Our project is stuck because Elena is angry, and Max got injured. He fell on rollerblades in front of the theater. The whole promenade saw it. It reminded me of my accident during the Tour de France. He didn’t break anything, but he cut his leg because his keys were in the side pocket. An ambulance came for him, and now he has a few stitches in his leg. He was under additional stress in the emergency room. He wondered if the anesthesia would work. The last time they stitched him up, they kept increasing the anesthesia, but he still felt pain, and he got uncomfortable because of the looks. That day, we all got stitched up a little. A few years ago, Yanko was driving us, and it had just started to rain. Max was sitting in front, Ian and I in the back. We were driving down King Peter Boulevard, toward Liberation Boulevard. It seems the traffic light turned red, and the truck in front of us suddenly stopped. Yanko hit the brakes, and we felt like we were sliding on ice. Yanko lost control, like the brakes weren’t even there. We hit the truck in front of us. The car shut off, the music stopped, and we sat in shock for a few long seconds. The only sound was the fizz of soda from a juice bottle.
Max, Yanko, and I waited together in line for stitches, and Ian was fine, so he led us. We were thinking aloud about what happened and everything that could’ve happened. We concluded that much more caution was needed in traffic. Keeping a distance, driving slower, and especially avoiding driving under the influence of alcohol. We stuck to that for a little more than three weeks.
In the “stitching room,” everyone had their own problem. Max didn’t feel the anesthesia, Yanko was afraid of complications, poisoning, infections, and similar, while I had an administrative problem because I wasn’t a Yugoslav citizen anymore. We dealt with it while getting stitched.
“Do you have a health insurance card?”
“No, I’m from Banja Luka.”
“Are you studying or working here?”
“I’m studying.”
“We won’t even register that you were here, just go to the student clinic for dressing.”
“Thanks.”
A few days later, I had a similar conversation at the student health clinic.
“Please give us your student index.”
“Here you go.”
“You’re from Banja Luka. Do you have citizenship?”
“I don’t have citizenship.”
“I don’t know how to handle your record. Maybe you’ll need to pay. Let me ask if anyone knows.”
“All right. I’ll wait.”
“We don’t know what the procedure is in your case. You’ll come for dressings, and we won’t even write that you were here.”
“Thank you.”
Max was worried for no reason. This time they stitched him without anesthesia. He was relieved, but now he’s injured again. He moves slowly, can’t even sit properly. His only activity is watching documentaries. I’ve been spending a bit more time with him lately. Yesterday, we talked for four hours about video games. Max talked a lot more than me, but I didn’t mind because I don’t follow the scene nearly as much as he does. Only one thing irritated me in that conversation – Max’ mentioning of AI in games. I had told him before that it was a ridiculous term for regular complex algorithms, but he insisted that it was some kind of “intelligence.” I didn’t want to argue. I’m running out of people I can talk to.
My brother is also mad at me; I think we’re not talking. Before Elena got angry, she said it was understandable that he was mad about the CV. He expected that I could help with it, and he needs help now, but it turned out that I’m not serious. That’s what he says. I was going to send him another version, but he was already angry. I don’t know why he’s upset. Our neighbor Dane placed him there. If he says that my brother should work there, that’s how it will be. In the CV, he could write that he’s a specialist in rolling back the mileage on imported cars, and no one would make a problem about it.
Yanko called me to drink tonight, to go out in the city.
Today, I’ve been thinking about Boyana from Italian every five minutes. I’d really love to meet her somewhere. Maybe tonight in the city.
Before I left for home, Max asked me why Elena was angry. I didn’t know the exact answer, and I didn’t want to ask her.
“I don’t know, one of several reasons.”
“You don’t know exactly which one.”
“They’re all unreasonable, of course.”
“Yeah, that’s understood. And this will last three days? Maybe five?”
“Something like that.”
When I left to get ready to go out, I ran into Elena in the street. She asked about Max’ health. It was clear she felt his problem more than I did, but somewhere in her voice, I could hear something else, so I asked:
“Admit that you’re a little less sorry because he changed the interface.”
“Of course not,” she said in a tone that said, “Of course, I’m a little less sorry.”
It seemed like her anger halved in an instant. I think it had something to do with sharing the same kind of nastiness, which I guess everyone carries a little bit inside.
