London Calling

On Friday, we went out to the London Club. I was wearing a construction company hat on my head. We found a spot near a replica of a red London phone booth. I told Milica the hat would look better on her.

“Don’t be mad, I knew your brother would get the job. When you offered the bet, it all fell perfectly into place. He’ll get his salary from the university and work from there, but technically, he’ll be working for some association Uncle Dane founded—some kind of environmental organization. Uncle Dane has become a nature protector.”

“Uncle Dane, our neighbor? The war profiteer?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Wonderful. He’ll owe a favor to such a man.”

“Oh, and that job you got at the Ministry? Uncle Dane arranged that too. They just didn’t tell you. They needed someone to send to Volos who could handle the new program. The guy who was supposed to do it went on sick leave until the project is over. Uncle Dane’s his cousin. Everything lined up, and they called you.”

“Great!”

“It is great. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have met Aliki. Why are you so distrustful of your brother? He seems perfectly fine.”

“You’ve never talked to him for more than five minutes. Where should I start? Remember that video of Uncle’s high school graduation, when they sang Gaudeamus igitur? When the song started, everyone stood up, and my brother asked why they were singing our anthem in Spanish. You could trust him to sit in front of a building all day, waiting for the sun to move so he could repark the car in the shade—that is his idea of a productive day. If he were in the Ustashe, the U on his cap would be in Cyrillic.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

I realized I was a little bored talking about my brother and Uncle Dane. Luckily, Milica switched to discussing Flow People.

“That book is impressive. I searched online, but there’s almost nothing about it.”

“In psychology, they use the term ‘flow,’ and it somewhat aligns with the description of the flow people in the book.”

“Yes, I found that, but the book was written several years before psychologists started using the term. So, it’s not the same thing—it’s another kind of flow.”

“There are so few copies of it. It could easily have never reached us. It could have never been published. How many such books remain unpublished or unpreserved?”

“The author is Italian, as we guessed from the name. That culture has contributed so much.”

“True.”

“Right now, you’re thinking of pizza, aren’t you?”

“I am. It was one of the first images that popped into my mind.”

Milica laughed.

“Do you know anyone who’s a flow person?”

“I’ve been thinking… maybe, in some ways, Mrkvoni?”

“Who?”

“Marko.”

“What did you call him? Markoni?”

“Mrkvoni. Others call him Markoni.”

“Maybe he is, or maybe he’s just a carrot.”¹

Milica didn’t hold Marko in high regard. I think I knew why.

“You say that because he dropped out of university, but that’s no measure of anything.”

“It’s a measure of whether you can finish it.”

“If you start something, you don’t have to finish it. If you think you must, then you’re an achiever. That’s what we call it in video games.”

“Oh, are you in video games? Have you even started? Of course, you won’t finish. Actually, you will—because Elena’s working with you.”

“Yes. She’s an achiever, like you. And we’re starting soon, as soon as Maxim returns.”

“See? If Elena hadn’t invited you to study together, you wouldn’t be in your fourth year now. Your entire football group hasn’t finished university yet. I met Marko before he dropped out—he was on his way to football. I heard who else plays there. I told him their matches were the eternal derby. Do you think he understood?”

“He did. If you’re implying they’re eternal students…”

“Yes. Your uncle and all his followers.”

“Wait. My uncle is flow. The real deal.”

“And why’s that?”

The debate about achievers and eternal students lasted at least half an hour. Marko remained a point of disagreement: to me, he was a man with brilliant ideas; to Milica, a failed student.

“I don’t get it, James. For what Marko’s going to do, how does a degree help him? Nobody’s going to ask about his grades.”

“You know what he’s going to do… And you haven’t called me that in a while. How did that nickname come about?”

“When I call you, I say, ‘Hello, James,’ and I instantly get into flow. Though back then, I didn’t even know what that was.”

We finally changed the topic. Milica asked me to photograph her inside the phone booth—from ten different angles. She scrolled through the photos, then stumbled upon some earlier ones.

“What are these weird pictures?”

“Oh, that. That’s art, James. There’ll be a short text overlay, just a few words. New forms.”

“Is that what you’re working on?”

“No. That is Petar’s work. He borrowed the camera because it has some effects he finds interesting. Put it back in the bag, please.”

I gave her a few examples of those texts. Milica didn’t like Petar’s concept. It reminded her of demotivational posters, as it did for Maxim and Elena. We all lent him equipment or helped him set up a website for his work. No one commented outright, but I could tell everyone felt a little sorry that he was spending so much time on it, especially as we were gearing up for something with real potential.

I began sharing ideas for the game when someone bumped into me. I turned around, and there she was—“Li Girl.”

That was the nickname I’d given her in my head (guessing she lives here in Liman, that is where the “Li” came from), though no one else knew about it. I hadn’t even told Milica.

Li Girl ran at the Index Stadium at least three times a week. She always came at the same time, about an hour or so before dusk—same time as me. We often crossed paths while running. It was sometimes awkward, constantly being so close yet never saying hello. I usually felt a little embarrassed overtaking someone, as if to say, “Look how much faster I run, nya-nya-nya.” So, last time, when I passed her, I made a Road Runner-like “meep-meep” sound to break the awkwardness.

Now, I stood there frozen for a second, unsure if she’d recognize me. I lifted the hat from my head so she could see me better and said, “Meep-meep.”

She laughed, hugged me, and kissed my cheek. Milica immediately invited her to join us.

Her name was Xenia. I guessed she was twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She was Milica’s certified. I’d already liked her at the stadium, but now, seeing her up close—hair down, makeup on—she seemed even more captivating.

After we introduced ourselves, Milica brought up how my uncle had invited her to an event about river preservation, where Uncle Dane spoke. Recently elected president of an environmental association, he began his speech by admitting that even he sometimes accidentally dumped a trailer of garbage into the Vrbanja River. He then encouraged everyone not to do the same.

“Wait. Dumping a trailer of trash is practically a full-day project. How does he accidentally do that?” Xenia wondered aloud.

She guessed that he probably prepared the trash, planned to drive it somewhere, and then, while passing the river, thought, Why not dump it here? In a moment of absentmindedness, he emptied the load into the water.

Uncle Dane reminded me of my minister and everything that happened in Greece late that summer. I started telling Xenia the story, but midway through, Milica excused herself, signaling she was heading home. She clearly wanted to leave me alone with Xenia.

Xenia laughed uncontrollably, as everyone did when they heard that story.

She suggested we run together sometime. I gave her my number, and she saved me as “London Calling.” While writing her number down, I thought about suggesting we go to Maxim’s place, guessing Milica had returned to my apartment. Xenia seemed… uninhibited, like her brakes don’t work properly. But then came the usual second-guessing—the voice that always finds reasons not to act. That kind of thinking had cost me so much in life already. I resolved to just do something. I analyzed too much in my head, so I couldn’t remember her number and I asked her to repeat two times.

“Do you even know numbers, David?” she teased, grabbing the hat and putting it on her head. Then she kissed me. Maybe a whole minute passed. We couldn’t stay here anymore.

“My friend isn’t home, and he left me the keys to water his plants… I mean, his flowers…”

It was five in the morning when she went to freshen up in the bathroom. I suggested she sleep over instead of heading home exhausted, but she decided to leave.

Lying there, I reflected on the strange course of the evening. I had always imagined I’d strike up a conversation with Xenia someday—maybe during a run at the stadium. I certainly hadn’t expected it to happen like this.

I didn’t want her to think I judged her for being so spontaneous with me. It seemed unnecessary to say so explicitly—it was implied, right? Still, I felt like doing something meaningful to mark the moment, to make her feel special for being there with me. Maybe I could write her a short song.

She’d only just turned on the shower. Ten minutes, I thought. That’s enough time to put something together.

I grabbed Max’s guitar, sticking to C, G, Am, F in a slow rhythm—something simple for now.

I had three whole verses before she came out of the bathroom and it annoyed me that I hadn’t come up with a chorus. Okay, the song was naive, but I couldn’t have done better in such a short time, I just sang whatever came to mind first. I asked her if she wanted to hear one of my songs, she didn’t mind. She liked the song. She said I should put a hat in the song, nothing happens without a hat.

She was going home, I asked her when I could call her.

“I’m not here for the next five days, I’m going to Prague with my boyfriend, we’re leaving today. Don’t forget to water the plants.”

She wasn’t uncomfortable, she was completely relaxed, and I was looking ahead and wondering if all this really happened?

I went home and woke Milica up because she took the key. She asked me how it was. I said it was great.

“But there’s something.”

“Something?”

“There’s some ‘But’.”

I wanted to sleep so I asked her to talk tomorrow about it.

“Go to sleep, you don’t have to say anything.”

I heard it as: “Sleep, you ungrateful redneck, it doesn’t matter if I’m interested to hear your story.”

“When we get up, James.”

I fell asleep easily, and I don’t think I had slept a minute when I felt Milica’s knees on my ribs and it hurt. She was jumping all over me.

“Tell me what happened. What did you keep quiet about? Is something wrong with her? Did you mess something up?”

“We were at Max’s. Everything was great, but she has a boyfriend and is going on a trip with him tomorrow. Today, actually. They’re leaving in a few hours. I wrote her a song.”

“Oh, that. Well, it’s nothing, you could have said it right away. It’s okay to feel a little out of place and maybe a little used.”

“Yes. That’s okay with me.”

When we got up, she asked me to play a song. My voice was a little hoarse from going out and sleeping, so it sounded better. She said it was cute and that I should write it down so it wouldn’t get lost. I said it was a little stupid and that I didn’t want any trace of that song left on paper.

1 Mrkva – Serbian word for a carrot.