Island of The World

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “No time to lose, Josip”, says Drago gruffly. “My brother and I must leave. There are plenty of watchers in the city. Now, come into the cabin and change your clothes. There’s a gift for you from Marija.”

  It is a pair of brown wool trousers, an old pair of Drago’s, which Marija has lengthened. Also a sheepskin belt without a buckle, a cotton shirt boasting a few holes and patches but clean as the seabreeze. A sack with bread and smoked meat in it and some dried fish wrapped in oil cloth. There are, besides, an extra pair of wool socks and a few coins.

  “Now give me back my old trousers, there’s a good fellow”, grins Drago. When Josip is dressed in his new outfit and knotting the belt at his waist, Drago pulls the leather boots from his own feet and tells Josip to put them on.

  “I cannot”, he murmurs.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “It is too great a gift.”

  “A barefoot man with a shaved head wouldn’t survive ten minutes in this place without somebody asking questions. Do as I say, or I’ll blow my whistle.”

  “You have no whistle, Drago.”

  “I’ll find one. Now hurry. I don’t want to loiter around here with people reading the names on our butt.”

  Josip puts on the boots and ties the laces, his hands shaking, his throat choking.

  “Repay me when you can”, says Drago. “When we are old men you can repay me—when we are old men who can give to each other our right names.”

  The little fisherman removes his cap, places it on Josip’s head. “Very nice”, he says, nodding approval. “Now you’re just an ordinary nobody, a man of the sea. And you smell like one, too.”

  Drago shakes Josip’s hand, then says gruffly:

  “Enough, get out of here now! Go with God!”

  So, Josip steps from the boat onto the wooden wharf and climbs the steps to the street above. The Morski Lav’s motor is rumbling, and she is already easing away, pointing her bow to the north. It is only after the boat has exited the inner harbor that he recognizes the spot on which he stands. It is the very place where he was reunited with the Lastavica of the Sea more than three years ago.

  He slings the burlap sack over his shoulder and, staring at the pavement beneath his feet, walks toward the palace.

  Passing through the Gate of Gold, he enters the maze. The cap low over his brow, he observes every face in the narrow streets and alleys, wondering if they suspect. Few notice him, and those who do, quickly look away or alter their course so as not to brush against him. He supposes that their cursory glances register no more than a working man of rough—even squalid—appearance. Without interruption, he turns off Krešimirova into an alley that takes him toward the northern wall. From there he hits a cross street that he recognizes as one of his old running routes. There are more shops in the ground floors than he remembers, and there are foreigners gawking at the architecture with cameras dangling on neck straps. Even the local people seem more prosperous than they did before his imprisonment. East, then north again. Now he is entering the familiar little square of Carrarina Poljana, his heart’s ever-increasing beat beginning to palpitate, his breath coming in short bursts. Then the last few paces into another alley and he is standing beneath the balconata, gazing up at it, blinded by tears.

  He steadies himself and climbs the stone steps to his apartment. Breathing heavily from exertion, he pauses in front of the door to catch his breath. He reaches for the handle and turns it. It is locked. So, he must knock.

  After a light rap, footsteps echo from within. Yes, her steps, her shoes on the hardwood floor. The door opens, and a face appears. The woman is about the same age as his wife, but she is not Ariadne.

  “Is Ariadne here?” he mumbles in a low voice, hoping the neighbors cannot hear.

  “Who?” asks the woman looking him up and down with a certain caution, perhaps with distaste. Josip becomes aware of the heavy fish smell of his body.

  “The Lasta family lives here”, he says nervously.

  “There are no Lastas here. I do not know the name.”

  “But they used to live in this apartment.”

  “We moved in a year ago, my husband and I. The place was empty when we came. We didn’t know the people who had it before us.”

  “Do you know where they have gone?” She shakes her head. “Do you know the Horvatinec family?” She shrugs, “I don’t know that name either. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I am busy.” She shuts the door.

  Standing before the closed door with bowed head, he reflects for a minute, then turns and retraces his steps down to the street. There is another possibility. Yes, and this is the more likely one. He crosses the imperial complex and exits through the east gate into the open market place. Though a few fish and bread and flower vendors have their stalls open for business, the market is not busy today. It cannot be a weekend. What day is it, then? For that matter, what month is it? February, March? Can it really be a year and a half since he lived here? It feels as if a lifetime has passed since he left, and now he returns to find that the whole world has changed and not even noticed his absence.

  He circles around to the north wall of the palace and stares up through the tree branches. The window of their bedroom is open; unfamiliar green curtains with a floral print are pulled outward by the breeze blowing through the apartment. There is no seashell on the sill. Turning away, he crosses the park; then he continues onto a sidewalk of Zagrebacka and goes along it as far as a street that will take him up into the Manus district. Nothing seems to have changed. The houses are the same, the trees also.

  Now he is standing in front of Simon and Vera’s house. During his first interrogation, he was told that Simon was in prison and Vera had fled the country. Perhaps they have returned. It may be that Simon’s Party connections have been able to reduce his sentence. The interrogators told him that Ariadne was in prison. They may have been lying. She was not directly involved in the Dolphins, and surely the state would recognize this, would try to maintain a modicum of law, even for enemies of the people. The law is unjust, but Ariadne did not break it. Her husband and father and mother, yes, they are criminals, but surely—Gathering his courage, he climbs the front steps and knocks on the door.

  It is opened by a young man in a business suit. His face registers surprise, caution, and distaste. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “I am looking for the Horvatinec family. Are they here?”

  “No, there aren’t any Horvatinecs here.”

  “But this is their home.”

  “Maybe a long time ago it was”, the man shrugs. “I don’t know who lived here before. This is the office of Jadran” “What is Jadran ?”

  “We’re a magazine. The Ministry of the Interior puts it out.” He smiles ironically looking Josip up and down. “Maybe you know it.”

  Josip shakes his head.

  “A good magazine. Culture. You should read it.” He closes the door.

  Josip walks through the downtown core to the base of the Marjan. His energy is low, and he is very hungry. Remembering the food in his bag, he chews some strips of smoked meat with the side of his mouth that still has teeth. Then some bread. At a street fountain, he puts his lips to the spigot and drinks water. Then he climbs. The park is as he remembers it, and he spends the afternoon winding through the trees on trails that he recognizes as his old running path. Little by little, he sees where his feet are taking him. As the sun begins its descent toward the sea, he arrives at the heights, the rock on which he used to stand with arms spread wide, panting and exultant in the prime of his youth.

  He sits on the warm rock for a time, looking out at the turquoise Adriatic, eating more bread, and waiting for his heartbeat and breathing to return to normal. It takes much longer than it did when he was young—a year or so ago—when he was young. Now he is old and very tired. He lies down on the grass beside the rock, in fetal position, and falls asleep.

  In the morning, he wakes shivering, for his clothing is damp with dew; during the night the ro
ck bled away all its heat. The sun has not yet crested the Dinarics, and the city lies in shadow. Out on the sea, the gray water is speared with glistening silver.

  He sits up and eats dried fish, the last of the bread, and a strip of smoked meat. He has some hard thinking to do. He must find out where she is. She and the baby may be fine, living elsewhere. But how can he pick up their trail without revealing his own presence in the city?

  By mid-morning he has made his way to the building which houses the university’s faculty of medicine. He waits on the sidewalk, does not go in to inquire at the front desk. If he were to do that, his clothing, everything about him, would arouse suspicion. Perhaps a face he recognizes will happen along. Just after noontime, a man wearing a trench coat and carrying a black briefcase leaves the front entrance and comes down the walkway toward the street. The face is familiar, though Josip cannot place it exactly. He has just decided not to approach the man when he remembers where he last saw him. It was at his wedding. He is the doctor-friend of Simon’s.

  “Excuse me, sir”, Josip mumbles, bowing his head, looking up from under the rim of his cap. The man slows his pace.

  “Yes?” he says, though he continues to move forward, as if to say he is very busy and can spare only a few seconds.

  “Sir,” mumbles, Josip, “can you please tell me where I may find Dr. Horvatinec the surgeon?”

  “Dr. Horvatinec is no longer at the university. Now, if you will excuse me—”

  “He is at the hospital, then?”

  The man glances at his wristwatch. “No, not at the hospital. If you have problems with your back, you should consult your personal physician. He can refer you to a surgeon.”

  “He is in prison?”

  Now the doctor stops in his tracks and inspects Josip’s face more closely. He frowns, but does not move. “Who are you?”

  “Josip Lasta, Simon’s son-in-law. You were at our wedding.” The doctor glances nervously all about and swallows visibly. “What do you want?” he whispers.

  “I am looking for my wife. Do you know where she is?”

  “No.”

  “Where is Simon?”

  “I have not heard of him since his arrest. If he is still alive, he is in prison. But what prison I cannot say.”

  “You do not know?”

  “I know nothing. Now, please, I must go.”

  “Can you not tell me anything?”

  “I’ve told you what I know. And why are you walking around like this? I thought—”

  “I was in prison. Now I am free. I need to find my family.”

  The man shakes his head, nervously glancing in every direction, his eyes flicking left and right. Then he thrusts a hand into his pocket and pulls a coin from it, offering it to Josip.

  “Take it”, he whispers.

  “I do not want it.”

  “Please, take it in case anyone sees us together. You are a beggar. If anyone asks, I gave a coin to a beggar, that’s all.” Josip opens his palm and accepts the coin. “Can you not suggest anything? Anything at all.”

  “There was a brother. Simon’s brother is in the Party. He might know something. Goran is his name. Track down Goran Horvatinec at the Ministry of the Interior and he might be able to—in any event, I must go. We have not met, we have not spoken.”

  The doctor turns and walks away with hastening steps.

  The city is a thousand villages. So many streets, so many offices. To whom should he speak, whom should he avoid? At first, he wanders back down into the district around the palace and ambles here and there without apparent purpose. Perhaps an office building will appear before his eyes with a big sign on it, Ministry of the Interior. This is not likely. To find Uncle Goran will demand some deductive thinking and much caution. Already Josip has noticed a few policemen eye him as he walks by on the street. Though they do not stop him for questioning and identification papers, it is only a matter of time before one does.

  He hunches his shoulders, lets his lower jaw hang a little, revealing his hideous smile. He will save the drool for very bad encounters. In the park by the palace, he takes the last of the fish from his sack, and, making sure that no one is watching, he crushes it in the palms of his hand, smearing its oils all over his hands, neck, and face. Then he puts the shreds into his mouth and chews without swallowing until it is a mash, and packs the mash behind his gums. After that, he continues on his way, shuffling, hunching, looking more and more like a poor soul who should be mercifully housed in a state institution.

  An elderly woman is walking toward him, tapping a cane before her. Partly blind, a white moon in one of her eyes. When she is near enough, he says, “Excuse me, Madame. Can you tell me where is the Ministry of the Interior?”

  She stops and peers up with a smile. “In Belgrade, it must be.”

  “They have an office in this city, I hear.”

  “Oh? Well, I don’t know for certain, but I think there is a big government office down on the avenue near the archbishop’s palace. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes, by the harbor.”

  “That’s the one, though it’s a pity the archbishop is not permitted to live there. It was taken from him, you know.”

  She stops herself, her good eye clouding with worry. “Not that I wish to criticize the government, I’m sure you realize.”

  “I understand”, Josip says. “Thank you, Madame.”

  He finds it soon enough. But it would be reckless in the extreme to stand outside on the street for hours, waiting for a certain official to emerge. To go inside and ask for him would be madness. So, he walks. Up the street and down, keeping his eyes on the entrance all the while. Around the block, searching for back entrances. Once, twice, three times. It is early afternoon now. Maybe Goran will come out for lunch. Officials like late lunches. Maybe he will remain inside if there is a source of food in there. No, officials like to dine out, prefer to be served the finest in the best of surroundings.

  Uncle Goran does not come out. Instead, a policeman stops Josip and demands to see his papers.

  Josip breathes heavily through his mouth and drool runs down his chin.

  “Papers—no papers—my uncle”, he mumbles and laughs, spewing a little fish mash by accident onto the breast of the policeman’s uniform. The man steps back a pace or two with a look of disgust.

  “Who are you, and why are you lazing around here, you good-for-nothing?”

  “I’m Jozo, no, I’m Bozo, he tol’ me wait for him here, my uncle for bring me home.”

  “Well, Bozo, who is your uncle?”

  “Uncle Goran”, Josip dribbles and laughs.

  “Goran Horvatinec?”

  “Uncle—bring me home. See my mummy.”

  “Idiot, you came too early for your uncle. They don’t go home until six o’clock. Now, go away and bother someone else. Come back when the big hand on the clock tower is at twelve and the little hand is on the six.”

  “Twelve? Six?”

  “That’s right, twelve and six. Don’t you know your numbers?”

  “No number. Hungry.”

  “Oh, damn, then have a bite on me.”

  He offers a coin.

  “Here, take this—no, no, don’t refuse. Take it! Don’t argue with me, take it! And get lost. I have work to do.”

  “Thanks—nice man.” Josip coughs and shuffles away toward the market.

  He has received two splendid gifts. Goran will appear at six—when the big hand is at the twelve and the little hand at the six—and he can eat in the meantime.

  With the coin, he purchases a bun and an orange and eats them after swallowing the near-liquid paste in his mouth. He consumes the peels and seeds of the orange as well.

  Just before six, Josip returns to the block where the Ministry is housed, approaching its main entrance circumspectly. Fortunately, his particular friend, the policeman, has gone off shift, and the night patrol is on duty. Josip positions himself halfway down the block, hunches over, and holds out his hand
. Whenever a pedestrian passes, he mutters, “cigareta, cigareta?” and has pocketed half a dozen by the time ministry employees begin leaving the building. He scans their faces from the corner of his eye. The policeman at the front steps glances at the beggar once or twice, then loses interest; he is busy tipping his hat to officials whom he knows.

  Then Goran appears, silver-haired, scowling, buttoning a fine greatcoat across his huge belly. He nods impersonally to the policeman, then turns and comes down the sidewalk in Josip’s direction.

  “Cigareta, cigareta?” Josip mutters as he passes. Goran pays no notice. Josip does not turn his head to watch where the man is going. Instead, he observes from the corner of his eye that he is walking at a leisurely pace in the direction of the promenade in front of the palace, a few blocks west. Popping an unlit cigarette into his mouth, letting it dangle, Josip crosses to the other side of the street, rounds a corner, and goes north, away from Goran. A minute later, he crosses back and heads west, entering the east gate of the palace, and then begins to move through the maze as quickly as possible. Within minutes, he has doubled back and is on the promenade, scanning the crowds of people strolling in the evening sunlight. Though the weather is cool, many are seated at outdoor cafés, sipping coffee and chatting with friends. Suddenly, he spots Goran just ahead, moving through the crowd at a slow pace, his shoulders set in the posture of an important man who need step aside for no one. He is looking for something, maybe trying to decide which café to enter.