Sweetlust Read online

  Praise for Sweetlust

  “Vivid yet nuanced, mysterious and sexy, each one of Asja Bakić’s stories creates its own dangerous universe. This miraculous collection enraptured me again and again.”

  –CHANA PORTER, author of The Seep

  “Haunting, funny, and delightfully surreal, Sweetlust pushes fiction into exciting and unexpected realms of imagination. A visceral dive into the perils and pleasures of the human condition.”

  –ADITI KHORANA, author of The Library of Fates

  “In Sweetlust, Asja Bakić takes on gender, society, literature, climate change, and time travel with such extraordinary ease that one might be fooled into believing such mastery is easy. The narrative is quick and sharp while, almost deceptively, shedding strange and revelatory light on some of the most intimidating subjects of our age. Evocative of the work of Joyce Carol Oates and Leonora Carrington, Asja Bakić—aided by a brilliant translator—delivers a perfectly discordant punch to the gut of matters few dare touch. Truly fearless writing strikes real fear in the heart of a reader, and in this way, Sweetlust is a truly frightful book, and Asja Bakić a singular terror.”

  –LINA FERREIRA CABEZA-VANEGAS, author of Don’t Come Back

  “Sweetlust rollicks and seethes with a rakish energy, part hilarious, part bone-chilling. Translated brilliantly by Jennifer Zoble, these stories zip back and forth across the centuries. Never a dull moment!”

  –ELLEN ELIAS-BURSAĆ, translator

  Sweetlust

  Stories by Asja Bakić

  Translated by Jennifer Zoble

  Published in 2023 by the Feminist Press

  at the City University of New York

  The Graduate Center

  365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406

  New York, NY 10016

  feministpress.org

  First Feminist Press edition 2023

  Sladostrašće copyright © 2020 by Asja Bakić

  English translation copyright © 2023 by Jennifer Zoble

  Sladostrašće was first published in 2020 in Zagreb, Croatia, by Sandorf Publishing.

  All rights reserved.

  This book was made possible thanks to a grant from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Governor and the New York State Legislature.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First printing February 2023

  Cover design by Sukruti Anah Staneley

  Photo by Siim Lukka on Unsplash

  Text design by Drew Stevens

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Bakić, Asja, 1982- author. | Zoble, Jennifer, translator.

  Title: Sweetlust / stories by Asja Bakić ; translated by Jennifer Zoble.

  Other titles: Sladostrašće. English

  Description: First Feminist Press edition. | New York City : The Feminist Press at the City University of New York, 2023.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022044580 (print) | LCCN 2022044581 (ebook) | ISBN 9781952177729 (paperback) | ISBN 9781952177736 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Short stories.

  Classification: LCC PG1420.12.A345 S5313 2023 (print) | LCC PG1420.12.A345 (ebook) | DDC 891.8/3936--dc23/eng/20220915

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022044580

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022044581

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Sweetlust

  Title page

  Copyright

  Contents

  1998

  Gretel

  Blindness

  Fellow’s Gully

  1740

  Mama

  The Abduction

  Δάϕνη, or Daphne

  MCSB

  Dorica Kastra

  The Sorrows of Young Lotte

  Translator Acknowledgments

  About the Author and the Translator

  Also Available from the Feminist Press

  More Translated Literature from the Feminist Press

  About the Feminist Press

  1998

  SHE’D PLANNED TO stay home with her mother that summer until her father and sister returned from the European Junior Table Tennis Championships in Italy. Instead she spontaneously took a bus trip to Jablanica Lake with her friend Anida. Anida’s mother was the secretary to the director of the postal service and sent them to a summer camp organized for the children of its employees. She was sixteen. She brought a two-piece bathing suit, teen angst, and the novel I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem by Maryse Condé. She was looking forward to a perfect summer.

  When she got off the bus, she realized she’d be sharing a tent with at least six other girls, which didn’t particularly please her since she’d always found it difficult to make friends. She’d spent her life training at table tennis out of emotional obligations and habits, not because she enjoyed the company of others her age. Physical exertion made her feel good, but socializing exhausted her. She tended to expect the worst of people, primarily because players from the other team would always insult their opponents during matches to demoralize and weaken them. She dreamed of fair play, an atmosphere in which she’d be less anxious about losing. She was sensitive, but not in the same way as her peers. Anida, who was slightly younger, adored the film Titanic—she’d seen it at least twenty times. But she didn’t share Anida’s tastes, or even her sister’s.

  At the entrance to the camp, which was across from a lake, there were picnic tables where everyone ate. The kitchen was there, too, and next to that, a small infirmary. A hill rose above them. She knew right away that she’d spend most of her time up there; she was always looking for an isolated perch from which to study someone else’s upbringing in order to forget about her own. Hordes of children packed into the same place was not an especially pleasant scenario for the organizers either. At times the racket seemed to reach all the way to the Amalfi Coast. But that wasn’t her problem. Like any child, she needed a vacation from her own hormones, from the nightly growth of her breasts, which was driving her crazy. She loved other girls’ tits. For herself she just wanted a straight line to death.

  On the first day, right after breakfast, she climbed the hill and sat in the shade. Anida was going swimming with her friends and called out to her, of course, to join them. But she turned her down. She only went swimming at dusk, when there was no one left in the lake. She’d been watching them curiously from the hill. They may have shared the same tent, but they clearly didn’t share the same thoughts: the other girls were obsessed with boys, and she couldn’t bring herself to think about them. Still, she would occasionally wonder what she might be missing out on.

  It was only on the third day that she dared to go in the lake with everyone else. A boy immediately grabbed her leg, wanting to start a conversation. It was a stupid, childish move, but she laughed. He was not repulsive to her. She swam away quickly nonetheless.

  She experienced swimming differently from table tennis. For her it wasn’t a sport. The nausea she woke up feeling on competition days disappeared in the lake water: she threw it to the muddy bottom with each crawl stroke. With each backstroke she unloaded the burden from her shoulders.

  Shit! she thought. I’m even competitive about intimate feelings.

  Everything in her world had become one big sports metaphor. Her muscular body carried her thoughts upstream, away from the tumult. She regarded the other swimmers with curiosity, like someone who had already beaten them at growing up, and at life. It was a sad gaze, but in the spirit of victory, she had to move on. After swimming, she climbed the hill more slowly than usual. She’d brought her book but she didn’t feel like cracking it open.

  The reason why she hadn’t gone to the European Junior Championships was trivial: the table tennis federation couldn’t afford to pay for her travel as well as that of her colleagues. The two best teenage girl athletes had stayed home. The kids in the younger division had gone; all the boys had gone. And it would’ve been fine (she was used to not having money) had she not, to her intense regret, reached an age when she could finally perceive the connection between money and men. She didn’t want to think about it, but she had no choice.

  That spring, the coach had invited her for fitness training camp. Everything that the boys’ teams did, the girls would have to do, too, except there was no financial support. But they didn’t tell her that before the trip. She ran for hours in sneakers with flimsy soles. She had blisters for days. Sometimes she squeezed her racket too hard, horrified by the thoughts that were bubbling to the surface, thoughts she couldn’t make sense of. She needed to talk to the other girls. Who was crushing on whom was, of course, a common topic in the locker room, but the girls never complained about the poor conditions because there were always boys playing in the hallway outside, at the tables in the best locations, with the best lighting. The girls trained obediently under flickering bulbs, on damaged floors. They showered and laughed together, but dreamed separately, each in her own room, steeped in lukewarm water and surging hormones. Perhaps it was then, as she watched her peers struggling to grow up, that her dissatisfaction asserted itself for the first time: Could a girl ever be important enough to be placed at the best table, beneath the b
est lights?

  On the hill she could indulge the vice of thinking in peace. She sat up there until lunchtime, then went down among the other kids and chatted as much as she had to. Anida spoke loudly about the band The Kelly Family. She didn’t know what to say in response. She preferred old Yugoslav pop songs. She could listen to Ivo Robić and Gabi Novak all day, but how to admit such a thing?

  When lunch was over, the others retreated to the tent to rest. Near the lake was a large meadow that led to an overgrown forest. She set off on a hike. She felt free when she didn’t have to watch what she was saying. She walked wherever she wanted. Just when she began searching for a spot where she could briefly lie down, she spotted in the distance the boy who’d touched her in the water. She ducked behind the nearest bush, hoping he hadn’t seen her. Once she was convinced he wasn’t following her, she got up and headed back to the camp. The kids had gone swimming. She sat by herself. Everything was all right.

  In the evening she wanted to swim again. She was most attracted to water when she couldn’t see her reflection in it. She swam frantically, like she was racing. Suddenly, in the middle of the lake, someone pulled her by the leg. Twice, quite hard. She paused.

  “Don’t!” she said.

  But when she turned, there was no one in the water.

  THAT NIGHT, she couldn’t sleep. She remembered her first fitness training in Hungary where, one night, in the cabin that housed all the girls, hundreds of cockroaches had fallen on their heads. Roaches had rained down from the ceiling at every angle. Wasn’t this invasion of disgusting insects the perfect herald of a dangerous adolescence? She was thirteen then and looked like a boy. Even now, three years later, things hadn’t changed that much. She hadn’t gotten her period. She wasn’t interested in boys. The picture she kept in her notebook wasn’t a photo of the famous Hollywood actor Leonardo DiCaprio, but a portrait of the Partisan hero Rade Končar.

  She listened to the other girls breathing in the tent. She didn’t have a watch, but she could sense that dawn was approaching. The first rays of the sun put her to sleep. She didn’t go to breakfast. She even slept through lunch.

  At the lake, she and Anida spoke briefly about table tennis. When summer was over, they’d have to start training again twice a day, sometimes for an exhausting six hours if the school allowed it. One hundred crunches, at least half an hour of running, and then stretching. She had to practice her spin and watch out for dangerous shots that opponents aimed at her torso. Her reflexes needed to be faster. Her wrists, more relaxed. She looked down at her legs: she was as agile as a cat, but twitchy. Her legs could not lessen the tension of her head. When she was depressed, not even a strong forehand could help. Her mood swings were visible to everyone. She didn’t fit in. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that she played in poor lighting. Sports had sculpted her body, but the grimaces came from within, from a place she wanted to hide.

  When she swam, time stood still. She stared down at the water: the surface of the lake thickened, grew more viscous. She swam with difficulty, as if through pancake batter. She felt herself becoming gooey, like a piece of dough changing shape. She wasn’t scared; she’d always imagined growing up that way. The roar of the children around her continued unabated. She was the only one to notice what was happening. She knew such changes were necessary. In a couple of years she’d even love cabbage rolls: that’s how deep the transformation would go.

  As for Tituba, the Black witch of Salem, she delighted in her character: “Out of them all, you’ll be the only one to survive.” The first part of the novel ended with these words. She didn’t dare read any further. The sun was beating down on her head. She set the book down on a towel and went back into the water. Surviving the first half of the nineties had been a real miracle. Surviving girlhood would be an even greater accomplishment. She admired herself for not bleeding. Nothing kept her from swimming. In high school, she never even missed gym class. Especially not when they were at the pool. The “women’s problems” that plagued her had to do with the plot of Maryse Condé’s novel, not with menstruation. The water didn’t completely soothe her readerly unease, but she swam and swam. Had she continued at that pace, she could’ve crossed the Adriatic and gone to the competition in Italy. She was only sixteen, but she knew her efforts were insufficient. She could try her hardest, but it wouldn’t stop her breasts from growing. She’d soon be crossing into puberty. Aging wasn’t something you could postpone.

  Out of them all, I’ll be the only one not to survive, she thought.

  She choked. She’d swallowed some lake water and it brought her back to reality. The young man was paddling his legs in the water. He observed her carefully. No one else seemed to pay him any attention. It was as if they didn’t even see him. She knew he wasn’t staying in the camp. No one in his family worked for the postal service. She dove down into the water. When she surfaced, he was gone. She thought of the lake fairies who dragged men under. Maybe the young man would be their first victim this year?

  DURING THE NIGHT she was awakened by a loud cry. The girl next to her had begun to bleed profusely. They helped her to her feet. Blood soaked her sleeping bag. Her sobs soon woke the rest of the girls. First they wadded some hand towels between her legs, then they switched to beach towels. Then they wrapped her in a sheet. When they saw that she wouldn’t stop bleeding, they took her to the infirmary. The woman who worked there was awful. She asked the girl whom she’d slept with, whether she was a virgin or not. She yelled and insulted her. The girl was rapidly losing blood. The doctor on duty mentioned a miscarriage, then menorrhagia, which they’d never heard of. Ultimately the girl, wrapped in a sheet like a corpse, was thrown into a car—not an ambulance—and sent home, one hundred eighty kilometers away. The doctor didn’t even bother to call her parents.

  The whole tent reeked of blood. No one could go back to sleep. The girls were shuffled around to other areas of the campsite. She grabbed her sleeping bag, climbed the hill, and stretched out in the same spot where, earlier in the day, she’d sat thinking. Under the clear night sky, it suddenly occurred to her that the heavy bleeding hadn’t been a gynecological problem. Something else was going on. She would have to find out what had happened to the girl.

  Over the next five days, three more girls from her tent ended up in the infirmary. They were raced to Jablanica for a blood transfusion because all three had collapsed at the same time. Swaddled in blankets, they looked like rag dolls. Their parents needed to be notified of the incident, but the trip organizer wanted to cover it all up, lying to the mothers and fathers that it was simply anemia. When the girls returned to the camp, she noticed how much they had changed. Everyone pretended that nothing strange had happened, but the girls’ faces looked different than they had before. She could clearly see the transformation. They still went swimming with Anida, but they walked strangely, as if they’d gone to a place that had turned them upside down.

  Nothing bad happened to the boys in the meantime. For them, the summer was truly perfect. They played basketball and soccer. They swam, ate overstuffed bologna sandwiches, and thought about the girls—but also about the adult women who ran the camp.

  “The things I’d do to her,” she heard one say.

  In her mind, those “things” could only mean going to the European Junior Championships instead of her, in her place.

  “Gross!” she said.

  The kid turned, the first hints of fuzz erupting from his upper lip.

  “What are you whining about?” he shouted. “As if you wouldn’t! Did you see those tits?!”

  He thought he was addressing another boy. Then he looked at her more closely.

  “I thought you were a guy,” he said, confused.

  She became a piece of dough again, and the ground on which she trod turned to water. She turned and swam away. Why did she lose to men every time? She wandered absently into the field and entered the woods. She walked, contemplating her own gender. How could you beat an opponent if you started the match with half the points already decided in his favor? You play until 21, and the scoreboard says 0–11. You haven’t even taken your racket out of its case yet, and you’re already losing.