by Alen Mattich
These prodigiously strange phenomena were fairly usual in Yugoslavia. Some things never worked, however much effort was made to mend them. Some things only worked in certain circumstances. And some things worked perfectly. And then didn’t.
Della Torre thought he’d use the UDBA’s phone tapping to his advantage. They’d be watching for him at the borders. He was less than ten kilometres from the Italian crossing at Trieste, the most obvious route out of the country. It was also manned by the federal border police and therefore under UDBA control. He’d make it easy for them. He called his father.
“Dad.”
“Marko? What are you doing? Some people were here looking for you this morning.”
“Never mind them. I haven’t got long to talk —”
“I said you were in Zagreb,” his father said. “To try you there. Have I told you about the researcher?”
“What?”
“An American. There’s an American researcher who’s taken an interest in my work. Not the work I do now, but linguistic research. We’ve developed a lively correspondence. She says she might be doing a doctorate on my comparative language analysis. She said she’d be coming this summer probably, if not sooner.”
“That’s great, Dad, but I really can’t talk.”
“It’s been a while. I mean, my work is solid but it’s no longer cutting edge. But she seems interested anyway. Maybe I’ll go to Zagreb to catch up with developments of the past few years. I shouldn’t have dropped out of academics so completely, but the political writing has been so much more rewarding.”
“Listen, Dad, I’ve got to go now. I just wanted to say I’ll have to stay out of touch for a while. I’m on a case.”
“Let me know when you get back. Maybe I’ll call Irena to say I’ll be spending some time at the apartment. She never minds. It’d be nice to see her. I miss her coming to Istria.”
“You do that, Dad. Bye.” It was as long as he’d dared to stay on the phone. They’d spoken in English. It had always been their secret language in this country, but the UDBA would have had an English-speaker on hand to listen in. They’d have also immediately traced the call.
From where he was, the most obvious route was along the main road and on to the Trieste highway, little more than ten minutes to the border. But instead he went cross-country, along the little roads where a rusty Renault 4 would be as unobtrusive as a peach tree in an Istrian orchard. Rather than head towards Trieste, he made his way towards Piran, the northernmost of Yugoslavia’s pretty Venetian coastal towns.
As a tourist town, Piran had regular passenger ferry services to Venice and Trieste, even out of season. National pride demanded that the boats run continuously, despite the heavy subsidy that entailed. But because few people took the ferries in the winter — generally only locals with relatives on the Italian side — there was hardly any passport control. It was left to the municipal police to monitor the few people who came and went until the summer hordes arrived and the federal border guards took up their officious places again.
It took him less than half an hour to reach Piran. He parked the car on the main square. He checked his notebook for the number of the telephone box in front of Zagreb’s cathedral.
“Hello.” It was clearly not Anzulović. It sounded like an old woman.
“Madam, I’m calling for someone else.”
“Well, I’m the only person here.”
“Is there a man waiting there? About fifty-five, black-and-white hair, shrubs growing out of his nose and ears?”
“What?”
“I’m calling for someone else. Is there a man there waiting for the phone?”
“No. Just me.”
“Lady, can you do me a favour? Can you see if there’s someone waiting by the phones on the other side of the cathedral?”
“I can’t see that far.”
“Listen, if you go over there, you’ll see a man who’s waiting by the phones. Tell him to come to these phones in ten minutes’ time and he’ll give you fifty dinars. I promise. Just tell him I promised you fifty dinars.”
“A hundred.”
“Alright.”
“He’d better give me the money.”
“I promise, lady.”
Della Torre called again ten minutes later.
“Hello?”
“Anzulović?”
“That you, Gringo?”
“Did you pay the old lady?”
“Three hundred dinars that cost me.”
“Should have been standing by the right phones. Anyway, I owe you.”
“You owe me more than that. Why didn’t you tell me about shooting Strumbić?”
“Didn’t I?”
“I think it’s something I’d have remembered. Shall I describe the shitshow that came down when Strumbić showed up in hospital yesterday morning? You’ve left me with a migraine bigger than my wife’s ass.”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to complicate things.”
“Complicate things? Gringo, you knew very well that shooting Strumbić wouldn’t make things easier. It’s hard enough for me to give you protection without having the regular cops after you as well as everybody else.”
“It was an accident.”
“I’m sure it was. And you used a crap gun. A slingshot would have been more effective. But the fact of the matter is that you shot and imprisoned a Zagreb detective. That immediately called for an UDBA investigation. The Zagreb cops — well, do you remember that Kubrick movie 2001?” Anzulović asked. Della Torre vaguely knew about the film, though he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen it.
“Yes,” he said.
“You remember at the start when all those apes see the big black stone, the monolith, and start freaking out? Well, the Zagreb cops made them look like they were on sedatives. Can you imagine how happy they’d be to get an UDBA scalp? We’re taking over the case slowly, but it’s not a lot of fun.”
“How’s Strumbić?”
“Angrier than a bull that’s having its balls cut off. He’s in my office right now being self-righteous.”
“What story has he told you?”
“Originally, that you were trying to sell him state secrets, and when he turned you down — shock, horror — you and your Bosnian gang tried to kill him. He’s also got you down for stealing his car. And three cartons of Lucky Strikes. But with a bit of help his memory’s starting to improve.”
“I took his leather coat too.”
“Well, he seems not to have noticed. I’ll mention it to him, shall I?”
“Didn’t fit.”
“Well, that’s a crying shame.”
“What happens now?” della Torre asked.
“Officially I’m hunting you down like I’m the whole bloody Mossad and you’re Eichmann. Messar’s on the case, and everybody trusts him to do the job properly. Which he will. My worry is that the minute he’s got a hold of you, whoever your friends are in Belgrade will ask for you to be handed over to the UDBA headquarters, after which you’ll never be seen again. If you end up with the Zagreb cops, either they’ll do the Bosnians’ job for them or somebody else will pay for the privilege. I suggest you disappear until Belgrade no longer has any say whatsoever in Zagreb. I’ll see if we can’t get some dancing fairies into Strumbić’s story. By the way, you haven’t heard any of this from me.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know why I’m doing this for you.”
“Maybe I’m the son you never had.”
“Every day I look at my daughters, I thank God I didn’t have boys too. There’s only so much disappointment a man can handle in one lifetime. I’m doing it for your wife; Lord knows you don’t deserve her.”
“I know. I’m a disappointment to her as well. Will you keep an eye on her?”
“Thanks. So now I disappear?”
“You disappear until Messar finds you or until we start playing cowboys and Indians with the Serbs. I wish I didn’t have the feeling we’ll end up as the Indians. Apart from Custer, they didn’t do so well. Anyway, we’ll be needing you here then.”
“What about the UDBA?”
“We are the UDBA.”
“No, I mean the people who kill people.”
“The wetworks? What about them?”
“Won’t they be after me if they find out I’ve run away? They don’t have much of a record of forgiving defectors from their ranks. And they’re not known for missing their targets.”
“Messar has people on you, but I’ve made sure Belgrade isn’t getting too interested. The Zagreb police don’t talk to the federal agencies, and as far as I’m concerned you’re officially on a sabbatical and there’s just a little logistical problem keeping you from coming back in to explain yourself.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“I’ll tell you what. Maybe you can put those brains of yours towards staying alive for a couple of months or so. And if everything goes tits up over here, don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of chances to pay me back by getting me out of the country too. But you’d better get moving. Messar has people looking for you in Istria. He’s very persistent. And smart.”
“My luck to have the only honest secret policeman south of Vienna on my case.”
“You think they’re honest in Vienna?”
“Did they find the Bosnians in the ravine, by the way?”
“Just a Merc welded to a tree.”
“Any bodies?”
“No. Bit of blood but no corpses. On the other hand, some poor farmer from the village had his car stolen from him. The cops found him squatting in a stream with his trousers over his head. It’d be funny if he hadn’t had to be hospitalized for hypothermia. Barely got a statement from him, his teeth were hammering so hard. It seems your Bosnian friends hijacked him. You’d better get going.”
“You’re a friend, Anzulović.”
“Maybe one day the favours will stop flowing in one direction. You make my life more difficult than all the women in my household put together.”
“Thanks.”
“Stay alive long enough to pay me a commission on Strumbić’s car. He’s angling to get it back. He probably will, knowing him.”
Della Torre noticed two men in leather jackets taking an interest in his Renault on the other side of the square. Had it been a Ferrari or on fire, it might not have been surprising. But they weren’t handing out tickets or admiring the bodywork. He was taken aback. It couldn’t be Messar already. But there was no other explanation. It was time to go.
“Gotta run.”
“Good luck.”
He hung up and walked as casually as he could towards the dockside.
DELLA TORRE DIDN’T look back at the men. There were people about, but out of tourist season he would be found before long. Piran wasn’t a big place, and worse still, it was on a narrow promontory. It would be easy to get bottled up there.
He stuck to the shadows of the town’s Renaissance stone buildings. Early spring flowers were erupting over the tops of walled gardens. There was a little graffiti about, but mostly Piran was clean and well maintained. He hardly noticed, instead keeping his senses alert to anyone following. At the long quayside, he ducked into a kiosk. A doughy, youngish woman sat on a stool behind the counter, reading a garish gossip magazine.
“When do the ferries run to Venice or Trieste?” he asked in Italian. She looked up, barely able to lift the weight of indifference from her expression.
“It’s on the board,” she said, pointing offhandedly at the schedule printed up on the side of the kiosk. “Regular ferry to Venice left at nine. Another one tomorrow. They don’t go to Trieste any more. Take a bus.”
“Shit,” said della Torre.
“Winter schedule.”
“Any boats going anywhere this afternoon?” he asked.
“There’s a boat at three-thirty going to Zadar, Šibenik, and Split.”
A coastal boat. He’d be picked up somewhere along the way.
“Anything else?”
“No.” She glared at him. “Except for the weekly catamaran. That’s at midday.”
“Catamaran? Where does that go?”
“Where it always goes. Venice, of course.”
Had della Torre lived in any other country, he’d have been astonished at her rank, almost evil unhelpfulness. But she’d behaved no differently from any other Yugoslav. That was the thing about Communism. In the eyes of its public servants, everyone was equally contemptible.
He paid for a ticket.
“Do I need to be early for passport control?”
She stared at him for a long moment.
“No,” she finally said.
Della Torre gave her a forced smile and wandered off. He had around two hours to kill while staying as unobtrusive as possible. He found a café in a jazzed-up old wine cellar, and was sitting in the gloom at the back when the two men who’d taken an interest in his Renault walked past. One looked in. He was in his early thirties, either very fair or prematurely grey; it was hard to tell from his military buzz cut. He had a peasant’s flat and heavy face. He didn’t see della Torre, who’d pressed himself into the shadows behind a pillar.
If they were UDBA, della Torre knew they’d probably do a quick circuit of the town and then a slower one, going into shops and bars. There was sure to be another team, which would stick closer to the car. This other team would circle the edge of the old town across the neck of the promontory to ensure he didn’t escape landward.
The guys he was seeing now would try to winkle him out. They’d ask around about him. Knowing Messar, they would have a faxed photograph. It still astonished him that Messar was focusing any effort on this little town. Then again, he was thorough. He probably had people in Poreč and Rovinj too, though he’d be focusing his efforts on the Italian-Slovene border.
Even before they’d voted for independence, Slovenes had been prickly in their dealings with other Yugoslav nationalities. They’d always considered themselves Mitteleuropeans rather than Balkans, with a German work ethic and German aspirations. Now they were cutting themselves off wherever and however they could. Messar couldn’t take for granted that the local police would co-operate with the UDBA. Much as the Zagreb police were proving less than helpful to UDBA headquarters in Belgrade, Slovenes had become even less compliant with any of the federal government’s agencies. And for that matter, with the Croat police.
That was a major reason della Torre had decided to go this route. The Slovenes would be as helpful to Messar’s investigation as sand in a gearbox.
Della Torre didn’t so much kill time as strangle it slowly. With most of the town shut until the start of the tourist season, there just weren’t enough places to hide. He almost bumped into the UDBA team, but he spotted them in the reflection of a shop window, only just getting out of their way in time.
The pursuit traced ever-tightening circles towards the crest of the town, where Piran’s modest cathedral stood at the edge of a bastion rising forty metres from the sea, a white stone insect pinned to the earth by the needle of its tall bell tower. The UDBA men weren’t letting up. They hadn’t seen him yet, but they kept on his trail, tracking him as if by smell.
He ducked into the church’s gloaming. It was empty. A row of three wooden confessionals was tucked in along one wall. He doubted any priests would be expecting to hear confessions on a mid-week morning, though Easter was coming. Palm leaves bent into crosses still decorated the church and whole palm fronds circled the altar. H
e stepped into one of the boxes and pulled the door behind him, a dim light coming on in the coffin-like box. Its dark wood had recently been polished with beeswax; he could smell it, feel its smoothness on the small bench.
For a time there was silence. And then he could hear footsteps on the stone floor. One pair. A second. Men’s hard, heavy steps. They circled the church. Della Torre quietly unzipped his shoulder bag and took out the Beretta, checking by feel that it was loaded with a magazine. And then there was the softer brushing sound of a third set of shoes, or, more likely, slippers.
Della Torre froze. The door to the other half of his confessional box opened. He chambered a bullet, but the metallic click was covered by the door banging shut again. He raised the gun to the wooden screen.
“Have you come to make a confession?” asked a voice from the other side of the wooden grille. It was a young man’s voice, speaking in Slovene.
“Yes, Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,” della Torre whispered in Italian, lowering the gun, rocking forward with relief so that he could taste the beeswax on the latticework against his lips.
“Ah, Italian. Good. We shall speak in Italian,” said the young priest. His accent wasn’t fluent but clearly he understood the language well enough. “May the Lord be in your heart to help you make a good confession. How long since you have last confessed your sins?”
Della Torre thought hard. Was it when he was twelve, or thirteen? It was sometime not long after his mother had died. This much he knew.
“Six months, Father.”
“That’s a long time between confessions, my son. And what are your sins?”
“Many, Father. I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain many times. And I’ve done too much coveting. I stole a hoe from my neighbour and then lied when he asked whether I had it. But something else is weighing on my soul.”
He paused for a long time, as if he were bringing himself to admit something. He wasn’t. He just couldn’t think of anything that would keep him in the confessional until the footsteps went away. He didn’t particularly feel like mentioning he’d caused the death of one man or shot another and stolen his car. “It’s to do with my wife. I’m not really sure I know how to explain it.”
