Girl at War (21 page)

“Ana?”

“Can you hear me?”

“Barely! How are you? I’ve been so worried!”

“I’m fine. We’re down the coast. No Internet and stuff. Sorry I haven’t been in touch more.”

“I got your email. But you should’ve called.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Is Rah—Rachel home?”

“She’s at soccer practice.”

“Can I call back and leave a voice mail for her?”

“That’d be nice.”

“Okay, I’ll do that now.”

“You’re good though?” Laura said.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well, I’m glad. Thanks for calling. And don’t—”

The line crackled, then went dead. I readjusted the cord, called back, and rang through to what I hoped was the voice mail, though the sound was more static than words. “Hi,
Rachel. I’m in Croatia at the beach and it’s very beautiful. I’ve been taking some pictures for you. Maybe, if Mom says it’s okay, you can come with me next summer. You’d like it here—” The line made a loud, unfamiliar buzzing sound. “Love you!” I yelled over the tone and hung up. Then I went back into the store and bought a postcard and an airmail stamp so I could write to Brian that night.

On my way home I knocked on the door of the old woman and waited a long time for someone to come. The lamps were unlit and there were no children playing out back.

“Tomorrow then,” I said to the empty house.

I showered beneath a pipe that stood at the edge of the cliff, a place of both total exposure and unmitigated solitude. I could see the whole village, busy with the activities of dusk. Old men on the pier were pulling up their wire fishing cages. The shopkeeper turned off his lights; someone at the church turned the steeple light on. The salt from the sea had dried in visible tide lines on my body, and I rubbed them away. The wind whistled in the hollows of my ears, was sharp against my wet skin, and made the cold water from the spigot feel warm.

Luka stoked the fire in the brick grill out front, and I scrounged around in the kitchen for any utensils left behind.
Marina hadn’t forgotten anything of use, and I took comfort in the fact that it looked like she’d had time to pack. I cleared off the counter, lining the Polaroids of the concrete hands and Luka and Plitvice on a ledge along the wall. I’d bring them home for Rahela, but for now they fit well here.

We cooked the fish with oil and pine branches, then laid it on the kitchen table and pulled it apart with our hands. It was gritty and salty and not altogether descaled, but the oil and pine smoke flavored it enough. For dessert we ate the peanut butter, scraping the sides of the jar clean. The last of the gulls and kittiwakes were calling to each other, nesting for the night.

“You know, you could come to America,” I said.

“I don’t think my English is good enough.” He said it so quickly I knew he’d been thinking about it.

“Your English is fine. But come for a visit at least. Come see me in New York.”

“I could do that.”

Tiska was black now, and I wondered how late it was. I hadn’t seen a clock all day. It was a rare pleasure afforded by the village not to be governed by time, to eat when hungry and sleep when tired. And I was tired now—my stomach full, my muscles aching, and my mind warm and blurry.

I listened to Luka wonder aloud how migrating birds found their way back each season as we spread out our blankets and lay down on the floor, the tiles cool and hard against
my stiff back. Through the gash in the roof we could see the sky, and we stretched our arms upward, tracing constellations. It calmed me, just like it had when we were small and hungry and scared of dying. Around the room the moon filled the shell marks in the walls with a pallid blue light, and they looked full again, like a home.

For my family
,

and for A

There are many people without whom this book would not exist. Special thanks to:

My remarkable editor, David Ebershoff, who was exactly what this story needed, his assistant Caitlin McKenna, and everyone at Random House who worked to make this book a book. My agent, Kristina Moore, and the great people at Wylie. Friends and family in Zagreb and Pisak—Dubravka, Matea, Marin, Joško, Šinko, Novak, and especially Darko—for sharing their stories with me. The many professors at Emerson College and Columbia University who supported me, particularly Jon Papernick, Jonathan Aaron, and Jay Neugeboren. My MFA colleagues, for enduring my incessant talk of this project, and for their friendship. Alan, for his keen editing eye and skilled hand-holding. Zach, for
never letting me take myself too seriously. My family: my mother for putting a pen in my hand, my father for teaching me how to tell a story. My grandparents for thinking I was great before I’d done anything at all. And to Aly, who read this first.

S
ARA
N
OVIĆ
was born in 1987 and has lived in the United States and Croatia. She recently graduated from the MFA program at Columbia University, where she studied fiction and translation. She is the fiction editor at
Blunderbuss Magazine
and teaches writing at the Fashion Institute of Technology and Columbia University. She lives in Queens, New York.

www.sara-novic.com

@NovicSara