The Book of Q

by Jonathan Rabb

  Then, without a sound, she stepped closer into the bed, leaned past him and kissed her son. The child moved, his lips parting, a deep breath, as if he might say something; then, just as quickly, he was still. She waited, then nodded to Pearse and headed for the door.

  When she had pulled it shut, she turned to him. She seemed unsure for a moment. “You could have held him,” she finally said. “It would have been all right.”

  Pearse thought of answering, but couldn’t. They stood there for a moment. The sound of a plate being dropped momentarily broke the silence. Instinctively, she turned toward the kitchen, then back to Pearse.

  “Salko,” she said.

  She started down the hall; Pearse reached out and took her hand. He felt her entire body tense. Just as quickly, she relaxed and turned to him.

  “Not yet,” she said softly. She slowly pulled her hand away. For just a moment, she let it rest on his chest, then turned and headed for the living room. Pearse watched her go, then followed.

  Mendravic was at the fridge.

  “It’s not going to be enough,” he said, his head deep inside. “You hardly have a thing.”

  “It’s not as if I was expecting you,” she said as she sidled past him and opened several cabinets along the cupboard by the stove. From the one at the top, she produced crackers, a collection of boxes filled with foods Pearse had never heard of, and pasta.

  Mendravic removed himself from the fridge and peered over at the scant offerings. Crinkling his face, he shook his head. “Crackers? This is Salko.” When she continued to stare at him—no hint of mercy in her eyes—his expression at once became more benign. “The orange was good,” he said sheepishly.

  Ten minutes later, he had convinced her that they needed to go out. Ten-thirty. Not so late in this part of the world. The boy would be fine. Yes, he knew the right place. Yes, it was very close by. They’d be away half an hour. Forty-five minutes at the most. With tremendous reluctance, and a constant barrage of encouragement, she had knocked on her neighbor’s door. Explanations of friends from out of town, nothing in the house. The woman had been more than accommodating.

  “I know the place,” she had said. “Go. It’ll do you good. He’ll be fine with me.” A wink from Mendravic hadn’t hurt, either.

  True to his word, the café was no more than a five-minute drive from the apartment. A good deal more than crackers and pasta.

  And, as with just about everything else, Mendravic seemed to be on familiar terms with everyone at the restaurant. The promised crowds, however, proved to be no more than a waiter and cashier, both eager to close up shop. Evidently, his recollection of late-night carousing wasn’t terribly accurate. No matter. The two were more than happy to keep the kitchen open a little while longer. For an old friend.

  “I’m in the mood for burek,” Mendravic began, the waiter nodding his approval. “And some of the lemon-ginger rakija.”

  “‘Burek?’” asked Pearse.

  “Like Greek spanokopita.” When Pearse continued to stare blankly, Mendravic explained: “Casserole. Spinach, cheese, light pastry. Delicious.”

  Pearse’s expression showed far less enthusiasm. “Nothing heavier?” he said.

  “One order of the burek, and one of the maslenica,” Petra told the waiter. “And a bottle of prokupac.”

  “Masle what?” Again Pearse was at a loss.

  “Trust me.” She smiled. “Heavier. Much heavier.”

  Half an hour later, there was still plenty on the plate, even Mendravic too full to take a taste of the generous helping of stew. The wine and brandy were another matter.

  “You’re telling me one person usually eats this whole thing,” said Pearse, having had a bit more to drink than he was used to, and unable to wrap his mind around the Bosnian capacity for consumption.

  “Sure.” Petra laughed. “Ivo has at least two of them each night for dinner.”

  Mendravic laughed as well, a few hums of approval as he now began to pick at the bits of feta that had broken free of the remaining heap of meat.

  “Ivo?” Pearse couldn’t recall an Ivo.

  Before Petra could answer, Mendravic cut in: “Her son. Your son. Ivo. It’s as close as you get to Ian in Croatian.” He was hunting for the last of the mushrooms. Poking away with his fork, he added, “Two of them, easy.” A lazy laugh as he pushed the plate away.

  Ivo. Pearse realized he hadn’t even bothered to ask. For some reason, he laughed as well. Only for a moment, but distinctly, a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Petra.

  He shook his head, the laughter subsiding, a nervous energy competing with the effects of the brandy.

  “Good a reason as any,” Mendravic chimed in as he hoisted himself up. “Men’s room,” the declaration more to remind himself why he’d gotten up than to update his dinner companions. He picked one last mushroom from the plate, swallowed it, and headed back.

  When Petra turned to him, she saw Pearse was staring at her.

  “What?” she said.

  “Hearing his name … it made me laugh.”

  “It’s a good name,” she said. “Good enough for you.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know.”

  “Yes, I know you know.”

  Petra refilled their glasses. She took a sip, then placed hers on the table.

  After another awkward silence, Pearse spoke: “It’s just when I first saw him, it made me … I can’t explain it. To see him and know how much I hadn’t seen, how much he was without my ever having …” The thought trailed off. “And then hearing his name. I don’t know. It just … came out of nowhere.” Without any thought, he picked up his fork and began to run it along the plate. “Does that make any sense?”

  Petra continued to look at him. “He’s your son. He has your name. Yes. That should make you happy.”

  Pearse nodded, his focus still on the plate. After several moments, he asked, “And you?”

  “And me, what?”

  “Does it make you happy?”

  She waited before answering. “That’s a silly question.”

  “Why?” he asked, turning back toward her.

  “‘Why?’” Again she paused. “You saw him. It’s a silly question.”

  Once again, an overwhelming sense of loss cut through him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

  “A priest with a son?” A smile, a shake of the head. “We both know you would have thrown that all away, done the right thing. And I wasn’t going to do that to any of us. You asked me to understand.” She held his gaze. “Don’t you see, I finally did.”

  “Maybe better than I did.”

  She stopped, never for a moment thinking he would say that. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s never been as clear as I thought it would be. It’s never made as much sense.”

  “As what?”

  He continued to look at her.

  “Don’t … don’t say that. Every day you didn’t come back confirmed how right your choice was. That you belonged in another life. And every one of those days made me feel stronger about what I was doing. About the decision I made.”

  It was several seconds before he spoke.

  “Does he know about me?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “That I’m a priest.”

  Now she laughed. Her reaction caught him by surprise. “You don’t tell a seven-year-old his father is a priest, Ian.” She reached for her glass. “Don’t worry. It’s not that strange for a boy here not to have a father. Half his friends are the same way. Except theirs are dead. At least he knows you’re alive.”

  “I guess that’s something.”

  “Believe me, it is.” She took a sip. “He knows you’re an American. He knows you fought with Salko and me during the war.” She stopped and placed the glass on the table. She then looked up at him. “And he knows you’re a good man.”

  He stared at her for several seconds. “Thank you,” he said. />
  “I’m not going to lie to my son.”

  “Except for that bit about the priest.”

  “Right. Except for that.”

  He waited. “Look, I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t do that, okay?”

  Again he waited. “Okay.” He took a sip, then said, “He must wonder why I haven’t visited him.”

  “You’re an American. That makes up for a lot of things to a boy here. You brought peace and chocolates and video games.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She was about to say something, but instead began to cradle the glass in her hands. Staring down into it, she said, “He has Salko, who’s been wonderful. And he has an image of a father that makes him feel different from all the other kids. What more could he want?”

  “So right now, I’m some generic American who’s made of chocolate and designed in Japan.”

  “You’re everything that’s possible to him. Everything that’s beyond here.” She took another sip, her eyes again on the glass. “Most fathers dream of being that to their sons.”

  For the first time, Pearse realized he’d been missing something entirely. From his first moments with her tonight, he’d been focusing on Ivo. Everything they’d talked about had been the boy. Strange that in the car he’d been so concerned with how he would react to her. And yet it had all slipped from his mind the instant he’d seen her.

  And now he’d needed her to remind him.

  “So what about you?” he asked.

  A nervous laughter erupted in her throat. Again, it caught him completely by surprise. “You really were never very good at this, were you?”

  For some reason, he laughed, as well. “I guess not,” he said.

  “I’m telling you,” said Mendravic, who chose that moment to reappear, “it’s not that funny. Ivo, Ian. They’re just names.” It was clear from his expression that he knew exactly what they’d been talking about. Pearse couldn’t be sure just which one of them Mendravic thought he was rescuing, or, more to the point, which of them he thought needed the rescuing.

  Whichever it was, Mendravic was clearly eager to go, hovering by the chair, his eyes scanning the area by the door. He’d had his food. He needed a bed. Same old Salko. Pearse turned back to Petra, who was also peering up at Mendravic. “Well, we can’t keep you waiting,” she said, “now can we?”

  She slid back her chair and was about to stand, when Mendravic said, “Wait here.” His tone was direct, none of the charm of only seconds ago. Before she could answer, he was making his way to the door. She looked at Pearse.

  His expression told her everything. “You didn’t come just to see us, did you?”

  She had been trained too well not to recognize an order. And she was too smart not to understand the implications.

  Pearse stared blankly, then turned to watch Mendravic leave the restaurant.

  Twenty seconds later, he returned. By his side stood Petra’s next-door neighbor. In his arms, he held the boy, Ivo peering down from the height, his cheeks that puffy red from recent rousing. Even half-asleep, his eyes lit up at the sight of Petra. She was already to him by the time Mendravic spoke.

  “We should move to the back,” he said, releasing the boy into his mother’s arms. With Mendravic, Ivo had fit perfectly; with Petra, he seemed to overwhelm her smaller frame. Still, she held him tightly to her shoulders, his head lost in her neck, legs dangling awkwardly below. The expression on her face betrayed none of the unwieldiness, her cheek pressed to his, whispering something into his tiny ear. Pearse watched as the two women headed back, the boy’s eyes drifting into sleep, his hands lost in his mother’s hair. At the same time, Mendravic stepped over to the waiter; they exchanged a few words, the man nodding. As Mendravic returned, Pearse saw the waiter move to the door and lock it.

  “How did you—”

  “I saw them across the street, through the window,” Mendravic explained.

  Now on his feet, Pearse realized the corner lamp illuminated much of the area outside. Not too difficult to pick up two figures on an empty street.

  Once all four adults were settled into a booth—Ivo’s head now on Petra’s lap—Mendravic explained:

  “She says a man came to the apartment.”

  “How he got into the building,” the woman piped in, “I don’t know, but there he was, five, maybe ten minutes after you left.”

  “At eleven o’clock at night?” asked Petra. She turned to Pearse, then Mendravic. “What haven’t you told me?”

  Mendravic shook his head once, then asked, “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “You,” the woman answered, nodding toward Petra.

  Mendravic hesitated, then said, “Naturally. It’s her apartment. Did he say why he wanted to see her?”

  “No.” The woman looked at Mendravic. “A police badge, or something like it. You learn to look at the eyes, not the badge. I’d seen that same stare plenty of times during the war. Men appearing in the middle of the night. I kept the chain on the whole time.” She turned back to Petra. “I told him you didn’t live there anymore, that it was my place. When he asked me where you lived now, I shrugged”—she demonstrated for the table—“said it wasn’t my business. I waited by the window until I saw him leave. He got into a car with someone else. Ten minutes after that, I brought Ivo here.”

  “You walked here?” It was the first time Pearse had said anything.

  “Don’t worry,” said the woman as she turned to Mendravic. “The basements of all the buildings on the block are connected. We went down, then came out on the street behind. They wouldn’t have seen us.” She turned and handed Petra a small bag she had been holding on her lap. “Some clothes for you and Ivo. I thought it might be a good idea.” She then turned back to Mendravic, the smile almost coquettish. “I also fought in the war.”

  Mendravic nodded. “I can see that. Excellent work.”

  The woman seemed well pleased and sat back.

  “What was the man wearing?” asked Pearse.

  The woman’s expression made it clear that she felt she had said all that was necessary. “Wearing?” She shrugged again. “I don’t know. A jacket. Some pants. Oh … and some of those high boots. Tied outside the pants. The sort you take into the mountains.” Again, she turned to Mendravic for approval. Again, he smiled with a nod.

  “High boots,” echoed Pearse, also peering over at Mendravic. He could see the gears working behind the Croat’s eyes.

  “All right,” Mendravic said. “You need to stay with friends for the next few days.” The woman’s reaction told him she’d already taken the precaution. “And we have to get out of here now.”

  “We all have to get out of here now.” Petra was staring directly at Mendravic.

  Again, the gears cranked before he answered. “Right.”

  “We can’t take them to—”

  The woman cut Pearse off. “I don’t want to know where you can’t take them. I don’t want to know where you can take them.” She was clearly enjoying her return to Mendravic’s world, the posturing far more compelling than any possible danger. She stood. “I’ll wait to go back to the apartment for three days. You can contact me then.” She turned to Petra, offered a smile, a kiss on both cheeks for Mendravic, and then headed for the front.

  As he watched her go, Mendravic spoke under his breath, “Vive la résistance.”

  “Behave,” chided Petra. “She saw more than you and I ever did during the war. And she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s just a little lonely now. Without her, your friends in high boots would be standing here with us right now.”

  “We can’t take them to Visegrad,” said Pearse, picking up where he had left off.

  “And we can’t leave them here,” answered Mendravic.

  “Before we make any decisions,” Petra said, “we all have to know exactly whom and what we’re running away from.”

  “No, we don’t.” The tone in Mendravic’s voice was one neither of them had heard
in years. He stood, stepped around, and picked up Ivo before Petra could respond. The boy, who had fallen back to sleep, was now stirring, one eye lazily opening. Mendravic quickly whispered something to him, his massive hand rubbing gently along the boy’s slender back. In a hushed voice, he continued. “We get in the car and we drive. And then we fill in the gaps.”

  He turned and headed toward the kitchen. Pearse and Petra had no choice but to follow.

  The coolness in the air surprised him, more than a hint of the coming autumn. He was glad he had brought a sweater, the walk to the church nearly a mile from the inn he had chosen on the edge of town. He’d had time enough to acclimate himself—two days since his flight into Heathrow—ample opportunity to monitor the comings and goings of Bibury’s inhabitants, a typical Cotswold village, replete with teahouses, ancient Tudor shops, long barrow walks, and the usual infestation of summer renters up from the city. He’d opted for one of the more prominent villages, easier to go unnoticed, another tourist taking in the pleasant English summer. Even so, quarter to twelve, and only the central streets showed any signs of life. And what life there was kept itself to a minimum. The pubs and restaurants had closed over an hour ago—coming from the south of Spain, he’d never understood how the English could abide the early closings—leaving little else to do but head back home for the down quilts and goose-feather pillows.

  A more and more inviting prospect the farther on he walked.

  That there was hardly any light didn’t seem to bother him in the least. The lamps were for town; out here, they would have been an intrusion.

  He had walked the route perhaps fifteen times in the last day, committing to memory the exact number of paces required along each lane, the placement of each turn, the points when the road would rise and fall—but nothing visual. Too much conspired at night to make anything but the most precise measurements a reliable guide. The countryside could play tricks, tease with the appearance of a hedge, the outline of a house. He might as well have been blindfolded, for the attention he gave to his surroundings.