The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

explains. “This singer…She’s just making fun of the whole fucking thing.”
    The f-word quietly explodes in the room, like a silent but serious fart. Her father kindly reminds her that such a word is not accepted in his house, and even Toxic is thrown off guard, remembering how “the fucking thing” saved his life.
    We go through ten or so more songs—most of them falling into the Slavic techno category, or Technoslavic as we say—until my dear Croatia appears. Good old Hrvatska. Tomo almost pees in his underpants as he watches the national goddess walk on stage. It’s Severina. Good old Severina. Severina Vuckovic. To the boys of Split she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She was four years older than me, and I didn’t even dare dreaming about her. I once saw her walking down Marmontova with her mom, and got those terrible heart-hiccups. Though I haven’t seen her in years—not since her sex tape went viral on the Internet and got every Croat peeing tears for a week—but she still looks like the most beautiful woman in the world. She’s wearing a long red dress, open at the front, showing off her perfect legs. She’s backed by some funked-up folk band. “Jer jo š trava nija nikla.” I get all homesick; I feel it in my stomach. Ah, this is terrible. “Tamo gdje je stala moja š tikla.” Man, this is too much for me. I can’t help it, but watching her dance on the screen creates a deep feeling inside me. It’s like seeing your parents’ foreplay, the prelude to your conception, the very reason for your existence.
    I get a very homesick hard-on.
    And somewhere deep inside, I feel like crying. But my tears of stone won’t return to liquid form. They should make Viagra for crying. I hope they don’t notice my misty eyes, my sad mouth, or my heavy-duty hard-on saluting my homeland. It’s my language. The girl of my childhood dreams…It hits the lonely man in exile like a man being run over by a NYC truck full of tabloids (with Tony fucking Danza on the front page). Oh. Moja voljena domovina…
    They look at me. I must look like a lone puppy longing for his mother. I have to say something.
    “It’s the memories…,” I manage to stammer. “…of Yugoslavia.”
    They turn their heads back to the screen, ignoring the heartbroken priest sitting on their sofa. Severina keeps on screaming: “Moja š tikla! Moja š tikla!” That would be “My high heel! My high heel!” Suddenly the doorbell rings. It has the sound of church bells. Goodmoondoor goes to the door, and I hear two men talking to him.
    This is my cue.
    I excuse myself and get up, pretending to go to the bathroom, but continue through the dining room, all the way to the back of the house. I open the door out on to the veranda and hesitate for a very brief moment. The icy spring air in my face, I face the fact that I’m not wearing any shoes, only my NYC socks. In the background, Severina howls on about her stilettos. I let them be my shoes as I step out on the cold veranda and quickly close the door behind me. Then I run like a crazy man out in the garden and through the next.

CHAPTER 11
TADEUSZ
    05.20.2006
    Running on Icelandic asphalt in summer-thin American socks is hard on Croatian feet. Still I’m not going to cry about that. I’m a hitman, not a priest.
    I let the cold be my whip as I run up the street, heading deeper into this suburb of mini-mansions. Luckily no one sees me. Everybody’s watching Severina’s štikla dance. High heels are the woman’s pedestal. You just have to worship the girl who wears them. In fact, you can measure a woman by her shoes. The more feminine she is, the higher her heel. Severina’s heels are usually as long as the barrel of a 9mm. One of our friends said he spent a night with her on his father’s boat, right in the harbor. “Making waves until the morning light.” We didn’t believe him, but of course we couldn’t prove him wrong either. True or false, he built his whole reputation on the story and ended up in fucking Parliament. Every time his face pops up on HRT , I automatically reach for my gun.
    I don’t see any police cars around. No SWAT teams or secret agents with woolen caps jumping over hedges. I think the two men spoke to Goodmoondoor in Icelandic. The local police department is working for the Feds. All small nations suck up to the USA. Everybody wants their Hollywood moment. I wonder if the Icelandic police would ever do the same for the Iranian equivalent of