The expanse of the table’s surface held a clutter of inharmonious worlds—grenades and soup pots, rifles and lovely blue bowls, bayonets and butter knives, bottles of wine and brandy and tubes of medicines, crystal goblets and brass handfuls of ammunition. He saw immediately that the men around it were possessed by unwholesome decaying energy, ruddy-faced but sickly with apprehension, their countenances governed by the permanent jolt of paranoia in their bloodshot eyes. By all appearances they were an ill-disciplined and unpredictable band who seemed exasperated by peace and indifferent to the nature of their victory or their role as victors. Like wary dogs, their eyes tracked his movement while they continued shoveling gray porridge into sour-looking mouths, munching links of burned sausage, their weathered skin boasting an array of new scars and old scabs and dusted with grit and soot.
Ah, Bogdanov, you’re too old for this, he groused to himself, bowing toward the rebels. Gentlemen, he said out loud, comrades. Good morning.
Stjepan’s mother lifted the washcloth to examine the boy’s wound and overcame her reluctance to add to her son’s pain. I’m going to sew you up, she said.
But I’m fine, Mother, Stjepan insisted, slouched under her attention. It doesn’t hurt.
It’s deep, this cut. It won’t stop bleeding, she insisted. I can see the bone. Flies will lay eggs in your brain.
She got out of the car and stood on its running board to grope through the luggage strapped to the roof, locating her sewing kit and a perfume bottle she’d had the forethought to refill with antiseptic. Cross your arms and lean on the door and put your head down, she instructed, standing outside his window to do her work. Doesn’t it hurt?
No.
It must hurt a lot, she said, gently sponging at the ooze.
I don’t care.
That’s good, she said, then you won’t care when I do this, and swabbed the wound with alcohol. He flinched and exhaled, hissing between clenched teeth, but was as silent as a mystic, squeezing his face smaller with each prick of the needle. That bastard Davor was right, she thought, her deft fingers tugging the heavy black thread through his scalp, closing the pucker with four tight stitches. You are a little wolf, my little wolf. God and the war had made her son strong or else made him crazy, but strong and crazy meant you were born normal, more or less, for a southern Slav. Now he had suffered far too much, seeing and knowing what he shouldn’t, to ever be anything but a Croat—first to throw off the Byzantines, first to stop the Turks, and now, God willing, the first to slay the pagan onslaught that was Communism.
A streak of high-pitched noise made her lift her head in time to see the flash of a motorcycle and its empty sidecar as it passed, a young soldier racing back into the city, and she was given a memory to brush away, of her husband’s passion for these machines. Finished, she announced, compelled to skip aside as the door flew open and Stjepan vomited eggplant at her feet and she brought him what she could—pity, water, and the solace of her pride.
The archbishop’s driver returned, looking like a man who could not sell an egg to an infertile goose. She had never asked him his name—beyond the formalities of class and stature, if you lost a war it was a bad time to know people’s names or stories—but last night she had heard the housekeeper address him playfully—Bogdanov, you’re not getting younger; Bogdanov, where are you running off to with this frisky mare—and it cheered her secretly to hear the old man incriminate himself with foul language, disobeying the archbishop’s strict draconian ban on cursing, a ban that she herself had adhered to effortlessly, unthinkingly, a natural extension of her upbringing and education, the once-clear division between good behavior and the indecency of what was unacceptable in thought or action. But this morning . . . ! The nasty words had erupted from her tongue, ready-made for her collision with the man she would have loved if she had not first loved another. My God, the deplorable hypocrisy: clean mouths, dirty hands. Don’t talk like a prostitute, Marija—Pardon me, who is the prostitute!? The driver’s beer-hall vulgarities, which she knew were not meant for her ears, had begun to appeal to her remaining sense of humanity, making him seem oddly but authentically trustworthy and natural in a world that was itself inauthentic and profane, and, criminal or not, she had decided, Sir was insufficient for a person so entangled with her fate.
Bogdanov, she said, coming around to the front of the car to meet him, her hands fidgeting with the cloth belt of the dress she had worn since leaving the apartment in the capital.
Madam?
Oh, God, she said, blinking back a surge of tears, the facade of her emotions shattered unexpectedly by his deference and grandfatherly disposition—the tendered bow, a grateful smile, a sudden kindness in hawkish eyes—the small things that exposed large hearts or offered, at least, their illusion. Bogdanov, she said again, unable to continue, leaning her weight against the grille of the car.
Marija? If I may.
Bogdanov, she tried again, sniffling. I can’t cry. Now is not the time.
No, you’re right, he said, patting her hand, apologetic and consoling. Perhaps now is not the best time. Excuse me, I must ask. Can you play a piano?
But what was the old fool talking about! A stampede of feelings overwhelmed her and her voice sank plaintively to a wretched sob—Yes! I can—then trampolined upward into a strangled squeak—No, I can’t—her fists hammering the grille while she wrestled herself under control. I’m sorry, she said between shuddering deep breaths, it’s possible I’m losing my mind.
No, missus, Bogdanov reassured her, but I’m afraid I must introduce you to a man who has.
She instructed the boy to stay in the car and went with the archbishop’s driver down the road to the men, her steps slowing when the soldiers sprang to attention, their eyes settling on her, instinctively homicidal, then reassembled with lust. Her feet stopped and her own eyes skipped quizzically from Bogdanov to the men and back again to see the uncertainty molding the driver’s face as he began, too late, to register his mistake and she thought, Mother of God, have mercy, I am the black lamb taken to the altar.
Bogdanov, she said, light-headed. A whisper of despair—What have you done to me?
Turn, he said. Walk. We’re going back.
But the officer in charge had come forward, bare-chested, clumping toward the pair in his unlaced boots, his head tilted like a mockingbird and displeasure reflected in his sun-creased eyes. One moment, he said. A moment, please.
Bogdanov, she said, how could you have been so blind! You see what they want.
Chauffeur, what’s the problem? asked the captain. Can she play?
No, said the driver, but the captain shoved him backward and ordered him to leave.
Bogdanov, dear Jesus, no, don’t leave, she pleaded. Help me, you must, she said, but the captain shoved him again and slapped his head—Get out of here, old fuck—and she panicked seeing the quick cold glint of malevolence in the driver’s eyes and told him yes, go, it’s better, and he left without another word. Even big as he is, what could the old man do anyway, she told herself, except witness her humiliation.
He had, he would report to Marija at their camp that night in the forest, respectfully produced the laissez-passer, dated and signed by the hand of Colonel Davor Starcevica, regional commander of intelligence for the new regime. Let me see, the corporal had said, a middle-aged man with receding hair, whose eyes resembled boiled plums. He grabbed the document away, glancing at its content, handing it down the table, each man examining the page with the darting intensity of a monkey, until it reached the shirtless captain of the platoon. A man of Napoleonic height with unruly hair and a flattened nose, his shoulders and chest sculpted with furls of muscle, he wore only boots without laces and army pants with an unbuttoned fly and spoke with a Bosnian accent in a loud incoherent croak, his liver-colored eyes dilated and twitching beneath the jet-black hedge of his
brow.
There is a crisis, said the captain, his violent expression fluid with whimsy. He brushed away an insect the driver could not see. Do you think I’m joking?
No, sir, said Bogdanov, I would not think that. May I ask the captain, is the pass not acceptable?
One of the pimple-faced teenage soldiers had stood up sneering, making accusing jabs with the spoon gripped loosely in his bandaged hand. I know you, he threatened. What village are you from, Ustashe? Globs of porridge rained down on the soldier sitting to his left. Ass breath! his comrade shouted and popped up with a backhand swing of his forearm, catching the scrawny youth in the jaw and knocking him off his feet.
He doesn’t know me, the old man said to the table, although no one seemed to care. My family is from Zagreb.
I know him, said the kid on the ground, dusting himself off and returning to his breakfast, grinning and unaffected. He used to suck the cocks of every priest in Mostar.
That was your sister, said another soldier to barks of laughter, and food sailed across the table until the captain promised to shoot the next man who interrupted the train of his disturbed thoughts.
The captain, it soon became apparent to Bogdanov, was a drunken, overstimulated lunatic in charge of men liberated by his delusions, and doubtless they would never be more free in their lifetimes than here under the captain’s command. The pass was confirmed valid, the checkpoint had received previous instructions to provide an escort for the driver and his passengers, but the order, the captain said cryptically, was under review. He would be looking into it shortly, he would make a decision and devise a plan—but first, the crisis.
In their rampage through Karlovac, the soldiers had plundered the apothecary, carrying off a trove of medications, some, asserted the captain, with unusual magical powers. It’s very dangerous here, said the captain. My wife and four children are fucking dead, he announced. Our village was torched to the fucking ground. We were attacked. It never stops. But you can see for yourself we are vigilant, we are tireless. You can’t go south, not yet, and never after sunset, so don’t be impatient. The road is filled with bandits, terrorists, blood drinkers, evil the likes of which few men have the strength to overcome. I can tell you, there are land mines, crazy people, farmers with axes and swords, Gypsies stealing children, priests with bombs. We need petrol and then we go. In a few minutes, you’ll see. Ah, but the jeep. These imbeciles wrecked the jeep.
So now, here’s how it is—we want to go to sleep. We can’t sleep. Go on, ask the boys. You Ustashe shouldn’t have kept this secret to yourselves. Pills that turn men into eagles—what else are you hiding from us? We hear the snipers crawling through the fields like rabbits. In the dark we know everything. Now we just need to lie down and catch our breath. Slavko is a musician, very clever, always with good ideas. In the old days he had an orchestra, did you know that? Yes, in Sarajevo. So the piano, you can see how it makes sense. You know about music—it helps to relax. It’s restful, it’s soothing, it reminds us of nice things. Bring me a piano, says Slavko. Okay, good idea. The men deserve it, don’t you agree? We can close our eyes and see our mothers, our homes. But please look, who is that over there on the ground? Slavko. What’s the problem? You can clearly see the bastard is asleep. And we are not. What did he take? He took something and did not tell us. How can he tell us his solution if he’s asleep?
So look, the captain had said fervently, taking the driver aside, the old man repelled by the zoo-like stench of the officer’s body. We’ll scratch each other’s backs, eh? That’s the way among countrymen. You see what I’m saying? Take it or leave it. Indulge us for a few minutes. Bring the wife of Kovacevic. She’ll know what to do.
And like an old fool I came to get you, Bogdanov said, pouring her a brandy. Like a stupid old fool.
His chest thrust out like a Prussian, the captain mimed chivalric grace; perhaps in his former life he had imagined himself something of a courtier. He offered her the crook of his naked arm and, gagging from his smell, she averted her eyes from the frightening, crazed earnestness of his stare. She took his elbow, disconcerted by its tremble, which she found contagious, and by its feverish heat, which felt lascivious and seemed to scorch her stomach. To her chagrin, he strolled like a former intimate reuniting after a quarrel, the captain feigning solicitousness, trying to impress and appease, scuffling in his loose boots like a novice skater, a ridiculous guide, pivoting on his heels, his free arm presenting the sights—here are the men, this is the table, there is our camp, there is our pillage, here is the road, and, over here, the roadside—not far or long but enough for her to feel keenly the closing trap of her position, a female on display before a gathering of men capable of anything—deranged, battle-poisoned brutes. Her cheeks flushed, her blood began to chill with numb acceptance. He flattered the blonde waves of her hair, the modesty of her high-collared dress, steering her ineluctably toward the fire and through its smoky curtains into the theater of the oak tree. Ah! he said, delighted, as if he were seeing the piano for the first time. The piano! What do you think? Okay? Yet she found it impossible to accept that this was what he wanted from her.
She looked back, momentarily relieved to see the other men had remained stationed on the road, their eyes nevertheless boring into her. Bogdanov will save me, she told herself but knew the hope was irrational and that saving the boy was all that mattered anyway. When she asked, respectfully, if the captain had a request, his unshaven cheeks inflated like a blowfish but he said nothing, studying her with mute inscrutability, overfocused like the madmen you sometimes saw on the streets. She heard herself stupidly encouraging him—Something happy?—moving the bench away from the buzz of flies feasting on the dead man on the ground.
She sat down, her palms damp, and watched her hands, poised above the keys, shaking.
The Internationale! yelled out one of the soldiers.
Silence! Shut up!
She felt his feral presence behind her, the hot current of his obsession, a terrible counterweight to the terrible feeling of absence she found occupied by her husband. The captain’s voice tapered from snarl to purr. Please, just play, he said reasonably, and she commanded her bitten fingers to open and spread themselves above the keys and fall like a shattering release of sorrow.
No, no, no, said the captain, his hands digging painfully into her shoulders.
What then? she gasped, frozen by his touch, the roughness melting to the nauseating softness of a caress. Just tell me.
Not that. He leaned closer, cooing into her ear. Your Blessed Virgin must wait her turn.
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? she thought, shivering with disgust, and prayed for hate to overtake her fear. Strike this monster dead.
Opera, said the captain with an inflection of triumph, his hands lifting off her body.
She asked which one and he answered, Why not something beautiful? and with surrendering bitterness she said, Of course.
She summoned forth Pamina, the abducted daughter of the Queen of the Night, her sister Mara emerging with the notes, Mara’s artistic pretensions invigorated in the cosmopolitan bliss she experienced studying theater in Vienna. Oh, this Ibsen, he understands families! Brecht, he’s better off in Hollywood! Marija had joined her on a weeklong visit only months before the start of the war, the two of them attending a Saturday matinee of The Magic Flute at the opulent Freihaus. How typically melodramatic, Marija thought, when the lovesick soprano moved Mara to tears, quaking with emotions she found difficult to conceal, refusing and then accepting a monogrammed handkerchief from the man seated next to her, blowing her nose like a duck. Marija herself could only gape at the elite spectacle of Viennese society, the highest of highs, the swallow-tailed coats and top hats and Chanel gowns and elbow-length gloves, the diamond brooches and jeweled crucifixes, Parisian shoes and Italian wraps and German wristwatches, tuxedos and cravats and imp
erial officers’ dress and swastika armbands of an audience captivated by the romance of its ambitions for the world, by the excitement of the war everyone knew was coming like a long-awaited correction—the robust glory of Hapsburg aristocracy, underwriting their cupidity with culture, the self-affirming superiority of empires that conquer in the name of civilization. War, the answered prayer, the only realistic remedy to the unfinished business of the previous war, what a disaster.
The captain replaced his fingertips on her shoulders and her own fingers stiffened and her existence shrank to a single anguish, the unrelenting pressure to protect her son, the music perhaps an unlikely safeguard, a charm against wickedness. Don’t stop, he warned gently. It’s beautiful. Mozart. Yes, beautiful. You think I don’t know.
But her mind faltered from the path of the chords and she stopped and within an instant the captain’s hands had locked around her throat. It is forbidden to stop, he said, and she continued, choking. Then his hands relaxed back to her shoulders, massaging her flesh, and traveled down the sides of her rib cage, rising and falling from her waist to her armpits, smoothing the green cotton fabric of her dress. Don’t stop, he said again and his hands rounded her body and found her breasts. Don’t stop, he said, leaning over her, his breath a hot circle on the back of her skull, it’s beautiful, and she could feel the lump of his penis enlarging against her spine, directly below the last button of her dress, which the fingers of his right hand proceeded to unfasten. She considered shitting herself in defense but feared they would simply beat her to death for such a filthy trick. Beautiful, beautiful, he said, don’t stop, and his fingers spidered to the next button. When she tried to stand up his fist came smashing against her temple and white roses of pain exploded behind her eyes and her dress was being ripped from her shoulders. In a moment she regained her senses and her fingers searched for E-flat major, bells of hatred ringing through the aria of her submission.
The Woman Who Lost Her Soul Hardcover Page 25
