Farewell, Cowboy. Olja Savicevic
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that Čarija will appear behind me and spit into my hair. We used to do that at one time. I’m almost ready to give the daft bitch a hiding, because of today, because of every yesterday and day before yesterday, because of things that aren’t connected and because once, long ago her brothers cut my head open with a stone.
Maria had always been in the background: a silent Iroquois from that bellicose tribe. If she so much as made a sound, one of her relatives would bash her with a stick or turn on her with a ‘None of your crap’. Later her status improved – when it transpired that not one of the Iroquois, not even Tomi, could fire an air gun as accurately. When the fair came to town at New Year, the Iroquois Brothers took her to the shooting gallery and afterwards exchanged their trophies – lucky charms and teddy bears – with the gallery manager for a bottle of Ballantine’s.
‘Iroquois Maria can hit a bird’s eye in flight,’ the lads said.
But I remember her most clearly in connection with our ginger Jill.
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