I receive the news of my father’s grave illness with
almost complete indifference. I’m finding it mildly annoying,
like road construction, the death of an elderly neighbor,
or the latest gossip that a dysfunctional couple in my
circle of friends is having a baby after all. I notice an increasing
gap, a yawning chasm between what I should be
feeling and what I’m actually feeling. Or to be exact, not
feeling. He called me just briefly; he doesn’t want to bother
me too much.
I’m at work right now. I hang up.
An indifferent hotel lobby stretches out before me. It’s
pleasantly air-conditioned. A starkly white pair of legs
shifts into a crossed position. I close my eyes. I take in the
pungent blend of floor cleaner and roasted meat.
The news of my father’s grave illness hits me for all the
wrong reasons. I feel restless—an echo of my teenage self—
like my plans for the weekend have just fallen through. My
restlessness is followed by unease. I’m furious at my father’s
potentially terminal illness.
I’ve made my life unusually simple because it used to be
so complicated and chaotic—formerly burdened by the
needs and problems of the people around me. And I’ve
done everything to avoid doing the things I don’t want to
do—with the exception of my job. I’m not bursting with
potential, I’m not beaming with positive energy, and I reserve
the right to find my current job unfulfilling. I don’t
like telling myself lies.
My father’s illness is making me uneasy because I’ll
have to talk to him, and that’s exactly what I don’t want to
do. We tried a few times; we tried to spend time together
and get to know each other better, and it didn’t work out.
Then we each decided that it’s better to stick with our
monthly chitchat about the weather and the fucked-up
state of our country. Sometimes I grant him the conclusion
that my current occupation, despite my credentials, is
a clear sign that there is no hope for young people in Croatia.
I work at the reception desk of an okay hotel because
I have degrees in comparative literature and English.
I studied those subjects since, as an overly pretentious gay
boy, I had no other talents or interests. Eventually I realized
that I would never get a job in the so-called cultural
sector because it’s the only space where even the Left finds
nepotism both agreeable and necessary. The lack of privilege
has to be compensated for with exceptional talent,
which I don’t possess. In any case, I like people more than
I like concepts. My job is not demanding; often it’s boring,
but it keeps my curiosity alive. I especially like working the
evening shifts and figuring out who is sleeping with whom.
At night, I get to read a lot. Secretly I write poetry. My slim
opus is hidden in a black folder labeled Hotel Farewell.
I don’t complain about my job. Very rarely do I complain
about my life.
Still, ever since receiving the news about my father’s
grave illness, I feel the need to wallow in self-pity.
The novel was translated from Croatian by Vladislav Beronja.
The book Daddy Issues was published as part of the Growing Together project, co-financed by the European Union.
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