By three, he’d had his fill, the brandy having taken its toll, as well. Hoisting himself up from the table, he’d found a bed and slept.
No dreams. Not even a hint of movement. Just sleep.
Now, at almost three in the afternoon, he emerged from his room to find Petra alone at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in her hands.
Pearse found a cup and joined her.
“So, he finally appears,” she said as he sat. “What time did you make it to bed?”
Small talk. He could manage that. “A little bit after you. Not much of a conversation. Where is everyone?”
“Gone by the time I got up.” She took a sip, then glanced around the room. “This seems strangely familiar, eight years removed.”
He nodded, memories of Slitna hard to ignore, especially during last night’s diatribes. Pearse wondered if he and Petra had sounded as rabid, all those years ago. Probably, although he hoped not. They’d certainly never had rolls like the ones now beckoning to him from a dish at the center of the table. Better bread, greater mania, he thought. It seemed a logical enough connection.
He took a roll and tore off a piece, dunking the wedge in his coffee and quickly tossing it down.
“That, too,” she added.
“Saves time on the digestion. You knew that.” The second piece received a healthy slathering of butter. “Is Salko up?”
“Ivo wanted to go exploring. Mommy wouldn’t do. He pulled him out of bed about an hour ago.”
Pearse nodded, another sip of the coffee. “This doesn’t faze him at all, does it?”
“Ivo? No. I’m sure it’s like a game for him.”
“That’s quite a game.”
“Not when you’ve played it before.”
Pearse hesitated, then asked, “Ivo?”
“We were in a village like this for about three months in ’97.” Seeing his confusion, she explained, “When NATO pulled out? The trouble in Mostar?” Still nothing. “You do have newspapers in the United States, don’t you?” she added.
Pearse grinned. “I think we have a couple. I suppose you have to remember to read them.”
“I suppose you do. Although,” she added more pointedly, “I’m sure we stopped being front-page news once Mr. Clinton got reelected.”
No bitterness in what she said, just pragmatism. The same way she could talk about a seven-year-old being trundled from his bed in the middle of the night as part of some familiar game.
“He really takes to Salko, doesn’t he?”
“Didn’t you?”
Pearse nodded to himself, then rolled a piece of the buttered roll into a ball and popped it into his mouth. “Do they get to see a lot of each other?”
“About once a month. Maybe more, if something comes up.”
“Something … like what?”
“I don’t know. Little-boy things that a father would be-” She stopped herself. “Not really that often.”
She was trying to be kind. Even if he’d known what to say, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to find the words. He’d make her laugh, or put her in a position where she’d have to tell him to stop, just as he had last night. For some reason, he thought of the Ribadeneyra entries. The alchemy so manageable there. Here, impossible. Then again, better to leave unsaid what he couldn’t say.
“It’s good Ivo has him,” he finally said.
“It’s good they have each other,” she echoed. “Salko probably needs the fix more than Ivo does.”
Another ball of bread for him as she stared into her cup.
After a time, she said, “There are days, you know, when they disappear for hours. Just the two of them. Their ‘little adventures.’” She was letting him in, if only for a moment. “It’s funny. Ivo always comes back with this adorable look in his eyes, as if they’ve got some great secret. Something just the two of them know. The men.” She smiled to herself. “I remember when Salko taught him how to whistle. The great event. And Ivo came running in, and he waited and waited while Salko told me where they’d been, the two of them passing each other little winks and nods. I pretended not to notice. And then, all of a sudden, he started to whistle. This sweet little chirpy thing through the giggles. And we all started laughing. He was so proud of himself.” It was as if she were looking directly at them. “You should have seen his face when I whistled back. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t say a thing. Somehow, I knew the magic secret.” She laughed. “That’s when he told me I had a girl’s whistle. It wasn’t like Salko’s or his.” She stopped, eyes even more distant. “I wasn’t Mom. I was just a girl.”
Pearse took a sip of the coffee, then said. “Did Salko tell you why I’m here?”
She turned back to her cup. “Some of it.” She reached for a piece of bread, something to keep her hands busy. “I don’t think he’s that clear on it himself.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Whoever it is, they’re very thorough. They knew where to find me.”
“Sorry about that.”
She shot him a quick glance. A mock upbraiding. “They would have come whether you and Salko had shown up or not. Probably better that you did.”
“You’re being mighty nice this morning.”
“Don’t get too used to it.”
Without thinking, he dipped the buttered piece into his coffee, the black liquid turning a pale brown. “That was clever.”
“If you’d wanted milk, all you had to do was ask,” she said.
“Yes, thank you very much.” He stood and walked to the sink, then dumped out the cup. “It was pretty horrible anyway.” Regardless, he poured himself a fresh cup.
“I guess … this must be a bit of a shock,” she said.
“The bad coffee?” She let the comment pass. “I can’t say it’s what I expected when I left Rome, no.”
“Right.” She hesitated. “What did you mean yesterday? About it not making sense to you.”
He was about to take a sip, but stopped. “I thought … you didn’t want to talk about that.”
“I guess I do.”
He leaned back against the counter.
“Or …” She suddenly stood and moved to the counter, eyes fixed on the kettle. “Maybe not. Maybe now’s not the best time.” She picked up the kettle and, facing away from him, began to pour.
He tried to find something to say, but all he could come up with was, “Okay.”
She placed the kettle down and stood there, staring, her hands on the counter.
“I don’t even know why I asked,” she said.
He turned to her, her face in profile. Once more, he reached out and took her hand. This time, she didn’t pull away.
“Maybe … we should let this wait until after Visegrad,” he said.
Her eyes still on the counter, she nodded slowly. “Maybe we should.”
No movement. Then, slowly, she looked up at him, her hand still in his. She said nothing. A moment later, she let go and headed to the table, cup in hand.
“So,” she asked as she sat, “what exactly are you looking for in Visegrad?”
It took him a moment to refocus. “Remember that parchment we found in the old church?”
“Of course I remember it.”
“I think it’s related to that.”
Her eyes went wide. “That’s … bizarre.”
For the first time since he’d made the connection, Pearse realized he hadn’t taken the time to admit how odd it really was. For the next twenty-five minutes, he did his best to explain what he himself was having trouble understanding.
“And you think they’ll kill this friend of yours?” she asked.
Pearse shook his head. “I don’t know.”
He was about to explain further, when the sound of cars and vans broke through from outside. Both of them moved to the window, Pearse’s initial assumption the boys from Kukes. When he recognized one of the men from last night’s conversation, however, he relaxed. That is, until he saw the makeshift stretcher, a body in tow, being pulled from the back of one of the vans. The place was at once alive with running figures, a woman walking by the side of the stretcher, her hands clutching something below the laid-out man’s shirt.