Trophy Kid

by Steve Atinsky

  I changed back into the clothes I had worn at Robert’s press conference twelve hours before. Although almost everyone else had sacked out along the way, I had remained awake the whole time, too keyed up to sleep.

  “Okay, Joe, don’t look at the camera, look at me,” Cal said seriously. “I’ll ask you a question, but my voice will be cut out in editing, so try to incorporate my question into your answer.” Cal and his minicrew had set up special lighting and clipped a microphone onto the collar of my shirt.

  “For instance,” Cal continued, “if I ask you, ‘How long has it been seen you’ve been in Dubrovnik?’ you’ll say, ‘It’s been twelve years since I’ve been to Dubrovnik.’”

  “It’s been ten years,” I said.

  “It has?” Cal said, looking down at a clipboard with scribbled notes on a pad. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You’re fifteen, right?”

  “I’m thirteen.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I smell an Oscar nomination for Worst-Researched Documentary.

  The interview continued in much this manner, with Cal asking me questions filled with false premises that I corrected when incorporating them into my answers:

  “What was it like growing up as a Serb in Yugoslavia?”

  “I’m Croatian. I wish I had had the opportunity to grow up in Croatia, but I was only three when I lost my family.”

  “Your real father was in the army, correct?”

  “My father was an engineer. He was drafted into the army to rebuild bridges during the war.”

  “Would you like to be in the army someday?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “The last thing I want to do is make more orphans.”

  “That was brilliant,” Cal said, stopping the filming. “Ties right into your dad’s—I mean, Robert’s message. At least, I think it ties into Robert’s message. Larry, what’s Robert’s message?”

  “No more war orphans,” Larry said from behind the New York Times.

  “Exactly,” Cal said.

  “He has an amazing talent for bringing a picture together in post,” Larry told Martie and me after the interview was concluded.

  “What’s post?” Martie asked.

  “Postproduction,” Larry said. “He’s great at cutting segments together, adding music, film clips, photographs, finding the right actor to do the narration. All that.”

  Larry was pleased that I had gotten in everything he had told me to—about wanting to meet the soldier who had rescued me during the shelling on the day I’d lost my mother and sister, and how grateful I was to Robert and Greta for saving me from life in an orphanage. In truth, I was looking forward to meeting the soldier who had pulled me out of the street, and the ones who had taken me door to door in my old neighborhood. But more than that, I hoped I might find out what had happened to my father, and I clung to the remote possibility that, somehow, he might still be alive.

  sixteen

  My heartbeat sped up as I looked out my window and saw the deep blue waters of the Adriatic meeting the coastline of Croatia. Dubrovnik sat right on the coast, with the most ancient part of the city jutting out into the sea. The red-tile roofs that Hana had described formed a vision of my past and present. They had been repaired since I’d left the city, and you would never know they had been heavily bombarded a decade before.

  Minutes later, our plane was on the runway. We taxied to a stop in front of a small group of buildings, including a tower with an octagonal control room.

  No surprise—reporters, cameramen, and photographers were waiting for us as we descended the moveable stairway.

  “Joe, how does it feel to be home?” a reporter shouted in Croatian as we walked to the limos that were waiting for us on the tarmac. Of course, I didn’t understand a word he said, and it seemed ironic that Hana, who had originally been hired to translate English into Croatian for me, was now doing the opposite.

  “It feels great,” I said in English. Hana translated for the reporter, who seemed hurt that I hadn’t answered in my native language.

  “Mr. Francis,” an attractive female reporter said, “do you think it will be an unfair advantage if People magazine names you its Sexiest Man Alive in an election year?”

  “I think that’s an unfair question,” said Robert, laughing. “And by the way, not a position I’m campaigning for.”

  “Greta, rumor has it you’re not too keen on your husband’s running for the California Senate seat,” a British journalist called out.

  “Not true,” Greta said with a smile. “I support whatever Robert does, same as he supports me. He’ll make a great senator.” In public we are united was Greta’s motto.

  Even Guava was asked a question by someone in the roped-off crowd.

  “Guava, how do you think being a senator’s daughter might affect your career?” a nasal voice called as we passed by. I wanted to laugh but thought it best not to; Martie, however, was not so generous. I caught her looking at Tom and Jessica, mouth agape.

  “My CD will be out for Christmas,” Guava hollered, staying on message as well as Robert or any other politician.

  We split up into two limos, which exited the airport and were soon on the winding road that would lead us into Dubrovnik. When the city came into view, I was once again filled with hope and trepidation. Luckily, I was sitting next to Tom, who said, “Everything’s going be fine.” And then, “My God, that’s a beautiful city.”

  We entered the city through one of its ancient gates, and everything looked both familiar and new.

  Having Cal Noonan and his crew in my face as I took in my former home was distracting me from my having the sort of “true moment” that Cal was looking for. Still, seeing the brick buildings and marble streets in the city’s Old Town, where our hotel was located, was remarkable.

  Hana was greeted in the lobby of the hotel by her brother, and we made plans to reunite at dinner.

  I roomed with Tom, while Martie stayed with Jessica. Robert and Greta had the nicest room in the hotel; Guava bunked with Megan in the room adjacent to theirs. Larry was the only person with a room to himself. Cal and his film crew were taken to another, cheaper hotel a distance from the center of the city.

  “How does it feel to be back?” Tom asked once we were in our room.

  “It’s weird,” I said, flopping down on my bed. “I feel like this is my first time here, too.”

  “Well, you were only three,” Tom said, looking out the window to the square below. He then turned around to say, “I’ve been trying to figure out when we can go to Zagreb. It’s a two-hour flight, and that doesn’t include travel time to the airport and back, or to the Ministry of Defense. And then who knows how long it will take to talk to the right people who can tell us anything about your dad. Your schedule’s jam-packed.”

  “Maybe we can stay an extra day,” I said. “We can say we need to do some research there for the book. You know, about my dad and what he did in the army.”

  “Maybe,” Tom said.

  Tom must’ve been thinking that it would be best to tell Robert and Greta everything, because he got really quiet.

  “What about Vladimir?” I asked. “Should we try to find him first? He might know something about my dad.”

  “I figure Jessica and I can take part of tomorrow to call every Vladimir Petrovic listed in the phone book. If he’s here, we’ll find him,” Tom said confidently. He looked out the window again. “Let’s get Jessica and Martie and go for a walk,” he said, brightening.

  A few hours later we gathered for dinner at a restaurant Megan had chosen because it specialized in vegetarian and seafood dishes, which complied with Robert’s and Greta’s food regimens. The restaurant was walking distance from our hotel, next to a set of steps leading up to an old Catholic church—the city was crazy with old churches. Our table was outside on the plaza, which looked spectacular at night, the yellow brick buildings and marble street lit
by lanterns attached to the buildings.

  We would have probably gone unnoticed by the other diners and passersby had Cal not been hovering close by with a digital video camera, documenting such monumental moments as our taking a spoonful of soup or a bite of fresh fish.

  I sat next to Tom, who was next to Jessica, and across from Martie. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and nervous anticipation of what I might or might not find. It was still hard to believe I was home, and more than ever, the images I had mentally carried all these years seemed like movies that had been shown to me over and over again rather than real memories.

  Guava was sitting on my other side. At one point she looked up at me, smiled, and said, “I like your city.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I like it, too.”

  “Mommy said that Cal can film me dancing here and we can put it in the video for my CD.”

  “That would be nice,” I said.

  “You can be in it if you want.”

  Guava was definitely her mother’s daughter, her generosity firmly attached to her own self-interest. Still, whether from lack of sleep or because at that moment I was riding a hope wave, there was something about her offer that touched me. Maybe Martie was right; maybe, in my own way, I’d been a snob to Guava.

  “Sure,” I said, “that would be cool. Maybe you could even shoot some of it on those steps.”

  “That would be awesome. I’m going to ask Mommy.” Guava turned to Greta and excitedly said, “Mommy, Mommy,” until Greta turned and faced her.

  Greta smiled with delight as Guava told her about shooting her dancing on the nearby steps.

  Despite all Greta’s faults, one thing was clear: she loved Guava. I suddenly got very sad looking at them. A chickpea striking me on the temple snapped me out of it.

  “What are you thinking about?” Martie asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. It had been a while since I had lost my voice while looking into Martie’s eyes, but in the lamplight of the plaza I found myself once again unable to form words in my brain, let alone get them out of my mouth. I spotted the bread basket, grabbed a piece, and focused on buttering it. My brain and throat loosened a bit.

  “Is it hard with your mom…?” I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

  “Acting like a teenager?” Martie said. “Yeah, it’s really hard. Luckily, I have Jessica. I don’t know what I’d do without her. But I know my mom loves me. She’s never left me alone. She always makes sure there’s someone with me when she’s acting like an idiot over some stupid guy.”

  I couldn’t get any more butter on my bread, so I looked up at Martie. I wanted to say something nice or comforting but couldn’t come up with anything.

  “What?” she asked.

  I shrugged and took a bite of heavily buttered bread.

  “You’re cute when you’re nervous,” Martie said, biting her lip.

  “I’m what?” I said, choking on the bread and starting to cough.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, finally getting the hunk of bread down.

  I was feeling a warm sensation in my face. I must be turning red, I thought, but why am I only turning red on the right side of my face? I turned and found myself looking into Cal Noonan’s handheld camera.

  “Just keep acting normal,” Cal said.

  Normal! There was nothing normal about anything that was going on. I was in a city that was more foreign than familiar; my adoptive father, who was sitting a few feet away, had kept information from me about my real father; and a girl I had a crush on had just told me I was cute.

  “Can you wait till after we’ve eaten?” Tom said, coming to my aid.

  “Well, no, not really,” Cal said, somewhat offended. “The point of the documentary is to document what you’re doing…while you’re doing it.”

  If that sounded as ridiculous to Tom as it did to me, he didn’t let on. Instead, he very calmly said, “I understand, but it’s been a long day, and it would be nice for Joe to have a few moments without the camera on him. Have you had something to eat yet?”

  “Not really,” Cal said, lowering the camera. “There’s so much I want to get. I’m just serving the needs of the film.”

  “Well, take a break and pull up a chair,” Tom said, “and serve yourself some of this great food.”

  “I am kind of hungry,” Cal said.

  Tom motioned for the waiter, and Cal took a seat at the end of the table and began picking at the various appetizers that were laid out in front of him.

  “‘The point of a documentary is to document what you’re doing,’” Martie whined in a deep voice, quietly imitating Cal.

  “Shh,” Jessica said.

  “He can’t hear me,” Martie replied.

  “Save it for later,” Jessica said.

  “Okay,” Martie said. She then turned to me and said, “I don’t think I’d want to be a celebrity.”

  “I’m not a celebrity,” I grumbled, as if she’d called me a jerk.

  “You sort of are. Anyway, what I’m saying is, I wouldn’t want cameras shoved in my face all the time and reporters and people asking me stuff that was none of their business.”

  I smiled. Martie understood what life in the spotlight was like for me, and that made me feel good.

  Tom and I entered the hotel ahead of the others. We saw Vladimir Petrovic immediately, walking toward us, his eyes glistening. He looked the same as he had a couple of years before, although there may have been a few more gray hairs in his bushy mustache.

  “Josef,” he said, grabbing me by the shoulders.

  “Mr. Petrovic,” I said, astonished that the man I’d been wondering about for two years was now standing beside me.

  “Vladimir, Vladimir, please.”

  “Um, Vladimir,” Tom said, “we should go somewhere”—Tom looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming—“else.”

  “This is Tom,” I said. “He’s helping me write a book.”

  “It is my pleasure to meet you,” Vladimir said, enthusiastically shaking Tom’s hand.

  I heard people approaching the hotel entrance.

  “Come on,” Tom said. He rushed us past the front desk, down a hallway, around a corner, and through a back exit.

  “Mr. Francis, is he still a problem for me?” Vladimir said once we were outside.

  “For both of us,” I said.

  “I do not know why he makes such problems when none are there.” Vladimir’s eyes then started to glisten again. “Josef, you are so tall. You look just like your mother.”

  His words made me feel warm inside. Here was a man with a direct connection to my parents. Someone who’d known them and could see them in me.

  “How did you know where we were?” Tom asked.

  “When I hear you are in Dubrovnik, I ask around. I am very happy. I know many people in the hotel business. I manage little hotel outside of city. Very nice hotel. Everyone in Dubrovnik is in the tourist business. It’s not so good right after war, but very good now.”

  I had so many questions for Vladimir, I didn’t know where to start. I was thankful when Tom asked, “How did you know Joe’s family?”

  “My brother was married to your father’s sister,” Vladimir said. “I see you as a very little boy many times.”

  “Do you know what happened to my father?” I asked.

  Vladimir looked confused. “What do you mean?” he said.

  I told him about the letter that had been sent to my mother saying that my father was not dead, as they had previously reported, but missing in action.

  Vladimir nodded as I spoke, his eyes once again getting watery, but this time not from happiness.

  “It cannot be. Everyone who survived returned after the war. I am sorry for you, Joe,” Vladimir said sadly.

  “But what if he had amnesia and didn’t remember who he was?” I said, still holding on to a glimmer of hope.

  “I do not think so, but relations are still not so good between countr
ies who fought the war. Other families have same problem.”

  “What happened when you came to see Joe in Los Angeles?” Tom asked, changing the subject.

  “Did Robert get you thrown out of the country?” I added.

  “No, no. I come to L.A. to visit you, Joe.”

  This made me feel worse than ever that Robert had kept him from seeing me.

  “Robert said he bribed you to stay away from me,” I said.

  “What is this?” Vladimir asked, confused.

  “Paid you money not to see me.”

  “No, no, no,” Vladimir said emphatically. “I write to you to tell you I am coming, and you do not write back, but I think, Okay, he’s a boy, is typical. When I come to your home first time, I am taken away. When I come to your home second time, I am taken away but told to meet with your father and someone else.”

  “Larry, his lawyer,” I said.

  “Right. Larry say, ‘How much do you want to go away?’”

  “I say, ‘I do not want to go away, I want to see Josef. I come to see Josef.’ I say, ‘I want to take him maybe to Disneyland.’ Larry say again, ‘How much do you want?’ I think he wants to give me money for me to take you to Disneyland. I know it costs much and I am not rich, so I say, ‘Maybe one hundred dollars? This is very nice of you.’ He writes me check for one hundred twenty dollars. I leave. Then I come to your house on your birthday and am thrown away,” Vladimir said, still hurt by what had happened.

  “Wow,” Tom said. “They thought they’d bought you off for a hundred and twenty bucks. Unbelievable.”

  “Maybe I should not have taken. But I hear that Disney is expensive land. I have not so much money as I do now. Later, I send the check back to Larry.”

  “That must be the letter Larry told Rusty about,” Tom said. “You weren’t in jail, were you?” Tom asked, bringing up Robert’s other justification for keeping Vladimir out of our house and my life.

  “Jail? No, never,” he said, a little insulted.

  “I figured,” Tom said.

  Hearing Vladimir confirm what I had suspected all along caused me to well up with anger at Robert and Larry for having treated him so badly.