To hell with Zagreb and the Swedish embassy! To hell with it all! All I want is for it to stop raining.
It was one of the city’s main roads with four lanes. There were a lot of cars, even though it was Sunday.
I sloshed in my soaked All Stars towards the traffic lights thirty metres ahead. On the other side of the road was a phone box with a smashed, half-open glass door.
The first person I thought of calling was Mister No. Second, Mum and Dad. The moron was no longer on duty, and they must have got up by now. I thought about calling them and saying that under no circumstances would I return to the camp. That they had to pack our things at once, meet me in Vešnja or here in Grozvin. I didn’t care. We had to find somewhere else to live.
But soon that thought also shrivelled up, this final belief that those two could be dislodged from Majbule. My chin stung like hell. I felt the coins in my pocket and wiped the blood off my neck. I knew who to call!
The cars sprayed water everywhere. They heavy raindrops fell on the asphalt like solid-coloured glass beads, like shotgun pellets.
When I finally realised that the traffic light was broken – that it simply refused to change from red to green – I had enough of it all and stepped onto the road.
One honk.
Two honks.
Three …
‘Hello!’
‘Hi, Emir! What’s happened?’
‘Where is the Swedish embassy?’
‘What?’
'The Swedish embassy. In Zagreb. Where is it?’
‘I don’t understand … Are you guys in Zagreb?’