by Alen Mattich
“Even in Zagreb? Even now?”
The old man shrugged. “Even in Zagreb. Even now.”
Did the old man still have ties to the UDBA? The Croat government? No one like that lived to his great age without the indulgence of a powerful protector.
“What happens when Croatia becomes independent? What happens when your friends in Belgrade can no longer help you?”
“My dear boy, that you approached me as you did tells me you’re working alone,” the Dispatcher said with amusement. “You should think a little more about the risks you’re taking rather than being concerned about me.”
The Dispatcher’s ironic smile was beginning to grate. Anzulović had come prepared for a simple game of draughts, only to find himself on the wrong side of a fool’s mate. He’d never been particularly good at threats. Had he been Messar, he might have taken a swipe at the Dispatcher. And if his papery skin and desiccated bones crumbled into dust, well, that’d just save the cost of a cremation.
“Son, I forgive you because you are clearly impassioned over your . . . friend’s misfortune. But you are sadly mistaken in the role you attribute to me. It’s like blaming the man in the control tower for the engine that fell off the plane. Now, if you permit me, I would like to buy something for my lunch before the butchers close.”
“Who are you working for? Who is it in Belgrade that’s worried about Pilgrim? What does it have to do with the Montenegrin and centrifuges?”
“Perhaps you should ask the Montenegrin yourself.”
“He’s retired. On the wrong side of the border. And he’s never liked to talk very much. You, on the other hand, are here.”
“Maybe you should send him a postcard.”
“What’s Pilgrim? Perhaps you can explain that to me?”
“Pilgrim? Isn’t that someone who goes on religious voyages? We had in our grasp enlightenment, the purity of socialism, and the brotherhood of workers. And now we slip back into superstition and the false comfort of fascism. We are all pilgrims heading into our ugly past, don’t you think?”
Without a further word, the old man carried on to buy a little pork cutlet. But only a very little one.
“PLEASURE,” SHE SAID and her eyes told him she meant it. They were a blue-green as clear as the Adriatic, so astonishingly clear that he stared into them unembarrassed, like a child. He realized what he was doing and looked away and then looked back.
She was without question beautiful. She’d dressed simply, in a blue knitted jersey, cream trousers that tapered to her ankles, and a pair of old blue and white deck shoes. There was little evidence of make-up, though he’d been fooled before. Her dark eyebrows contrasted with her hair, a deep flax when the light caught it.
He seldom cared about how he dressed, but he felt out of place in this restaurant wearing cheap Yugoslav trousers and an indifferent shirt he’d bought at Marks & Spencer. It didn’t matter, though, because nobody was looking at him. All eyes drifted towards Harry, pulled away, and then drew back. Glancing around the room, it was impossible to miss the attention directed at her. Reflexively he ran his hand over his face. He was no longer shocked to feel a smooth top lip. He was growing used to not having a moustache.
They’d grown used to each other over the past few weeks. She’d come to accept her accidental flatmate and he enjoyed her company. She was funny and entertaining. He’d even learned a thing or two from her about music and books and art. So when she suggested going out to dinner — her agency had an account at the West End restaurant — there was no chance at all he’d turn it down.
“Tell me,” he said as they had their coffees and petit fours, “how is it that such an astonishingly beautiful woman seems to be single?”
There was a trace of irony in her smile. “I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me.”
“I can only think it’s because you choose to be.”
“Maybe that’s because there’s so little to choose from.”
“In the whole of London?” he asked, shaking his head at the absurdity of what she’d said.
“The banker was a failed experiment. I decided that I didn’t want to settle down and become an upper-middle-class housewife.”
“And you couldn’t find anybody else exciting enough?”
“The problem with exciting men is either they’re profoundly stupid or they’re sociopaths or narcissists or just really dull except when they’re throwing themselves out of airplanes or shooting lions or driving very expensive cars very fast,” she said. “Besides, I’m too broke to move in those circles these days. There comes a point where if you’re not paying your way, you start to feel like a whore.”
“Doesn’t your job pay?”
“You may have missed the news, but we’re in the deepest recession since the war. House prices in London have crashed, and nobody’s selling or buying. The only things keeping me afloat are the fact that I don’t pay rent and what I get from your Mr. Strumbić-Vodka for the furniture. Just about anything I earn at work gets ploughed back into the agency. I made the mistake of becoming their most junior partner at the very worst possible time.”
“Can’t you sell out of your partnership?”
“Who’d buy?”
“So you’re broke?”
“I’m worse than broke. I’m sitting in a riptide of debt and the current is taking me far away from shore.”
“But you stay away from rich men?”
“Mostly.”
“What about poor men?”
“They’re the same. But have less money. Some even steal the change off one’s bookshelf,” she said, laughing.
“Sorry. I thought you wouldn’t notice.”
“Never mind.”
He scraped up some of the sugar that had stuck to the bottom of his cup and sucked it off the tiny, spade-shaped silver spoon.
“So, what kind of excitement are you talking about?” he asked.
“After university I taught English in Papua New Guinea. What they say about cannibals isn’t true.”
“What do they say about cannibals?”
“That they have good taste.”
“How long was that for?”
“A year. I came back to work at a publishers. It was fun if you like cheap and tepid white wine, being paid badly, and spending time in confined places with neurotic people.”
“So what’d you do after that?”
“A friend’s father owns a diamond mine in South Africa.”
“You mined diamonds?”
“No. They also had a game reserve. She set up a company that took rich men on big-game hunts.”
“Sounds fun. Is it dangerous?”
“It is when you do it from horses. Which is what we did.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, at least there were rich men there.”
“Yes. Rich men with big guns.”
“Were they interesting?”
“Some. But by and large, they weren’t nice people. Nothing to do with shooting animals. You just had a feeling that if they could, they’d have been happier hunting people. On the other hand, that might not be a bad idea — if they went after those willowy, self-obsessed boys in the publishing industry who are so full of existential despair.”
“So you’re looking for somebody rich, clever, and flawless?”
She laughed. “You make it sound like a tall order. No, he doesn’t have to be flawless, but there has to be something there. I probably want a cowboy: a man on a horse, book in one hand, rifle in another, and wilderness in front. Only not the sort who goes to South Africa to shoot buffalo. Or the ones who work in banks.”
Della Torre shrugged. He’d never really given much thought to horses. Or bankers.
“But at least I didn’t want for trying. Though not lately, of course,” she said.<
br />
“Oh?”
“Going from an all-girls school to university is like being a child with strict parents who’s taken to a candy shop by a favourite uncle for the first time. It’s very hard not to sample a little of everything.”
“And the sampling stopped with the banker?”
“Yes. Though he didn’t last that long either. I decided to have a little break after him. He was about as sexy as Luxembourg, but not as interesting. Maybe I’ll do some travelling when the money starts flowing again. I miss travelling since I’ve been poor. I only get to stay at friends’ country houses or their French or Italian villas or chalets. Not the proper sort of travelling, where you go somewhere you can’t spell and eat things that make you sick for a week. Maybe the man of my dreams is waiting for me in Alma-Ata. What about you?”
Della Torre thought about Irena. If she wasn’t in London already, she’d be coming soon. The UDBA would keep their eyes on her. Messar would expect him to find her. And then they’d find him.
“I was married.”
“And?”
“It ended.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Messy?”
How could he explain it when he didn’t understand himself what he felt?
“No.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to talk about it?”
“It just means there’s nothing really to say. We were married. But now we’re not. We don’t put pins into each other’s wax effigies, and we don’t try to wish each other out of existence either.”
She nodded.
“What are your plans?” she asked. “How long are you staying? Not that I mind. Other than the cigarettes and the fact that you’re barely housebroken, you’re not too bad to have around.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know. If I eat plain boiled rice and eggs I’ll have enough to live off for a few weeks. Shame that Lent’s over. I could have made it into a religious observance.”
“And then?”
“Well, I can’t really look for a job here. My intention had been to go to the States, but that seems unlikely unless I can mug those little bastards who have my money. I’ll probably have to go back to Yugoslavia. Maybe I’ll call up Strumbić and ask him for a loan,” he said, laughing at the thought.
“He certainly doesn’t seem to be short a penny or two,” she said. “I don’t need to tell you how much running his apartment costs. The service charges, council tax, utilities — everything adds up.”
“Not to mention what he pays for your furniture.”
“I didn’t mention that on purpose.”
“He must get cramp writing all those cheques every month.”
“Oh, he pays by direct debit.”
“Direct debit?”
“Yes, it just comes out of his account. I helped him sort all that out.”
“He does a direct debit to you for your furniture?”
“Sure. All the bills.”
“How exactly does he set that up?”
“There’s a form from the bank. He fills it in, signs it, and sends it to the bank, and then the bank takes over from there.”
“What if the bills go up?”
“Then the bank pays whatever he gets billed.”
“So some months it’s higher than other months?”
“Well, there was a bill from the management association last year to sort out some unanticipated building works. They needed to replace part of the roof and it wasn’t covered by insurance or the general maintenance fund. I remember they sent us a statement as his agents.”
“So you sent Strumbić the bill?”
“We sent him a copy of the invoice, but the money just came out of his account. As managing agents, we drew it out of his account and then shifted the money to the company that did the work. He never said anything. I wonder if he ever looks at his bank statement. Most rich clients don’t seem to.”
“So you could charge him more for your furniture?”
“I suppose I could.”
“He once told me he had enough money in that account to keep his great-grandchildren happy.”
“I didn’t know he was that old,” she said, laughing.
“He hasn’t got any kids. At least none that he knows about, but you never can tell. His wife is as parched as the Gobi, he says.”
“He’s not fond of her?”
“He respects her the way an infantryman respects the general who wins battles, but I don’t think it’s one of those romantic marriages, if you know what I mean. Come to think of it, Strumbić and romance are like flippers and wheels. Very hard to hold in your mind at the same time.”
“Well, that’s all very nice for Mr. Strumbić-Vodka, but we’re stuck eating plain rice or going to restaurants that serve main courses that cost as much as a pair of handmade shoes,” she said.
“No. I think Mr. Strumbić is stuck in Zagreb for the next little while, if I know a certain Mr. Messar. Mr. Strumbić, you see, will be having a little trouble with the Yugoslav law. If he doesn’t notice what comes out of his account, what’s to stop you increasing what you charge him for the rent on your furniture? Or to invoice him for further work on his property? Create an account, set up a company, and then charge him for redecorating. Or whatever.”
“Because that, my dear Mr. della Torre, is dishonest. It’s fraud. And people go to jail for fraud.”
“Ah, but Mr. Strumbić’s money isn’t his. Or should I say, he would never admit to having the money he has here because it is derived from his corrupt and criminal activity back in Croatia. So he isn’t very likely to go to the London police to complain that somebody’s stealing money that he himself stole. Especially when he’s here under a fake name. You see, it’s only fraud if somebody says it is. Otherwise, it’s just a normal commercial transaction. And since he can’t leave Croatia, the only thing he can do is transfer his money out of his British account if he’s unhappy.”
“You are a very devious man, Mr. della Torre. A very devious man.”
“I am a very broke man speaking to a very broke woman who has the keys to a very rich man’s bank vault. A very rich man who really doesn’t deserve his riches.”
“And what happens when Mr. Strumbić-Vodka notices that he’s been had?”
She was playing with the silver coffee spoon. He put his starched white napkin on the table. They were the last diners in the restaurant. The waiters stood aloof, unhurried. Natural light filtered through the room from the frosted skylights overhead, turning the leaves of the potted lemon and orange trees into a green that almost hummed. An artificial world set against the early spring chill. For a moment it crossed della Torre’s mind to go to Mass; and then, following directly behind that thought, was a memory of the Croatian service at the Brompton Oratory. Della Torre shuddered and put religion out of his mind. After all, it wasn’t long since he’d last been to confession.
“What happens is that he tips his hat to somebody who’s better at doing something he does quite a lot. He’s a little poorer and we’re a little richer. And we make sure we’re nowhere near him when he finds out. You did say you liked travelling, didn’t you?”
“WHEN ARE YOU going to fix that bathroom light switch? I’m getting tired of having to use a flashlight to go. It’s like my grandparents’ outhouse.”
“My leg’s still sore, woman. What do you want, for me to have a relapse?” Strumbić shouted back at her from the living room. The smell of butter and cooked apple drifted in from the kitchen.
“Didn’t stop you going out last night.”
“That was work.”
“So why’d you come back drunk?” Mrs. Strumbić shouted back.
He turned the television up. The news was about how Serb rebels had taken over the Plit
vice Lakes and shot up a bunch of Croat police. It showed an Italian tour group babbling and throwing their arms around just because the windows of their bus had been shattered. It wasn’t as if any of them had taken a bullet. They might have had something to complain about then. It was more than a month and his shin was still sore.
The phone rang.
“Can you get that? I’ve got my foot up and I’m watching the news.”
“You answer it. What am I, your servant? Isn’t it enough that I’m getting your dinner ready without having to be your secretary as well?”
“How do you know it’s for me?” he shouted back, but got no response.
The phone kept ringing. Finally he gave up and clicked the mute button on the remote.
“Hello? Hello? Who’s that? Can’t hear a bloody thing.” Strumbić held the phone away from his ear. “What?” The noise seemed to be coming from a full bar. A jukebox was playing in the background. Maybe it was a prank. He tried listening again but gave up and put the receiver down.
The telephone rang again.
“What?” Strumbić shouted into the handset.
“Mr. Strumbić, don’t hang up.” Music was still playing in the background, but it wasn’t so overwhelming now. The man sounded like he had a country accent. Bosnian maybe.
“Who is this?”
“You set us up. We don’t like that. And you owe us money.”
“Who the hell is this?” Strumbić asked.
“You were dishonest with us, Mr. Strumbić. We don’t like that.”
“Who are you, before I tell you to fuck off?”
“We want the money you took from us.” Strumbić heard the sound of a toilet flushing.
“What are you doing, calling me while you’re taking a crap?”
“It’s a little quieter in here, Mr. Strumbić.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Pay us or we’ll shoot your wife, Mr. Strumbić.”
