‘Why did they shout at us?’ asked Matthew.
‘They saw us sitting out in the evening having a nice time, so they tried to spoil it. Ignore them. It was just a firework. They think they’re being funny.’
‘They told us to go home, in as many words,’ said Matthew.
‘Because they guessed you’re foreigners. Some of the kids, they call themselves nationalists. They have no idea what it means.’
‘They didn’t seem that young,’ said Grace.
‘But still idiots, yes?’
Laura said, ‘I’m sure Duro’s right. We mustn’t take it to heart. Are you two OK?’
Matthew shrugged. ‘I guess.’ Grace nodded, her face pale.
‘Then let’s clear these things up. Come on, everybody carry one thing inside.’
We cleared the table together, after which Matthew said, ‘I’m going to hit the sack, I think.’
‘Me too.’ Grace followed her elder brother.
I said, ‘Goodnight, both of you. Hey, Grace, the fountain is great.’ I gave her a thumbs-up. She gave me a thin smile.
‘Thanks, Duro.’ And she headed up the stairs.
Laura turned off the music, whose beat had accompanied the incident and its aftermath. ‘That’s better. Now, there’s a bit left in the bottle. What do you say to a nightcap? Shall we have a last glass?’
We carried the remainder of a bottle outside, where the air was cool and soft. Laura went back inside and came out with a packet of Malboro Lights. She smoked one, drawing deep lungfuls of smoke. We drank without speaking.
In the silence you could hear, carried across the field from Gost, music.
‘I told you,’ I said. ‘Drunks from a wedding.’
‘Yes, I am sure you’re right.’
‘If you are worried I can sleep here – on the couch.’
‘Now that would be asking too much.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘I’d feel much more relaxed if there was a man in the house. I know I have Matthew but –’
I interrupted her. ‘Laura, it’s no problem.’
I sat on the edge of the couch and wound my father’s watch just as I did every night. Counted the revolutions of the winder between finger and thumb, stopped at ten, same as always. When I was eight my father bought me a watch and that first night he showed me how to wind it. He told me to remember to do so every night and be careful not to overwind it. The best way to do this was by winding the watch at the same time every night and counting the number of turns I gave the winder. Of course, left alone, I wound the watch as far as it would go and broke the spring.
My father looked at the stopped watch. ‘What’s the difference between apes and humans? Apes learn by experience.’ He had the watch fixed and gave it back to me. ‘See if you can make it last longer this time, chief.’
My father’s watch had a black face, a large 6 and 12. The chrome was pitted, the face water-stained. I should have it cleaned, but that would mean opening it up and, since the day I took it from his wrist, I’d never let the watch stop. I held it to my ear, and then in my palm, watched the staccato sweep of the second hand. I laid it on the floor and placed my head on the pillow Laura had brought down for me. I lay still and let the rhythm of my heart join the rhythm of the watch’s ticking. I thought of the three other hearts beating on the floor above me, three different rhythms, the walls of the blue house pulsating with them.
In the night I woke once and listened to the sound of the breeze through the tree tops, the whispers and murmurs of the house: the roof, walls and floors, windows, shifting with the wind, keening with the myriad, minute movements of the earth beneath the foundations. The low hum of the fountain pump. Above it all the water, like a descant sung by a choir. I rolled over on the narrow couch, stood up and went to the window. A waxing moon in an empty sky cast an unwavering light, creating shadows of the deepest blue. The wedding party had finally worn itself out. For a moment I thought I saw the silhouette of a man standing beyond the hedge across the road. I watched, but it was nothing, a sign on a post and a trick of the light.
The next morning was Sunday. The family slept late. I walked to my house to let Kos and Zeka out and returned bringing yoghurt and honey. I picked some wild flowers and put them in a jar of water. Laura was up, sleepy-eyed, she apologised for putting me to trouble. Matthew and Grace appeared and Laura started making breakfast, scrambling eggs and cutting bread for toast. Once she stood behind Matthew’s chair and pressed her nose and lips to the crown of his head. Matthew, who took no notice of these shows of affection, carried on chewing his food. As I watched them casually touching, leaning over or against, nudging and bumping, they reminded me of animals in their lair, treading on each other on their way in and out, or in search of a better position, at night pressing themselves against each other in search of warmth.
I thought how fine it would be to have a son, though perhaps one with a bit more spine than Matthew. A daughter like Grace would be a fine thing. Fabjan had sons, God only knew if he had other children with his girlfriends. Maybe the new girl was already pregnant, maybe that’s why she looked so depressed. Fabjan was the kind who’d press a girl into an abortion. Even Krešimir was married and had a child. As for me, I had my sister and my mother. No one else.
Suddenly I felt like being on my own. I stood up. Thanks and goodbyes. Nobody was asking me to go but on the other hand nor did they beg me to stay. Once home I exercised hard, heaving myself up to the cross bar above the door. Afterwards my muscles ached, but I still felt tense; in the pit of my stomach lay a queasy anticipation, like when I was challenged to a fight at school. I’d wake up after a night of dreaming, I’d have forgotten and then the memory would come back, and my stomach would collapse into my bowels with fear but also a fluttering excitement, knowing there could be no turning back, no choice but to see it through.
I picked up a fork and went to work in the garden turning over the soil in one of the beds. The ground was parched and rock hard, each strike set the fork quivering and shock waves travelled through my arms, my shoulder blades and back down into my guts. Forty minutes passed. When I stood up to wipe the sweat from my eyes I saw Grace coming down the road. She was alone, wearing a dress and the hat she’d bought in Zadar, a plain straw hat with a narrow brim. She smiled, waved. I said, ‘You look smart. Where are you going?’
She smiled shyly. ‘To church. I just came to ask which one is the nicest.’
‘St Mary’s or Annunciation. Both. You need to hurry though.’
‘What about the other one?’
‘Those are the only two.’
‘No, there’s a third. We drive past it all the time.’
‘That’s the Orthodox church,’ I said. ‘There are no longer services held there.’
‘Oh,’ said Grace. ‘Why?’
‘It’s closed down. Come on. I’ll walk you to St Mary’s. My mother’s favourite. Smaller than Annunciation and much more beautiful. They have a big tree outside at Christmas. We can walk along the river.’ The Orthodox church had been beautiful too, with paintings instead of statues, of the saints doing what saints did, painted on the wooden panels of the walls, deep dense colours.
I pulled a shirt on, called the dogs and met Grace at the front of the house. I said, ‘Your mother and brother don’t go to church?’
‘No. Matt thinks it’s dumb. Mum says she doesn’t see why anyone should have to go to church to worship.’
‘And you do?’
‘Not really. I just like it. I like the music and the singing, you know, and the quiet. I don’t know yet if I believe in God. I’m sort of waiting to find out. If I do I’m going to be confirmed. Some of my friends were confirmed last year, but I didn’t do it. Actually, I think they just wanted the presents.’ She marched heavily up the hill. Ahead of us a magpie bounced from
tree to road. Zeka lunged sloppily. The bird bounced back up. We reached the bridge.
‘Careful, it’s steep,’ I warned. I ducked under the railing at the near end of the bridge where a rough path led down to the riverside and joined a gravelled path on a high bank. The gravel path was overhung by birch and willow trees and followed the course of the river towards the centre of Gost. The surface of the water shivered beneath a light wind, the clusters of water lilies shook, in the middle of the river were two pontoons used as floats at Christmas and by swimmers in the summer.
Grace followed unsteadily, panting, still talking as though she’d waited all her life in silence for the opportunity. ‘Laura married in church twice. First to my dad and then Conor. That time I was bridesmaid; I wore a yellow dress. The kids at school teased me about her wearing white. I thought it was kind of odd too, actually. Because you’re supposed to be, well you know, a virgin. Anyway. When I was little she used to call herself Aura. She hates anyone mentioning it.’ Grace giggled and bit her bottom lip as though to stop her mouth from opening; her eyes widened in shock at herself, she frowned and said, ‘I shouldn’t have told you that. Don’t say anything, will you?’
I shook my head. ‘Your father, where is he? Is he alive?’
‘Yes, of course he’s alive. He lives on a boat and sails around the world.’
‘Is that true?’
‘No, I made it up. I wish he did. He lives in Edinburgh.’
‘Do you see him?’
‘Not very often.’ She shrugged. ‘I think Matt has an idea about going to live with him, but Conor’s richer and so we live with Mum and Conor. I’m not sure Dad really cares much, though he doesn’t actually say so. Anyway, I like Conor, he’s been around a lot more than our real dad has. It’s just that him and Matt don’t get on. But then Matt doesn’t get on with lots of people.’
‘What about you and your father?’
‘I don’t think he knows I exist.’
I said, ‘That’s sad.’
‘It’s OK. I never really knew him anyway.’
The path swung away from the riverside, behind one of the old grain stores. ‘There’s the church. Up there. One hundred metres.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grace. She kissed me on the cheek. I stood in the shadow of the trees with Kos and Zeka and watched her go.
I remembered the last time I was in St Mary’s Church. How many years ago was it? I’d taken this same path to town without knowing why, I changed my course, walked to St Mary’s and went inside. The church was empty, it was that time of day. I sat in a pew. I didn’t know why I was there, I hadn’t been to church in many years, not since Daniela and my father were buried, except for the funerals that followed, I attended one or two of those, I remember how the services became shorter and shorter as demand on the priest’s time grew. After a while I stood up to leave, and decided at the last moment to light a candle for Daniela and my father. I placed it among the huddle of dead and fluttering flames at the plaster feet of the statue of the Virgin in the small chapel. Of the several statues of her in the church, this had always been my favourite, ever since I was a small boy: her open hands, the slight downward and sideways turn of the head, which on that day made her appear to have noticed me and be listening. I knelt down and pressed my head against the low wooden altar. I thought to say a prayer for the souls of my family members, but I couldn’t bring myself to it. If there was a God, I wouldn’t be lighting candles and praying for them.
Instead I prayed for the one thing I wanted more than anything else. I didn’t care if it was blasphemy and if it was, then God could strike me down. I prayed for the death of Krešimir.
13
The restoration of the mosaic and the fountain caused a great deal of excitement in Gost. If you’re new to Gost you might not know that we are people of muted emotions, unless we’re drunk. Then of course, anything might happen. But that’s as true everywhere. Monday, midday, in the queue at the post office where I waited to pay my electricity bill, a man in a blue boiler suit turned and asked me if I’d seen it for myself. He was a builder’s foreman I had worked for occasionally and stank of cigarettes. He didn’t wait for me to answer but went on, ‘I drove past this morning and I saw it with my own eyes. That great big bird is back on the wall. It was gone and now it’s back.’ He shrugged.
Nobody in the bakery except the woman who had been married to my cousin behind the counter, who on this day looked unusually pleased to see me. As she served me she said, ‘So, Duro, tell me about the house.’
I replied that I had nothing to tell. For this my cousin’s ex-wife withheld my loaf, passing it from hand to hand like a thug wielding a baseball bat. She tilted her head to one side and gave me a malevolent little smile. ‘I thought she was your friend.’
‘I helped her.’ I shrugged. ‘If that makes us friends.’
‘You’re the nearest neighbour.’
‘OK, so I lied. We’re the best of friends. What do you want me to tell you?’
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Nothing. They’re English. They like old houses.’
My cousin’s ex-wife raised her eyebrows. Then she repeated her chilly little smile and passed over my loaf. I left the bakery. I felt sorry for my cousin: no wonder he’d divorced her.
More talk in the Zodijak an hour later where I stopped for a coffee. Two guys, one I had seen there before, the one who worked in the municipal offices: the guy with the jug ears who’d been the one to confirm the sale of the house here in the Zodijak only weeks ago, a pen pusher who enjoyed the authority it gave him. He said, ‘No planning permission would be necessary, you see. Now, if they wanted to build an extension, but even then . . . a lot of people don’t bother. That’s when the problems start.’
His companion interrupted him. ‘Where did you say they are from?’
‘England.’
‘They say there are a lot of our people in England,’ said the other man, more or less to himself because his companion was still talking permissions.
I looked for Fabjan’s reaction, but there was none. You had to give it to him. He must have felt like somebody was walking on his grave. A few weeks ago Fabjan had been suffering from toothache. He has terrible teeth, I told you that already, I think. I’d kept forgetting to ask how he was feeling. Now I said, ‘How’s your tooth? Been to the dentist?’
‘Piss off,’ said Fabjan. He cracked his knuckles. Bad habit. Carry on like that and he’d end up with arthritis. Briefly I imagined Fabjan old, failing, being pushed around by his sons whom he had raised to be men as merciless as himself. The thought gave me a tiny twang of glee.
Laura and I were in the old courtyard of the house. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other shielding the sun from her eyes. She had been to the hairdresser’s and now she looked different. Her hair was much shorter and curled under her ears and it was several shades darker too, something like the colour of good earth. The biggest change was that she had a fringe, which made her look a great deal younger. I’d helped her carry things from the car. Laura checked her reflection in the car window. Grace, who was sitting at the kitchen table examining the detached wing of a dragonfly, looked up. ‘Wow, Mum!’
‘Is it all right?’
I said, ‘I think it suits you very well.’
Matthew came down the stairs, he raised a thumb. ‘Duro’s right. Looking good, Ma. What do you call that?’
‘A bob,’ said Grace.
Laura smoothed hair down on either side of her face and tugged lightly at the fringe. ‘You don’t think it’s too young?’
‘You look lovely, Mum,’ said Grace.
‘Well thank you all!’ Laura gave a small curtsey.
That was two hours ago. Now we were discussing the future of the outbuildings. Laura had had some ideas while she was under the dryer at the hairdresser
’s. She said it was a good place to think. ‘One could be a place for guests to stay. Or we could put Matt in there. He’d love his own space. He’s old enough,’ she said. ‘We could have a den, or a studio of some kind. Turn this space into a courtyard garden.’ She showed me a magazine, full of pictures. Tall windows. Brick-laid floors and wooden beams. The kind of cushions on the floor Laura liked. ‘There’s a lot to think about. Obviously we can’t get it all done straight away. I wanted to ask – I was thinking, say we set up some sort of system of payments – would you manage the work for us? I mean you’ll do as much as you can yourself, but some of this is going to need extra labour.’
‘I thought you had planned to sell it.’ As I spoke I looked at Laura. The afternoon was still new and in the bright sun her hair looked even darker than it had in the house. Strange how a change of hairstyle can make such a difference to some people and none at all to others. An uncle of mine once shaved off his moustache after many years and nobody noticed, not even his wife, or so it was said anyway. With Laura it was more than just the hair. She looked completely different; in the light and with the blue sky reflected in them, her eyes glittered and she seemed to shine. With her tanned skin she could pass for a local.
Laura carried on. ‘I’ve been thinking . . . we use this as a base and choose the projects we do. There are plenty around here. So many houses, so many gorgeous villages, and of course, so many summers. People are looking for just this kind of thing. I was going to wait to talk to you about it, but since we’re on the subject, I was wondering what you thought about the idea of working together. We’d have to sit down and talk about it properly, thrash out the details, but I thought I’d raise it in principle.’
This came as a complete surprise. I’d no idea what to say, of what it meant. To take over houses in other villages and change them, sell them to people from outside to come here for their holidays. People with money they were so anxious to spend they scoured the whole of Europe looking for houses, who would come here and be overwhelmed by the beauty of our mountains and rivers, who would drive into a town like Gost and think the fields around had always been full of wild flowers. People like Laura. I liked Laura, yet I couldn’t stomach the idea.
The Hired Man Page 17
