The Pelican

by Martin Michael Driessen

  “My lips are sealed,” Andrej said.

  “I’ve got a lover. She lives in Zagreb. Her name is Jana.”

  Josip’s plan was simple: he would mark a banknote and the day after the next transaction would show up unexpectedly in Schmitz’s photo shop and demand to inspect his cash register and wallet. If he found the marked banknote, then his suspicions would be confirmed and his nightmare over. That would also be the moment when Andrej’s penance would end, for he would no longer need his money.

  A single banknote, one with the queen of England on it, once sealed Andrej’s fate; now, a single banknote could liberate him.

  He decided on a thousand-dinar note, a denomination that, coincidentally, both he and his blackmailer appeared to prefer.

  And he had made a mental note of exactly where Schmitz’s small Fiat was parked. He rarely drove it, and if it was parked elsewhere the day after the handover, this would provide additional evidence.

  “What’s that?” Katarina asked inquisitively.

  “Papa’s going to decorate some money,” he said. “Do you have a pencil for me?”

  She came back with her school pouch and leaned over his shoulder.

  “Draw on a mustache, that’s fun!” she exclaimed.

  The ascetic expression of the celebrated inventor Nikola Tesla indeed looked as though it could use some cheering up.

  “Did he have one in real life?”

  “Not a red one,” Katarina said as she took out a felt-tipped pen.

  Josip thought about filling in one of the zeros—mustn’t be too conspicuous, of course—when he realized that all the banknotes were numbered. This one was AE 1860991. He needn’t mark the notes at all, as long as he remembered or jotted down the identifying number. He was catching on to this game.

  “And green hair!” cried the enterprising Katarina as she tugged off the cap of a felt-tipped marker with her teeth. She drooled quite a lot recently, and as he was wearing his uniform jacket, he wiped off her chin with a handkerchief. She let him do this with her usual enjoyment.

  “You know what, on second thought … maybe we’d better leave it as it is. Money is state property, after all.”

  AE 1860991.

  Andrej was thoroughly vexed, now that Josip had confessed to the affair for which he had been blackmailing him over these past two years.

  Josip was too good for this world—or maybe it meant he, Andrej, was too bad for this world.

  This had to stop. If he hadn’t been in the clutches of a blackmailer himself, it would have ended long ago. Tudjman was saddled with an unbearable and dimwitted wife, he had lost an infant son, and he cared for his mentally disabled daughter, as well as Andrej’s dog. It really couldn’t go on any longer, even if he never found out who had been blackmailing him, even if he had to continue making payments so as not to lose his job and be exposed as a fraudster. He considered forsaking the casino and the expensive single malt whisky; the doctor had told him he had diabetes and that his liver readings were cause for concern, so it would be the healthy choice, too. If he lived frugally, he could perhaps satisfy the blackmailer without squeezing Josip any longer. Josip had even invited him to go fishing. He had never been asked by other men to join in their activities and he felt honored, even though he did not care for fish or fishing.

  His talent for photography might offer the solution. In Schmitz he had found a loyal admirer; he might be a strange bird, but he adored Andrej, and if he were to succeed in producing a unique series of the Apollo butterfly—such a rare specimen that only he had ever seen one outside the national nature reserve—then Schmitz would make postcards of it, maybe even a calendar. After all, he had plenty of opportunities, with his solitary treks up the barren hillside of the Velebit on his way to the transmission tower. He decided to extort one more payment from Tudjman and use that money to buy the camera Schmitz had recommended, and with it the means to free himself from debt.

  A week later he picked up the money and took it directly to the photo shop. It was his free day, and his plan was to cycle off straightaway in pursuit of the Apollo butterfly.

  “Why don’t you take my car, son?” Schmitz asked after he attached the lens to the new Leica. “I don’t need it. I hardly ever drive, so there should be enough gas in the tank.”

  Andrej accepted the offer, even though he didn’t have a driver’s license. It was a credit to Schmitz that he would trust him with his automobile.

  It was the tiniest of cars, and Andrej only just managed to squeeze into the driver’s seat. Going up the hill by car was quite a different matter than by bicycle. He was not unimpressed with his driving, as long as he did not need to shift gears too often. He did have to lean forward quite a bit to see the road, and his huge feet sometimes pressed the wrong pedals, making him nearly hit a goat. Wary of damaging the gearbox, he parked the Fiat so that he could drive off again without having to reverse.

  He unexpectedly spotted the Apollo butterfly when he turned to check that the borrowed car was still safely parked on the shoulder, and perhaps also to enjoy the feeling of having the keys to that very car in his pocket.

  It was as though a small shred of white tissue paper fluttered across the grassland, but there wasn’t even a puff of wind; blades of grass and lavender stalks stood perfectly still, the sea lay silently in the distance at the foot of the hills.

  The butterfly was a white speck, and at times even less than that; as soon as it paused its flight and folded up its wings it was well-nigh invisible. A tiny daytime star, elusive and ephemeral. That is my star of Austerlitz, Andrej thought. He had read in a biography of Napoleon that the emperor often saw a star in the sky that was invisible to everyone else. Austerlitz, wherever that was, had been Napoleon’s greatest victory. If he could capture this butterfly on film, that would be his own triumph.

  He removed the cap from the new lens and went in crouching pursuit of the butterfly. At the next glimpse he would adjust the camera’s settings, even if it meant zooming all the way in. But this turned out not to be necessary: the Apollo butterfly fluttered up the hill, straight at him.

  Andrej realized this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and his heart stood still.

  The butterfly landed on the tip of a stem of lavender, like a veteran fashion model, at a distance of no more than eight meters.

  In the center of the viewfinder was a small circle, which was divided diagonally in two; when the two halves of the circle were precisely lined up, then the image was in focus.

  Andrej turned the lens, and the red spots on the butterfly’s wing lined up. He zoomed in even farther until the insect nearly filled the viewfinder and focused once again. He could even see the tongue as it uncoiled to siphon nectar from the flower, the double pair of eyes that seemed to look at him like the eyes of that brazen young woman he had flirted with so long ago on the beach. From this vantage point he had a vague blue sea and the sky as background—perfect. The butterfly stayed put, posed for him, showed off all its wing positions, waited patiently while Andrej experimented with shutter times and f-stops, thirty-six shots long.

  An overjoyed Andrej did not mind when the butterfly flew off when he loaded a new roll of film. This was the diva’s prerogative. He did not even chase it when it fluttered up the hill and vanished. If all had gone well, he had just taken a unique, breathtaking series of photographs.

  He drove back, parked the Fiat on the boulevard not far from Schmitz’s shop, with one rear wheel up on the sidewalk, and walked home to celebrate his triumph with a glass of whisky and a bowl of tomato soup.

  But he couldn’t wait to see the results. Half an hour later he put the film roll in his pocket and walked to the photo shop.

  The sign ZATVOREN/GESCHLOSSEN hung on the door, rather crookedly, even though it was far from closing time. The door was not locked.

  At first he did not see Schmitz and thought he might have stepped out to buy cigarettes. But then he heard groaning from behind the counter.

  Schmitz was si
tting on the floor, one elbow resting on the stool next to him, a bloodied handkerchief in his hand. His tie hung askew over his woolen vest and he stared absently into space.

  “Papa Schmitz!” Andrej cried. He immediately sprang into action; he had never administered first aid, but whatever Mario and Tudjman could do, he could, too. He went into the back room, wetted a dishrag, and filled a plastic cup with water.

  “What happened?” he asked as he wiped Schmitz’s face and put the cup to his lips. “Wait, I’ll help you up …” He lifted the little old man by the armpits and onto the stool. Schmitz continued to stare into space, as though trying to avoid focusing on some gruesome image.

  “It’s me, Andrej …”

  Rather at a loss for what to do now, Andrej smoothed the old man’s hair with the damp dishrag.

  “Shall I call a doctor?”

  Schmitz shook his head, as though no doctor in the world could help him.

  “He robbed me.”

  “Who did?”

  “He threatened me. And hit me.”

  “But who?”

  “He took all the money from the cash register. And everything I had in my wallet.”

  Andrej said nothing but went over and locked the shop door. When he came back, Schmitz raised his head and said, “Tudjman. Josip Tudjman.”

  This made Andrej’s head spin. The man who had just been the Good Samaritan—and now this? Andrej took a chair, turned it around and sat down the way he had seen Columbo do it.

  “He came in and said, ‘Your car’s not parked in the same spot as yesterday.’ I mean, what was that all about? Then he locked the door and came at me. I thought it might be something political, because of my ideals, but he demanded to see the money in the cash register.”

  “The money?”

  “Yes. He went straight for the tray of thousand-dinar bills, took the only one there and had a close look at it.”

  “And then?”

  “Then he shouted, ‘You dirty blackmailer!’ and punched me in the face.”

  “And you?”

  “I said, ‘What are you talking about, man?’ and he said, ‘Where’d you get this bill? From under a concrete block on the Zrinskog, I’ll bet.’ I said no, I got it from a customer. ‘What customer, then?’ he asks.”

  Andrej held his breath. Schmitz’s eyes had taken on a yearning look, which troubled him and, in a certain way, put him off.

  “From a tourist, I said, but he didn’t believe me. My boy—I got that bill from you … tell me you haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “No, Papa Schmitz, of course not.”

  The old man nodded, relieved, and placed his small, liver-spotted hand onto Andrej’s.

  “And then?”

  “Then Tudjman took all the money out of the cash drawer and my wallet and said this was the beginning of the repayment. He said something about a nightmare that was finally over. I told him I would report this to the police. He said I shouldn’t, because I was a blackmailer. I said I would, because he was a thief. Then he said something about coming to an agreement, to keep the damage from escalating. And then he left.”

  Andrej knew he had to collect his thoughts, and to stall for time he took the film roll out of his pocket.

  “Here. I think they’ll be perfect. Why don’t you develop and print them right away?” He solemnly placed the film roll on the counter.

  “Satisfied with the telephoto lens?” Schmitz asked with a wry smile.

  “Oh, yes. Shall we have a look at the prints tomorrow morning? I’d like to go home now, if you don’t need me to stay.”

  “You go on home, son. I’ll be fine.”

  With Andrej’s hand already on the door handle, Schmitz said, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Suspicious, Andrej turned around.

  “What is it?”

  “My car keys.”

  Josip could not just go home. This was the first time since the war he had engaged in violence. I was within my rights, he repeated to himself as he marched down the boulevard with the air of someone on a mission, while in fact he really did not want to go or be anywhere. The extortionist had been unmasked, and Josip had taught him a lesson. Some of his money had been recouped. But only a small portion of it. He did not regret punching Schmitz in the face: evil must not be spared simply because it masquerades as a feeble old man. In fact, he had gone easy on him. He could have given the dirty little anti-Semite a real thrashing. The nightmare was over. Not only was he freed from the vampire who had taken advantage of his relationship with Jana for so long, but he could even look forward to repayment, so that Jana might be afforded a bit of the luxury she so desired. But could he really count on it? Schmitz had threatened to report him to the police. And if he did …

  Josip walked farther along the boulevard, until far beyond the palm trees.

  The sun was setting, stray cats climbed out of garbage cans and slinked off. He casually exchanged greetings with the men down on the beach, tying up their boats for the night. He longed to be close to Jana. A gray-striped cat sat on the balustrade; she observed him but apparently did not think it worth running away. Off to the west, a dirty-yellow-orange strip of light hung over the sea. It was warm, still too warm for his liking, and he took off his uniform jacket. Where the streetlamps followed the rise of the paved road, he turned onto the dark, rocky path just above the waterline.

  He suddenly started having doubts. The extortion was over, that much was certain, but he would have to cut a deal with Schmitz to keep him from filing a police report, and that troubled him.

  The warmish breeze smelled more and more of brine, algae, and garbage as he approached the inlet where a cement wall had once been built for military purposes, and where now the town’s sewage was discharged.

  He sat himself on a rusty bollard, just to give his walk a sense of purpose. But soon enough he thought: What am I doing here? I have to be getting home. Whatever happens, a man should always be able to go home. Katarina would be in bed by the time he got back, but not his wife, of course. Josip looked morosely at the vague stars that began to appear, like cowards who came to claim their booty once the day’s battle was over. The stench in the inlet was overwhelming.

  On his way back he was angry and upset, even though the confrontation with Schmitz had taken place three hours ago and he had a pocket full of money. His own violent eruption—punching an old man in the face—seemed to have brought about an inexplicable change in him. Despite everything his wife did to him, he had never, in all the years of their wretched marriage, hit her; this had, he felt, given him some moral superiority, the feeling of being the righteous one. But now he thought, she’d better keep her goddamn bedroom door shut, because if she shows her face and starts in with her bitching, I’ll bash her. I’ll beat that moronic moon face to a pulp. He needed the world to leave him alone, at least for tonight.

  He put his jacket back on and straightened his posture, in case he bumped into someone.

  But the boulevard was completely deserted. All he saw were a few parked cars—Schmitz’s was still skewed, with one back tire on the curb. Bad for the tires. Useless driver, that Schmitz.

  Josip was just about to turn into the steep, narrow alley that led to his house when it happened.

  An explosion high up in the mountains—it must have been on the road to Gospić—followed by a sudden, raging fire that lit up the low-hanging clouds. After that, when the flames died down, the sharp rattle of gunshots. Josip stood still and listened. There was nothing more to be seen, Josip knew, but he recognized the pattern of individual gunshots and the barrage of automatic weapons. The machine guns had the last word. He knew this all from long ago, when he had fought the enemy on these very same hills. The shots sounded different from back then, like an old song resung by another artist. But he did know what they meant. The war had reached their town.

  After his encounter with Schmitz, Andrej had walked in the opposite direction, following the boulevard to the south. Wh
ere the line of streetlamps climbed the hill in the direction of the Turkish fort, he took the unlit road that led down to the old fishing village and then turned into a winding coastal path. He had no desire to go home, for he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. The day was nearly over, but it would not leave him in peace. The sunset was drawn-out and stubborn; orange stripes doggedly kept night from falling. And tomorrow would be another day. Life was more confusing than he’d like. He had the Apollo butterfly, but even if those photographs sold well, he would not be rid of Josip Tudjman, who now believed that Schmitz was the blackmailer. Tudjman had threatened him, and if he kept up the pressure, Schmitz might crack and disclose where that banknote came from.

  He had resolved never to send Tudjman another blackmail letter, but now he had no choice, for only then would Tudjman realize his mistake.

  It would have to be a letter in the same style as the very first ones, like that postcard from the casino in Rijeka: defiant, cynical, a tad frivolous—the style of an opportunistic rake, from someone who did not at all fit Schmitz’s profile and was out to bankroll his playboy lifestyle. Maybe he should book a trip to Saint-Tropez or somewhere similar and write him from there. But then again, his absence might be noticed.

  Actually, Tudjman should realize that a postcard from Rijeka couldn’t possibly have been sent by an elderly invalid like Schmitz, but he was fixated on that one banknote.

  Tudjman had no insight into human nature, no life experience.

  The explosion on the hillside took Andrej by surprise, and his first reaction was that it must be construction; but the fire that blazed high in the Velebit just as the sun had finally sunk into the sea clearly meant something else. Andrej had never experienced war, except in TV movies, and the ensuing machine-gun fire filled him with awe. Particularly for himself, for now he was a man who could later say: I was there, when the war reached my town.

  PART 4

  It was not war, but a raid. Until the early morning, the townspeople assumed it was a Serbian atrocity, but it turned out to be something else entirely: in and around the burnt-out vans they found the bodies of Serbian marine recruits on their way home from an electronics course in Rijeka; they had defended themselves with their handguns, but in the end, they had all been killed. The nationalist Croatian slogan za dom spremni scrawled on the doors of the charred wrecks left little doubt: this deed had been committed by their own people. It was still terrible, but better than the other way around. It was just a matter of time, people said; if their own boys hadn’t struck first, then the Serbs would have.