Lie in the Dark (40 page)
Authors: Dan Fesperman
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Spies & Politics, #Espionage, #Suspense, #Contemporary Fiction, #Thrillers
Just up the hill and a few blocks to the east was the edge of the Jewish cemetery, contested ground that had weathered many an assault by the Bosnian army. If an attack ever succeeded it would lay open the neighborhood to firing from three sides. It would become another Dobrinja, with the Serbs pinned against the river. Vlado had watched one of these attacks unfold, as many had on his side of town. They played out on the facing hillside like an outdoor drama in a distant amphitheater, war as a spectator sport. Helmetless men in green darted through tombstones toward a brown slash of mud, which poured smoke and metal back into the cemetery. The rattle of guns echoed across the city while attackers fell to the ground, some to take cover, some to join the assembly of the dead. The bodies of Muslims, Croats, and Serbs fell abundantly atop the buried Jews in a riot of multiethnic promiscuity.
In Grbavica, just as on the other side of the river, U.N. trucks and jeeps rumbled about at all hours, with their cargo of international troops in blue helmets, or with sacks of flour, rice, and beans. That thought momentarily gave Vlado pause, with the idea that Chevard, or whoever had been in the U.N. jeep with Damir a few hours ago, might come looking for him over here. But even the U.N. was easily stymied by the siege boundaries cutting through the city. A crossing would be virtually impossible at night, especially on such short notice. Even at daybreak, some paperwork and smooth talking would be required at any location other than the airport. General Markovic, he supposed, might be able to arrange something in a hurry, but he doubted the smuggling operation would risk a move that would alert so many others—on all sides—to the fact that something extraordinary must be going on.
Twice during the next few minutes he heard the rumble and scrape of trucks grinding their gears uphill, but the sound seemed to be coming from back across the river. It surprised him how close they sounded. He felt as if he had traveled hundreds of miles, yet an unimpeded walk would put him on his own doorstep in less than half an hour.
As he rounded the last corner, he saw the house he was looking for, recognizing it instantly from its gables, its roof line, and, as he drew closer, from the mullioned windows on its upper floors, two of which seemed to have survived. In the dark he could not tell how extensively the place was damaged. Thus, it still seemed an imposing example of the empire architecture left behind by the Austrians in the nineteenth century.
Vlado was pleasantly surprised to see a dim light from behind a second-story window. He knocked at the front door and waited, then tried a second time, still with no answer. He tried the knob and the door was unlocked. He stepped inside, quietly shutting the door behind him.
It was surprisingly warm, though he shivered involuntarily, partly in relief and partly in sudden exhaustion. Unmistakable in the air was the smell of recent cooking. Fried meat, he guessed, and his mouth watered. From around the corner he heard the crackling of a fire, which cast an orange glow across an Oriental rug in the room before him. He also heard the steady ticking of a clock.
From upstairs, a floorboard creaked. He looked up the stairwell and a glow appeared, then brightened, gliding like a foxfire. It was a lantern, and he expected to soon be confronted by the wary face of some refugee, some newcomer sheltering in the home through the war who would have plenty of questions to ask, who might be alarmed enough by Vlado’s appearance—for surely by now he looked horrendous—to call for the authorities, or to ask for identity papers.
But instead the face, like the house, was instantly recognizable, even though now it was deeply lined. Her hair had gone white and wispy, tied back now in a bun with a girlish pink ribbon. She wore a long, white flannel dressing gown, much like the ones his own mother used to wear. And for some reason she seemed neither surprised nor alarmed to see him, despite the sight he must have made, not to mention the smell, as he stood there dripping in her doorway. In fact, she seemed almost glad to see him.
“Good evening, Mrs. Vitas,” he said.
She paused, as if the voice hadn’t been what she’d expected. “Esmir?” she said. “Is that you, son?”
Before Vlado could speak she supplied her own answer.
“But of course it’s you. You’re late, Esmir, and wet. Come in and warm yourself by the fire.” She continued down the steps.
“No. I’m sorry, it’s not Esmir. I’m Vlado Petric, an old friend of his.” He added, a bit sheepishly, “From school days.”
Her expression didn’t change. She moved within a foot of him, holding the lantern into his face with one hand while reaching to lightly stroke his brow with the other. She smoothed his wet forelocks back into place. Only then did her vacant smile fade, a look of concern knitting her brow.
“You’re right,” she said wearily, as if forced to concede a point in a debate. “It isn’t Esmir. I’m sorry.” As if it had been her fault. “I had thought not, really. But you have seen him? You have come from him?”
He decided then he would not be the one to bear the bad news. For all he knew she might never learn of her son’s death until after the war. Although she had genuinely seemed to expect him to appear, which could either mean that she was deluded and out of touch, or that he indeed had visited from time to time, through whatever channels of influence.
“Yes, I have seen him.”
“And he is fine?”
Once more Vlado had a chance to set her straight, and if he had believed he was dealing with a sound and rational mind he might have found a way to gently let her know. But her demeanor seemed to indicate the opposite. He was also thrown by the home’s surreal comforts, its heat and light, its smell of a good meal. Everything, the furnishings as well, suggested a world that had been sealed years ago, well before the war.
As she spoke he registered the same odd sensation he’d felt during his school days, when he’d come by to pick up his knapsack after the field trip to the mountains.
“Yes, he is safe,” Vlado answered.
“He had said he would be.”
“And you see him often?”
“Oh, yes, every month. He would come more often, of course, but he is so busy. He is important, you know, an important man in the city.”
No mention of the war, or of anything else out of the ordinary. Vlado wondered what, if anything, she knew of the goings-on outside her door other than the booms and roars that occasionally shook her home.
“And you have come from him? You are one of his people?” she asked, still connecting everything to the world that revolved around her son. “He has sent you with firewood? Or food?”
That explained the comforts of the home. So here was how Vitas had exerted his influence. Not for his own enrichment, apparently, considering the sparseness of his apartment, but for his mother. Keeping her supplied from across the river had been a trick, and probably hadn’t come cheaply. It explained the unfinished letter to his mother that Vlado had fished out of Vitas’s trash can. It also explained the cover story that Vitas had circulated. It would have been far easier to keep the lines of supply open, and secret, if everyone thought she was dead. It could also explain how he might have been able to burrow his way deeper into the maze of the art scheme. Anyone with enough connections to this half of the city to keep a house heated and fed would also have the means of tapping into the smugglers’ grapevine. In fact, as Vitas’s death had shown, he may have ended up feeling safer on this side of the river than he did on his “own” side, a feeling Vlado momentarily knew all too well.
That thought gave Vlado an idea, but he knew he’d have to proceed with tact if he was to act on it. It would require some careful lying to a vulnerable old woman, a thought that didn’t sit comfortably.
“Yes,” he said, finally answering her question. “Esmir has sent me. Only this time I have no firewood, no food. I was only to come check on you, and on the house. To see if you needed any repairs.”
“You’re wet,” she said, as if noticing for the first time. He was far more than wet. He was muddy and unshaven, stinking of the river and the storm drains. As she steered him by a mirror on their way to the living room he had been shocked by his appearance, and the fact his looks hadn’t sent her screaming back up the stairway told him more about her detached state of mind. Everyone but her son, he supposed, ended up cast in the same nondescript mold as far as she was concerned.
“Esmir takes care of me,” she said in a cheery singsong as she seated Vlado on the couch. He cringed as he lowered his soaked pants onto the fine old upholstery, though he also couldn’t help but notice the thick dust. The housekeeping was apparently still left to her, with predictable results.
“He tells me it is unsafe for me to go outside of the house. Criminals, shooting and robbing. He says there are a lot of them. So I am not to go into the streets, and he sends everything I need.” All was spoken with a note of motherly pride, as if she might be describing her boy’s good manners.
“I’ll make some tea for us, then,” she said. “Esmir always has tea first.” And she rose, gliding toward the kitchen. The ticking clock on the mantle said it was 11:30, and already you could hear the preliminaries racketing into motion, the rattling of machine-gun fire and a few mortar rounds, thumping and soaring. She seemed not to notice, nor did she seem fazed by the idea of a visitor at such a late hour. And with a pang he realized he might well be her last visitor of any sort for quite some time. Forever, even.
Vitas had been dead for less than a week, so there hadn’t yet been time for his absence to show up in her supply of firewood or on the shelves of her pantry. But it wouldn’t take long, and then what would happen?
When a war swallowed up a city you always heard first and last about the children, it occurred to Vlado, and their tragedy was undeniable; playmates killed by a shellburst as they sledded or played ball; orphans with sad eyes and no apparent future, hardened beyond their years.
Yet the young always had the resilience and energy to keep going, absorbing the blows by the sheer strength of numbers in the great clan of youth. No matter how many of their friends died, there would always be new friends to make. Those who made it through in one piece would always have another life to lead once the shooting stopped.
The old ones, however, ended up like this, or like Glavas, cut off and alone, collapsing from the weight of either fear or neglect, hanging on just long enough to die unremarked, or to waste away until life no longer mattered. One way or another, the war finished them.
There was no way of knowing how long Vitas’s mother had been like this, but based on what little Vlado had seen of her in previous years, he figured she’d probably been close to this state before the first shot was fired. Then her youngest son had died—Esmir would have broken the news of that, perhaps—and, if she’d still been clinging to the edge, that would have pushed her across.
At least she still had her house. Even if it was musty and layered with dust, with some plastic on windows here and there, it was mostly intact. And until last week you could say that she still had her chief protector, a son with enough connections to keep her warm and fed.
But now? The rot would begin, and Vlado doubted she’d have the awareness to do anything but slowly succumb to it.
He stood and stepped toward the fireplace, warming his hands, listening to the hissing of the teakettle from the kitchen. He placed another log across the embers, immediately regretting it. The less used now, the better. If she survived the winter perhaps the spring or a ceasefire might finally lure her outdoors, where she’d catch the attention of a neighbor, though he knew he was grasping at straws.
In a few moments the log was burning merrily with loud snaps and pops, smelling of pine resin. Vlado pulled off his wet shoes and propped them against the screen, then peeled off his wet socks and draped them across the top. He stood, arms folded, peering into the flames, into that little world of embers wavering at the bottom, and this was his pose as Mrs. Vitas re-entered the room. She was balancing a silver tray loaded with teapot, cups, a sugar bowl—full, to his astonishment—and a pair of small cakes.
“Please,” she said, “be seated on the couch. It’s where Esmir always sits.”
She took an opposite chair, a vacant smile on her face, while Vlado dipped quickly toward the cakes, mouth watering. He stuffed one into his mouth, his tongue snaking out to lap up any straying crumbs, and the sugary flavor burst in his mouth like a drug. He loaded three tea-spoons of sugar into the teacup. He would have spooned the rest into his pockets if he’d had half a chance, though he felt shamed by the temptation.
For a moment he had a sensation of descending into temporary insanity. To be confronted with all these comforts so hard on the heels of his harrowing day had pushed him onto an emotional ledge, and for a precarious moment it was all he could do to keep from bursting into tears. He contemplated what had nearly become of him at the river. Now he was here, blocks away, yet practically on another planet.
For the briefest of moments he considered staying. It would probably be easy enough to convince her that Esmir had assigned him to be her live-in caretaker. But he’d be just as powerless to keep the supply lines from drying up. The longer he stayed, in fact, the more quickly her wood, water and food would dwindle. Besides, he had work to do here, and he must do it soon. He blinked back his tears.
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