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The ‘youngster’ who washed the windows of my tired old
car at a petrol station somewhere in the midst of a blasted
heath halfway to nowhere, but approximately between
Zagreb and Brčko, looked so much like Maki that he
could’ve easily convinced me that he was the son Maki
had forgotten sometime long ago, while moving iridescent
kitsch from his stall at the market. Four toddlers lurked
nearby, holding buckets of water and filthy cloths. They
peeked out at me, ready to sprint for my change, which I
intended to spend on a double espresso and juice at the
nearby Javori Restaurant. I thought how my old man
would have loved to take them on, but I didn’t inherit any
useful talents from him, like wrestling undernourished
toddlers. When I opened my car door, outstretched
hands were suddenly upon me: a whirl of torn and dirty
clothes, and they succeeded in jogging my conscience
enough to alleviate me of just enough change to
transform my plan into a single espresso and a glass of
water. Tepidly pissed-off, I tried to push my way past
them, to ignore them, but they did an Indian sprint so
that one was always just in front of me, underfoot. They
kept showing me how clean my car window was, shoving
dirty palms ever nearer my face.
‘I don’t have any change!’
I showed themmy empty pockets.