Ah, the immigration story.
An apartment building, the apartments, I suppose, all crammed together. Enough so that Ida feels bad for those around her, who can hear her small child screaming. Enough so that she wakes up at night to hear love-making, and she knows, she knows, that it comes from the black man and his partner above her. She touches herself.
and sometimes, with the lovemaking, even the windows
would move. They would be carried from one end to the other
and at such moments Ida held on to the bed. With one hand.
With the other she reached down to between her legs, parted
the folds, sank into the soft flesh, and went inside.
In the light of day, though, what is fantasy becomes reality. She visits the young couple. They have a child, ginger-haired, and they aren’t particularly interested in her discussion points. Ida wishes to better understand why an African – his word – would come to Slovenia. Was it for money? For healthcare? For money? For money? For money? She can’t help herself, continuously steering the conversation back to that point. Surely, she reasons, that this is why an African would want to come to Europe. No other reason.
“It’s obvious you haven’t been through any war,” Ida said.
She didn’t know why she wanted to confront him, why she
Muhammed, who comes from Burkina Faso, attempts first to gently dissuade her, but then becomes increasingly frustrated. Why should he act as the mouthpiece for all Africans, and why should he be forced to admit what isn’t true? He doesn’t state it outright (he is under no obligation to do so, after all; Ida, for all her masturbation, is a nosy neighbour), but it seems that he is here for love and for adventure. Fine reasons.
Ida, blaming her menstruation, keeps pushing. Muhammed is the dominant speaker here but his partner floats in and out of the room, looking after their small child. At one point Ida touches the boy’s hair and the woman airily observes that they are teaching him to avoid being touched by strangers, especially on his head. Clever. Ida understands, and then pushes and pushes.
In the end, the conversation dies. Ida, the European, is unsatisfied with the black African’s answers. Ida, the European, makes an offhand comment to the other woman, who knows exactly what she means. And then Ida, the European, is roundly chastised while Muhammed prays in the other room and then she leaves, defeated.
I suspect the late-night moans will continue from their room, though from now on I expect that Ida will not insert herself into their activities, even if from afar. Not after that conversation.
Ida is a short story by Slovene writer Gabriela Babnik, translated by Rawley Grau.
|Publisher||European Union Prize for Literature|
Please see also the other stories under review from this series: