The Hired Man

by Aminatta Forna

  Time passes.

  I stand in the rain outside the blue house and when I start moving again it’s at a steady jog. I am wet through, but I feel nothing, just a pulse in my forehead, the beat of my heart, the butt of my rifle hitting my shoulder. By the time I reach the school building it is dark. No lights, no grey van, no sign of Fabjan’s car either. I walk back the way I have come. I have only one idea, which is that they might at some point take Javor or Anka or both up to the ravine and that if I can do nothing else I will go to the ravine and wait. Kos is still with me, keeping pace, the run has scarcely put her out of breath. I have a growing sense now of what I must do.

  The door of the blue house is locked. I find the key and let myself in. All is darkness, the smell of cooking and pottery glaze, on the table a pair of freshly glazed dishes. I pick up a cloth lying there, one I’ve seen Anka use to wipe her hands. On the back of the door are scarves, jackets and coats. I take a scarf belonging to Javor. On the counter in the kitchen is the heel of a loaf of bread and a couple of apples, which I stuff into my pockets. I find a piece of salami and take that too. I fill my water bottle from the tin jug of well water in the corner.

  On the way back up the hill I run to a slow rhythm, one I maintain until I reach the lower tree line. Only there do I stop for breath. No sign of either the grey van or of Fabjan’s car. I can hear nothing beyond the rain and the wind. I stop and crouch down next to Kos, I talk to her until she is still. One after the other I offer her the things I have taken from the blue house: first the cloth, then the scarf. Again, the cloth and then the scarf. I give her a small piece of salami and shove the rest back in my pocket. I stand, sling my rifle over my shoulder again and we press on, Kos with her nose to the ground. The woods are dark; the only separation between the trees and the air is a difference in the density of the darkness. The trees are a solid black. The air shimmers, is speckled black and grey.

  Kos sweeps her head from left to right across the ground and occasionally lifts her head and tilts her nose to the sky. The rain, though heavier now, for the most part fails to break the canopy. The sound of drops hitting the branches creates a white noise that absorbs everything else. We head steadily uphill. All the time I am listening for sounds, of men’s voices or a truck engine, looking for the light of torches between the trees. Although the temperature has dropped and my clothes are soaking I feel neither cold nor hungry, nor thirsty as I had before, instead I feel alert, alive. I have slipped the rifle from my shoulder and now carry it in one hand, my fingers grip the stock. I try to work through events and possible outcomes in my mind, but I can only think of one. The way seems longer than it ever has and when finally I reach the edge of the ravine all is silent. The sky is dark. The moon, in its last quarter, has not yet risen. A scattering of stars and the lights of Gost. There is nothing and nobody. I think about what to do next. I sink to my knees and press my forehead against the barrel of my rifle. Impossible they could have got there before me, without me seeing or hearing them. Kos had picked up no scent. She stands next to me patiently waiting to be told what to do. But I have no other plan.

  I have no other plan.

  This is it.

  After a while I stand and go to wait inside the trees, squatting with my back against a trunk. I’m not hungry; I eat an apple for the energy I may need. I eat it all including the core. Then I kick over the sodden pine needles at my feet and make a place for myself and Kos among the dry ones. I sit and listen to the rain. I tell myself nobody can get past me to the ravine. I wait. From time to time I stand up to stretch my legs. The moon rises. The rain eases off. Perhaps I doze; I am not aware of dreaming and yet it seems as though I am, as if everything that is happening is taking place in a dream. I pray for it to be so. I wait, adrift in time and space.

  The hours pass and nobody comes. It’s well past midnight when I head back down the hill with Kos at my side. We go back down through the woods, cutting across the hillside. The thoughts fly, of what I will do next, I don’t yet know but I am no longer in the same state as when I found the bodies, ran through the long field to the blue house. Then the fear had been at my heels. Now it is curled around my heart, my heartbeat has slowed and my mind is sharp and cold.

  We have almost reached the bottom tree line when I become aware of a shift in Kos, a new tension. She trots ahead and begins to loop, running in circles and swinging her head from side to side. She is breathing heavily. I go to her and offer the cloth and the scarf one more time. She sets off, running in circles and figures of eight, and then she stops, sniffs the ground and heads unhesitatingly in the opposite direction from the one we have come in, uphill away from the ravine. Her pace gathers, her nose is close to the ground. I run behind her. It’s hard going, my legs are heavy, my boots soaked. Kos never stops, except once when she loses the scent and doubles back on herself a short way to make sure, then follows the same line. She leads me straight uphill towards the old concrete bunker. A few hundred metres from the top tree line I see the beam of torchlight stitched through the trees. I slow down and stop and put out a hand to touch Kos, who slows too. I make her wait as I go forward.

  A group of people. I count four. There is Fabjan and the two men I saw with him earlier. And Anka. The first thing I notice is that she no longer has the scarf she was wearing when she climbed into his car and I wonder what happened to it. Another thing, she is barefoot. Why is she barefoot? Where have they been all this time? What has Fabjan done to her? The thought fills me with rage, I come close to rushing at him. Was Anka Fabjan’s reward for a job well done? It cannot be, and yet what else could account for the missing hours?

  Anka. What has he done to you?

  I look to the left and to the right. Nothing. I move forward until I am level with the last line of the trees. I can hear them talking. I can’t catch the words, but they are spoken in an ordinary tone as though they are trying to decide on something. Nothing from Anka. Then an exclamation from Fabjan: ‘Jesus!’ He covers his nose with his hand. A gust of wind brings with it the stench of the pit latrines. They start to move further on, away from the smell. The youth moves Anka on by pushing her in the back with his elbow. How full of swagger he is now. I follow them, moving parallel to them, soundlessly, behind the line of the trees.

  Another hundred metres on they stop. The rain has started again and is growing heavier, the moon risen to its full, faint strength and the light catches the slanting lines of rain. Now that there is a little more light I can see the two men carry rifles; the youth’s is an old hunting rifle with a wooden stock, the uniformed man is carrying a military-issue rifle and has a pistol in his belt. Fabjan appears unarmed, instead he stands before Anka revealed in all his true nature. And Anka stares at him through the rain. It’s hard for me to see her expression. There’s fear, yes. But it seems to me, as far away as I am and as little as I can see, there’s puzzlement too. People who find themselves about to be killed, for no real reason, must wonder how it came to this, when they have hurt nobody, done nothing to deserve it. She must have thought Fabjan hated her and wondered why. But what Fabjan has for her isn’t hatred, Fabjan doesn’t hate, he doesn’t need to hate to do the things he does. This is what you have to understand: for him, people like him, it’s not difficult.

  He simply wants what he wants.

  ‘Go on,’ said Grace.

  I must kill them first, before they kill Anka. But they are three and I am one. Though Fabjan appears unarmed, he might easily be concealing a pistol. It’s a risk I have to take. But before I kill Fabjan I must kill the men who are clearly armed. Which one first? I can try for them both in quick succession, the group is so tight, but of course with the first shot everything will change. These are the split-second calculations I’m making as I hide in the line of trees. A fresh thought comes to me: Anka’s arms aren’t bound. Because she’s an unarmed woman, they don’t see her as a physical threat. When the shooting begins they probabl
y won’t concern themselves too much with her in the first instance, they’ll save themselves. Perhaps I can lead them away, give her the chance to escape. It’s now almost completely dark. I look at the curled strip of the moon: there’s a wisp of cloud across it which will clear in a moment and the small amount of extra light will help me with the shot. I raise my rifle. I decide to take the uniformed man, reckoning the youth probably is the lesser shot.

  But something happens first. Anka lunges at Fabjan. If she is to die, she wants to show him what she thinks of him: spit at him, hit him, anything. There is a struggle, the youth loses his grip on her arm, she manages to break free and runs a short way. Anka slips and falls into the mud and comes up more furious. Fabjan is hit in the mouth, perhaps by Anka, more likely by the butt or barrel of a rifle. He swears and I see his hand go to his mouth. He spits something out: saliva and a fragment of tooth. The struggle lasts a very short time and then it is over. The youth is holding onto Anka, like a dog waiting for the command from its master. I shoot him in the forehead. He stands for a moment, teetering, dead on his feet. Then he falls forward onto his face. The uniformed man is the first to react, he shouts and he and Fabjan run for the cover of the trees. I follow right behind them; more than anything I want to kill Fabjan.

  They split up and head in different directions. I chase the one I am sure is Fabjan, I can still see well enough. Without his torch Fabjan blunders and crashes through the trees and more than once trips and falls. I’m gaining on him when the first shot comes. Two shots from the militiaman’s pistol, he doesn’t care much if he hits Fabjan. I go down, I keep still. I think of Anka up by the bunker, she will have run. I need to give her more time. I can’t let them have her. I have killed a man and I will kill again if that’s what it takes to keep them away, but now it’s too dark and I’ve lost track of them. So I fire once into the trees, so they know I’m still out here and to keep them on the move.

  I wait for minutes, listening. No more shots come, no sound of boots; later I hear an engine. I leave my place and begin to make my way back up the hill. I call for Kos and a few minutes later she is by my side.

  There is the dead youth. I turn him over: one eye is a bloody hole, the other sightless. Of Anka there is no sign, which is as I would have expected. My plan now is to follow her and to catch her up, to take her to safety. But the rain and the mud have made things difficult for Kos. During the scuffle the scent lines became tangled, now they cross and recross each other and Kos doubles back on herself trying to follow a single line. We branch out in several different directions before I give up, too dangerous. At any moment the militiaman could come back for me, could bring reinforcements. For Anka, too, who along with me is a witness to all that has happened. As I pass the dead youth I think of disposing of his body the way I disposed of others, over the ravine and into the swimming hole. I have my hands under his arms, I let them drop. What does it matter? Instead I look for his rifle. It is missing.

  I stay away from the ravine and the woods for a week or more, two weeks. When I finally go back up there, the bodies have been moved, the earth turned over. Just a few scraps of singed denim.

  ‘I thought she would find a way to come back. To my house, to my mother’s house. To those people who loved her and would protect her. Or to send a message at least. But she never did. She decided to rely only on herself. She went. There was a moment, after I shot the youth. I remember how she stepped back, she never screamed, simply stepped backwards into the darkness, turned and fled. For a long time, as I waited for her to return, I believed she knew I was there behind the trees and that this was my doing. That she knew I would come. For who else could it have been?’

  ‘Do you think she will come back one day?’

  ‘If she survived, if maybe she headed south and not north. But they would have been on the lookout for her. She would have had to circle back on herself. Cross the ravine. And if she forgives us, if she ever forgives us.’

  ‘What about Javor?’

  ‘The authorities found Javor, his remains, long after the war, many kilometres away. The militias had begun to transport people to be killed. Then came more wars, so many wars, it took years to find them. We were just the beginning, you see.’

  Together we looked at the houses of Gost down below. I said, ‘You can never tell anybody.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and live somewhere else?’

  I shrugged. ‘Why should I? And anyway where would I go? When you’ve seen it and you know nothing is going to change that, you get used to it, like an aftertaste of something rotten. You get used to it, because you have to. Gost is my home. I live here because it’s what I want.’

  ‘But then you’re reminded, every day.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said simply. ‘But I like to remember. Not just the bad times, but the good ones too.’

  ‘And that horrible man, Fabjan?’

  ‘I like to be sure he remembers too.’

  21

  Summer is nearly over, that time of year again. Here at the Zodijak it’s still warm enough to sit out and will be for some time. At this time of day the sun is low, it dazzles the drinkers who sit out front. I was in town running my errands earlier in the day, have stopped by as is my habit. The new girl has gone of course, decided life in Gost didn’t suit her after all. On the coast the restaurants will be closing up for the season: umbrellas stowed away, chairs turned upside down on tables for the last time. In the restaurant where I once worked with the Italian chef there was a tank in which hundreds of fish were kept alive. At the end of the season we had to catch all the fish so we could empty the tanks. I’ve been back to the coast. Sometimes I wonder what took me so long. I went to Pag, I drove across the newly renovated bridge, I even found my old hut, which has been done up and is rented to visitors. Wild bees had made their home in the old hives. Sage still grew everywhere. I understand why Krešimir had a dream of a life on the islands: I did once and it was a good life. But Krešimir won’t be going. Krešimir is staying in Gost; we are all staying in Gost: Fabjan, Krešimir and me. We three.

  In the last days of their stay I tried to make sure that Laura and the family had a good time, to repair a little of the mood. I told Laura again that Fabjan had been drunk and there would be no repeat of his behaviour. I’m not sure how convinced she was, but later in the same day we shared a glass of wine outside the house and, in discussion about some fittings for the house, she said she’d look in England and bring them out next time – so that’s a good sign. The wine brought some colour back to her cheeks and we talked about the first time we’d met, when I found her looking for the water mains outside the house, and she blushed and laughed. I could still tease her, see.

  I want them back.

  The last thing I did was take Matthew hunting, as I’d promised. He didn’t do badly at all: more nerve than I’d given him credit for, though he flinched at the last moment and we ended up trailing his animal a short way. Zeka did well, considering it was the first time he’d worked alone; his confidence is building. I haven’t started another dog yet, but I will, perhaps in the spring so I can use next year’s hunt season to bring her on. For now Zeka and I, we manage on our own. We miss Kos still. Grace, once I had taught her how to tread more lightly and not to alert every beast for two kilometres around to her presence, turned out to have the eye and the steady hand of a marksman, the ability to concentrate, to go straight to the zone. I’d seen it in the way she worked to restore the mosaics, everything she did from examining a dragonfly’s wing to baking a cake, weaving friendship bands, so I fetched mine from the drawer and let her tie it round my wrist. In the woods, I watched her: the way she cradled the stock, you’d never believe it was the first time she’d held a gun. I thought about Anka and I felt the ember of hope that has burned inside me for years, that Anka is out there somewhere, that she took the boy’s rifle and used it to stay alive, that one day she’ll come back to Go
st.

  There are people like me all over, the ones who want to remember, like I told Grace, different from the ones who want to forget. Every time a DNA test comes up with a match, something is quieted, a hope is doused. I wonder if Krešimir and Vinka check with the authorities. Krešimir told Fabjan where to find Javor, I saw it in his eye that day at the Zodijak when he stopped to greet me. I knew it then. It was in his smile, in his voice and in his tread as he left. He’d found a way to avenge himself on all of us. Once, blind drunk, I banged on the door of their house. Krešimir was out but Vinka, equally drunk but better used to holding her liquor, flew into a rage in defence of her son. ‘He did his duty. It wasn’t his fault.’ And maybe Krešimir never imagined it would go so far. Probably he was moved by nothing more than a low spite. It was all the same to me: Vinka never cried for Anka and neither did Krešimir.

  The family had been gone about three weeks when the graffiti appeared. It was painted on the bridge in an uneven hand, slashed strokes. It said:

  We are all Krešimir Pavić.

  It remained there for a whole day before the town authorities had it cleaned off. The paint must have been oil-based, black, hard to remove, the ghost of the words remained visible.

  I didn’t see the graffiti when the paint was fresh, I hadn’t been into town for a few days. Still so much work to do. Up in the attic I cleared the wasps’ nest. Wasps are master builders, their intricate hexagonal homes, comprised of thousands of identical cells, are extraordinary. They are hunters too, though most people consider them nothing more than scavengers and nuisances. I have seen a wasp alight on a fly and sever its wings, carry the maimed creature away to feed its young. I removed the nest with care, handling it with respect, as one must. Next I need to finish splitting and stacking logs – the dead tree, hours of work there to be done before the bura begins to blow and the sea freezes over.