During my military service in a gray provincial town in Croatia, from October 1969 to August 1970, I often slipped out of the barracks late in the evening, when the guard at the main entrance could not see much in the dark. His post was lit quite poorly, as there was a single lightbulb suspended between the pillars that supported the iron gate. At first, the thrill of escaping was perhaps more enticing than the wish to go to the local night club, where dancing and drinking went on until dawn. There was no other place to go to. Gradually and stubbornly I made a couple of acquaintances there, starting with the all-important barman, and the regulars stopped noticing me and my baggy uniform, my enormous boots, my glistening skull, and my odor. Among the regulars there was an attractive girl. Lanky, sensual, neurotic, audacious, and apparently free, she dominated the dancing floor. She was everywhere. And she was indomitable, as I could not discern any pattern in her choice of partners. At long last I approached her and we danced together. Her name was Filomena. The incongruity was so obvious, I thought, that she could not avoid accepting my timid offer. I grew courageous, and before long we felt close. After a couple of evenings, there was no doubt that something special was going on between us. But when I kissed her on the dancing floor, she pulled back and said defiantly: “I am a lesbian!” I did not understand her at first, and she laughed. Eventually, I shrugged my shoulders, and behaved as though nothing had changed. In fact, nothing had changed. The attraction was real and mutual. One evening, exhausted and rather drunk, I asked her to come out of the club, and sit with me in the adjoining courtyard, through which one had to pass on the way to the club. She looked at me seriously, hesitated for a moment, and then accepted the idea. We went out. For the first time we were alone, although we had spent several long evenings together. Filomena was nervous, and that puzzled me. There was almost no light out there. We both lit our cigarettes, and then I came closer and embraced her. This was my chance, I thought. Her face transformed instantaneously, panic spread through every feature of that beautiful face, and her eyes grew ever larger. Her eyes exploded. She suddenly assumed an animal expression, let out a horrible shriek, jumped away from me, and ran through the gate that led to the street. Everything happened so quickly that I could not but stare after her in utter amazement. Not only had I not experienced such fear in others ever before, but I also could not fathom its connection with anything I had done. Confused and sad, I dragged myself to the barracks through the empty streets. It was very dark and dogs were barking everywhere. I almost got caught by the officer on duty, as I could not concentrate on the intricate procedure of returning to my bed. Her eyes would not go away the whole night and the next day. I returned to the club in the evening. She was there, too. We pretended that there was nothing to worry about. We continued pretending for a long time. For better or worse, we understood nothing. But the compassion I had felt for her since that terrifying evening ultimately eroded her fear, and after a month or so Filomena overcame it. For a while, it appeared that we were in love. I was her first fearless soldier.

Addendum I (March 11, 1988)

In her letter last week, my mother wrote that Filomena just called from her home town. She still lives there, and must be almost forty by now. My father was on the phone, so the conversation was very short. He can never manage more than ten words on the phone. At any rate, Filomena told him that she remembered me fondly. “He was such a clever young man,” she reportedly said. She would like to see me when I come to Yugoslavia this summer.

Addendum II (March 21, 1994)

In 1970, close to the end of my military service, I was transferred to Zagreb for a month or so, after which period I returned to Sisak. My uncle and aunt in Zagreb kept some of my civilian clothing, and so I was able to fully enjoy Zagreb’s night life. Through a few childhood friends who had since moved from Belgrade to Zagreb I quickly found a circle of people very much to my liking. Marijana was a part of that circle. Through her I met several interesting people, mainly architects and artists. Making love to Marijana made me forget Filomena for a while, but I soon grew apprehensive of the signs that Marijana was falling in love with me, as well as that she was having some secret thoughts about a long-term relationship with me. When I was transferred back to Sisak, she would come to visit me every weekend. As is usually the case in such situations, I grew colder as she grew more interested in me. Thus my memory of our lovemaking on wilted grass littered with cigarette buts in the dingy parks of Sisak is not entirely pleasant. I would increasingly often bang her from behind so as not to have to look at the blissful expression on her face. But there is one memory of Marijana that springs to mind as somewhat pleasant: the first and only time I made love to a woman in a car was in her Volkswagen parked in a very steep and dark street someplace in the center of Zagreb. The imagined exposure of the venue gave us both wonderful orgasms.

Addendum III (September 1, 2012)

I just went through the Google Analytics content drilldown for my Residua website. I was surprised to find quite a number of search words or phrases in Croatian rather than English. It took me a while to figure out that they actually spell out an entire message. “Hello!” is the first search word. The first search phrase is as follows: “Check the message on Facebook.” Of course, I abandoned Facebook a couple of years ago, but I remain registered on the social network for some strange reason. The second search phrase is the clincher: “I remember every single moment.” “Filomena” is the last search word. Clearly, she must have figured out that I was using Google Analytics, and her message eventually came through loud and clear. I immediately went to check what I have written about Filomena. And I was surprised again when I found out that I had skipped mentioning my last meeting with her. She came to see me in Belgrade just before I left for the States. We made love only once. It was in my parents’ apartment. Since I do not remember almost anything about the event, I am glad that Filomena remembers every single moment. And I am happy that things stay this way.

Addendum IV (March 24, 2013)

Filomena has kept sending me all sorts of messages, but I have kept mum all the while. Let old love affairs remain old love affairs. Bit by bit, she has quieted down, too. The last message of hers appeared on Google Analytics several weeks ago. “Hello,” it goes, “the hardest nut to crack!” It made me kind of proud, I must admit. Congratulations, Filomena!