“But by then Murovic and his young bureaucrats had the jump on me. He’d gotten back in there as soon as he could, staking his claim as acting director and bending the ears of whoever was left at the local offices of the Ministry of Culture. Meanwhile I was still out here in Dobrinja, unable to move. It was another six weeks before I could get into the city, and even then only by riding in a U.N. armored personnel carrier. In those days I stayed in the city a week or so at a time to work, then came back here in those awful rolling coffins. But by the time I’d first made it back into the city Murovic had convinced the ministry that I was a closet Serb zealot who couldn’t be trusted, and that furthermore I’d gone senile, wasn’t up to the job anymore, especially, as he put it, ‘in the chaos of wartime.’
“I couldn’t deny I’d let things slide the last few years, either. I’d gotten lax, lazy. But my recordkeeping was still clear, and I still had the best institutional memory of the entire ministry. The last person Murovic wanted around was somebody who’d continually be correcting him and second guessing as he took over. But by my way of thinking, I could write down a quarter of the transfer file from memory right now, getting it down to the penny on appraised and insured value, and plenty of the locations, too. All I’d need would be a full week in a clean, quiet room, with good food and an unlimited supply of Marlboros.
“Of course I told this to Murovic, but he just laughed. He found it quaint, wished me well in retirement, told me to stay out of harm’s way. He told me the U.N. would sort it all out eventually, and in a far more scientific way. Then he packed me straight off to Dobrinja, and there went my authorization for U.N. escorts into town. He’d exiled me as effectively as if he’d sent me to Elba. So here I am in my confinement, where, I regret to say, I have lost all touch with that insular little world called the art community”
He paused, sinking back in the chair.
“Another cigarette please,” he said weakly.
Vlado tried to digest all he’d heard as he held out his lighter. Then a puzzle occurred to him. He flipped back through his notes a moment, then asked: “If the files were destroyed eleven months ago, what was Vitas doing with a card last Tuesday?”
“Ah. That is exactly what I wanted to know. Because it was an original he had, not a copy. My very own handwriting right there on the back. He was very coy about it. Very foxy, yet still the courtly gentleman. He told me it would be better for both of us if I didn’t know. He sort of smiled when he said it. I asked if the rest of the files were still around, and he told me something very odd. He said they were in sate hands in unsafe surroundings. Whatever that means.”
“You said he also asked you if anyone besides General Markovic had ever expressed an interest in the file. Other government people, or even U.N. people. Had they?”
“No one to my knowledge. Perhaps you should ask Murovic that.”
“Did either Vitas or Markovic mention other names, other possible contacts?”
“Not one. As I said, Vitas was very careful. His questions told me little, and mostly he just sat and listened, nodding as if he’d known everything all along. And if he’d ever heard General Markovic’s name come up before, then you wouldn’t have known it from his reaction. He was as blank as a stone. Not someone I’d want to play cards with.”
Vlado mulled this over for a moment, then offered another cigarette to Glavas.
“So, then,” Vlado said. “Perhaps you can help me figure out where I might begin. Where I might go from here. If the files are gone, or hidden, then I guess another possibility is in tracking down art that might be leaving. Assuming that pieces were still being taken, or that any have been taken at all, how would one go about getting a painting out of the city without arousing suspicions.”
“Under conditions like these? Use your head, Mr. Petric. There has never been a better time. Half the city’s evacuated, or dead and buried. Buildings are destroyed or half wrecked. Even the Nazis didn’t have it so easy. At least with them, once the war was over we knew who had it, where to look for it. Under these conditions who’s to say where something might end up once it’s looted. There will be a thousand suspects to choose from. The Serbs will blame the Muslims, the Muslims will blame the Chetniks, the Croats, too. Everybody will blame everybody, and then you’ve got the gangsters, Zarko or Enko or any of a dozen hoods in this city alone. And if you don’t like your neighbor’s looks you can always blame him. I’m a Serb and know my stuff, so maybe someone will even think to blame me. Maybe they already have. Or maybe now someone will pin it all on Vitas. Dead men always have a knack for attracting blame.
“The point is, there are a thousand built in excuses if you want to explain away a lot of missing art, and that gives you all the opportunity in the world for lifting, looting, or ‘misplacing’ any piece you might get your hands on. And that goes double for items from the transfer files, as long as there aren’t any records. Who can even say what’s been taken if you don’t know what existed to begin with? And even if that idiot Murovic ever gets UNESCO on his side, by then anything that turns up missing will be written off as a casualty of war. And whoever took it will be home free.”
“Yes, but actually getting it out of here is a different matter. It’s not like you can just crate up a picture and drive it over the mountain in a truck, unless you have a U.N. escort. Even then you might lose it on the way at a checkpoint. The only sure way is by air, and that’s strictly U.N.”
“And you think that’s an obstacle?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Ah, the U.N.”
Glavas cackled, wheezing again, then broke into a splitting cough. By now Vlado was expecting to see his insides begin bubbling out of his mouth in a red-and-gray froth. Glavas lifted a crusted, yellowed handkerchief to his mouth and hawked into it. As he pulled it away a rubbery green thread stretched from his nostrils like a strand of melted cheese from a slice of pizza. Glavas wiped it away with the sleeve of his other arm as he heaved gently with laughter.
“Pardon me, Mr. Petric. One thing that I must say pleases me about wartime. No more resting on the need for convention and good manners. It’s all too tiring, so I’m free to just be a grotesque old man, and I can blame it all on the Chetniks.”
He laughed again, and for a moment Vlado thought he was about to descend into another gorge of hacking. But the wheeze subsided, and Glavas slumped back in his chair, spent.
“Yes, the U.N.,” he began again, in a softer voice, his face tilted toward the ceiling. “Our protector against evil. Do you realize, Mr. Petric, that if you want to ship in something other than beans and rice and flour that the U.N. won’t let you? Not fair, they say. That would be taking sides in the war. Not even medicine. The Serbs would object, they say. Maybe some salt and pepper then? Or perhaps a load of vegetables or two? No, not possible. Against the rules. Yet I firmly believe that if you want badly enough to send something out of the city on those empty departing planes, something small and portable and easily loaded into an air cargo bay, then that is entirely possible provided you have the right sums of money. Do I know this officially? Or for certain? No, Mr. Petric, I don’t. But I feel intuitively from the whisperings I heard around the gallery early in the war, talk of private collectors protecting their choicest pieces by sweet-talking UNESCO underlings and blue-helmeted shipping officers. A few Deutschemarks here and there. It is all a private matter, a few favors for friends, and then it need never be spoken of again. So, yes, I believe the U.N. is not so great an obstacle.”
“But once you’ve shipped it, then what? What’s the international market for stolen art? Won’t someone ask questions about where it’s from?”