by J. A. Kalis
The last few posts were made only the day before. Thanks to the fact that Carol had learnt some French at school, she was able to understand what the posts said. It appeared Corinne and her friend were back in France after a long holiday abroad, and Corinne was shortly going back to work. From scrolling more ancient posts she learnt Corinne worked in one of the local hotels. Although she didn’t specify which hotel it was, the information should be enough to find her. The town she lived in seemed to be small. Probably not many hotels in it. So once there, it wouldn’t be difficult to check all of them.
The idea of going to France rapidly took shape in her mind. Feeling a surge of hope and excitement, she contemplated her next move. To make things easier, she could send Corinne a message via Facebook and ask if they could meet to talk about her sister.
Halfway through writing the message, she stopped short. On second thoughts, she changed her mind and decided to delete it. Maybe it would be better to go and meet her unannounced. Sandy was probably dead. She couldn’t rule out the possibility that Corinne and Lucien were somehow involved. It might be too risky to let them know she was coming, give them enough time to prepare themselves. Mike was right, it could be dangerous. She had to stay vigilant and take precautions. She should only approach Corinne and talk to her in a public place, with other people around.
With the idea of going there settled in Carol’s mind, she felt calmer. Soon a plan of action formed in her head. France wasn’t far away. In a couple of days, she could be talking to Corinne and finding out where her little sister was.
CHAPTER 5
Patrick examined his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not that he cared much about his looks, but he was struck by the obvious changes in his appearance. The harsh overhead light amplified them, mercilessly accentuating each tiny flaw, but there was no denying that the worry about his missing daughter had taken its toll. Even the fresh mountain air hadn’t done him much good. The skin on his drawn face was an unhealthy pale grey colour making him look older than his real age. He looked closer into the mirror. His bloodshot eyes were surrounded by puffy, dark circles. In both outer corners he noticed more wrinkles than there had been a couple of weeks before. The two vertical frown lines between his eyebrows deepened, turning into grooves. His jaw muscles were clenched tight, setting his mouth into a thin line. He looked like someone who had a lot on his mind, and hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for quite some time. And he couldn’t say he had. Not in the natural way. Every night he needed to take a sleeping pill to prevent himself from lying awake for hours, fretting. Luckily, he had enough of them yet to last him for two weeks.
Strangely enough, he didn’t feel tired, contrary to his worn-out looks. Adrenaline-fuelled strength filled his body.
Although it was only the third day of his stay in Georgia, with each passing day it became more difficult to cope with the stress of not knowing where his daughter was. There were countless moments when icy fear cut through his heart like a knife. Fear of never being able to find her. Fear of never knowing what had really happened to her. This vast land was full of places that were hard to reach or inaccessible.
What if she’d ended up in one of them and would never be discovered?
Somehow, deep down, he felt pretty sure she hadn’t left the rough area surrounding the mountain village he visited. Still he couldn’t exclude the possibility of his gut feeling deceiving him. She might have gone somewhere else, even left the country.
Was she dead?
His logical mind told him she was but his heart rejected the idea. It prompted him to look for other possibilities. Maybe due to sustained brain injuries after a mountain fall, she’d lost her memory. Maybe some local people had found her and were taking care of her. All her papers were gone and she didn’t know who she was.
His mind held onto that freshly-born idea. Yes, there was a chance, no matter how small, that it had happened. The more he thought about it, the more plausible this new scenario seemed. He started to believe it, and a tremor of excitement ran through his body. Then, a few moments later, doubts assailed him.
Wasn’t he wasting his time, clinging to a sliver of hope like a drowning man to every twig floating around him? Didn’t he, from the very start, rely too much on his gut feeling, believing it would guide him towards her? Wasn’t his intuition misleading him? Shouldn’t he broaden his search?
Cupping his hands together, he splashed some cold water onto his face, feeling it sting his skin. He rubbed it firmly with a towel until it turned pink. Casting a last quick glance in the mirror, he decided he looked a bit better, less ashen.
It was deep into the afternoon and stifling hot in his Tbilisi hotel room. The air conditioning didn’t work. He made a mental note to tell reception about it. A slightly stale odour permeated the stagnant air. He walked to a window and opened it. But the air that entered was clammy and saturated with traffic fumes.
The polo shirt he’d had on since that morning smelled of sweat. He took a quick shower and a few minutes later he emerged from the bathroom towelling his hair and wearing only his pants, and headed towards his suitcase placed on the floor by the bed. As he fumbled through its contents, he heard the distinct ring of his mobile. He lunged for the dresser where he’d left it lying and managed to grab it before it switched to voicemail. A quick glance at the display told him it was Karen.
‘I read your last email but I had to hear your voice. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘I just don’t get it, Patrick. How could she have disappeared like that in the mountains, with nobody seeing or hearing from her since, and no trace to be found?’ Her voice sounded different, somewhat flat, as if she had hardly energy left to speak. ‘Have you been back to the police in Tbilisi and told them what you had learnt in the mountain village?’
‘Yes, I have and I asked them to look for Corinne and Lucien. They must know what happened to Sandy.’
‘What did the police say?’
‘Not much. Most of the time they just listened. To tell you the truth I don’t trust them in the least. I get the impression they don’t much care for foreigners, especially a woman who was careless enough to venture out into the high mountains. But don’t worry, I’m not going to stop looking for her.’
‘Find her, Patrick and bring her … or her … uh … just bring her home …’ Her voice faltered, broke.
‘I will. Believe me, I’ll do all I can to find her. Take good care of yourself and of Carol.’
‘Do you need me to come and help you look for her? I feel so terrible. I wish I was with you. It’s killing me not knowing where she is. I’ll come if you need me. You know, it may help me if I make myself useful, keep busy.’
‘No, Karen, don’t come. I don’t think it’s a good idea. You can’t do anything here more than I can alone.’
‘So what are you going to do next?’
‘I’ll look around for an experienced mountain guide and go back to the village. Maybe a guide will help me find her.’
‘Go and look for her. And be careful up there in the mountains. I don’t want to lose you as well.’
‘I will. I promise you.’
‘So, I’m just going to wait patiently. But if you need me …’
‘I know, I know, you’ll come. Believe me, it’s better if you stay at home. Your coming here would only put extra strain on us both. It’s just so hard … the disappointment, the pain … it’s too much to take sometimes …’
There was a short silence, then Karen said, almost in a whisper, ‘You’re right. I wouldn’t be able to cope. But let me know what’s happening, please, Patrick. And take care.’
‘Bye, Karen.’
Before he slipped the phone back in his pocket, Patrick checked the time. It wasn’t late, only half past five. Many long hours left until bedtime. Long and lonely hours. He didn’t feel like spending them in his room with nothing or nobody to take his mind off things.
Wrestling with thoughts about wh
at to do the rest of the evening, he paced the room. The television set standing on a small dresser didn’t interest him much. And he didn’t want to spend the evening in front of his laptop. There was the hotel restaurant, but it lacked atmosphere and the food didn’t look appetizing. With few hotel guests at present it would certainly be empty. Being among people, even if they didn’t speak the same language, was what he needed now. He needed people to distract him.
He decided to venture out into the streets and check a few local restaurants nearby in search of a warm ambiance.
Not really caring which one, he picked out a clean shirt and put it on.
***
Outside, the temperature was more bearable than in his room. The breeze was stronger, and stirred the rich foliage of the plane trees that lined both sides of the street like proud sentinels, producing a soothing rustling sound and wafting his way a faint but agreeable scent – something fresh reminding him of a lavender and pine blend – which overlaid the unpleasant odour of exhaust fumes.
The most vibrant part of the city, the old town, was just a short walk away. Taking brisk strides, he soon reached it. As he made his way through the busy streets, he glanced at the café and restaurant interiors visible through the windows and open doorways. Some were too modern or too simple for his taste, and he didn’t like the open-air ones. It was not until he spotted an underground wine tavern that he decided to stop, presuming it would be agreeably cool inside. And he was right, it was.
Having reached the base of the narrow steps, he stopped.
The smell of freshly cooked food jumped up his nostrils. Quite an appetizing one, he had to admit.
His inquiring eyes took in the rectangular chamber he found himself in. It had exposed-brick walls and a vaulted ceiling supported by a series of stone arches. The floor was made of granite slabs. In one of the long walls a few broad niches were filled with wooden racks full of wine bottles. Only three out of ten tables were occupied. In the dim, warm light he could make out four men sitting at the dark-wooden bar. One of them was blond-haired and in his early forties; he looked like a foreigner. All the others looked like locals.
Tucked in one corner, near the far side of the bar, a small band was playing and a middle-aged, stocky man with a microphone in his hand was singing a melancholy song. The place definitely had an inviting atmosphere.
First, he decided to have a drink at the bar. Despite not having eaten much that day, he wasn’t very hungry. Food could wait.
The local wine he had drank on his visit to the mountain village tasted good, so he decided to order another one. He sat comfortably on a high barstool, and the barman brought him a glass of red wine that was called Mukuzani. He sipped it slowly, savouring its robust flavour as he swirled it around his mouth. The taste differed from the one he had drank before and it took him a couple of minutes to get used to it, but when he did he recognized the drink’s excellent quality.
The good wine, the murmur of voices together with the melancholy song had a sentimental effect on him. He missed Karen and Carol. He wished they were here by his side. Yet he feared they wouldn’t be able to cope well with all the stress. Visiting the places his daughter had visited, each time expecting to find something, and each time being disappointed was an emotionally draining experience. The constant dread of stumbling upon her dead body was often too much to take. He wanted to spare them the pain of it, protect them. He was the head of the family. He had to bear the brunt of the situation, so that they didn’t have to.
To change the train of gloomy thoughts he turned around and scanned the faces of the people in the restaurant. At a table in the far corner, near the door, sat a middle-aged couple. The table next to theirs was occupied by two men, a grey-haired and a black-haired one, both dressed smartly, in grey suits and white shirts. At the table closest to the bar, sat two young girls, about Sandy’s age, both were raven-haired. The only difference between them was that one had shoulder-length hair while the other’s was very short, cut like a boy’s. They laughed and chattered excitedly while eating and emptying their glasses of red wine.
Physically, neither of the girls resembled Sandy, but there was something in the way the longer-haired girl squinted her eyes as she laughed, something in the way she gestured as she talked that made him think of Sandy.
He stared at her so insistently, his eyes began to play tricks on him. Instead of the girl’s face he saw his daughter’s. Images of his daughter at various periods of her life flashed through his mind. At the same time, the old feeling of trepidation re-emerged. The terrible fear that his daughter had disappeared from his life forever took hold of him. He would never see her again. Maybe he would never even learn what had really happened to her. Involuntarily, his jaw muscles clenched tighter than before. A headache at the base of his skull, right where it met his neck, started to build. Enough. He had to push those fears aside.
He was about to turn his head towards the bar and order a cup of coffee when he heard some loud voices and the sound of footsteps descending the narrow stairs. A group of eight young men entered the restaurant in a noisy manner. It seemed they were keen to make sure everyone noticed them. Some of them looked as if they had spent a lot of their free time in a gym lifting weights.
They grabbed four free tables and pushed them together to form a long one. Soon, plates full of all sorts of food and bottles of wine appeared on the table. The more the men ate and drank, the louder they talked, drowning out all the other sounds, even the band’s music. Frequent bursts of laughter and joyful singing interspersed their conversation.
Normally, Patrick would have found their unrestrained behaviour annoying but not today. Their gregariousness helped to stop the gloomy thoughts from spinning in his head. Watching them talk and gesture amused him. And the appetizing-looking dishes he saw being served made him feel hungry. When his coffee arrived, he downed it in thirsty gulps, sat down at one of the free tables and ordered some food.
The seat allowed him an unobstructed view of the group of men and the two young girls.
After a few moments, one of the men, dressed in a tight white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, sturdy-built, with a thick-neck, a crew-cut and a short beard, left the long table. He went over to the band’s singer and whispered something in his ear. The next song the band played was less melancholic and more lively and rhythmic. The young man then headed towards the two girls and started talking to the one with the shoulder-length hair. She didn’t seem to be interested in what he had to say and chose to ignore him. But he wasn’t so easily discouraged. The longer she resisted him, the more insistent he became, his gestures more aggressive.
Suddenly, his strong hands grasped the girl firmly by her arms. He began to drag her towards the tiny space that constituted a dancefloor, moving as if he was dancing, glancing around for approval. The girl looked upset. Her wide eyes scanned the room, as if pleading for help. No one moved. She tried to wrench herself free from his grasp but she clearly wasn’t a match for him. Her struggle was useless. The brute easily pulled her further. The men at the long table laughed encouragingly, saying something to cheer him on.
Munching slowly on an aubergine roll with walnut-garlic filling, Patrick watched the scene. His eyes kept moving from the sturdy man to the distressed girl. And instead of her face he saw Sandy’s.
Hot anger bubbled inside him.
Was this what had happened to his daughter? Had she been harassed by a brutal man? Had he killed her?
It wasn’t right. The harasser should be stopped. He should stop him. His fingers tightened around the knife handle of their own accord. He was about to stand up when he thought better of it. Wasn’t he overreacting? It’s not as if the man was going to harm her in such a public place. Instead of getting into a fight he should hold back his anger and avoid any sort of trouble. Finding his daughter was what mattered most. That’s what he came here for. Besides, he wouldn’t win. One against eight didn’t give him much chance of success. There were too many of t
hem with too much muscle.
While he stuffed another piece of aubergine roll into his mouth he noticed out of the corner of his eye the short-haired girl running to her friend’s rescue. Eventually, with her help the other girl managed to free herself from the man’s hold. He let them go without a fight. Shrugging and making a deprecating gesture he returned to his buddies.
Back at the table, both women continued eating in a tense silence. When they’d finished, they paid their bill and left the restaurant.
The incident had spoiled the warm atmosphere of the place. The band stopped playing. Patrick pushed his unfinished dish aside, stood up and headed to the bathroom. When he came back a few minutes later, he noticed that the restaurant had started to empty out. The group of young men behind the long table was still there, laughing and chattering. But it wasn’t complete. Instead of eight there were six men left. Once more, he scanned their faces but couldn’t see the girl’s harasser among them.
Patrick checked his watch, and was surprised to discover the late hour.
He went up to the now almost empty bar counter and paid the bill, then stepped outside. He shivered, feeling the unexpected chill of the mountain wind on his skin. It blew stronger than it had a couple of hours ago.
Before he started walking, he paused outside the door of the tavern, his eyes taking in the surroundings. Dusk had fallen upon the city. Streetlights were already on, glowing in fuzzy, yellow halos. There were no cars on the winding cobblestoned street ahead of him and only a few passers-by. Further down, a group of noisy teenage boys was kicking a ball and yelling at each other. An old woman sitting on her balcony watched them from above. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked with rage. Another one answered. His growling blended with the far-off wailing of an ambulance siren and the furious honking of a car.
