Zagreb Cowboy (25 page)

“We’ve met her.”

“Terrific. Listen, when you see her next, can you give her something for me?” Branko asked.

“What?”

“A pat on the back for telling you guys I’m here. With a tire iron. Visitors like you I can live without.”

Messar got out of his chair.

“Do us a favour in return. Give our regards to Strumbić. And remind him that he hasn’t asked to take any holiday time off. So it’s unpaid leave,” Messar said. “It’s been nice chatting. Next time I see you it’ll be either in the morgue or in the dock of a Zagreb courtroom.”

“And you have a nice day too,” said Branko through gritted teeth, the pain in his stump shooting up his side.

He’d medicated himself with the grappa bottle he’d hidden so that when Matron came to give him his painkillers, she didn’t confiscate it. Eventually, the agony in his stump muted into a low throb.

• • •

It was after visiting hours when Branko felt somebody shaking him awake. At first he thought Anzulović and the Nazi had come back, but as his eyes drew back into focus he saw, instead, a pair of ghouls. The one shaking him was bent to the side like a banana, while the other was missing the whole top row of his teeth. Branko could tell because the man seemed able to breathe only through his mouth; his nose was mashed flat.

“We were told you were here,” said the human banana with a heavy Bosnian accent.

“Who the hell are you? You shouldn’t be here, it’s after hours.”

“That’s okay. The nurse is fine about it. She might not be when she wakes up, though.” His shoulders rose and fell as though he was laughing, though no sound came.

“I cannot tell a lie. You’re right, I’m here. That still doesn’t tell me who you are or what you want,” Branko said.

“We think you might know where Mr. Strumbić is.”

“I should have guessed it might have to do with Julius. What do you want?”

“He owes us some money.”

“Look, he’s usually good for it. Send him an invoice.”

“Can you tell us where he is?”

“Everyone wants Strumbić. I’ve got no idea where he is. Hey, put that down,” he said to the mouth-breather, who’d opened the bottle of grappa and was taking a long drink. The mouth-breather ignored him and offered the bottle to the banana, but the banana shook his head.

“He picked up a pink Mercedes in Trieste this morning. We lost him for a while, but then we saw his car pulling away from your building. Must be the pinkest Mercedes I’ve ever seen. Actually, I’ve never seen a pink Mercedes before. But we lost him again. It might be pink, but it’s fast. So we went back to your place. The old woman said everyone’d been looking for you today. She didn’t sound happy about it. We figured if Strumbić was looking for you, he’d found you and you might be able to tell us where he was going.”

“You speak Italian?”

“Not a word.”

“I’d have paid to hear the conversation you had with the old lady.”

“Yeah, it was a real problem to make ourselves understood. We thought it was our accent at first. Didn’t we, Besim?” The banana grinned, but the mouth-breather didn’t say anything.

“So how’d she tell you Strumbić had been looking for me and where I was if you couldn’t talk to her?”

“Took us a while but we got there, didn’t we, Besim? She showed us.”

“She’s here?”

“Oh no, she’s in the boot of the car. We’ll drop her off later. I think she’ll be okay, but she is pretty old. Where’s Strumbić?”

“What’d you do to the old lady?”

“Doesn’t matter. Where’s Strumbić?”

“Hey, what are you doing there?” Branko said to the mouth-breather, who had unscrewed the top of the invalid’s drip — one of the old-fashioned glass bottle kinds — and was pouring the rest of the grappa into it.

“Where’s Strumbić?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t, that’s not nice. I’m not a well man.”

“You going to tell us or are we going to have to operate on you? Looks like they forgot to take one of your legs off. We can fix that for you.”

“Christ almighty. He’s gone to London. Somewhere in London.
He’s got a place on somewhere called E-A-S-T H-E-A-T-H R-O-A-D
, that’s all I can remember. I think it’s a road or something. The place is an apartment building. It doesn’t have a number, just a name. That’s all I know, I swear, guys.”

Branko’s speech was already slurring and the room was spinning around his head like a helicopter blade. He felt numb. He certainly couldn’t feel the pain in his stump anymore. In fact, he couldn’t feel much of anything anymore.

As they went out, the banana helped himself to the ten-
thousand
-lira notes by Branko’s bed. Branko didn’t look like he’d be needing them.

“
S
O HOW WAS
your holiday?” della Torre asked.

“Fantastic. Just terrific,” Harry said. “Really relaxing. The food was delicious; they’ve got such a good cook. But even when we had to fend for ourselves, you’d always have nice cheeses, or pâtés for a picnic lunch, or cold chicken. A couple of times we picked mussels. You just pick huge mounds of them off the rocks and piers and then you collect as many dry pine needles as you can. You know, those Mediterranean pines with the really long needles? Once you get inland the ground’s covered in them. You put the mussels on top of a big sheet of corrugated steel and then pile on the pine needles and set a match to them. The whole thing goes up like a petrol station. It’s got to be on the beach, otherwise you’ll burn the whole forest down. The mussels cook instantly and you eat them there and then, and they’ve got a pine-resiny flavour. Not something you’d order in a restaurant, but on the beach it was delicious with some of the local iced rosé. We’d have the pick of their cellar too, really yummy wines: Bordeaux reds and whites and some mind-blowing Sauternes.”

“For somebody who spent two weeks eating and drinking, you don’t look like you’ve put on any weight.” Was it only two weeks? It had felt longer to della Torre. She’d gone when much of the Heath was in that fuzzy springtime, its hedges covered with pale green and white blossoms. But now most of the candles were gone from the horse chestnuts and the grass was waist-high.

“Don’t you believe it,” said Harry. “This frock just hides it well.”

Della Torre’s eyebrows shot up. He couldn’t imagine the short, tight black cocktail dress she wore hiding so much as a Band-Aid. The thin cashmere cardigan she’d pulled over her shoulders merely drew attention to the lithe figure underneath the dress.

“So did you do anything other than eat and drink?”

“We swam all the time. And bicycled. That’s mostly how you get around the island, on a bicycle. They’ve got these great long cycle paths and there aren’t many roads. So we spent a lot of time exploring. We went swimming every day. They’ve got a pool at the villa, but the beach was only a couple of hundred metres down a path. It seemed like a hundred kilometres of sand. On the other side of the island there are these nice coves. It’s rockier there, and that’s where they keep their dinghies. So we’d cycle across and do some sailing. The cook packed perfect picnics.”

“Back to food.”

“You’d have loved it there, I’m sure. Had I known you longer, I’d have asked to take you along, but it was a group of such old and close friends that it’s hard to bring somebody new in. What did you do with yourself? Were you lonely?” She paused. “Did you miss me?”

He looked at her. They’d met up for dinner at a fashionable restaurant in Chelsea, her recommendation.

After returning to London from their — what was it? a romantic entanglement? — they had hardly seen each other. Harry was busy with work and social engagements and then suddenly she was gone, off to France.

This was the first he’d properly seen of her since that weekend by the coast. He wasn’t really sure where they stood with each other. For the moment, it didn’t matter. He had her to himself.

The sun had turned her skin golden, making her eyes even bluer and her hair a richer, paler straw. The truth was he’d missed her very much, and he felt a pang of self-pity that he’d had so little of her to himself.

During that time he’d been in some sort of limbo. He’d gone to various clinics and medical libraries to do research on blood and
AIDS
but got no further with his far-fetched thesis. He monitored developments in Yugoslavia as best he could, growing anxious at being away from it. He knew he wouldn’t be able to influence matters. But even so, it was worse to be watching from London. The collision was coming and, in his bones, he felt it was going to be a bloody one. He felt guilty at having run away.

“I read and took long walks on the Heath. It’s a lovely place, easy to get used to,” he said.

He’d indulged himself. He’d had more time to be alone with his thoughts over the past month than at any time since childhood. He didn’t explore so much as let the Heath swallow him; he disappeared along the forest paths, through the meadows, past the ponds fringed with willows, where hardy swimmers almost inevitably twice his age braved the early morning chill. His ruminations kept company with the dog-walkers, birdwatchers, joggers. He’d walk to Kenwood, the grand country house at the top of the Heath, and take in the bucolic vistas. Keats’s house was nearby, and he reacquainted himself with the Romantic’s poetry.

He’d filled his mind with music — Wagner and Bruckner, Bach and Brahms, and always Beethoven. And with trashy novels. They worked best. He’d never had much patience with television. There was never anything worth watching in Yugoslavia
.

Soon, ex-Yugoslavia. Would he ever go back?

“Isn’t it just.” Harry looked him over with soft eyes.

“What?” he asked, drawn out of his thoughts.

“The Heath.”

“Yes, yes, it is.”

A waiter discreetly interrupted them, and they ordered.

“I’m sorry about the past week. I had to shove all my appointments into when I got back. Stacked-up obligations are how you have to pay for having nice times.”

“Is this an obligation?”

She stared at him hard. “No. This is pleasure.”

“So, how many of you were there?”

“Oh, there were always at least a dozen, and for about four days there were nearly thirty if you count the babies. I mean, it’s a big house, but that was a squash.”

“Were they all old friends?”

“Nearly all. One or two newish boyfriends or girlfriends, but they were mostly out of place and got ignored. And the kids, of course, but they don’t count.”

“Where exactly is it?”

“It’s off the west coast of France. It’s where the smart French go on holiday. All the nouveau money goes to Saint-Tropez, but the old money goes west. It’s much less spoilt and much more chic.”

“I’ll have to try it sometime.”

“You’d fit right in.”

They drained their glasses of kir and their first courses arrived. Della Torre figured he’d have been able to eat for the best part of a week in Zagreb on the money his scallops cost. It didn’t matter. Strumbić was paying.

“When I got to the office, there were about a hundred messages from your Mr. Strumbić-Vodka. Apparently he was very irritated but not entirely comprehensible.”

“I know, you’d said.”

“Sorry. I forgot I saw a bit of you this week. It’s been such a blur.”

“His English isn’t very good.”

“It isn’t, is it. His Italian’s passable, though,” Harry said.

“Just as well you speak it.”

“I tried calling the number in Mestre to get a message through to him, but there was no answer.”

“I guess he’s onto us.”

“I suppose so. We’ll have forty thousand pounds next week, though. He won’t know about that until he gets his bank statement and my letter. I won’t send it until it’s time for the last instalment. So how long do we keep going?”

“Not much longer.”

“Next week? I’ll get the furniture moved into my father’s barn, but I don’t want that to happen until we’re about to leave.”

He smiled, but it worried him that Strumbić was getting anxious. Della Torre had thought they’d have at least six months clear of him — that the investigation by Messar would more or less pin Strumbić down. Strumbić knew the
UDBA
would be keeping close tabs on him until they finally gave up searching for della Torre. But maybe with war starting he would have a chance of disappearing into the chaos.

Della Torre had wanted to find Irena. To see her, to tell her he was fine. But he’d stopped himself. The
UDBA
would track him down through her. And as long as he stayed away, she’d also be safe.

“So were there any interesting men?”

“Oh yes. Very interesting. Very, very interesting,” she said with a mischievous smile. “One was an astronomer, so he told us all about the stars. We’d lie on picnic blankets over the pine needles at night and he’d point out the constellations in this sexy whisper . . . But it was lucky that stargazing is an outdoor pursuit. You didn’t want to get too close because of his breath. He could strip paint with it. Another one was an Olympic fencer. Tall and supple. But he’s a good friend’s husband and likes to keep his sword well sheathed, I’m told. And there were a couple of guys from the New York music industry. Very good-looking. Witty. Able to talk about anything intelligently. One has a Ph.D. in classical history and the other trained as an engineer.” She paused for effect. “But gay, unfortunately. There was a writer and a whole bale of lawyers. I think that’s what you call a group of lawyers. A bale. They certainly were baleful. You might have found them interesting.”

“I’m sure I would.”

“But, sadly, nothing to entertain a girl’s fancy. Any luck with the women in Hampstead?”

“Are there any? I hadn’t noticed.”

“For shame. You won’t find a better collection of trophy wives east of New York. All of them pining for a bit of adventure. But no, you’ve got your nose in a book and your head in the clouds. Did you read anything edifying?”

“Jilly Cooper. Dick Francis. Anthony Powell. That’s off the top of my head. But there was a lot of unmemorable stuff too.”

She laughed. “So you went right through the high end of my collection.”

“I made up for it with the music. I learned to like Shostakovich and Britten. The Bach and the Brahms and the Beethoven I mostly knew, but the twentieth-century stuff I’d always been sniffy about. I suppose that’s because I’d never really listened to it before.”

“Bravo.”

“Thanks to your collection.”

“Did you try the sheet music?” She ran her fingers along an imaginary keyboard. “Do you play?”

“I don’t know. I never tried.”

She laughed as if she’d never heard the joke before.

After dinner, they flagged down a cab.

Della Torre was amused to watch another as yet undiscovered part of London go past. The city seemed endless and limitless. And then he was back in the brutally familiar.

The building was unmistakable, the Brompton Oratory’s floodlit Baroque lines, its white stone a shroud of della Torre’s memory, catching him unaware. The rush of images from his student days there came to him, uncalled and unwanted. Croatian Mass in the crypt chapel on Sunday mornings.

Svjet.

Della Torre shuddered. The memory gripped him. For a moment the pain became physical, girdling him with a pulse and then another one.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked.

“Sure. I probably ate too much,” he replied, his eyes on London’s passing lights. It took a force of will to forget.

The taxi stopped at the bottom corner of the Heath so that they could walk back, the late evening still shedding a soft glow. Della Torre threw the whole of his attention onto Harry. She watched in amusement the men, in singles and couples, who furtively made their way into the parkland’s deep woods.

“Think of all the good times that are going on not much past the foot of our building,” she said.

“Is that so?”

“The Heath is notorious. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed.”

“I did rather wonder once or twice, coming back late at night. People seemed unusually . . . friendly.”

“More than friendly, darling. Downright dirty. I’m sure they’d have loved to show you just how much,” Harry said. “On really still, warm nights, if you put your head out the window, you can sometimes hear them. It’s like a nature documentary.”

Harry opened another bottle of wine when they got back to the apartment. Della Torre stretched himself along one sofa. Harry took the one opposite, facing him, her legs tucked underneath her. The light was muted, but clear enough for della Torre to see the high colour in her cheeks. Her lips glowed red, though she’d used only a bit of gloss.

He lit a cigarette, and for once she didn’t complain. The windows were open and a faint breeze wafted the gossamer curtains.

“Cheers,” she said, raising her glass. “Thanks for dinner.”

“It was the least Strumbić could do.”

“He’s a very kind man,” she said.

“No, he isn’t. But he can be very entertaining.”

“Like tonight?”

“Yes, like tonight,” della Torre said. “By the way, I never properly thanked you for the weekend on the coast. I enjoyed it.”

“You mean you liked being hit on the head and made to go for a swim in a cold, cold river.” Her eyes glittered.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s what made the weekend.”

They were watching each other across the room.

“So, plenty of men on your magical island, but none that suited. What’s the line — water, water everywhere . . .” della Torre said.

“But not a one to lick.”

“I’m not quite sure that’s how it goes.”

“It seems right to me.”

“Should I be doing something right now?”

She shrugged. “Funny. I’d been pretty happy not to think about sex until you moved in,” she said.

“Had it been long?”

“You mean since the banker? About a year and a half.”