He did not believe in astrology, but Jana did. She had often said he was a typical Cancer and she a typical Pisces, which is what made them such a good match.
Josip strode on; Laika would have to wait to relieve herself until he had done so first.
His city, he felt, was not getting any prettier. Too many construction sites, the same thing year in, year out. And the new buildings were all so utilitarian; they could not hold a candle to those that dated from his father’s and grandfather’s day.
There was a small bus shelter on the Ulica Zrinskog, not far from that cursed concrete block under which he had placed a small fortune over the past year and a half. The last time was yesterday. He checked to see whether any cars were coming, then stepped behind the bus shelter and urinated. A sensation of great relief washed over him; it was as though emptying his bladder also released him from the last traces of irritation over the bathroom episode. He buttoned up his trousers, waited until Laika had done her business as well, and walked back onto the road.
He saw the postman some thirty meters ahead, standing near the concrete block. He had apparently just propped his bicycle on its kickstand. Just then, Andrej looked up and saw him. But rather than returning Josip’s greeting he skittishly crouched beside the rear wheel and began fussing with the valve.
“Flat tire,” he called out.
“It’s the valve, I think,” Josip said, when he reached Andrej. “You can hear the air escaping.”
Andrej appeared quite distressed by this innocuous, everyday incident; he had an edgy air about him as he wiped the perspiration from his face.
“Wait a second, your hands are dirty … here, take this,” Josip said, giving him a tissue. “Man, what a nuisance.”
“I’ve finished my route, at least,” Andrej mumbled. “Thank you, Mr. Tudjman.”
“You needn’t be so formal. After all, you’re a family friend.”
“All right, thanks, Josip. I guess I’ll be going.”
“I’ll walk you home,” Josip said. “We were heading to the boulevard anyway.”
Andrej bent over and petted Laika on her head, to which she timidly submitted. Life with one master was already hard enough, but now there were two.
“Everything still all right with the dog? Or shall I take her back?”
“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. In fact, I’d rather you not. Katarina is so fond of her.”
They set off, Andrej holding the handlebars of the bicycle.
“But I insist on paying for her upkeep. After all, she’s still my dog.”
“Of course she’s still yours, my boy. So, how are you doing?”
As they walked, Andrej seemed to loosen up, but Josip still thought him distant and tense. That was strange, because if either of them had reason to be uneasy, it was him.
They paused at the Agip gas station to admire an uncommonly flashy red Jaguar, a new model they had not seen before—it had foreign license plates, of course—parked outside.
“Amazing machine,” Andrej said reverently.
“Costs more than you and I earn in ten years,” Josip remarked. “But she’s a beaut, that’s for sure. Just look at those spoke wheels. All that chrome.”
“And those lines … have a look at the hood. How many cylinders, do you think?”
“Twelve, I’d say. But I don’t really know much about cars. You?”
“I wanted to be a race car driver, once,” Andrej laughed. “Like El Chueco or Jackie Stewart. That was my dream. But well, I’d never have fit into a race car.”
The owner of the Jaguar, a young man with long hair and mirrored sunglasses, emerged from the Agip shop. He saw them looking, smiled at them, and held up a carton of cigarettes. “Cheap here!” he said in English and got in the car.
They walked on without answering, Josip holding the leash and Andrej pushing his bicycle with the flat tire.
“What a jerk,” Josip said as the red Jaguar turned onto the road and passed them.
After it had taken the curve past the Turkish fort, they were quiet again. Then Josip asked, “And then you wanted to be a pro soccer player?”
Andrej looked at him askance, surprised. “How did you know that, Mr. Tudj—er, Josip?”
“I saw you play a few times. I remember thinking: too bad basketball or volleyball isn’t popular here, then a tall guy like him would really have something going.”
“Yes, I might have. I’ve missed a lot of chances in life.”
“Who hasn’t,” Josip replied, but then thought to himself, When I was your age, it was wartime and there were no chances out there to miss. The only chance I had was to get a bullet in my head. This guy’s a bit of a worrywart. Must be awfully lonely. No girlfriend—he is kind of a strange bird. No wonder he spends so much time at my house playing with Katarina. And those magazines he’s so keen on, just for the pictures. Maybe he started opening up those letters because he lacked normal social contact. Understandable, in a way. But it doesn’t explain why he took the money. There is no excuse for theft.
“Did you do any sports?” Andrej asked. He seemed nervous again, as though he had to brace himself to ask a simple personal question.
“Chess,” Josip said.
“That’s not a real sport.”
“Not really, is it. And besides, I wasn’t very good. I could never remember which way to move the rook.”
“What’s a rook?”
“Exactly: I can’t explain it,” Josip said.
They both started to laugh halfheartedly.
“And I like to fish. But not much of a sport, either.”
“From the pier?”
“Sometimes. But I’ve got a small boat. With an outboard motor. There are times I need to get out of the house.”
“Because of … your wife?”
“Andrej, we don’t know each other well enough for me to go into all that.”
“Sorry, Josip …”
“Never mind.”
When they reached the Turkish fort, where recently a new Croatian flag had replaced the Yugoslavian one, Laika began to hobble pitifully, and then stopped altogether.
“What’s with her, now?” Josip asked, tugging on the leash.
“She does that when she’s out of sorts,” Andrej said. “Wouldn’t you know it: I get stuck with a psychologically disturbed greyhound. Just the thing for me.”
“Maybe she’s got a thorn in her paw, or a pebble.”
They lifted her paws one at a time but found nothing.
“I’ll carry her in my mailbag. Laika, come!”
They resumed their walk along a row of dilapidated and abandoned workmen’s houses. The wind had picked up; the smooth sea showed signs of swells and brushstrokes of raw silver. Josip pulled the collar of his jacket closer, tucking it up under his chin, the postman tugged his cap farther over his ears, and Laika peered out over the brim of the mailbag, like a tragic, kidnapped princess being led to some dreadful fate. By the time they reached the harbor the wind had intensified, occasionally reaching gale force. The sea bashed the recesses in the quay and spewed fountains of foam into the air. The masts of the boats in the marina swayed wildly back and forth, like mechanical metronomes run amok.
They were suddenly the only ones about. Trash from the Portabello Grill tumbled across the cobblestones.
“It’s the Bora,” Josip said as Andrej bent over to lock his bicycle to the bars. “Here, give me the leash, I’ve got to get myself home.”
“Why don’t you come inside?” Andrej called over his shoulder. “Then we can check she’s not got anything stuck in her paw. I’ve got tweezers.”
“Hurry up and open the door, then,” said Josip. “This wind is freezing.”
The apartment was just as he remembered it from a year earlier. There were even black socks hanging to dry, the same as before.
“Take a seat,” Andrej said. “I’ll pour us drinks.”
Josip sat down on the same chair, at the same Formica-topped kitchen table, where he
had taken the fifty-pound note from Andrej’s wallet.
“Nice place,” he said, just to say something.
“You’ve been here before, though, haven’t you?” Andrej replied. “When I was in the hospital.”
“True,” Josip said, on his guard, “but that was so long ago. And you weren’t my host then. A generous one, too, I see.”
“This here is Aberlour,” Andrej said, placing two glasses on the table. “A Speyside single malt. I’m curious what you’ll think of it.”
They toasted and drank. Outside, the Bora surged.
“I hope your boat’s tied up properly. And that the cable car survives.”
“It’s survived everything until now. Even the Germans. So it should be fine. Delicious whisky.”
“Fruity, with a faint smoky aftertaste. Matured for sixteen years in sherry casks.”
“Sixteen years? Well, well. How’d you get your hands on this?”
Andrej, suddenly cautious, did not want to say he had bought the whisky in Rijeka. It was, after all, from there that he had posted the blackmail letters. “I’m just an aficionado, that’s all,” he said noncommittally, “and since I’ve quit high-powered sports, I can indulge myself.”
Josip chuckled and raised his glass. “I’m no high-powered athlete, either. I only booze for recreation.”
Over the course of the next few hours—it was still light, even in the semi-basement apartment, and they ate the blitva Andrej still had in the fridge, checked Laika’s paws, and drank in moderation—Andrej began to feel a certain sympathy toward him. Tudjman was so calm, so self-confident in everything he did. And above all, he felt that Tudjman regarded him attentively, took his comments seriously, and appeared to be sincerely interested in a good rapport. He wasn’t used to this. He had never known his father but could imagine that he’d been a man just like Josip.
Josip stayed sitting at his kitchen table until long past nine, while the storm raged along the coast.
“This one’s Laphroaig,” Andrej said, setting a green one-liter bottle on the table. “The most extreme malt. Almost a medicinal, very smoky taste, with a hint of seaweed and—”
“No, my boy,” Josip laughed, shaking his head. “I have to get going. Another time. Have you got a blanket or something to wrap Laika in?”
When Andrej opened the door and held tight against the gusts battering the harbor, the sea, at least as far as one could see in the night, had been transformed into a seething maelstrom. At this point no one would be worried about the fishing boats; if they hadn’t been tied up properly before the storm, it was too late to do anything about it now.
“Josip,” he said, “are you sure you won’t wait it out?”
“No, no,” Josip replied and headed up the stairs, cradling the swaddled Laika in his arms. “I have to be getting home. As soon as I’ve reached the first alley, I’ll be fine.”
Andrej poured himself a glass of Laphroaig, neat, lay down on his bed, and listened to the fury of the elements.
“Have I ever told the story about the Jews and the funicular?” Schmitz asked.
“Many times,” said Knević peevishly. But the others out on the café terrace, including Josip, had not heard it before. And of course Josip was interested in anything having to do with funiculars.
Schmitz sipped his liqueur and launched into his tale.
“In 1944, when we loaded the last Jewish rats onto the trains …”
“Schmitz,” Knević interrupted, “tone it down a little, will you? What happened, happened, but we’re not anti-Semites here.”
“I’ve got nothing against anti-Semites,” Marković chimed in. He had just finished his shift and ordered his first beer. “I’m not prejudiced.”
“The Jews are no trouble at all these days,” Mario said. “That’s all history. Now, Gypsies, they’re a different story. Last week one of our brand-new Peugeot 205s—”
“Shut up, Mario,” Josip interrupted. “Schmitz—what was it, then, about the funicular?”
“Gentlemen,” Knević said stiffly, getting up, “if you want to listen to this Ustaša folklore, go right ahead. I’ve got better things to do.” And with this, he took his hat and walking stick and marched off.
“And he was there himself, by the way,” Schmitz muttered maliciously.
What it boiled down to was that in May 1942, no less than Himmler himself paid a visit to the commanding Wehrmacht general. The funicular was still intact, but the British had bombed the reservoir, cutting off the supply of water ballast. Of course, they could have installed a generator to pump the necessary water up the hill, but the general’s deputy, a brilliant young man who, according to Schmitz, would become the president of Austria after the war, came up with a better idea: Why siphon costly fuel away from the German war effort, while hundreds of Jews were waiting to be sent to the camps? No sooner had it been said than the Jews—men, women, and children, but especially men, because after all it was about ballast—were forced to climb to the upper station and were crammed into the waiting car. The other car, waiting empty at the bottom, was decorated with festoons, and the Reichsführer was welcomed with speeches and a brass band. And when his cable car ascended the hill, much faster than usual because the descending car was filled to the brim with Jews, the brilliant young officer pointed, with a certain pride, to the unique counterweight as it passed halfway. The Reichsführer was highly amused, Schmitz related, and he waved genially to the carriage as it passed. He was so delighted, in fact, that the procedure was repeated the following day: the Jews were once again driven up the path—and this did not go gently—and Himmler and his staff were once again brought to the top elegantly and in record time. Schmitz thought this an excellent plan, provided it was executed consistently, for in theory, working them to death would obviate the need to transport them to the camps.
The others listened to his narrative with increasing discomfort: for if Croatia wanted to be recognized as a nation, and even dreamt of future membership in the European Community, where even chickens were protected, then there was no place for this kind of talk. But Schmitz was unstoppable. Of course, he said, the supply of human ballast would eventually run out. And besides, they would have to take into account the weight loss due to exhaustion, which would then require yet more people to make up the ballast. But, he concluded, if they had solved the Jewish problem in this way, then the funicular wouldn’t have had to be decommissioned until 1947.
“What an obscene story,” said Marković. “Schmitz, that was really tasteless.”
“To be honest, Schmitz, I’m not sure I want to be seen with you at the same café anymore,” Mario said. “Or were you just joking?”
Schmitz peered over the rim of his aperitif at the others. His eyes glistened.
“What do you say, Tudjman?” he asked. “After all, it’s your cable car we’re talking about.”
“Funicular,” Josip corrected him, laying the money for his coffee on the receipt tray and standing up. “Maybe it would be better if you stayed away on Saturdays from now on.”
“This is a free country,” cried Schmitz. “I’ll sit where I want.”
“It’s not a free country at all,” Marković barked back.
Mario added, “I think we’re all in agreement, Schmitz. You’re not welcome in this company any longer.”
“Why don’t you give Knević a say?”
“Knević already voted—with his feet,” Josip said, taking his uniform jacket from the arm of the chair.
“Kanto, Hornstein, Tchitchek,” Schmitz recited in a singsong voice. Those were the names of the Jewish families who had once lived in the town and its surroundings. Now chairs were scuffed back, and everyone stood up. Old Schmitz, possessed by a perverse need to exacerbate the matter, kept up his taunt. “Goldring, Benaim …”
Josip straightened his jacket and prepared to have the last, withering, word. His voice trembled with indignation and was lower and huskier than usual.
“That whole story i
s clearly the product of your sick imagination, Schmitz. Our funicular has never been used for such purposes. Himmler’s car shot up the hill, you say? You have no idea what you’re talking about. If my train travels faster than 6.8 kilometers per hour, it automatically activates the emergency brake.”
One sunny June day Andrej cycled up the hill to place his extortion money at the foot of the transmission tower. He seldom gave it much thought; it had become a kind of ritual. He felt that he had found his footing lately, and he took more pleasure in life than previously: in his promotion within the postal service, his conversations with Josip, the adoration of Josip’s wife. And in Laika, who, now it was summer, he regularly fetched at Tudjman’s and took to the beach for a run, to the admiration of passersby. And he had taken up photography again. Now, too, he had brought his camera, because the last time he was here he had spotted a few extraordinary butterflies—fritillaries, he guessed.
The gentle breeze that blew inland from the glistening bay carried with it the briny smell of the sea and made the shredded plastic sheeting that protected the neglected vegetable patches on either side of the road flap. He left the hill and the reservoir behind him and, as usual, fastened his bicycle to the rusty carcass of an abandoned tractor. Before starting the climb, he checked his shoulder bag for his keys, a can of cola, his camera, and the envelope. He had taken the banknotes straight out of the envelope that he had collected the previous day from under the concrete block on the Ulica Zrinskog.
He would need a good half hour to reach the drop-off spot. It was the last and highest mast in this section of the hillcrest and stood in a parched and stony grassland. Impenetrable thornbushes grew between the concrete blocks on which the pylon rested, and in these bushes lay hidden an unassuming round white plastic tub with a lid: a container for sheep’s cheese from the island of Pag, ostensibly just loose litter. The sell-by date stamped in vague blue ink reminded Andrej how long all this had been going on.
When he reached the edge of the grassland he stopped and hung the camera around his neck, because it was here that he had seen the butterflies last time. He had loaded a roll of high-resolution color film. As usual, the place was deserted. When he reached the transmission tower, he laid his shoulder bag on the ground and kneeled down.
The Pelican Page 8
