“But isn’t it funny how fast you’ve caught on. Now you’re as quick as anyone to call someone by some dirty label. How many times have you said ‘Chetnik’ in the last ten minutes. And who needs Chetniks when you can look down your noses at the entire rest of your country. You act as if you are the only people in the world who are suffering, and that everyone is to blame but yourselves. No wonder even the TV cameras are tired of you.”
Vlado saw that tears had begun running down her cheeks, but her voice was unwavering, unshakable in its low monotone that hammered forward like the drone of a court clerk reading a bill of indictment.
“My husband was just like the rest of you, so committed to tolerance and brotherly love that the first thing he wanted to do was take a gun and go shoot every Chetnik he could find.”
She paused, calming herself, sipping again at her coffee, although by now it had gone cold.
“That was his favorite shirt,” she said, looking up at Vlado. “It’s the only one I haven’t been able to part with.” Then her crying broke into a sob. More tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, reaching across the table to touch her face. She stood and walked to the stove, tidying aimlessly. He followed, lightly placing a hand on her shoulder, and she again broke into sobs. She turned toward him, looking into his face as he brushed away her tears, and she pulled him to her tightly, gripping the old shirt.
She leaned her head against his chest and he kissed her hair, with its taste of soap and kitchen smells. Her entire body smelled of a clean, warm bed, sheets rumpled. She raised her face to kiss him, and they clutched at one another. On her cheeks and her neck he tasted the traces of rouge and pancake from the night before. She unbelted her robe, and Vlado slipped his arms inside.
They did not speak. Vlado held her as tightly as he could, and she seemed to gasp. Both were holding on for salvation as much as for desire. Vlado’s mind, still jazzed by the hot water and the bite of the orange, now leapt at the feel of warm skin beneath his hands, the body of a woman, someone who still struggled, who was still capable of rage, of life.
A small voice called out from the bedroom doorway, and she stiffened immediately, pulling away gently but with an underlying firmness. The look on her face, like their first time together, seemed a mixture of both relief and disappointment, though of a different nature this time.
In only a few seconds her transition was complete. She was again a mother attending her children, her face a study in careworn tenderness. She deftly reknotted her robe before turning to face the bedroom door.
“Yes, Mirza.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Then come and have breakfast.”
Mirza, who appeared to be about six, stood looking shyly around the door, as if reluctant to enter as long as this strange man was here. She looked like a miniature Amira, with her slightly upturned nose, and the large brown eyes. Then, behind her, a second small face appeared, a full head shorter, with far different features-blue eyes, blond hair, a broad and jolly face-taken from someone who was lost forever now.
“It’s all right, Mirza,” Amira said gently “He’s a friend. Come and eat. You, too, Hamid.”
She turned back toward Vlado, businesslike but smiling, and said in a lowered voice, “Do you always have such a way with women? Even when you pay double price, or when I’m willing for free, I’m always putting my clothes back on before anything happens.”
But the corners of her eyes still glimmered with the last of her tears. Vlado sat with them through breakfast, enjoying the rare luxury of a second cup of coffee. He began to feel restless, despite his weariness, that he should be planning his next move, whatever that might be. But when he mentioned such a possibility, Amira motioned toward the bedroom.
“What you need is sleep,” she said. “Stay in the back for as long as you like.”
He crawled between the clean sheets, cool but not cold, and pulled a soft thick blanket across his shoulders. Then he curled on his side, sinking easily into a welcome oblivion.
CHAPTER 21
Vlado slept for eight hours and awakened with a plan.
He stepped from the bedroom to find Amira on the floor, playing quietly with her children and a set of crayons. A mortar was thumping in the distance somewhere. The small girl had a doll, and the boy tugged at it, crying to hold it. Amira glanced up from her efforts at mediation to say hello, and his presence immediately silenced the children.
“Good morning,” he said. “Or, good afternoon, I suppose. Thank you for that. It’s the best I’ve slept in months.”
“Laundered sheets and clean clothes work wonders. You should try them sometime.”
Vlado blushed. “Sorry about the way I looked.”
“I’m still not sure I want to ask where you’d been in those clothes. I’ve washed them. They’re drying outside the window.”
Vlado looked about the room, panicky for a moment.
“Your bag’s over by the door,” she said, and he relaxed.
“How long were you planning on staying? I’m assuming you’re not exactly welcome at your house right now or you wouldn’t have come here.”
“I might as well tell you. There are people looking for me. People who you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of. I looked the way I did this morning because I’d been running from them. Swimming, even. I had to cross the river to shake them, and I wasn’t exactly welcome over there, either.”
“Does this have anything to do with the shooting from the other night?”
“It has everything to do with it. And that’s probably all I should tell you about it, for your own good. If that worries you, I can leave now. With the children, I’d certainly understand.”
She considered that a moment.
“Where would you go?”
“I’d find someplace.”
“You already have. Stay as long as you need. I could use someone to watch the children while I work. I think they’re wearing out their welcome with the neighbors. The price of babysitting keeps going up.”
“Actually I might have another place by the end of the day. In the meantime, do you still have any of your husband’s tools?”
“We managed to bring a few. I’ll get them.” She walked into the bedroom. He heard her rummaging in a closet and in a few minutes she emerged holding a small metal toolbox. Inside were a few screwdrivers, a claw hammer, a crescent wrench, and an assortment of nails and bolts. It wasn’t much, but it would do.
“I’d like to borrow a few,” he said.
“Certainly.”
“In fact, there’s a chance you may not get them back at all.”
“Fine,” she said without pause. “They were his. I’ve no use for them except to sell them, and the market seems glutted right now.” She’d gone back to her businesslike voice when talking about her husband.
“I also need a favor from you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you speak any English?” He had scant hope she did, being from a small town. But if that were the case he could send a note, though that would be riskier.
“A little, yes. Pretty good, in fact.”
When Vlado reacted with surprise, she said, “Some of us did learn something in the provinces besides how to kill each other, you know.”
“Sorry.”
“Who do you need me to talk to?”
“I need to get a message to a British journalist staying at the Holiday Inn. Not by phone, his may be tapped by now. You’d have to tell him in person. I’m not even sure he’ll be there, so you may have to wait around, or go back again later. You’ll probably have a better chance if you wait until after dark.”