“Look,” Ivan said. “Werner’s a good client. I can’t afford to screw things up with him.”
“He’ll want to see us,” Brian assured him.
Ivan was skeptical. “The two of you?”
“Yeah.”
The Russian lit a cigarette and leaned forward in his chair. “You’re not going to tell me what this is about, are you?”
Brian shook his head.
“Motherfucker,” Ivan said, looking far too serious before his mouth split into a wide smile. He leaned over and put his meaty hand on Brian’s shoulder. “I just can’t say no to this man,” he said to me. Then he looked up and waved to the waitress, signaling for another round.
It was almost four when we left Charlie’s and stumbled the few blocks to Ivan’s apartment, stopping at the SEAT to pick up our bags. Ivan’s place was an old Soviet-era flat, boxy and plain, the two rooms and small kitchen no doubt built to house a family of four. But it was roomy enough for Ivan and his collections of bad pornographic art and electric guitars.
Ivan insisted on a nightcap before leaving us to the fold-out couch in the living room. It was after five before we could coax him into calling it a night. He seemed deeply disappointed by our lack of stamina, saddened by our frailty. After we’d settled into bed, we heard him slip out the front door. He returned sometime near dawn, but not alone. Half asleep, I heard the front door click open and the sound of hushed female laughter.
Whoever she was, she was gone when Brian and I woke late the next morning to the sound of singing, the smell of frying eggs, and the unsightly spectacle of Ivan’s hairy body and scrawny legs clothed only in some old blue slippers and a pair of leopard-print bikini underwear.
The Russian finished the last chorus of “Material Girl,” then turned to us, spatula in one hand, cigarette in the other, like the fry cook in some bad pornographic movie.
“Good morning, my sleepyheads,” he said jovially.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I’ve said that some new memories are to be savored, and it’s true that certain sensations, felt again for the first time, are like unexpected gifts. It’s also true that there are some experiences we all wish we could forget. The feeling of waking up in Ivan’s living room, my throat dry, my gut churning, my head reeling from my first hangover, was one of those experiences.
“Why do people do this to themselves?” I asked Brian as we stumbled toward the kitchen table, drawn forward by the smell of strong coffee.
He laughed weakly. “It’s a kind of amnesia, I guess. You tend to forget just how bad it was.”
“You guys look like shit.” Ivan grinned, setting two mugs of coffee on the table, pouring a water glass of vodka for himself. “You want?” he asked, offering the bottle to us.
I shook my head, stomach reeling at the smell.
Ivan laughed, then turned back to the stove. Anchoring his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he opened one of the kitchen cabinets, pulled out three large plates, and piled a generous helping of eggs, potatoes, and sausage onto each one.
“Good news,” he said as he set the plates on the table in front of us, then slid into a free chair. “I called Werner this morning. Whatever this is about, it must be important because I thought he was going to piss himself when I told him you two wanted to meet.” He stubbed his cigarette out, then laid a napkin across his bare legs. He had a tattoo on the right side of his chest, a faded dragon and a woman in chains. Just beneath the woman’s feet was a large, starburst-shaped scar.
“He agreed?” Brian asked.
I lifted a forkful of potatoes to my mouth. It felt good to get something in my stomach.
“He’s flying up to Vienna this afternoon,” Ivan said. “I wasn’t sure how you wanted to work this, so I told him I’d call him back to arrange the details.”
“Thanks,” Brian said. “When you talk to him, tell him he can meet us at nine tomorrow morning at the war memorial on Slavin Hill. Tell him we’ve got what he wants and we’re willing to bargain.”
Ivan nodded, then touched his scar, the movement unconscious, automatic.
“And tell him to leave his goons at home,” Brian added.
“How long have you been in Bratislava?” I asked Ivan when we’d finished eating and Brian had gone to take a shower.
The food, combined with three cups of coffee, a liter of water, and some aspirin had given me half my brain back, and I was starting to think about Hannah Boyle, wondering if she’d been like those expatriate girls at Charlie’s Pub or the woman I’d heard whispering at Ivan’s the night before.
“Since ’ninety,” he said.
“I had a friend,” I told him, “an American girl. I was wondering if you knew her. Her name was Hannah. Hannah Boyle.”
Ivan thought for a minute, then shrugged. “There have been one or two Hannahs, but your friend, I don’t know.”
“She died. In a car accident. It was a long time ago. Ten years at least.”
“Sorry,” Ivan offered.
“Brian says you know a lot of people here,” I said, choosing my words carefully.
Ivan’s pectoral muscle flexed, and the dragon moved its tail. “It’s my business to know people,” he said.
“She was a good friend of mine, you see, and I’ve never been able to find out what exactly happened. Surely there’s a record of the accident. With the police, maybe.”
“Maybe.”
“We have the afternoon,” I said. “Is there somewhere I could go, someone you think I should ask?”
Ivan narrowed his eyes at me, his look saying he knew I was bullshitting, and that he wanted me to know it, but he would do this for me anyway.
“There are some people,” he said. “I will make a few calls.”
After Brian got out of the shower, he and I left Ivan and walked over to the Tesco department store. The clothes Brian had bought off the Spaniard for me were well past road-weary, reeking now of sweat, cigarettes, and plum brandy, and I was desperate for some clean essentials.
“I asked Ivan to do some snooping around for me,” I said as we crossed the tramway and headed for the giant store.
“Snooping about what?” Brian asked.
“Hannah Boyle,” I told him. “I’ve been here. I can feel it. And according to Helen, this is where Hannah died. If I can find someone who knew her…” I shook my head at the absurdity of it. “I don’t know, but there’s a reason why I chose that name in Tangier.”
“If there’s anything to know,” Brian said as we merged with the crowds and pushed our way through one of Tesco’s front doors, “I’m sure Ivan will find it.”
Needless to say, living at the convent had taught me little about fashion. What clothes I’d always had, mostly hand-me-downs, were picked for practicality, for warmth in the winter, function, and ease of care. Not so with the racks upon racks of leather miniskirts and spangled blouses in the Tesco ladies’ department. If I’d been alone, I might have given up and gone back to Ivan’s empty-handed.
I stood there for a moment, paralyzed by the selection, before Brian took over, navigating me toward a rack of blue jeans. An hour later we emerged victorious onto Spitalska Street, our bags stuffed with two pairs of jeans, some plain knit shirts, a sweater, several changes of underwear, socks, black boots, and a dark wool pea coat.
Ivan was waiting anxiously for us when we got back to the apartment. He’d changed from his bikini and slippers into black jeans, a black sweater, and a pair of shiny black cowboy boots.
“I found your friend,” he said when we walked through the door.
“Already?” I asked dumbly, setting my Tesco bag down.