč stoji zunaj na ulici in čaka na dež.
No in se odpeljeva in si vmes želiva, da bova v bližini dobila parkplac in… ga dobiva. No in sediva tam v tistem pajzlu, bilo je zvečer in okoli naju je bilo veliko mladih ljudi, ki so pili pivo ali jedli pripravljene sendviče in palačinke in sploh je bila situacija zelo glasna. Atmosfera je bila prav prijetna, tako kot se za pajzl spodobi. Pijeva pivo in jeva. Vmes se pogovarjava o glasbi. Ker je glasno, morava kakšno stvar dvakrat reči. “Kaj rada poslušaš?” “A?” “Kaj rada poslušaš!!!” “Laurie Anderson. Bila sem pred kratkim na njenem koncertu v Ljubljani. Všeč so mi take… močne ženske. Umetnice, ki imajo kaj povedati in s katerimi se lahko poistovetim.”
Pogovarjala sva se in skoraj kričala, da sva se sploh slišala, pila pivo in postajala vse bolj "okrogla". Začutila sem, da postajam vedno bolj čudna do njega, kar je tipično zame, ko v nekom začnem prebujati čustva. Strah me je bilo, da bo začel “težit”. Bila sem nekoliko zaljubljena vanj, ampak niti slučajno ne bi hodila z njim, kaj šele z njim spala. Joj, spominjam se, kako je Ingrid govorila o njem, kako je vanj zaljubljena in že sem bila zaljubljena tudi jaz. Baba butasta, kaj mi je tega treba bilo. Kar sploh ni pomenilo, da bi karkoli “imela z njim”.
Torej… sem se začela obnašati tipično zame. Bil mi je všeč. A ni smel iti predaleč. Pri njem sem iskala samozavest in stabilnost – lastnosti, ki ju jaz nisem imela preveč. Zanimivo, kako moški sploh ne morejo kapirati, da hočejo nekatere ženske z njimi samo prijateljstvo. Prav lahko bi bila moškega spola in prav lahko bi se z njim imela fino, če se ne bi “spomnil”, da sem jaz ženskega spola in bi “malo potipal”. Z njim sploh nisem hotela nič imeti in nič začeti, saj sem vedela, da nisva za skupaj in da ne bi bilo nič dolgotrajnega. Zakaj potem sploh kaj “začeti”? Ampak zakaj ne bi šla z njim na pivo, če nama je fino, ko sva skupaj… Zakaj se ne bi imela samo fino, ne da bi karkoli "probal"? Joj, desci no! Ja, prav fino je, ko sva skupaj, a vseeno vsi začnejo težiti in vse pokvarijo. Groza, ti moški…
Bolj, ko je rinil vame, bolj me je odbijal, bolj ko me je ignoriral, bolj sem bila nesrečna. Morala bi to igro že zdavnaj končati… Pa sem bila tam, z njim v pajzlu. No, na koncu me je moral peljati še “domov”, k Tonku.
“Vem, da sem ti všeč, samo tega upaš priznati. Tvoje oči… Z očmi privlačiš druge”, je rekel in spil pivo do konca.
“Všeč si mi. Ampak nisem zaljubljena vate, rada sem pač s tabo, ker mi je fino”, sem že malo živčno odgovorila.
“Imaš tako vražje oči. Ti si napol angel in napol hudič!”, je rekel z malo dvignjenim glasom.
“A je to dobro ali slabo?”, vprašam.
“Ljubim te”, reče.
No, zdaj smo pa tam! Kaj pa zdaj? V trenutku sem že v drugem filmu. Sovražim ga. Ne vem, kaj naj… V glavi mi šumi, ampak ne od popitega alkohola, najbrž od vseh teh zgodb in ljudi, ki bi radi nekaj od mene.
Peljeva se nazaj ob Dunajčici (Wienfluss). Ob rečici - bolje kanalu sredi mesta. Ne vem več, kaj mi govori. Sploh ne govori. On je čisto tiho in drži usta skupaj. Vozi divje. Ura je okoli pol dvanajstih ali še več. Opazim, da U-bahn, ki je speljan ob rečici, ne vozi več.
“Včasih me pogledaš s tako zlobo, da me kar strese”, mi reče. “Ja. Vem. Oprosti”, izdahnem.
Čez nekaj trenutkov pa rečem hlastno: “A lahko ustaviš avto?” Günter na hitrico ustavi avto.
Izstopim.
Še sama ne vem, zakaj sem to rekla. Ne morem dojeti, da je res ustavil in da res grem ven iz avta. Zaloputnem vrata od avta s tako ihto, da glasno udarijo. Rečem: “Jebi se, budalo!”, ampak ne preveč na glas – za vsak slučaj, da ne bi slišal... Saj ne razume jezika, pa vseeno... mogoče bo razumel na nivoju thetana (duša po scientološko).
Gume zacvilijo… in… že ga ni več!
Stojim tam in gledam.
Ne morem verjeti, da sem res to naredila. Čutim, kako se začenjam smiliti sama sebi. O, to pa ne. Najprej pogledam, kje sem, se orientiram. Torba z denarjem in z zemljevidom je ostala v avtu. Zanašam se na svoj čut, da se mi ne more nič zgoditi. Hodim poleg trase U-bahna, moram priti v dvanajsti becirk, kjer stanuje Tonko. Hodim in hodim. Dunaj ni Ljubljana, ki jo od enega konca do drugega prehodiš v pol ure. Dunaj ima 2 milijona prebivalcev (skupaj s predmestji), toliko kot cela Slovenija. In tako hodim že kakšne pol ure, nikjer žive duše na cesti, samo kakšni avtomobili sem in tja.
Kar naenkrat zagledam na koncu ceste sredi križišča postavo. Zastane mi kri od strahu. Rečem si: “OK, samo nobene panike”.
Pridem do njega. Približa se mi in reče: “Halo.” Po izgledu in izgovoru se mi zdi, da je Turek. Rečem: “Halo.” Vem, da je v takih situacijah potrebno vzpostaviti komunikacijo.
Nadaljujem: “Zamudila sem zadnji U-bahn in grem peš domov. A mogoče veste, kje se gre proti 12. becirku?”. Vprašala sem ga, od kje prihaja in potrdila se mi je ideja, da je iz Turčije.
Govori slabo nemško, stalno me gleda naravnost v oči. Pomislila sem na to, kako so bili v Turčiji, kjer sem bila pred nekaj leti nekaj mesecev prijazni z mano, torej sem vedela, da mi ne bo nič naredil.
A počutim se … grozno.
V žepu sem imela še 50 šilingov in sem vedela, da bo dovolj za taksi. Prosila sem ga, če gre lahko z mano do taksi placa. Šel je. Vmes je razlagal, da živi v bližini in da ima posteljo in da grem lahko k njemu. Ko sva prišla do taksija, sem si oddahnila. Pravzaprav je nesrečen in osamljen, sem si mislila, tako kot jaz. Gledala sem za njim, dokler mi ni izginil izpred oči.
V stanovanje sem stopila po prstih. Zaslišala sem, da se je Tonko obrnil v postelji in zagodrnjal. Pomislila sem, ravno tako, kot pri nas doma, ko sem sredi noči hotela “nevidno” vstopiti v stanovanje.
(db, napisano v Ljubljani, 1994)<\/p>

ZGODBE O CEPLJENIH

Več od dajana.babic

AGE IS NOT IN YOUR DNA

OUR PATH

THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE

Komentarji (0)