I'm Not Going Anywhere

By Rumena Bužarovska

Razor-sharp social commentary, Jane Austen for contemporary feminists unafraid to confront a dark world

In her latest translated volume of collected short fiction, Rumena Bužarovska delivers more of what established her as “one of the most interesting writers working in Europe today.” Already a bestseller across her native Macedonia, I’m Not Going Anywhere is an unsentimental and hyperrealist collection in which Macedonians leave their country of origin to escape bleakness—only to find, in other locales, new kinds of desolation in theses dark, biting, and utterly absorbing stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press
• Release date: Jun 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781628974812

Rumena Bužarovska

Rumena Bužarovska is a fiction writer and literary translator from Skopje, North Macedonia. Bužarovska’s short stories have been translated into several languages. “Waves” and “Lily” appeared in Best European Fiction 2016 and Contemporary Macedonian Fiction respectively, both published by Dalkey Archive Press. My HuHer most recent collection My Husband was published by Dalkey in 2020. Bužarovska teaches literature at the State University in Skopje.

Book preview

THE VASE

They want to give us the grand tour of the apartment, at least that’s how Tanja and Kire put it. We just moved in last week and we’re almost done with everything, Tanja is speaking so loudly into the receiver I have to hold the phone away from my ear. I can hear Kire yapping in the background. Something I really hate: I’m on the phone and someone can’t stop yammering and doesn’t give a shit that I’m trying to have a conversation. Have them come early, before it gets dark! Kire barks, which is swiftly followed by Tanja’s loud repetition, Yes, come early, come at seven, before it gets dark!

Nino is sitting next to me, puzzling through a crossword. I nudge him and roll my eyes. He shrugs and then finally sniffs. Alright then, we’ll see you soon! I say, happy to hang up.

God, I groan. She ruptured my eardrum. You could hear her, right?

Nino nods.

I hate housewarmings. Nino, are you listening? We need to get them something. It’s tomorrow.

Well, you know, we’re not exactly swimming in money, he says without taking his eyes off the puzzle. The reading glasses he bought at the farmer’s market a month ago are poised at the tip of his nose. He only wears them at home because he doesn’t want people to know he’s growing old.

I know, I say, thinking of the thousand-denar bill I keep hidden in the side pocket of my purse in case I need to go for a drink or have the urge to buy something. And, of course, there are those three hundred euros I keep in a separate account. You never know what can come up. Nino doesn’t think about these things. Sometimes I wonder if he actually knows I’ve set aside a little something and is at ease because he believes this money is for the two of us, for hard times, God forbid. This means we’re going to have to tighten our belts, I add.

I wince at the thought of all the potato-stew, beans, and lentil soup we’ll be forced to eat for days on end. And there’ll be no more going out for drinks or coffee, even on the weekend, which is just around the corner. And we can’t invite anyone over for drinks, unless they were to bring their own liquor, which we could never ask them to do, because it would be so embarrassing. Not that any of our friends are much better off. Sometimes I feel they only want to come over to get a free drink.

We sit there in silence until I blurt, But we’ve got to get them something.

Do we have to? Nino asks. I’ve always found his disregard for social conventions annoying.

"Yes, we have to. We could drop by JYSK tomorrow on the way to their place," I say, knowing the store is on the pricey side. But the fact is, I just want to go there. I dream the day when I will be able to purchase those fluffy pillows, those colorful doormats, those elegant bathroom soap dispensers and toothbrush holders, which I don’t really have any place to put because our sink is so wobbly.

So what do they need? he asks, filling in the crossword puzzle with his big, messy letters sprawling out of the boxes. He sometimes rips the page with its tip, pressing the pen so hard it makes a pop that gives me goosebumps.

How would I know? I just don’t get it. You go to somebody’s home for the first time and you’re supposed to bring a housewarming gift, but you have no idea what to get them because you’ve never been there before and you don’t know what they’re missing, and of course you can’t ask them what they need, because they’ll just lie and say, we don’t need anything! Stupid phony Macedonian humility, that’s all that is, I grumble.

M-hm, Nino peers at me over the rim of his glasses, which is his way of saying he agrees. Then he takes them off and becomes lost in thought. Yes, he finally says, and falls silent again. It always takes him ages to say what he’s thinking. At the beginning of our relationship, his pauses impressed me, especially considering the words simply tumble out of my mouth as fast as I can think them up. But after a few years together, the silences are really starting to get on my nerves. Yes, he repeats. You remember when we moved in here, and Tom and Lydia gave us that vase?

We both look at it, which is easy in a living room as small as ours. The one big wall is barricaded by a block of square white cabinets with round brown handles. Some of the handles have fallen off, leaving behind holes that look just like a pig snout. Several cabinet doors are loose, exposing threads of cheap plywood. Whoever designed this place had two shelves cut into the wall, which is where we keep our books. These are mostly books from our childhood, sets of Serbian translations we took from our homes. We don’t have a lot of new books. Because you know, we’re always saying Macedonian translations are so crappy, and the Serbian versions so expensive, there’s nothing to read anyway. The shelves used to have glass doors but for some reason the landlord took them off. In the middle of the wall there is a deep hole meant for a TV set. Ours is pretty small, albeit large enough for a room like this, so we put Tom and Lydia’s vase beside it. This vase, the nicest thing we own.

It’s a classic Greek-style amphora. Not those that are long and narrow, but with a fat belly, smaller than the ones you typically see in museums. It’s not brown and doesn’t have any Greek motifs. Rather, it’s a deep vibrant green. In fact, if you look up close, it’s got a mixture of different shades of green that all blend into each other and a fine web of thin cracks that give it a kind of rough texture, as if it were made of stone. Looking at this vase calms me. They gave it to us about a year ago, and come to think of it, we haven’t gotten together with them since. Even when we’re watching TV I’ll glance at it. Then I’ll think of Tom and Lydia and a warm feeling comes over me.

I probably get this feeling because of their perfumes. It’s not that they wear a lot, but every time Lydia would swish her scarf or Tom came up close, the fragrance would hit me: his sharp, yet fresh, hers more flowery, more like the smell of some expensive hand cream. Lydia always smells like all the women with painted nails and jangling bracelets who used to come over to our house when I was a child and stroke my hair and pinch my cheeks. Tom is the kind of guy you could easily fall for, with his olive skin and hazel eyes, sitting elegantly in his chair with his legs crossed, one athletic arm dangling from the armrest, the other holding a perpetual cigarette in its hand.

Jade-colored, that’s what Lydia said as she removed the vase from the box to present it to us. Jade. I didn’t really know what color jade was, but I liked the sound of it.

It’s our housewarming gift, said Tom in his husky voice.

But dis is not our apartment, Nino explained in the hard

Slavic accent he was not the least ashamed of.

Well, think of it as a step in the right direction, said Lydia as she gently held it out to us. The textured gold rings on her strong and slender pianist fingers stood out against the vase’s deep greens. I thanked them in my somewhat broken English, trying to echo Tom and Lydia’s perfect British accent, knowing full well I overextend my vowels and sometimes confuse the th sound with d and t. I explained that what Nino meant was this wasn’t our permanent home. We were only living here until we got back on our feet, until we settled some inheritance issues. They didn’t say a word, seeing I’d dived into waters they were not prepared to swim in, at least not while they were sober. It annoyed me that I was making more excuses than Nino. But nonetheless I kept digging myself deeper into a hole, saying the apartment was much too small for us, it was very old. But the location was great—

Yes, it’s a fantastic location! Tom chimed in, happy to change the subject.

And new location of dis beautiful vase is? Nino asked, returning attention to the gift, for which I was grateful. But my gratitude was short-lived. Because all this did was make Tom and Lydia look around the apartment and realize we were barricaded by cabinets, that the sofa and armchairs we were sitting in were old and mismatched and camouflaged by decorative covers, and that the stained and beat-up coffee table crammed between them barely left room for our legs.

We’ll find a good place for it, I said, just before Lydia suggested, Maybe you could put it in the bedroom? not knowing that we didn’t have one, that we slept on the twoseater sofa bed we could barely open even after wedging the coffee table into the corner of the room, so I just pretended I hadn’t heard what she’d said and asked, Is it from Greece?

Indeed, it was. They had bought it from a perfectly charming little shop in one of those picture postcard villages with the whitewashed houses and blue-shuttered windows, the balconies draped with bougainvillea, and narrow, cobbled lanes that meandered to hidden squares lined with cafes where one can have a cool glass of water and savor a spoonful of homemade preserves.

The vase was made by a local but internationally acclaimed artist. The certificate is inside the box. You can read more about her later, Tom cut in, eager to tell us about their Aegean island cruise, about the fresh octopus they had grilled, the dolphins leaping around the prow of their boat. The crystal-clear blue of the deep sea where you can bathe nude. Where the water is so salty it seems to lick your skin. (It makes love to you! Lydia exclaimed and her head nearly lolled back in ecstasy.) And then once again about the dreamy little villages. The hospitality of the locals. The homemade specialties they had tasted. The moussaka! Lydia sighed.

Svetlana makes very good moussaka, Nino said, clambering to his feet. We hadn’t yet offered them anything to drink. But for food we have only meze with cold homemade rakija or white wine, Nino stooped as he was offering these homemade specialties, which Tom and Lydia later dubbed the tomatoes, peppers, cheese, and liquor Nino had lugged back from his uncle’s village.

I wouldn’t drink whiskey or eat seafood while I’m in Macedonia, Lydia said as she savored a pepper. Even this homely thing looked distinguished between her elegant fingers.

We’d heard Lydia play once. She had stopped performing regularly a while back, but agreed to give one recital. Tom was an art historian visiting on a university research scholarship and, without a job of her own, Lydia had little to do. Despite Nino, who works at the National Opera and Ballet, I know next to nothing about classical music, and really, it’s not something he enjoys either. Regardless, I was enchanted by the way she moved her body as she played: her elbows flaring, her back arching with the rhythm and the music, her torso swaying in circles, her head turned so that her silvery hair hung across her eyes. She had striking fingers: strong, angular, nimble as a spider. I became so enthralled I clapped when I wasn’t supposed to. The elderly lady I sat next to shushed me angrily. We were in the first row and Lydia must have noticed, Tom too.

I was just as embarrassed as we sat in our tiny living room, crowded with cabinets. It seemed like Nino didn’t give a damn. He kept topping up his glass of rakija, sweating in the sudden stuffiness of the room. We opened the balcony door leading to the miniature kitchenette, but still couldn’t get a breeze. It was hot and the four of us were smoking, me more than ever, nervous that I had invited Tom and Lydia to this dump. I shifted my to foot to cover what looked like a crusty ketchup stain on the carpet I hadn’t noticed before. My embarrassment grew with the increasing realization of how stupid it was to invite them over. But we had no money and we wanted so much to hang out with them. We were flattered that they wanted to drink with us and tell stories about their dazzling past. We were flattered they chose us as their audience, flattered by how they looked, long and lean, in loose white flannel that outlined their sinewy figures and highlighted their sun-bronzed skin.

We’re not too bad ourselves. Maybe our apartment is awful, maybe we don’t have the money to move into a better one, but we look impeccable, especially me. That evening, even as I covered up the carpet stain, I couldn’t help but admire how beautiful my heels were, how my sandals complemented my slender feet, how my red toe-nails glittered like wild strawberries. I was sure that we also smelled good and that if anyone came into the room, they’d notice the crisp mix of the fragrances we wore and the aroma of the cigarettes we smoked. But Nino had started to sweat. Beads had formed on his forehead and there were big wet patches under his armpits. He was clearly drunk and wouldn’t shut up.

We’re working toward saving up to get a bigger apartment. We’d like to have children. We’re trying, he said, his eyes a little crossed from all that rakija.

We don’t have any children either, Tom said, his head cocked back as he took a dramatic puff of his cigarette. We don’t know why. It was nature’s way. We never bothered to get it checked out.

Some people are so inconsiderate, Lydia added, they’ll ask you right up front: what’s wrong with you? I remember this particularly brazen couple who asked me that and I said: what, do you mean physically or mentally?

We tsk-tsked and then fell silent. I could tell Nino was getting emotional, like he always does when he’s drunk. He slapped both palms on his knees, as if finally mustering up the courage to do something grand: Can I play someting? he asked. Tom and Lydia shifted excitedly.

Of course! Why in the world didn’t we think of that sooner … what a pleasure that would be, their voices overlapped. Nino took out the violin from the case he kept behind the door.

Someting traditional, he announced, leaving room for Tom and Lydia’s sighs of satisfaction. He then improvised a jazzed-up version of Kaži, kaži, libe Stano, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. To my taste, this song was too slow and sad, and it had too many grace notes. Honestly, I thought it was trite, but at the end of his little recital, Tom and Lydia gave him an encouraging applause.

It’s about couple which can’t have keeds, he began to explain. D’ men says to d’ women: do you need anyting? Mannie or cloths? She says, no, I have everyting, but I don’t have child. D’ men says to d’ women: I’m gonna go to Greece and getchoo golden child. She says, golden child can’t call me dear mami. Very sad.

Oh, it’s heartbreaking, Lydia said, raising the rakija glass to her lips and accidentally hitting a tooth. Meanwhile, Tom unintentionally slammed his glass on the table and covered his face with his large hands. Oh, oh, he moaned, Oh. We all knew what was next. He always cried when he got hammered. Once he cried for an hour over the tsunami in Indonesia, but that was nothing compared to the way he blubbered over the war in Bosnia. It was like he wasn’t sure what was wrong with the human race. He insisted the world was falling apart, that the apocalypse was nigh.

Things fall apart! The centre cannot hold! he declared. I later found out he had been quoting a famous Irish poet whose name I can’t remember. To make a child a man, a man a child! he said with a solemnity that made me suspect this was a meaningful and well-known line. Lydia looked at him compassionately, while Nino and I didn’t know what to say. Tom and Lydia knew so many things and had traveled everywhere. They were incredibly open-minded and educated. We didn’t know anyone like them. True, they drank an awful lot and always got plastered, but it’s not like Nino and I are exactly lightweights. Lydia stroked Tom’s neck as he sank his face into his hands in a sweet, inspired state of despair. Watching this display of emotion somehow pleased me, but what was even more appealing was how Tom snuggled up to Lydia and gently laid his cheek upon her breast. His hand reached around her waist while his other hand cupped her breast, as Lydia toyed with his thick strands of ash-blonde hair. Cuddling his face against her chest, he rose up and kissed her throat, softly moaning. Lydia whispered in return, My darling, my darling, it’s all right. I saw her gently nip his earlobe.

Seeing people intimate in public usually makes me uncomfortable. But watching Tom and Lydia like this, in our apartment, got me excited. There was a warmth stirring inside me, rising from my groin. I couldn’t say a word for fear of falling softly apart. Lydia looked around and said that perhaps it was time for them to go. Tom shook himself out of his reverie and began to say, still choked up, that we were terrific hosts, that they had had such a wonderful time with us.

Come back, Nino replied, his eyes droopy as if he were about to fall asleep. For some reason he did not get up from his chair. Tom and Lydia bent down to give him a goodbye kiss. I took the four steps to the door to see them off, where they embraced me, their perfume lingering on my skin. Tom left a wet streak of tears on my cheek. As I closed the door, I didn’t want to wipe it off.

Nino was still sprawled in the armchair. I had to virtually step over him to get back to my seat in the cramped space, and as I did, he grabbed me. He pulled me down on his lap and I felt he was hard. He kissed me on the throat, he wrenched my shirt off, he licked and squeezed my breasts, then pushed me over on the two-seater and in one brisk move he stripped off my panties and shoved his penis inside me. I was so aroused at first that I forgot about everything, which is hardly ever the case. I melted into a pool of flesh. But after a bit Nino began to falter and went a little limp. My ears suddenly switched on again and I could hear the rhythmic squeaking of the sofa, like a creaky old swing about to break. I opened my eyes and saw all the little pig snout holes in the cabinets peering down at us from the wall and then Nino just stopped.

My knee’s numb. I keep hitting it against a loose spring, he complained. Pity and shame swept over me. It was like we were in high school, fucking in my little brother’s bed.

Fuck me on the table, I said, not knowing where these words were coming from. I’d never spoken like that before. I wanted him to lift me as I was and carry me to the little dining room table adjoining the hall that pretended to be a kitchen, but that would never occur to him, so we strolled half-naked to our destination. I got up on the table and we continued unsteadily. This time I decided to keep my eyes closed. I imagined Nino was Tom, and that Lydia was sitting on the