Stillness of the Sea

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Stillness of the Sea Page 8

by Nicol Ljubic


  The judge gestures towards Šimić.

  “Very well, Mr Šimić, would you please take the witness stand now?”

  Why did Ana never tell him that she once had a brother? He has learnt about him here for the first time. Clearly, he was her older sibling: in 1988, she was seven and he sixteen. What reason did she have for keeping quiet about her brother?

  His mind is in a whirl. A brother who froze to death after a skiing accident. Ana. Where was she while all this happened? Why doesn’t the defence ask where Ana was at the time?

  Early on, he asked her if she had any brothers or sisters, but she only shook her head and he had simply accepted that, like him, she was an only child. Now he feels betrayed. She has kept many things from him, that much has become clear. Actually, he has been aware of this throughout the months he has known her, but he had no idea what it was she was so secretive about: her father’s crimes, the death of her brother. What will be revealed next?

  Mr Nurzet catches Šimić’s eye and nods almost encouragingly.

  “First of all, Mr Šimić, I would like to ask you a few personal questions. You were born in Višegrad, am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the name of your father?”

  “Ranko.”

  “And of your mother?”

  “Ana.”

  “Your date of birth?”

  “I was born on the 25th of August 1948.”

  “Do you have any sisters or brothers?”

  “Yes, I do. Two brothers and one sister.”

  “When did you start your own family, Mr Šimić?”

  “I married in February 1970.”

  “When were your children born?”

  “My first child, a daughter, was … in fact, my first child was a son, but he died at birth, in 1970. Then my second son arrived on the 10th of June 1972. He died in an accident in 1988. Our daughter was born in 1980. In other words, I have one daughter and I thank God for her.”

  His counsel nods.

  Šimić rests his hands on the table, right hand on top of the left. He sits with his almost straightened arms stretched out in front of him.

  “Where was your place of work?”

  “I held the chair of English at the University of Sarajevo.”

  “Have you been involved in any conflicts caused by ethnicity?”

  “No. I always had good relationships with everyone. At the university, we worked together as colleagues and no one ever asked what the other person was – Croat, Muslim or Serb. It was of no interest.”

  For the first time, Šimić raises his head and meets his lawyer’s eyes.

  “Mr Šimić, we will now go on to talk about your health. You suffered some injuries – injuries and fractures. I am right in saying, am I not, that on the 14th of June 1992, a riding accident caused you to break your leg?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Had you ever broken your leg prior to this?”

  “No, neither an arm nor a leg. Not even a finger.”

  “And after 1992?”

  “I broke the same leg again in 1994.”

  “In which hospitals did you receive treatment?”

  “On both occasions I was admitted to the hospital in Užice.”

  “Have you been an in-patient at any other point in time?”

  “I was treated for a lymph gland condition in 1976. I spent two months in the Pod Hrastovima hospital in Sarajevo. In 1989, I was in hospital care because of my problems with alcohol. I was treated at the neuropsychiatry unit three times, I think.”

  “Would it be correct to say that, prior to 1992, alcoholism was the reason for you being hospitalised?”

  Silence for a moment, then the interpreter’s voice over the headphones: “Your reply was inaudible.”

  The presiding judge intervenes and asks the defence advocate to repeat the question. Mr Nurzet clears his throat before turning to Šimić once more.

  “Mr Šimić, I ask you this for a second time. Prior to 1992, were you hospitalised because of your alcoholism?”

  “I said that I was in hospital for the first time in 1976 because I needed treatment for my lymph glands, but afterwards, yes, I confirm that I was in hospital twice because of my alcohol dependence.”

  “Can you describe how it affected you? Did drinking make you aggressive?”

  “No.”

  “I will be more specific. Did you ever become physically aggressive?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever attacked another person?”

  “No, never. I have never attacked or injured anyone.”

  “Were you in Pionirska Street on the day in 1992 when you suffered an injury?”

  Silence once more. And once more, the presiding judge has to remind the witness, “The interpreter didn’t hear your reply, Mr Šimić. Yet again, you seem to have lost your voice. You must keep in mind that we should all be able to hear you and that includes the interpreter.”

  Šimić nods.

  “Yes. I was in Pionirska Street on that day.”

  They were together on the bed, she sat between his legs and he leant his back against the wall with her head on his chin. They often read the same book sitting like this. Over time, they had become used to a shared reading speed and often managed to turn the page at exactly the right moment. Her knees were lightly bent, next to her on the floor she kept a glass of red wine. Now and then, she would reach for it and drink without looking up from the book.

  It was one of those evenings when they hardly talked at all. He was pleased when they just read together in this trusting way. But for him, unlike her, reading was never quite enough. Distracted by her presence, he would look up from the lines of text to gaze at her legs, the way they were angled and her slender ankles. At home, she would put on her black-framed glasses, which he liked because they made her look so different and earnest. He told himself that he was the only one who saw her face like that; surely it meant that he belonged in her life and that they shared a togetherness that went beyond falling in love and experiencing that compelling curiosity about each other.

  Once, she put the book down, got up, walked over to the bookshelf to pull out a cardboard box and carried it back to the bed, where she settled down with crossed legs and the box in front of her. She put the lid down close by and took out a bundle of photographs. She then examined one photo after the other, handing them on to him in turn. She said, “You’re always so keen to find out what the place I come from looks like.” When he had scrutinised the first few photos, she moved closer to him and explained to him what they showed, often pointing with her finger and every time touching the image.

  “My mother in our garden. We always used to grow tomatoes in the summer. Did you know that our word for tomatoes is paradajz?”

  It was one of the few words that stuck in his mind, because it sounded like “paradise”.

  “That’s the old bridge. When the weather was fine, my father would often sit on the stone seat in the middle. Look over there. He could sit on that seat for hours, alone or in the company of friends. His horse, look. I’m not sure where he got it from. My mother said that he was very happy with the horse. He would spend time with it every day, feed it and groom it. Look, this is the house where we lived.” It was a large house, three stories high and built of red brick which on the top floor was not covered with plaster. A vine was climbing up one of the walls.

  It was the first time he had seen pictures of her part of the world. An almost idyllic peace emanated from the photographs.

  Now, looking back, he knows what was missing in her box. There was no boy in any of the photos, no boy who looked like her and could have been her brother.

  Once again, he listens to the voice of the defence counsel.

  “Mr Šimić, I would like to find out what you remember of that day and especially of the time you spent in Pionirska Street.”

  “Frankly, I only learnt here in The Hague that I stand accused of a crime in Pionirska
Street.”

  “We will get to that point. Can you remember what you were wearing at the time? Did you carry anything in your hands?”

  “I had put on a sweater and a pair of corduroy trousers. The sweater was a dark shade. I think it was black.”

  “Did you have anything on your head?”

  “I don’t know. I simply can’t remember.”

  “Did you hold anything in your hands?”

  “No. Nothing I remember anyway.”

  “What was your destination that day?”

  “I was going to Vucina.”

  “Did you meet anyone?”

  “Yes, a friend of mine. A man called Mujo. He’s from Sase and came past my house daily on his way to work.”

  “Did you have a chat with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?”

  “I asked him something like ‘What’s new?’ He replied, ‘Nothing. Well, we’ve got to leave.’ I wanted to know why. I still recall him telling me that his wife had already left the village. He offered me his cows. What he said was, ‘I own two cows, would you like to have them?’ I said, ‘Mujo, what am I supposed to do with your cows? I don’t need cattle.’ I told him not to worry, that all this madness would soon pass. Look, the whole thing happened sixteen years ago, I can’t remember whatever else we talked about at the time.”

  “Were other people present?”

  “I do remember him saying that they had to be off. There were other people around at the time, women as well as men. I remember the weather. It was overcast and very windy.”

  “Did you speak to any of the others?”

  “No.”

  “Before you met Mujo, were you aware that a group of people had to leave Višegrad?”

  “No. I had heard nothing about that. I had no idea that anyone had to leave Koritnik. And I didn’t know either who or what the reason was. No idea. If I hadn’t met Mujo, I would simply have moved on. What I’m trying to say is, I had no previous knowledge about these people. That the Red Cross had sent them along to Pionirska Street and so on.”

  “How did you know about the role of the Red Cross?”

  “Mujo told me.”

  “Mr Šimić, have you ever worked for the Red Cross?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever pretended to be a Red Cross worker?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “At your encounter with Mujo, did he ask you to write anything down for him?”

  “No. Why should I have written anything for him?”

  “Did you have paper and pencil on your person?”

  “No.”

  “Once you said goodbye, did you go to collect a horse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see Mujo again on the way back?”

  “No. As far as I can remember, I didn’t see anyone. I was on horseback and when I was about to leave the town, it started to rain. A brief but heavy shower.”

  “How fast did you ride?”

  “Not fast at all.”

  “And then you took a tumble?”

  “As I passed a restaurant, I heard somebody call my name. It was Professor Mitrović and I tried to turn back. In that instant, the horse fell and pulled me down with it. The horse got up almost at once. I tried to stand, but found that I couldn’t. Professor Mitrović felt my leg and told me he thought it was broken. He called the ambulance and it arrived in ten minutes, perhaps fifteen. I was taken to the hospital and X-rayed. The doctor said that I had broken two bones. He bandaged my leg and sent me on to the hospital in Užice.”

  “Did they take more X-rays there?”

  “Yes, they examined my leg. A doctor Jovicić confirmed that it was broken.”

  He would often look at the photograph in the morning, while she was still asleep. He always woke before she did. He made coffee and brought her a cup in bed or, if he thought she was still fast asleep, ambled over to the window to look at the sky or study the photo which was the only picture she had put on the wall above her desk.

  It seemed to him that this Titus Andronicus was keeping an eye on her. There were days when the man’s gaze seemed sterner than usual. He would conduct internal dialogues with him, calling him Titus. This made her father smile. So, she has told you? It’s an old story, you know. She was ten years old. He imagined her father pouring him a glass of wine: they sit together at the wooden table behind the house, with their backs resting against the wall as they enjoy the shade and the view of the garden where Ana is stretched out under a tree, lying on her front and propped up on her elbows to read a book. Her mother brings a plate of tomatoes, places a knife across the plate and a small salt cellar on the table. Before going back inside, she too takes a moment to look at her daughter. Ana’s father pushes a glass towards him. Živeli. Drink to Life. Ana glances at them. Later she will tell him how pleased she is that he and her father are getting on so well. “He has taken to you. You’re like a son to him.”

  Was that what he wanted? That Šimić would accept him as his son? At the time, he couldn’t have known how inappropriate this fantasy was, since he didn’t know that Šimić had had a son.

  “Have you been awake for long?” Ana asked. She was suddenly standing behind him, holding her cup of coffee.

  “Do you think your father and I would like each other?” he enquired.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m not sure. Or rather, it’s simply because I see his photograph every morning. I keep wondering if he’d like me.”

  “I think he would.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “He would like you.”

  “What about me? Would I like him?”

  “I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t like my father,” she told him.

  He could not help thinking about his own father and wondering if Ana would like him. Very likely she would. Some of his friends were very enthusiastic about his father. He was the only one who felt something wasn’t right. His old man was liked because he was entertaining and always ready with yet another anecdote. Once, after being introduced to his father, one of his female friends remarked that he seemed so gentle, such a truly sensitive person. He couldn’t help thinking that their acquaintance had been far too brief for her to make that judgement.

  He conjured up an image of them both, Ana and his father, talking animatedly, excluding him and laughing together at the dinner table in his parents’ house. He would feel jealous rather than pleased. Later, his father would go on about how attractive she was and that he hoped his son realised how lucky he was. And as he walked her home, she would say how strange it was that the two of them were father and son, given how very different they were.

  His father knew about Ana, he had phoned and told him about her. “Good, good,” his father had said, “I hope this is serious.” He had gone on to explain where Ana came from and that she was a Serb, but his father hadn’t commented in any way.

  Šimić’s posture doesn’t change as he stands in front of the judges with drooping shoulders and restless hands. As if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he first puts one on top of the other as if in prayer, and then adjusts this pose almost immediately.

  “Mr Šimić, how long did you have to stay in hospital?”

  “I should explain that the doctor needed to make a small incision into my heel and attached a couple of weights to my leg in order to stretch my muscles and let the bones knit properly. Or, at least, that’s how the operation was explained to me. Whatever the reason, when I came round from the anaesthetic, I was in bed in a hospital ward. And I had to stay put for three weeks.”

  “Is that to say that you were confined to your bed for twenty-one days?”

  “Yes, it does. I was unable to get out of bed.”

  “Did you know how many other patients were in your ward?”

  “There were four of us. My bed was by the window. An old man from Užice was next, then a Muslim from Gorazde, they had amputated one of his legs, and fin
ally another man from Užice.”

  “Did you spend three weeks in the orthopaedic department?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after that?”

  “I was admitted to the neuropsychiatric unit. The unit was part of the same hospital, but housed in another building.”

  “Why were you transferred?”

  “I was in a difficult, emotional state – moody and unbalanced. I was anxious and saw visions. I imagined all kinds of things, saw myself speaking with God and the Devil. Satan’s eyes were like two full moons. He had thousands of noses and great long horns, ridged and furrowed like the surface of the sea. My head was constantly full of strange images I couldn’t rid myself of.”

  “Thank you, Mr Šimić.”

  He is sitting behind the plate glass, staring at Šimić and reflecting with some relief that Ana clearly takes after her mother, at least in appearance. Her cheekbones, pale skin and dark hair offer him at least the possibility of imagining that she is not Šimić’s daughter. How often over the last few weeks has he wished that her father were someone else, that the man in the dock were not a blood relation of hers? But he knows that Šimić is her father. He knew this for certain from the first day, when the man was escorted from the adjacent room. He recognised her eyes, her serious, dark eyes in which he had so often lost himself.

  In his dream, Šimić enters his room. He can’t see his face, only the outline of his body. There’s no light to see him by, but he knows it’s Šimić. He tries to make himself see, to recognise the things in his room by their shades of darkness.

  Šimić moves purposefully, as though he knows the room. He skirts around the two chairs at the table and walks straight over to the minibar. He immediately finds the handle and opens it. The carpet is lit by the dull light from the fridge. Šimić pulls out a miniature bottle. He settles down at the table with his legs resting on the other chair. He unties his shoelaces, leans back, stretches his arms above his head and yawns.

 

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