By the time Petar disgorged me in front of the elegant entrance, the rain had slacked off to a slight drizzle. International flags flapped overhead. The exterior of the hotel was promising, part brick and stucco, part steel and glass, a tasteful blend of old and new. This doorman’s eyes lingered on my minimalist baggage and casual dress, but he swung open the door anyway.
Quelle différence, as Valerie would say. The lobby was also a hybrid. Modern pillars, lights, and flooring were warmed up in the corners by antique armchairs and an Oriental rug. The bar-restaurant to my right was a gleaming mixture of glass chandeliers; more antique chairs; and clean, architectural lines. A sprightly piece of classical music played in the background.
The wide smile from a female desk clerk working behind an angled front desk the color of dark slate faded slightly when I confessed I didn’t have a reservation.
“The hotel is extremely busy right now. I doubt we have a room available. Please give me a moment to look.” Her pronunciation was slightly British, and impeccable.
“Before you do that, can I confirm that my business colleague, Bill Bohannon, arrived here safely?”
She tapped the keyboard with curved, manicured nails. “Yes, he checked in yesterday.”
“Great,” I said.
She squinted at the screen. “You are in luck. We have a cancellation on a deluxe single. Austro-Hungarian, all the moderns are booked I’m afraid. It’s on the same floor as Mr. Bohannon.”
I pulled out my credit card.
“How many nights, sir?”
“Two, I think. May I ask the cost?”
“Of course. One hundred seventy-eight euros, including surcharges.”
Steep, but not as steep as I’d feared.
“Per night,” she added. My face gave me away. “Breakfast is included,” she added, “and we have a fully equipped wellness center.”
The Holiday Inn was less than half the cost. Bill had vaulted several levels above his Detective III pay grade. Outside, the rain had returned and was falling in sheets. I pictured three curly hairs crawling out of a tub drain, like insect legs.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
She gave me a lovely, old-fashioned key for a fourth-floor room. I saved a few KMs by bell-hopping myself there. The room was warm and immaculate, with fresh flowers by the flat-screen television and a bowl of fruit on a gleaming mahogany table, flanked by two more of the now-familiar antique, upholstered armchairs. Outside the rain-streaked window lay the cobbled streets of Stari Grad, dominated by a dramatic copper-tipped minaret. I finally felt as if I were in a different era and country.
I unpacked, which took all of five minutes. The bathroom was spotless, the huge tub deep enough to dive into. Maybe later. I stripped off my damp clothing and made do with a quick shower, using the handheld sprayer and very hot water to wash the airplane off. Clean pair of jeans, clean black T-shirt, and done. It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon, Bosnian time, and I still hadn’t laid eyes on Bill.
Munching on an apple, I ordered up a pot of Viennese coffee, which arrived in five minutes, delivered on a tray by an elderly waiter. I inspected the tray—cup, napkin, red rose, small pot of sturdy roast, and a bowl of whipped cream. The scent made me whimper. I poured, spooned in fluffy cream, and stirred until the coffee was a uniform light chocolate-brown. One sip of the intensely rich brew and I declared my hotel investment a wise one.
The Buddha cautions us about such attachments, but the Buddha never tried to stay in the Sarajevo Holiday Inn.
One more cup, and I felt ready. I dialed the hotel operator.
“Can you please connect me with Mr. Bohannon’s room?”
“Certainly. Oh, I’m sorry, sir. He has requested that any calls be diverted to the front desk. Can I take a message?”
“Can you give me his room number?”
“No.”
No wiggle room there.
“But if you leave your message here,” she added smoothly, “I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“Thank you, I may just do that,” I said, and hung up. The truth was I didn’t know how Bill would respond to my presence here. Who knows? He might even take off.
My eye fell on the tray of coffee. I called room service again.
“This is Bill Bohannon. On the fourth floor? I’d like to order a fresh pot of coffee for my room, please. As soon as possible.” I hung up.
I imagined the chain of events that followed. Room service calls front desk. Front desk sees Bill has put a hold on calls. Front desk gives room service Bill’s room number.
I stationed myself near the service elevator. After seven minutes, the same elderly waiter appeared wheeling a tray of coffee similar to mine, but with two cups, a bigger pot of coffee, and a bigger bowl of whipped cream.
He wheeled silently down the hall. He stopped in front of a door, lifted his fist to knock, and then paused, distressed. A “Do Not Disturb” sign dangled from the doorknob.
My man appeared paralyzed by this service dilemma. He double-checked his invoice, tucked inside a small leather folder. Squaring his shoulders, he knocked lightly.
In a moment the door opened and I heard Bill’s distinctive rumble, somewhat gruff.
C’mon, Bill, it’s coffee.
The cart wheeled inside.
After a moment, the waiter left, and I was looking at the same “Do Not Disturb” sign. I had come too far and was too exhausted to obey. I rapped sharply.
Bill yanked the door open, wrapped inside a plush hotel robe. He looked annoyed. Also different. Younger.
“Tashi delek,” I said, my voice bright. “That’s Tibetan for surprise!!!”
Bill’s eyes bulged. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What the hell happened to your mustache?” I answered. His upper lip was pink and exposed, the bushy silver caterpillar gone.
Bill’s head snapped around. And I finally understood. Mila Radovic sat cross-legged on a king-size bed, naked but for a shawl held across her front. She adjusted the shawl, wrapping it loosely around her, and strode over.
“What is this?” she said, her voice scimitar-sharp.
We were caught for a moment in time, players in a corny melodrama called The Husband, the Detective, and the Half-Naked Bosnian Amazon. Also, the Elderly Waiter, who apparently had neglected to get Bill’s signature. He stood in the doorway behind me, leather folder in hand, eyes darting between Bill and me as he tried to pretend there wasn’t also a wildly attractive half-naked woman in the room, one slipped shawl away from showing everything.
Bill scribbled on the invoice and pushed the waiter back into the hallway, closing the door behind him. The hotel personnel would feast on this for months. Who needs television?
I finally remembered to breathe as Mila disappeared into the bathroom and marched back out cinching a second hotel bathrobe tight. She stalked to the bed and again sat cross-legged, leaning her back against a leather headboard. Some small, unflustered part of my brain registered that this room was in fact a suite, and decorated in a completely different, post-modern style, all glass tops and bamboo wall coverings, with boxy chairs upholstered in thick beige corduroy.
Bill continued to glare.
“Martha asked me to come,” I said. “I didn’t feel good about it, and I still don’t, but here I am.” I was trying out Kim’s technique of telling the inarguable truth. If it worked for people with autism, maybe it would work for me and my cheating ex-partner. I decided to save my more complicated feelings about Bill’s betrayal of Lola and Maude for a later discussion.
Mila turned to Bill, angry. “You say your wife understands!”
“I did not! I said she was an understanding woman,” he sputtered, as Mila jumped off the bed, grabbed a pile of clothes from a chair, and marched back into the bathroom. “There’s a difference!”
The bathroom door slammed.
Bill groaned.
I pointed to the cart. “The coffee’s excellent here, Bill.”
&nbs
p; “Shut up, Ten.”
I helped myself to another cup. No need to let it go to waste.
“Where are you staying?”
I told him. Down the hall.
“Great. Fuck. Okay, just, just go to your room. I’ll come talk to you in a little while.”
I returned to my deluxe single, slightly deflated. I’d taken this trip fueled by impulse, and little else. What was I supposed to do next? I was exhausted. The carpet shifted under my feet as I succumbed to a strange sinking sensation, as if I were standing in quicksand, with nothing at hand to bail me out. I still couldn’t even call Martha, unless I wanted to spend probably another $100 of my own money using the hotel phone. And even if I did reach her, what would I say? “I found your husband shacked up with Mila in a five-hundred-dollar hotel room. Shall I kill him, or remove him by force?”
Her answer would scorch my eardrums.
Bill showed up a few minutes later dressed in designer jeans and a trendy, striped button-down shirt. He looked ten years younger, despite the miserable expression. He’d brought the coffee with him, which was a small plus.
He plopped into an armchair. “Did you have to do this?” he asked.
“I’m here, so yes, apparently I had to do it.”
“Don’t get metaphysical on me, ass-hat. Just because Martha asks you to do something, you don’t automatically have to obey. You could have said no.”
“Well, I didn’t.” I was in no mood to explain the complicated squeeze-box of emotions that had forced a “yes” out of me.
“Do you have any idea how hard this is for me, having you just show up here like this?”
I said nothing, and the self-serving words from his trickster mind landed between us. They lay in a heap, like coyote scat.
“How’s Martha?” he muttered, embarrassed at last.
“Why don’t you call her and find out for yourself? You might consider asking about Maude and Lola, while you’re at it.”
He threw up his arms. “I will, I will!” He slumped even further. “Shit. Are they doing okay?”
“What does okay even mean? The girls are understandably upset. As for Martha, I think she’s over the stage where she wants to strangle you. I mean, she said she wanted you to come home, although now? Who knows? And pardon me for asking, but do you have any plans to do that?”
He shook his head. “Sasha arrives back in Sarajevo tonight. I get to meet my son for the first time, Ten. No way am I missing that.”
“And Mila?”
His head dropped. “No idea,” he said. “All I know is I want her, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
“Well, looks like you got her.”
“Not quite,” he answered. “Close. Until you showed up.”
“Ahh.” A small kernel of hope stirred in my chest. We met eyes.
“And you know what they say …” Bill’s mouth gave a small twitch.
I did know, because Bill always made sure I did, whenever I screwed up a case.
“‘Close only counts in horseshoes,’” we recited together, and shared our first quasi-comfortable moment. The hope grew.
“Shit,” Bill said. “I’m having some kind of midlife crisis, aren’t I?”
“Well, let’s look at the evidence: You’ve run off to a foreign country. You’ve lost weight, shaved your mustache, and bought new clothes. And oh, yes—you’re staying in a five-star hotel with a beautiful woman and no immediate plans to return home to your wife and two children, who are all totally saddened and disturbed by your disappearance. You tell me, Detective.”
“Crap,” Bill said.
“So what do I tell her?”
“Who?”
“Your wife.”
Bill’s face reddened, and he pounced on self-righteous anger, the universal weapon against shame. “Tell Martha I’m an asshole! That’s what all of you think. Tell her you don’t like the way I’m living my life. I’m sure that’ll be a great comfort to her.”
I’d run out of replies. Suddenly all I could think about was a nap.
“I’m exhausted, Bill. I hate the way we’re communicating. I miss my friend, the one I knew I could trust.” More of Kim’s truth-telling technique: three observations in a row he couldn’t argue with. The effect was startling.
Bill started to cry. I’d only seen this once before, at the birth of his twins. Then, the tears had flowed freely. This was more like a one-man wrestling match.
I sat quietly, trying to make space for whatever happened next.
Bill struggled and gasped, knuckling at his eyes, swearing under his breath, until he’d tamed the outburst. “I feel as if this is my chance to change my life, Ten,” he said, “ah, fuck,” and his voice cracked again. “Like I missed my chance twenty years ago. I don’t want to miss it again.”
I felt the heat rise in my own cheeks. “Your life isn’t so bad. Some people would call it great.”
He nodded, but his eyes disagreed. “Maybe it’s an age thing. I’m coming up on fifty. I feel like I’m dying inside.”
It was official: Bill had lost his mind. The old Bill would have taken a bullet rather than say something like “I’m dying inside.” And there was worse to follow.
“Martha and I haven’t had sex in over a year.”
My belly cringed from this piece of news. Bill and Martha’s sex life was a mutually agreed-upon off-limits topic, throughout the time we were partners, and ever since.
“I don’t know what to say. You guys have always seemed rock solid. My ideal match.”
“Used to be, but after the twins were born things started to change. And then they just kept on changing. She was with them twenty-four seven. She had to be. And wanted to be, she said. But after six months, she said she couldn’t do it all by herself, take care of the girls, worry about me. And after a couple of years, she said she was going to crack if I didn’t help more. I changed jobs for her, quit the gym, started to give the girls breakfast, come home in time to feed them dinner and put them to bed, but nothing was enough. Ten, I talked to you about all this, more than once. You didn’t want to hear. And now you don’t want to remember.”
He wasn’t wrong. When their reality didn’t match my expectations, I’d chosen to ignore it.
I waved my arm around the room. “So all this is just a reaction, a form of punishment?” Bill’s face tightened.
“You think that’s what this is about? That I’m here to get back at Martha?”
“Easy, Bill. I’m not saying that’s all. But look at your body right now. Listen to the tone of your voice. It’s worth considering.”
He stared at his clenched fists. “Anybody but you suggests something like that, I’d clock him.”
A sharp knock on the door caused both of us to jump. I opened it. Mila stood waiting, dressed in her uniform of jeans and a men’s button-down shirt knotted at the waist.
“Time to go,” she said to Bill. “Are you coming?” Her tone was all business, but her lower lip trembled slightly, and her eyes were red. She’d been crying, too.
Bill stood. “Of course. Of course I’m coming.”
A minuscule curve of the lips gathered force until a wide, bright smile occupied Mila’s entire face, the first I’d seen from her. Joy lifted her high cheekbones and illuminated her dark-brown eyes. I felt something stir in my own chest. A smile like that could cause a man to make some very brave or very stupid life choices.
Bill moved to her side.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Train station,” Bill said.
“Want company?” I asked. “You know, just in case?”
Mila’s and Bill’s expressions were matched portraits of resistance. I got the message.
CHAPTER 18
I stretched out on top of the big, soft comforter and tried to nap, but sleep wasn’t happening. I pushed upright and shoved some pillows behind my back.
Meditation wasn’t happening either.
I pulled out my tourist guide to Sarajevo a
nd located my hotel and the train station.
A nice, brisk walk was just the thing to cure my insomnia.
My phone suddenly, inexplicably, decided to work, and a series of beeps and buzzes let me know I had lots of messages and texts.
Eight, to be precise, and all from Martha. The final text summed up her concerns nicely: WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? CALL ME!!!
I calculated the time difference. Four P.M. here meant 8 A.M. there. Nobody calls a person that early. It’s uncivilized.
I adapted my route to the train station to include the ancient, bustling marketplace, and was glad I did. The area was closed off to cars, and I shared damp cobblestone streets with a fascinating mix of people and architecture. The fastest way to get the feel of a new place is to take a nice long stroll and observe the expressions of your fellow pedestrians. Doesn’t work in Los Angeles, of course—nobody walks—but the wide, busy walkways of Stari Grad were perfect for taking the pulse of the local populace. I expected to find “earnest, stressed, and careworn.” Instead, I found everything: young, old, eager, exhausted, weighed down by shopping bags, and holding out beggar’s cups. Two old men in berets moved life-size chess pieces around a giant board. A child and her grandmother scattered breadcrumbs inside a flapping swirl of hungry pigeons, next to an antiquated wooden fountain sporting a round cap of green copper. Couples pushing baby carriages, and men, as well as women, in business attire. I noted two or three women in headscarves, and one in a somber black burka, a pair of elegant shoes peeking out from under the hem. None of the women were dressed like Mila’s mother Irena, though, with that odd combination of headscarf and monk-like tunic.
And everywhere I looked, magnificent places of worship from every conceivable tradition: chapels; temples; here a looming Gothic cathedral of white stone, with twin bell towers and a statue of a human God pointing to His heart; there a gracious mosque with an ornate urn-shaped fountain and a facade decorated in glorious blues and reds.
I’d always wanted to go to Jerusalem. Stari Grad felt like its Balkan twin.
I checked my map and left Old Town, following the river for about a mile. At one point my route took me across Latin Bridge, where Archduke Franz Ferdinand’s assassination sparked the First World War. I touched the stone, feeling into the arched spans of history, expecting the dark weight of shame. I sensed, instead, a kind of faded resignation.
The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) Page 15
