Jure and me

“Did you pick one?” – I’d ask with a heavy accent when we were choosing ice creams, but Jure would never catch my drift. More like, he didn’t want to catch it. As if my way of speaking was this elusive thing he feared, dodging it like the plague. I always found that intriguing, so I’d keep pestering him with various word constructions, attempting to mimic his roots.

This whole thing gave him tics, making his left eye twitch at every one of my wisecracks. Yet, he’d still share a lick of his ice cream with me.

It’s logical to think that people, who were growing up amidst diverse languages, could become these new, prize-worthy mimics. Not Jure. He turned down everything. That’s why he spoke this sloppy standard Croatian, but honestly, I don’t think he ever placed an accent in the right spot throughout his entire life, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe I’m laying it on thick, but the way he spoke was definitely not standard.

When we first met, I had the feeling that he was showing off with his speech. At first, it just didn’t sit well with me because everything had to be in that fake language, and he somehow strutted around with it. One time, he had the audacity to correct me, and twelve-year-old me was terribly offended by that. I shot him the ugliest look back then. It didn’t help that he was this new kid, “green” and going through puberty, so he blushed like a tomato. The next day he made it up to me with a bunch of periwinkles, for which I scolded him for three solid days because “they’re protected, are you daft?” But I appreciated the gesture, so we found ourselves somehow in the middle.

And so, Jure and I kicked off sixth grade together. Rumours about his mysterious arrival buzzed around for months: “her husband used to beat her”; “she cheated on him”; “you know he had another family on the side”; “she ran away and now the kids had to follow her”; “look, the kid doesn’t have a dad, see what she did to him”... What we, as kids, could pick up was that “the dad was out of the picture”; ”dad is mean”; “they are here now.”

Why here exactly? The shopkeeper spilled the beans: “Her late aunt had this house, left it to her sisters, and one of them gave it to her so that they wouldn’t end up on the streets.”

Jure’s mom was tall, strong, and graceful. We genuinely looked at her with a mix of fear and admiration, but she didn’t quite fit into this life, no matter how hard she tried. Jure was a kid, so he adapted better. And lastly we adapted to each other because we were the only peers within a five-kilometer radius, and I was just thankful to have someone to play with.

So, we played our way through the entire elementary school and ended up in the same high school – not the exact same one, but in the same building, so it all worked out.

We were a team. I’d help him with his Croatian, and he’d help me with my math. We’d go out together, pretend to study, but actually play games on his phone, and act like we enjoyed sipping coffee, even though neither of us really liked the taste.

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Seven years of our friendship had passed, and I had never asked him about his dad, family, or home. Whenever he was supposed to say something about where he came from, he would simply say, “from the sea” – the sea being Scilla. I felt that the entire region somehow reminded him of something we hadn’t discussed – until the end of high school.

By then, we became a bit more arrogant, more open, and bolder, so I finally asked him about Scilla and when he planned to visit his grandmother. Supposedly, he went there during holidays, but it was all shrouded in mystery.

“So, when do you plan to go there?”

“I don’t know, whenever my mom forces me.”

“Well, do you think about going in the summer at all?”

“Probably, haven’t thought about it yet.” – It was an obvious lie.

“I was thinking maybe we could go together.”

He chuckled sourly and asked me:

“What would you do there? I don’t have anything special to show you, and you’d be bored.”

“I wouldn’t be bored, I’d love to go, and I haven’t been there in the summer yet.”

This conversation continued for a few weeks, but due to the mutual affections that had developed in those seven years – affections that hadn’t turned fatal by then – I got “everything I wanted” in the end.

So, at the end of August, before I left for college and he embarked on his professional life, we went to his hometown.

After a brief exploration, settling in, and relocating, and my feeble understanding of his grandmother, we finally started to enjoy ourselves. Jure’s leg was constantly shaking, but I attributed it to nerves and looked forward to unravelling his secrets. I was a child and didn’t know what happens when you ask questions someone isn’t ready to answer.

We walked by the sea, and I teased him:

“Cosa c’è che non va? So che stai desiderando la tua città natale!“(”What’s wrong? I know you’re longing for your hometown!“)

My Italian still needed a lot of polishing, but I tried, hoping for a reaction. Jure never gave it to me. Somehow, I hoped deep down that I would learn everything that needed to be known. That the stone streets would trigger old desires in him, and the waves would break down all the walls around him. He didn’t allow it and just smirked, saying:

“Don’t make jokes at my expense; I don’t do that to you.”

When I think about it now, our walks were truly unusual. Nobody there knew him, nobody greeted him, and nobody considered us locals.

“We are two tourists from Croatia.”

At that time, it didn’t seem so important.

“No, you’re Croatian; I don’t have such affiliations. I’ve freed myself from them.” – He said this in a sharper tone, and I didn’t want to upset him further because I enjoyed his gentle hug.

“Come on, I’ll show you something, but you have to promise me you’ll stop bothering me afterward.”

“Sure! Agreed! I promise!”

It was evening, but the sun was nowhere near setting, and we headed outside the old town through the forest. The path was adorned with trees, the sea shimmered, and the tiny cicadas set the pace. In my eyes, we only reached the second part of the peninsula and gazed at the forest.

“Why did you bring me here when there’s nothing around?”

“There is, sit down, please, right here.”

“On the floor?”

“Yes, on the floor, and look at the tree.”

There was something carved on the tree, but I couldn’t decipher it.

“We carved our initials here the day before I had to leave.”

“Really?”

“My friends and I. MM is for Marco, GR for Giani, LE for Luca, and JM for me. I promised them we would be friends forever, and they promised the same to me. But it was foolish. We wouldn’t truly hang out anymore, and it wouldn’t be genuine friendship. They called me during the first two years, and their moms called mine, trying to convince me to answer, but I didn’t want to. It didn’t make sense anymore. So, dear, nothing ties me to this place anymore.”

“And you’re not sorry that it’s like that?”

“No, I’m not. I had to accept that my life changed, and they, just like my family and my hometown, are no longer mine.”

“What about your grandmother? How isn’t she yours anymore?”

“She is and isn’t. Grandma will always be grandma, but I come here only because she’s too old to accept change. I’m pretending and choosing to please her.”

“I don’t get it. What’s your grandma got to do with it?”

“Let’s not talk about it anymore. You promised you wouldn’t bother me with all those questions. I’ve separated from my old life, got disappointed in it, and everything connected to it stirs up... it doesn’t feel good. So, please, let it go.”

“Okay. No more.”

And I didn’t bother him anymore. I let him live his new life that he determined when he was twelve, and I never found out what his father did to him so that he decided to “de-nationalize” himself. That night, I truly felt that there were some dark feelings behind his words that shouldn’t be awakened.

After ten days we returned to our small village – I called it ours intentionally because I believed he belonged somewhere – and so we spent another month in gentle touches, smiles, and late-night conversations. Then, my lectures started, and he sought some work, eventually joining an electrician. We managed to find time for each other. At first, every week, later every month. Life was still beautiful, and we were partners.

Sometimes I even thought about truly being partners and wished for an unexpected situation where we would have to kiss, and then we would, of course, realize that we were meant for each other. I was never brave enough to test our luck, and neither was he.

Sometimes, I remember how he looked at me, and I’m sure he also thought about it. Since no one took any action, at least we could comfort each other when things didn’t go according to plan, and some “third fool” or “third idiot” appeared in our lives.

So, after another heartbreak, Jure said:

“I’m going to Germany, let the water carry me!”

“To Germany? Oh, I’ll have a rich friend now! Go, go, and buy me something.”

“I will, dear, but it seems I’ll have to live with at least three more people in the room first, so you’ll have to wait a bit.”

“I’ll wait, no problem.”

At first, I thought his departure wouldn’t happen. It was as if, for a moment, I forgot who Jure was, and I hoped he found a home and would never leave me.

I knew what our fate was.

Even though he initially called, and we spent hours on the phone, exchanged messages, and sent various recordings and pictures, the end was inevitable. So, after 437 days, Jure changed homes again, replacing me – I don’t know with whom.

He disappeared from social media, and he hasn’t opened my last messages until today. I let him go because I thought he needed that.

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I let go, but I didn’t give up.

I thought about him, sometimes remembering him more often, and sometimes months passed as if I had never known him. And so, four years after our last “okay, talk to you later,” I wondered if I would even recognize him if I saw him again.

Because of that, in some foolish hope, I returned to the place he left far behind that summer. I knew I wouldn’t find him, but I hoped and fantasized about meeting during sunset by the sea and running into each other’s arms.

We didn’t.

I tirelessly walked through the old and new parts of the city, visited every café, strolled through almost every street, and didn’t find him. I managed to find out that his grandmother had passed away, and her house had been sold to some renters, and hardly anyone recognized his name.

“Oh, that was a sad story, very sad.” - that’s all I got.

Then, the last destination remained, his grandmother’s grave, which I found out about earlier in the day. It was the only place I hadn’t visited yet, and somehow, I hoped fate had worked its magic, and we would meet. I wasn’t sure about his first or last name anymore, but at that moment, I knew I would recognize him.

Perhaps, this is the place. This is fate.

I briskly walked, contemplating what I could say to him. Should I greet him with a smile, or should I pretend to be offended? Should I hug him? Did he perhaps grow long hair as he promised?

I didn’t know, but I was eagerly anticipating finding him. My breath quickened, and my face blushed a little because of it. I knew I would find him.

And I did.

Mate Juraj Antić, born on February 16, 1994, died on May 22, 2021.

I later found out that he returned to his hometown in March of last year and peacefully passed away shortly after. A severe case of pancreatic cancer quickly confined him to bed, and he refused treatment. I believe he said:

“I have to accept that this life is no longer mine.”

But, Jure did return home after all.