Killing Pilgrim (6 page)

“Well, Rebecca wanted a swim and I thought it’d be a good chance to get one or two things done in town.”

“Where’d she go?”

“St Nikola,” his father said, waving over to the pine-covered island on the other side of the harbour. Years before, it had been taken over by German, Austrian, and Italian nudists. “She said she was swimming there and taking the midday boat back. She has a little waterproof rucksack that she swims with. Ingenious.”

“She must have some stamina,” della Torre said.

His father hemmed in answer.

The waiter came over and della Torre ordered a lemonade. There was no point in getting tanked up this early in the day; he could still feel the afterburn of the slivovitz.

“So what do you think it’s going to be, Dad?”

“What?”

“The thing you seem to spend your life on these days.” His father seemed unsure how to answer, so della Torre continued: “The state of the nation.”

“Oh.” His father looked relieved at the question. He sat up a little, giving himself space to wave his hands around, which he did when he became animated by a subject of close personal interest. “They’ve let the Slovenes go, but Croatia’s another matter. The Serbs want all the Serbs in Croatia to be part of Greater Serbia, which means chopping the republic into bits, especially if they want access to the Adriatic. Which they do. The army is led mostly by Serbs, so it’ll go that way. Croatia hasn’t got a chance unless it can pull the Germans and the Americans into the fight. The Germans are supportive, but they won’t fight. The Americans would fight, but now that the Soviets are falling apart, they’re not so interested. The Russians will support the Serbs, though they’ve got plenty on their own plate.”

“Will it be war?”

“It is war. The only question is whether our dear and noble Croatian leaders roll over and allow the Serbs to take big chunks of Croat territory or whether they put up resistance. If they roll over, the crisis will keep flaring up for decades. If they put up a fight it’ll be quicker and bloodier. But the result will be the same, unless Croatia can get the Germans actively involved or make the Americans think it’s worth their while to help. The Americans might respond to being bribed. Except we have nothing to bribe them with. There’s no oil and not a hell of a lot else besides pretty scenery, and they have enough scenery of their own. We might be able to use moral suasion, but a lot of innocent people would have to die first before a sense of outrage forced the Americans to notice. Or we could try blackmail.”

“Blackmail? You mean like catching the ambassador in a clinch with a male prostitute?”

“Probably something bigger than that. But don’t ask me what. I can’t even imagine,” his father said with an elaborate shrug.

“Maybe if we told them Elvis is still alive and living in a Belgrade brothel,” della Torre said.

His father waved a hand at his son. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Or that the Yugoslavs helped to fake the moon landings,” della Torre said.

“Could you imagine if Yugoslavia had had a space program?” His father shook his head.

“We’d be world experts in fireballs and crash landings.”

“The space capsules would have all come with cigarette dispensers and ashtrays, and we’d have invented a way of propelling them with slivovitz,” his father added, throwing himself into the joke.

“And when they got there, our astronauts would have spent their time trying to claim asylum so they didn’t have to come back. Though the lack of cafés might have put them off.” Della Torre called the waiter over and was met with a surly shrug. “Maybe we could threaten to destroy the American service industry by sending them all our waiters.”

“Ah, well, they know how to smile in theory, that’s all that counts.”

Della Torre grew more serious. “So we’re screwed one way or another,” he said. They’d had variations on this conversation for years.

“These are the Balkans. The Balkans are always screwed,” Piero said.

“I guess at least Istria will be fine.”

“You think so? The Serbs might not take much of an interest, but when the Croats over there —” He waved his arm in the direction of the east. “— get pushed out of their lands, they’re going to want to go somewhere. And they’re going to want to find a new bunch of people to tell what to do.”

“Yes. I got that message already this morning.”

“Back when it was a struggle between Zagreb and Belgrade, they left us alone. Once Belgrade wins that particular fight, Zagreb will have plenty of time to devote itself to other problems. Besides, they’ll need to tax somebody. Look, you can see them over there. The Serbs.” The senior della Torre motioned towards the sea, where a warship sat silhouetted against the horizon.

“Looks like a cruiser,” Rebecca said from behind them. Both men half stood from their chairs.

“Dad said you were coming in on the midday boat.”

“I decided to swim back. It was easy, no current and warm water. St Nikola was quite dull. Sea urchins and Mediterranean pines all get a bit samey after a while,” she said.

“You mean one prick’s much like another,” della Torre said.

Rebecca cocked her eyebrow. “Something like that,” she said.

She took a towel out of a bag next to the senior della Torre, squeezed the water out of her hair, and then pulled on a long shirt.

“Shall we order some food?” Piero said.

When
they got back to the house, della Torre decided on a shower and a siesta.

His skin was dripping when he shut the door from the hall to the little room behind him. With the shutters closed and a breath of cool air coming through the slats from the room next door, he was at last comfortable.

He threw himself on the single bed. The springs complained under his weight.

“So, did you get what you needed to do done this morning?”

She was speaking from her room, though he could hear her clearly through the louvred door.

“To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what I was meant to be doing this morning,” he replied, hardly having to raise his voice above a normal tone.

“They sent you all the way from Zagreb but didn’t tell you what they wanted you to do?”

“No. I belong to the army now. So there’s going to be a lot more of this in my life.”

“Didn’t you ask?”

“Oh, I asked. They’ll probably send me back when they’ve remembered what they forgot to tell me. I don’t mind.”

There was a silence.

“You know, your picture doesn’t do you justice,” she said. “You’re even better looking in person.”

“Ummm. Thanks,” he said.

He was at a loss for which picture she could possibly be referring to. The only one on display in the house was the one his father had taken of him on his twelfth birthday. He was standing next to his mother at the university campus in Ohio where his father had taught. They’d been on their way to a restaurant for lunch, a rare treat. Or maybe coming back from it. It was his mother’s last photograph.

The only other possibility was that Rebecca had found a passport-sized snap somewhere in the room, the kind that was used for official documents.

“It’s pretty nice and cool in this room. Have you got air conditioning there?”

“It’s fine,” he said. His heart started to beat a little faster.

“Well, if you wanted to get a little . . . cooler, you’re welcome to join me.”

“Thanks,” he said and after a huge effort of will, he added: “But I think I’d better not.”

“If you change your mind . . .”

She stopped talking after that. But he heard her moving on the bed regularly and breathing in time. She made a sound like a suppressed cough. He lay there, willing Rebecca to say something to him. Eventually he spoke to her, but it was too late. She was asleep.

• • •

Della Torre woke early the next morning. On the way to the bathroom, he saw his father standing by an open window looking over the terrace, watching Rebecca. At first della Torre didn’t register what she was doing. It looked like a dance, like she was falling through the air in regular undulating movements punctuated by staccato jerks. Something modern. Sometimes she picked up a long stake for vines, using it as part of her choreographed movements.

“Does that every morning,” his father said with a gently mocking tone. “Like she’s Bruce Lee.”

Della Torre nodded. Tai chi and other martial arts were popular in the West as exercise. In London earlier that summer, he’d frequently seen people, especially young women, practising similar moves in the park on weekend mornings.

He knew a little about it. He’d had some training in martial arts during his time in the commandos. The men who’d taught him had themselves spent years learning their skills in North Korea. There was a whole cohort of Yugoslav commandos who’d been through combat courses run by the North Koreans. They were unimaginably tough, brutal men who seldom talked about their experiences in that strange, distant country. Nothing their charges went through, they said, would even approach the pain they themselves had endured. This the younger men took as bravado. But, the trainers continued, what they themselves had suffered was small discomfort compared to what their North Korean peers were subjected to. Only a handful of the Yugoslav commandos in North Korea had died because of the training. Not more than one in twenty or thirty. Whereas the mortality rate for the North Korean commandos was one in four or even three.

As he watched Rebecca, della Torre realized she wasn’t an amateur using the martial arts movements as another way of staying lean and healthy. The exactness and speed of her repetition, the steady, inexorable increase in pace, told him she’d been doing this for years and had learned from professionals.

He knew the dance she did could be put to deadly effect.

“She’s the real thing, Dad,” della Torre said. And when his father gave him a puzzled look, he added, “Let’s just say that if you’ve got it in mind to have somebody’s legs broken, she’s your man. To move that fast and with that much control is very, very hard, I promise you. If you came at her with a knife, you’d be dead. If you had a gun, you’d better be shooting straight.”

• • •

He passed the rest of the weekend swimming, eating, and reading novels, trying to stay out of the way, though Rebecca sought him out. They had gone, without Piero, to a little-frequented stony cove a twenty-minute drive south of the port. His father had decided to stay back at the house. “To write,” he said.

When they got there, they waded in the water and then sat under the shade of a broad pine tree. Rebecca sat facing him, knees drawn up, feet apart so that he had to look away from the cleft barely covered by her bikini bottom. She talked about movies della Torre hadn’t heard of. He knew nothing about the music she mentioned, but they had similar tastes in trash novels. They talked a little about travelling. He was curious about her experiences in the Soviet Union. She asked him what it had been like to serve in the Yugoslav army, her questions making it clear she knew what she was talking about, though she wouldn’t be drawn out on why. She deflected all conversation about her family, her friends, her history. At most, she gave anodyne answers.

He felt frustrated at having been sent to Istria on a pointless errand, and that while there he’d managed to wedge himself between his father and whatever brief contentment had befallen him.

On Sunday he told them he’d be leaving for Zagreb early the following morning.

“I’ll come too,” Rebecca said. “It’s time I got going.”

Della Torre’s father made a frail effort to dissuade her. But she was adamant. Della Torre was intrigued at how firm she could be without being the least bit abrasive.

“But where are you staying in Zagreb?” the old man demanded, as if such a problem was insurmountable and might persuade her to stay in Istria.

“I’m sure there are hotels,” she said. “I stayed in one when I came. It’s probably still there.”

“They’re so expensive. No, you have to stay at my apartment. I insist.”

Della Torre was surprised. His wife . . . ex-wife, Irena, lived in his father’s apartment. There was a spare room, but he wasn’t sure what she’d think about having a stranger drop in on her. She’d go along with it, of course. But he didn’t think it’d be fair.

“That’s a very kind offer. Maybe I’ll take you up on it,” Rebecca said.

His father looked pleased at the small victory.

“She can stay with me. Your place wouldn’t do,” della Torre said reluctantly.

“My flat’s much nicer,” his father argued.

“Yes, but Irena’s living there. I’m sure Rebecca would be happy enough to stay with me.”

“It’s my apartment. I’m sure Irena wouldn’t mind for a few days. Besides, I can choose who stays there,” his father said, a hint of petulance in his voice. He’d always liked Irena and it surprised della Torre that he would put her in an awkward position.

“I think maybe Marko is right,” Rebecca said, putting a hand on the older man’s forearm. It looked to della Torre as if she was stroking it, very faintly. “You’ve done more than enough for me already, Piero. When you come to the States, you’ll let me return the favour. Promise?”

Della Torre’s father was beaten and didn’t offer up any more resistance. That night, he was the first to turn in.