The Irish of Zagreb

It was before sunrise, in Zagreb. I had slept only a couple of hours as I walked the streets already in a festive mood. In fact the center of the city was like a Christmas ornament-- charming and fragile.  I watched the horse and buggy carry lovers around midnight, and I listened to a quartet play in the park. Soon, 2011 would be over and new times will shape our fears, our determination to accept what we cannot fully understand, and cherish our unmet loves.

I had asked for a 4:30 am wake up call to be ready for my 6 am taxi to the airport.  I jumped out of bed; I boiled water, made instant coffee, brushed my teeth and jumped onto the street.  My hotel was right at the center of the city, and the first night I was worried that the thousand of happy people in the streets would hear me snore, but they were too busy drinking hot wine, eating magnificent Croatian sausages, or enjoying the fried breads covered with jam, powdered sugar, or chocolate.  It was close to freezing at night and the brown-eyed women nestled in deep coats or fur-lined elegant jackets invited me to look at them twice.  Maybe even more often than that.

It was still dark, but even before sunrise there were lovers still in embrace around street corners, and the street cleaners were readying Zagreb for a new day.  A day closer to Christmas than was yesterday.

I had brought my coffee with me and walked the streets now familiar to me.  Indeed, I had walked the streets around the center of the city for 3 nights. I knew the major landmarks from churches to tramway stops; from the parks where at night they play classical music to the money exchange bureau, hidden in a passage leading to the entrance of Pizzeria Lida. After half an hour, the sky started to light over, and I had finished my coffee.  Holding my empty coffee cup in my hand, I stopped at a street corner and put my back to the concrete side of the building.  I was wearing a long brown coat, and probably looked just as I looked when got out of bed half an hour ago.

Deep in thought, I heard someone whispering in Croatian.  I looked up and it was a man in his late twenties, wearing a long green woolen coat, a snow cap, and a cigarette at his lips.

“Sorry, I speak only English,” I replied hoping that he would just let me enjoy the last half hour of my stay in Zagreb, alone.

“English, eh?” he said after a short cough and bringing his face close to mine. “English? Where are you from?”

It was clear that he did not use English often, yet he seemed to know the language.  He spoke with ease and with correct syntax.  It was also very clear that he had been drinking for a while.

“English,” I said, “from Newcastle.” 

I do not know why I said that. It was perhaps the latest EU and Euro discussions which were on my mind.

“Newcastle?”

Then he came even closer to me, and with a winkle in his eye slowly stated:

“I thought you were begging for money.  I do not have money but I was going to give you a cigarette.  But I see that you are not a beggar.”

I realized that my last half hour in Zagreb was not going to be passed alone.

 “You like Zagreb?”

His morning breath of cigarette and acrid alcohol made me think for a moment, but replied that I had wonderful evenings walking around the city. I also noticed he had very white teeth.

“This is an enigmatic city, believe me,” he said, “it just looks good for tourists.”

He inhaled deeply and noticed that three young ladies, in high-heeled booths and charming outfits were about to come our way on the street.

“See, all these girls, and what do we get you and me, eh? You look like a beggar holding your empty cup out, and I look like the king of the Gypsies looking for my kingdom!”

At this point I was happy to have met this young man.  There was something about him: he looked like he has been a citizen of the streets, yet his English was better than many I had met in the past days.

“I will shake your hand but I assume you, you from Newcastle, would not want to shake my hand.  Yes?”

I proved him wrong, and asked to sit down on the bench, for a short moment.  He seemed tipsy.  And yet there was certain logic to his movements or conversation.

We sat down, and he pulled a flask from his coat pocket.

“You shook my hand, Newcastle man, would you now drink from my bottle?”

That was too much for me. 

“You know I would not, yes?”

Instead of replying, he took the cigarette off his lips, and in a charming baritone voice started singing:

In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty,
I once met a girl called sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow, through the streets broad and narrow,
Carrying cockles and mussels`

Alive alive o

I was not surprised.  I was hoping he would do something to validate my feeling that he was more than what he showed.

“That is Irish,” I said, “not English.”

“The same bloody thing!” he exclaimed and then launched into:

The day I lost my one true love

These prison walls are built of sorrow

These prison bars are built of pain

My prison cell is always with me

I live in hell, I've gone insane

“Is this English enough for you, friend?”

His baritone voice in the still empty city had slowed down a few passers-by.

“Let us go back to where you were, friend,” he said, “you hold your cup and I will sing. Maybe we will make enough for a ham and cheese sandwich.”

My curiosity had certainly peaked, and I found his humor charming.

I wanted to push him more, when a phone rang.  He searched in his pockets and pulled out the latest iPhone! Then he stood tall, cast his cigarette away, and seemed sober miraculously, as he spoke in Croatian (I assumed) and started walking toward the sausage kiosk.

As I was looking at him leave me behind, he stopped, turned around, and in perfect English almost shouted “I am happy you like folk songs, friend. Very happy. And Merry Christmas to you.”

And he walked away.

December 10, 2011

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2013