by Alen Mattich
Della Torre shrugged.
Horvat pointed his fork at della Torre’s wounded arm. “You got into scrape with some Bosnians. Some deep undercover work they didn’t much care for.”
“Something like that,” della Torre said. It had been nothing like that at all. He’d been selling UDBA files to a crooked cop and somebody hadn’t liked it. And when he’d run away to London, they’d sent a couple of hired guns to hunt him down.
“You see, I think I know what it is,” Horvat said, the tiny twist of a smile playing on the side of his mouth.
“Oh?”
Horvat threw up his hands in mock frustration at having to explain himself, but he was enjoying his game.
“Obvious, isn’t it? You are true Croatian. You didn’t go to oratory to pray but to be part of Croat community. And when you finished with London, you were going to be Svjet’s man in Zagreb, weren’t you? Svjet told me about you. He had plans for you.” For a man who’d suffered Tito’s prisons and exile, Svjet was somehow hopelessly naive, vulnerable to flattery, to being given — handed by the gods — a handsome young acolyte whom he could mould in his image. Della Torre found it embarrassingly easy to be adopted by the old dissident. “You were in prosecutor’s office. From there a short step to Interior Ministry, where we needed eyes to see what UDBA were up to. Except Svjet got caught. And eventually they discovered what you were doing too, didn’t they? They found out you were a sleeper for Croatian cause and they tried to kill you, didn’t they?”
Della Torre stared at Horvat with incredulity. The émigré had built up some fantasy about him, a complicated fantasy that fitted della Torre into his nationalist imaginings. Horvat had convinced himself that the Bosnians who’d shot him had been UDBA agents sent to eliminate the Croat nationalist double agent in their midst. Della Torre knew these people spent too much time watching spy movies, reading spy novels. But now they wove their own plots too?
Horvat looked at the younger man with satisfaction, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger.
“I got you, didn’t I? I knew when they told me about you. I remembered my conversation with Svjet, his boy in prosecutor’s office.” Horvat nodded. “I asked about you. Forgot your name, but they found it for me. I got background on you. Istrian? Yugoslav secret policeman? Nonsense. You’re one of us.”
The man had called him to Vukovar to show him what they were fighting for and how. To Horvat, della Torre was another of his fanatical nationalists.
He held out his hand over the table. Della Torre took it reluctantly and let Horvat pump it until beer bottles fell onto the floor. The half of Horvat’s face that worked was beaming. The other half remained frozen — cold, turned down, cruel.
He sat in the car for a little while before starting it up. He was pretty sure his blood alcohol level was finally close to legal. He could have slept another few hours. His shoes were still damp, and the inside of his head was a ball of fuzz pierced with razor blades. As long as he didn’t make any sudden moves, he would feel no pain. He swallowed. At least his mouth was somewhere back to normal again. He’d had to clean his teeth three times and then down a long espresso and smoke a cigarette, but he finally got the oily paint-thinner taste of home-distilled slivovitz out of his mouth.
Della Torre had left the Ribar not long after that handshake, turning down the offer to stay for a few drinks with Horvat and the boys. The weather had just broken, and those black, threatening clouds had opened themselves up on the landscape. The rain, mixed with hail, was Biblical. He’d started to sprint but was soaked through before he’d gone half a block. In a moment, the street became a stream, a tendril of the Danube sending its shoots up through the town. He breathed water, was pelted by ice until he stung. Even after he reached the arcades on the main street, the rain sprang back up at him from the force with which it had hurtled to earth.
He’d thought he’d wait it out, but why? He could get no wetter. His clothes could absorb no more water. So he might as well try to enjoy it, like Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain. Anzulović had made him watch the movie once. All della Torre remembered was the guy getting drenched.
As he’d checked into the hotel, they’d mopped the floors around him. The bellboy had delivered the bottle of slivovitz, compliments of the hotel. Best quality, he said. He had also offered to find someone della Torre could share it with. Della Torre declined, in favour of a hot bath and his novel. The slivovitz was just anaesthetic.
As he pulled away from the hotel, he noticed one of Horvat’s militiamen watching him. Camouflage trousers, black T-shirt, thick arms and neck.
It took him the best part of an hour to get to the Osijek police station. Because he’d driven slowly, unsure of his reflexes. And because he took a couple of wrong turns. So it was after nine by the time he parked and got to the booking sergeant’s desk. The same one as the previous afternoon.
“You’re back.”
“Lieutenant Boban, please.”
“He told me you might come looking for him. He’s in. Up those stairs, second floor to the right. I’ll call to tell him.”
He let della Torre through.
The door to Boban’s office was open, but he was on the phone. He gave della Torre an apologetic look and pointed to the office next door, miming that he should knock.
Rejkart opened it. Della Torre was surprised by what he saw.
The police chief was a young man, younger even than della Torre. He wasn’t yet in his mid-thirties and looked younger still. He was about della Torre’s height, but thinner, with hollow eyes from lack of sleep and months of worry. His thick black hair sat high on his head, but the feature that really stood out was his luxuriant black moustache, which harked back to an imperial age. For years della Torre had had one too, but he’d shaved it off during his ill-fated trip to London this past spring. His had been a weak effort by comparison.
“I’m told you’re a friend, even though you come from Zagreb,” Rejkart said, holding della Torre by the shoulder as he shook his hand.
“It took a while to convince the lieutenant.”
Rejkart waved della Torre in and shrugged sympathetically when della Torre refused a drink. Della Torre sat in a slightly reclined padded office chair facing Rejkart’s plain wooden desk. The desk was mostly tidy, with two telephones and, in one corner, a small stack of papers. Rejkart sat in a chair next to della Torre.
“My men are overprotective of me sometimes,” Rejkart said, smiling apologetically. “Especially when it has to do with Zagreb. All we seem to get from there these days is troublemakers. Thank you for taking Damir to the hospital.”
“How is he?”
“He’ll be fine. A clean, simple-to-repair wound, I’m told. A sharp piece of tile sliced through muscle. Lieutenant Boban tells me the doctors think he’ll be fit for work in a week’s time.”
There was a pause. Rejkart gave della Torre an encouraging smile. He sat back in his chair as if he had all morning to chat about football or the weather, but his eyes danced back towards his desk. Della Torre realized the police chief had sat away from it to avoid succumbing to the temptation of looking at his papers while entertaining his guest. Nothing about Rejkart, from the pallor of his skin to his fatigued eyes, suggested he gave himself over to any leisure.
“I won’t play games,” della Torre said. “Anzulović sent me to see how you were doing, but he didn’t want me to tell you because he thought you’d varnish the truth, paint me a pretty picture, and I’d leave not knowing any more than if I’d read Vjesnik at a café in Zagreb this morning.”
Rejkart laughed.
“Anzulović . . .” he said, shaking his head at the name. “He’s been at it since the start of the year, trying to get me transferred out of here.” He smiled when he saw the look of guilt on della Torre’s face. “Ah, I see he told you.”
“He might have mentioned something along those li
nes. But that you’ve been . . . ah . . . reticent with him.”
“Well, I shouldn’t keep him hanging on. Tell him I’m accepting the latest offer. They’re making me head of training at the Zagreb Academy. I haven’t told anyone here yet, so if you could make sure it doesn’t go beyond Anzulović I’d be grateful. It won’t become official until next week. I’ve got some things to finish up here first. Between my wife, my officers, and Anzulović, everyone wants to get me the hell out of here. So I said yes to the academy job. It’ll be dull, but I could use a bit of dullness after this place. If that’s what he sent you here for, to find out whether I’d finally given in, then you can tell him I have.”
“I’ll tell him,” della Torre said.
The phone rang. Rejkart asked della Torre to excuse him and picked up the receiver. He listened and then said, “Let me know if anything more comes up.”
“So how is the old man?” Rejkart said, turning back to della Torre.
“Getting older. He’s looking tired,” said della Torre.
“Aren’t we all. I hear they’ve shut down Department VI.”
“We’re owned by military intelligence now. Run by a man called Kakav.”
“I know Kakav. He was with the Zagreb police when I worked there. A sort of commissar, if I remember. Not very intelligent but somehow manages to worm his way up to the top of the shitpile, if you’ll excuse the expression.”
“That’s the man.”
“Not someone to get on the bad side of. Venomous, if I remember well,” Rejkart said.
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Sounds like it’s something you might have already found out for yourself.”
“Yup,” said della Torre.
Rejkart smiled. There was a wisdom to his young face, warmth and concern. Della Torre was getting an inkling of why his men liked him so much.
“Has he changed?” Rejkart asked. “Is the first thing he asks whether you’ve seen any good movies lately?”
“Anzulović? He used to, but he’s given up. I don’t go to any good movies. Or bad ones, for that matter,” della Torre said.
“Neither do I. Not anymore. But whenever we talk, he still asks,” Rejkart said. He pulled out a pack of Lord cigarettes and peeled back a corner, pushing one out slightly and offering it to della Torre.
“Thanks.” Della Torre leaned forward to light the police chief’s cigarette and then his own.
“He was head detective when I was starting out on the Zagreb detective squad. After a while, I noticed he was bunking off Thursday afternoons,” Rejkart continued. “I wondered what he was up to, so one day I followed him. I thought he might have a mistress. I’m not sure what I would have done if I’d found out he did. Anyway, I was pretty disappointed to discover he was going to the university cinema club. I thought I was being clever and subtle, but he knew straight away I’d followed him. In fact, I think it was that afternoon or the next day in the office that he asked me whether I liked movies. I thought, boy, that’s me back on the traffic beat. But I managed to say yes. And then he asked whether I’d like to go with him the following Thursday.”
“The movie club shut down,” della Torre said. “He takes videos into the office now. He’s got a TV and a machine. Locks his door and tells his secretary to take his calls.”
Rejkart laughed.
“Sometimes it was just us there, me and him. In the cinema,” Rejkart said. “I didn’t go often, and after a while I’d only go to the Hollywood movies and maybe a Japanese sword movie. What killed me was when he took me to a four-hour-long Russian film. I’d fallen asleep and Anzulović just left me there. When I finally got back to the office, I got it in the neck from my immediate superior. Anzulović refused to back me up when I said I’d been with him. He told my boss that he thought I’d bunked off to spend the afternoon with some woman. When I admitted I’d fallen asleep at the movies, nobody believed me. For a while I had a reputation as a ladies’ man just on the strength of that story. That was before I got married . . .”
“He’s still a funny guy.”
The telephone rang again. Rejkart answered, moving back behind his desk. He spoke little. His head was bowed as he listened. When he looked back up at the end of the one-sided conversation, his cheeks were slightly more sunken and his face was a little more pale. He forced a smile.
“Sure I can’t get you a drink?” Rejkart asked after he hung up. “I can order you a coffee, but I’m trying to cut back myself. I’m jittery enough as it is, and I spend most of my days having coffee with discontented Serb or Croat villagers.”
“If you’ve got something soft, that’d be great.”
“Coca-Cola?”
“Sure,” della Torre said. He decided he wouldn’t point out that Coke was full of caffeine.
Rejkart got up and appraised some drinking glasses he found in a cupboard.
“I’m not sure how clean they are,” he said.
“I’ll take my chances.”
As he was pouring, something caught Rejkart’s eye outside the window. The glass overflowed.
“Sorry,” he said, finding some paper towels. “I saw someone I’d rather not outside.”
“Girlfriend’s husband?”
There was a hollowness to Rejkart’s laugh. “A fellow by the name of Zdenko. He’s one of the paramilitaries who’ve descended on us from parts unknown, somewhere in Herzegovina. He seems to be the fixer when Horvat’s not around.”
Della Torre stood up to take the glass from Rejkart. He could see a man standing in the shade of a tree. The same paramilitary who’d found della Torre in the café, who’d been standing there the previous day.
“Anzulović’s wife still have that poodle?” Rejkart asked.
“Yup. It’s older, yellower, and Anzulović hates it even more.”
“He still afraid it’ll outlive him?”
“Says he knows it will.”
The telephone rang again. Rejkart picked up the phone and listened. His smile evaporated.
“Yes, yes, I’ll be there.” He looked up at della Torre. “I’m sorry. I have to go. Something’s come up. You’re welcome to wait for me here, but it might take a little while.”
“Maybe I could go with you?”
“Yes, yes, of course. It could be uncomfortable, though. I don’t think dangerous. Well, that’s not true, everything’s dangerous here. But no more dangerous than usual.”
“That’s okay. I’ve already had someone shoot my car — I mean, my wife’s car — yesterday.”
“Yes, I heard. I’m sorry about that. I’m sure if you take it round to our mechanics, they’ll fix it, though it might be a bit of a wait. We’ve got cars stacked up there. Can’t get the parts. Belgrade stopped sending them to us, for some reason,” he said. “We’ll take my car.”
• • •
They headed back towards Vukovar. The place was proving to be a magnet for della Torre. Boban, Horvat, and now Rejkart.
Rejkart asked if della Torre was carrying a weapon. Della Torre said he wasn’t.
“Good,” he said. “The Serbs have been setting up roadblocks. They’re worried about some of the Croat nationalists who have been coming through, so they blockade their local roads. I can usually talk them out of it, but only because I ask them nicely and don’t carry a gun. It wouldn’t do if they found you with one.”
About twenty minutes to the south of Osijek, they slowed down. A small group of Serbs had rolled oil barrels onto the road and were guarding the spot, armed with shotguns. Rejkart stopped the car a good forty metres short.
“Stay here,” Rejkart said to della Torre. “Don’t do anything sudden and make sure they can see your hands. Hang your right arm out the window and put your left hand on the dashboard.”
Rejkart stepped out of the car and opened up his sport coat so that the Serbs could see he wasn
’t hiding anything. For a while they kept their shotguns trained on him but had lowered them by the time he’d strolled over. Della Torre couldn’t hear what was being said, but it looked like an impassioned conversation on the part of the Serbs, while Rejkart calmed the situation with modest gestures. Finally, after a good half-hour, they put their shotguns on the ground and, with Rejkart’s help, rolled the barrels out of the road. He shook their hands and returned to the car.
“Takes some courage to go up to vigilantes like that,” della Torre said as Rejkart turned the car back towards Osijek.
“Oh, they’re just frightened. All they want is to be reminded that the neighbours they grew up with, used to go drinking with, and played backgammon with on a Sunday afternoon won’t kill them in their sleep. I spend most of my days going from one roadblock to another trying to calm them down. But it’s getting harder with the nationalists around. They don’t want Serbs and Croats living together peacefully.”
“Horvat’s people?”
“Both stripes. But around here it’s mostly our lot, Croats. They want Serbs out of Croatia, doesn’t matter that they’ve been living here as long as we have. Anyway, no one’s terribly trusting since Borovo Selo.”
Borovo Selo was the Serb village near Vukovar. Four local cops had taken it into their heads to go into the village one night to pull down the Yugoslav flag and replace it with the Croatian one. They denied they’d been drinking. Two were wounded and captured. The next day Zagreb, full of bravado, went over Rejkart’s head and best advice and sent busloads of police, around 150 of them, into the village to free the two hostages, as they called the captured policemen. During the raid, a dozen cops were killed and another twenty were injured in the firefight. Probably half a dozen villagers died too.
“Anzulović tells me you’ve had some death threats.”
Rejkart laughed bitterly. “If it was only some, it wouldn’t feel so bad. It’s hard to find the bills among all the letters telling my wife how many ways I’m going to die.”
