Sketches

Uncle Matija needed “something fixed on the computer,” and now we’re climbing the stairs to his apartment. The elevator isn’t working, and the gravity feels like we’re on Jupiter. Soon enough, I’m sitting in Matija’s living room with Maxim, Ian, and Yanko. I could have come alone to handle this, but…

On Saturday, we entered Uncle Boshko’s atelier, where Uncle Matija was already present. Maxim played the narrator:

“Quality jazz, but it sounds like we’re listening underwater.”

I didn’t know Uncle Matija had a son who lives in the United States. Elena’s inner voice chimed in, “Of course, you never know the basic things; you only pay attention to nonsense.”

While listening to Yanko, Uncle Matija asked Ian to set up a way for him to see and talk to his son via the computer. But Ian got confused and thought Matija wanted us to create some sort of system for that. He said it wasn’t easy, that it would take a lot of time. Later, Matija asked me the same question. Elena had told me about a new program that allowed for this kind of communication. It was as simple to install as any other app. I asked if he had a camera and microphone.

“I can set it up for you. The application installs like…”

Yanko interrupted.

“Uncle Boshko, it’s complicated. Just the other day, two of our assistants spent an entire afternoon trying to set something up, and they managed only the next day.”

Yanko suggested that at least three of us should come over and bring a book as a reference manual. He decided to turn the whole thing into a skit. He took over the conversation, arranging everything. I was sure Matija would see through him, but he didn’t. I had no idea Yanko had the ability to distract someone like that.

And so, here we are, sitting together. A committee to install a program called Skype. It takes five minutes to install. We had already downloaded it onto a USB drive.

I need to uninstall Elena from my head. She says that I have a Y2K (“you’re too kind”) bug, and until now, it seemed like Ian had it instead. Maybe Ian understood what Matija needed and pretended not to. But I didn’t think twice about coming; after all, the man needs to see his child. Still, I didn’t like the idea of putting on this charade directed by Yanko. If Matija doesn’t see through it now, he will later. Yanko says he never will.

Matija’s colleague from school, Svetozar—or Uncle Toza—happened to be there too. We’d already installed the program on Yanko’s and my computers, tested it a bit, and it worked fine. Now Yanko wanted to handle the installation at Matija’s place, steering the farce. He dragged things out on purpose, then called me over.

“David, which setting should we try first?”

In front of me were two options: “Next” and “Back.”

“I think we should definitely choose ‘Next.’”

“I agree, but let’s double-check the literature.”

He started flipping through Computer Organization and Architecture, a book that has nothing to do with this, and which he had copied off Ian during his second-year exam. It’s the thickest IT book on his shelf, so he brought it along.

Soon, coffee appeared on the table. My cup was filled to the brim, reminding me of a situation with Uncle Vladimir when he worked as a translator for IFOR seven or eight years ago. They were at the home of a local community president named Meho—if I remember correctly. Meho’s wife poured everyone coffee, and whatever was left in the pot went into Meho’s cup. It was full to the edge, so Meho bent down to sip some without spilling. Seeing him do this, all three IFOR members mirrored the action, thinking it was some local custom.

Uncle Matija finished a story about a professor who required students to wear suits to exams, admiring the discipline and symbolism of such a practice. Lighting a Ronhill cigarette, he began talking about penmanship:

“In the old days, much more attention was paid to beautiful handwriting. It was practiced all year round in school. The lines had to be perfect. You knew where to make them thin and where thick.”

He spoke convincingly, with long dramatic pauses during which he stared directly at the listener, creating mild discomfort. The less logical his statements, the more authoritative his tone became.

I exchanged a look with Maxim: “Good thing we weren’t born back then.” I wanted to say something like, “Uncle Matija, you really cherish all the finer things,” but Maxim beat me to it.

“How many hundreds of wasted hours just to write something that a child learning the alphabet could produce? The message is the same for the reader.”

Uncle Matija’s already red face seemed to darken further, but he chose not to argue with Maxim. Still, I knew Elena would say that what I wanted to say was far more insidious than Maxim’s blunt comment.

Matija changed the topic, now praising how things were better built in the past, including his apartment block.

“Everything was more organized—big companies, skilled workers, plenty of laborers, equal pay. Not like today, with closed factories. The most important thing was what I just said: skilled workers. Nowadays, kids graduate and know nothing. Maybe English and computers.”

I needed water to counter the bitterness of the homemade coffee. I asked Matija where the glasses were.

“Let the water run for two or three minutes. It’s warm in the pipes; it needs to draw up from the ground.”

“Your water bill will be high.”

“Don’t worry. The building splits the cost.”

“All right then.”

I waited for the water to cool, then stepped to the window for some air, looking at the Fortress and the Danube from the eighth floor. Maxim came over and whispered:

“Why we are here, again?”

Uncle Matija picked up Yanko’s Computer Organization and Architecture, surprised to see the table of contents at the beginning.

“The table of contents belongs at the end.”

Maxim muttered, “Let’s escape, David. Life’s too short for long dramatic pauses.”