The Small Boat of Great Sorrows (17 page)

About all that was left of those days now was a few old mosques, like the Suleiman, and the fifteenth-century castle overlooking the town from Mount Vlasic, the onetime stronghold of Bosnian kings.

They wove through the crowded narrow streets until they found the small hotel. Vlado dropped off his bag with Pine in the lobby, taking the car keys as Pine wished him luck. He was on his own now, could drive the Volvo off into the hills and never come back if he wanted. But Matek was waiting up on his mountain, the only one left who could escort Vlado into the past. As awkward and uncomfortable as the meeting promised to be, there was no way Vlado could refuse the invitation.

He easily found the turnoff to Mount Vlasic, climbing several miles before swerving onto a dirt road, the Volvo's underbelly bottoming out in the deeper ruts. At higher elevations the bare trees were coated with ice. On some curves he looked back down onto Travnik and remembered Pine's mentioning that Matek could see much of the road from his house and always knew when a visitor was approaching. Vlado thought he caught a glimpse of a red rooftop looming high up ahead, but the road was too twisting and narrow to allow the luxury of a longer look. Meanwhile, some rear chamber of his brain was still sorting through every retrievable memory of his father, looking for missed signs, gathering little threads from the past to see if they added up to anything meaningful. His father had passed himself off as a Muslim who never went to mosque, a Muslim who drank. Neither characteristic was unusual “down here,” as Pine would have said, but Vlado remembered that his father had also been talked into attending Catholic mass on occasion with his wife and son, and those Sundays now seemed significant. In addition, he had given his son a good Christian name, Vladimir. He must have sneaked off at times to confession, Vlado supposed, if he was any sort of Catholic. The parish priest had probably been happy to conspire with him, hearing his petty sins but probably never the big ones.

And what about that trip long ago to his Uncle Tomislav's? That night out back with all the shouting and drinking. Now, what had that been about? Had his uncle fought in the war as well?

He remembered a wooden crucifix hanging in his aunt and uncle's bedroom, the bleeding Jesus with the agonized upturned face that had always seemed to be staring at a crack in the ceiling. Of course. His father's family had all been Catholics. The stupid son could have added it up as simply as the beads on a rosary if he'd ever bothered to think. But such details had run together when he was a boy. Tito had asked that crosses and crescents be considered little more than quaint symbols of their past, and Vlado had obediently obliged, never pausing to note their significance.

Vlado glimpsed the tile roof again, much closer now. Matek was probably watching his car, the engine rumbling like something tunneling toward him through the mountain. The Volvo's springs creaked through another set of curves, and there it was, a small guardhouse with a rusted iron pole barring the way. A man with a Kalashnikov slung on his back emerged from the guardhouse in a burst of gray smoke. No uniform, just blue jeans and a dark sweater, cigarette drooping from his lips. He sauntered to the car and checked Vlado's papers. Vlado had an EU identification card plus some other documents. If there was one thing the EU people had easily been able to spare for them, it was paper. The guard pulled a cell phone from his back pocket and punched in a number. Then he tugged at a rope to haul the pole into the air, clearing the way.

Waving Vlado through, he shouted, “The big house at the top. Go in through the front. Azudin will take you to Mr. Matek.”

Mr. Matek. How long had it taken to train this one to say “Mister,” Vlado wondered. If he wasn't working here, he'd probably be pulling up turnips and cabbages, or drinking in the loft of a barn, falling asleep and setting the hay on fire with his smokes. Instead he was waving an automatic weapon, empowered to kill by the man Vlado was about to visit.

It never hurt to remind yourself of exactly who you were dealing with.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Matek watched Vlado approach from his window, unsure how to greet the boy. He'd been irritable all morning, shouting at Azudin when the coffee wasn't hot enough, griping about the bread, although it was the same bread as every morning.

When he saw the face emerge from the car, he knew there was no doubting the bloodlines. Sometimes, he knew, you saw the father in the son because you went looking for him. But in this one the resemblance was obvious, not so much in the features as in the way he carried himself, purposeful, head held high. This was not the sort of person who would ever apologize for what he believed in. Just like his father. But what did this one believe in? That was the morning's top question, and he intended to find the answer.

Then he chuckled in spite of himself at the idea that they might actually do business together, and he was still smiling when Azudin shepherded the boy—he had to stop thinking of him as a boy, the man was in his thirties—into the room. The smile broadened as he saw the uncomfortable look on Vlado's face. Good God, the boy was embarrassed. So he stepped quickly across the room and, without a word, grabbed him around both arms, bear-hugging like some Russian grandfather, feeling the young man's sinew and bone beneath the wool sleeves. And in spite of himself he felt tears spring to his eyes, so he pulled the man closer and spoke into his ear, silently reminding himself not to use any of the wrong words from the past.

“Ah, Vlado, your father and I. Your father and I. Such times we had together. But too long ago now.”

Then the wave of nostalgia crested and broke, and Matek let go, stepping back to look into the boy's face, inspecting the cool reserve in the eyes that he knew so well.

Vlado had feebly attempted to return the man's warmth, although it was hard while the big arms gripped him so tightly. Now at least he could offer a smile, not a grand one but enough to do his familial duty. Then the big man withdrew and, in a rolling gait, eased behind the bulwark of his desk.

He had opened a bottle of red wine and set aside two glasses, polished to a sparkle. None of the usual smudges today. “I know it is early,” he said, “but please.” He poured Vlado a glass. “We must drink to your father.”

A Chianti, Vlado noticed, figuring he'd be better off trying to act as an observant cop than as some sort of unofficial nephew. Look for details. Concentrate on the business at hand. But his father's presence was unavoidable, as if he were looming in a corner, nodding sternly, reminding Vlado to be respectful and polite.

The décor was not what he'd expected. It looked standard issue for some small-town mayor or party hack. Nor did it go with this wine. Matek noticed the glances of assessment and spoke.

“For the Europeans and Americans it is usually only
rakija,
because they expect it of me. For you, something I really like.” Matek raised his glass. “To your father.”

Vlado raised his own, then sipped.

“And also to his son,” Matek said.

Vlado knew it was his turn, but it took an effort. “And to his friend,” he finally said, which seemed to please Matek.

Neither spoke for a moment. Vlado decided to let Matek take the lead, knowing his own mind was still darting too many places at once.

“Yes, you are your father's son,” Matek finally said. “He is the only other person I know who would sit there for so long without a word, determined to make me speak first, even with important business to be done.”

Vlado blushed, wondering what else Matek must be thinking.

“I'm sorry,” Matek said, “but there is one thing I must ask you straightaway. How did you know about me? From your father?”

Vlado had strict instructions on this point. He was to be as vague as possible, an approach that had troubled him all morning, because it seemed obvious that Matek would smell a rat. Why indeed would the son of Enver Petric not be able to provide a simple and concise explanation, especially when he'd been empowered to offer a contract to a man whom the EU had deemed unsuitable only a month ago?

He also preferred not to begin their conversation with a lie, feeling it might throw him off balance for the duration. And this first question, at least, he could answer honestly enough without revealing a thing. So he broke with the plan.

“My father never said a word,” Vlado replied, looking Matek in the eye, feeling as if he'd been hooked up to a polygraph. “I didn't know you existed until years after he died.”

“Then it must have been your Uncle Tomislav. He's the only other one who knew me from those days.” Matek had a faraway look as he spoke, then seemed to snap back to attention, and Vlado sensed that the man had momentarily dropped his guard, letting the name slip.

“Yes,” Vlado answered, going with his instincts. “It was Uncle Tomislav. He told me in a letter, not long before he died. He said I was not to trouble you. But he said that you would always be there if I needed help, after he was gone. Then when I took this job last month it wasn't long before I saw your name on a list. I couldn't be sure it was the same Pero Matek. But when I found out how old you were . . . well, it all seemed to fit.”

“He must have told you many stories in that letter, your uncle.”

It now seemed likely that Matek was acting. There was a change in his tone, all business now, and it put Vlado on his guard.

“No stories at all. He just said that you and my father were old friends, but that was all. So of course I wrote him back, asking for more, because my father had always been too shy to talk about the past, the years during the war. He wasn't one of those men who went around claiming to have parachuted into every valley and cave in Yugoslavia, fighting with the Partisans. But by the time my letter reached him, Tomislav had died. My aunt sent me a reply. And she didn't remember much.”

“But Tomislav. If he was dying, surely he must have told you more than just my name?” Matek poured more wine, suddenly striking Vlado as an old lecher trying to get his young date drunk. They gripped the stems of their glasses tightly. Outside a tractor lumbered into motion, the diesel chug stroking like a jackhammer.

“No,” Vlado said. “No stories.”

Matek nodded, seemingly relieved. Vlado decided this was a good time to get down to business, but he couldn't resist the opening Matek had just offered.

“In fact, I was hoping you'd be able to tell me some stories. To fill in all those blanks my father left behind. To tell me what he was like when he was growing up. What he did later. You know how quiet he was. He hardly told me anything.”

Vlado knew he'd just veered dangerously from the script. Pine had been explicit on the point. If Matek wanted to talk about the past, fine. Just don't bring it up yourself. But to hell with them. They'd opened this box, and he'd be damned if he'd shut it before pawing through the contents.

“Oh,” Matek said, picking up the bottle to pour, then setting it down as he saw both glasses were still full. “Well, the usual things that you find in a small village. Playing sports together, going to school. Then there was the war, which changed everything. There was very little fighting for us, of course. I wouldn't even call it that. Just marching, mostly. Moving people or supplies from one place to another. And always in the rain, it seemed. Always in the rain and cold. Marching and waiting and digging. Very little action. Just grunt work. The sort of things that never make it into the history books. We left the country after the war, you know. For a few years. Surely your father told you that?”

“No. He never did.”

“He never told you that we crossed the border?”

“My father never said anything about those years, no matter how much my mother and I asked. So we stopped asking.”

Vlado felt free to finally take a good, long sip of his wine. This was going more smoothly than he'd expected. “Where did you go?”

“To Austria first. Marching with thousands.”

Vlado remembered the tale about trucks. A convoy heading north from Zagreb with a few high officials aboard. But Matek was continuing, still embroidering the truth.

“The roads into Austria were jammed for miles, everyone trying to get out before the Russians arrived from the east. We hadn't been with Tito's men, you know. Just some local militia. And by the end everyone was fighting everyone else. Mass confusion, and you knew there would be retribution, no matter who you'd been fighting for. So the best thing to do was leave, and we finally made it across the border. We worked on a farm for a few months, in Austria. Finally some British soldiers came along and asked for our papers. They took us off to a DP camp in Italy. In Fermo. Awful place, but your father and I were still together. Thousands of people there. Food was terrible. Lice. Disease. Terrible. Then they finally sent us home. Through the Red Cross. It was not a good time to admit you'd been in the ‘wrong' army, even if you'd only been privates digging ditches. So we returned the way we'd left, on foot. Crossing the border through the hills at night, and settling in places far from where we'd grown up.”

Vlado was unable to resist a little test, having already heard a boatload of lies. “And this was when?”

“Nineteen forty-six.”

A full fifteen years earlier than what Vlado knew to be the truth. Now what would be the point of that lie, other than to erase the years in Rome?

“I came here,” Matek continued. “Your father went to a village near Sarajevo, each of us with nothing. We figured it was better not to stay with each other, or even to stay in touch, the political situation being what it was. So we drifted apart as the years passed. I think I only heard from him once, maybe twice, though I did hear he had a wife and son. And as you can see, I never had a family. Never had a son, though I wanted to. I envied him that, when I heard.”

It was clear Matek was finished with the subject of the past. But Vlado was unable to resist a final question. “My father, what was he like then? As a young man.”

“An idealist. Always too much of one, I thought. You might have even called him a zealot.”

Vlado's heart sank. He'd seen enough handiwork of zealotry in the last war.

“He was always more of a patriot than me. I was only along for the adventure, and, later, for the opportunity. Because I learned something then about war. And I'm sure it's no secret to you, with the business you're in now. War is a terrible thing, but it comes with built-in opportunities, and you have to either seize them or be swept along with everyone else who has given up all control of their lives. Your father never liked that in me.”

Soon afterward they began discussing business, the supposedly crucial part of their conversation. It turned out to be the easiest part. Matek confessed he'd been eager for a piece of the demining action for some time and had no trouble with agreeing to meet in town the next morning with Vlado's “boss,” ostensibly the one who would have to approve Vlado's choice. Matek even suggested the Skorpio.

Vlado brought out a sheaf of papers, an agreement in principle, for Matek to peruse and then bring to their meeting to sign the next morning. It was boilerplate stuff from the EU office, the real thing. No sense risking the operation with fakes.

They said farewell at the door, their parting more subdued than their introduction, with Vlado vowing that tomorrow the food and drink would be his treat. Then he was on his way back to Travnik, grinding down the hill while Matek watched the white car descend the switchback curves, beetling through the dust.

Already Matek was working over their conversation like a piece of gristle, rolling it in his mouth, wondering what it was that just didn't taste quite right. There was no doubting the boy's provenance. He was Enver's son, all right. Maybe that was the problem. Earnest to a fault, just like his father. Wanting to do things for the right reasons, not because of how they'd serve his interests. But what would the right reasons be for a young man like Vlado?

Matek decided he needed a walk to think it over. He threw on a coat and shuffled wordlessly past the staring Azudin, out past the goats toward a high rocky knoll up in the trees, where the views of the valley were best. He listened to the few birds that had remained here for the winter, faint chirping noises in the icy gray brush. What was it that was sticking in his craw, refusing to be digested?

That bit about his Uncle Tomislav. Now, when the hell would the boy's father ever have told Tomislav Pero's new name, Matek? And why would he have taken the risk? It was possible, he supposed. But Enver was a careful man, who knew as well as anyone the consequences of leaking sensitive details. The boy had to have learned it from somebody, though, and if not Tomislav, then who? Growing chilly, Matek returned to his office and dialed the number of the Skorpio.

“Yes?”

“It's Matek. Is Osman around?”

“Isn't he always?”

“Is he still sober?”

“As much as he always is this time of day. He won't be completely worthless for a few more hours.”

“Put him on.”

There was a pause, then the sound of a chair scraping the floor, a clatter of glasses, followed by another voice. “Osman.”

“This is Matek. Listen carefully because I have some work for you. There is a man staying at the Hotel Orijent who I'd like you to check for me. Discreetly, please. His name is Vlado Petric, and I'd like to know what he's up to. If he's traveling with anyone. If so, how they're registered, who's paying the bills. What their business is. Follow him awhile, and ask around. Learn what you can. But you're not to approach him, not to speak with him. Understand?”

“Sure.”

“And no talking about this. Not with anyone. Not if you ever want another drink in this town.”

“Understood.” Osman was a drunk, but he wasn't a fool, and he'd always kept his mouth shut before.

“I want to hear back from you by day's end. Six o'clock at the latest, and before you've had anything else to drink.”