“Montana,” she breathed. “He wishes to see me?” She clasped her hands in rapture. Then suddenly she was downcast again. “No. It is impossible. He will not want to see me now.”
No, Roman, assured her. He had been told. It was certain. Franko wished to see her. If she was willing, Roman could take her to him.
Apparently, she was not willing. She was too mortified, too ashamed. But the old woman remonstrated with her. If a man such as Franko, of whom she had heard so many great things from Fedima, still desired her, it was impudence to refuse him. They argued about this while Roman waited patiently. Ultimately, the desires of the girl and the old woman merged. Now the only point was how it could be effected.
This was not so easily determined. A long discussion began, with the man, the grandmother, others who came in. The girl sat quietly in a corner while they talked. The family could in no way allow the girl to go with Roman, a stranger and a Serb at that. After all she had been through! No, it was impossible. There were also complications of her legal presence, her status as an immigrant. Roman and the man withdrew to another room, to drink a glass or two of slivovitz. Funds were mentioned. Roman mentioned a figure. A ridiculous counterfigure was suggested.
By now it was getting on toward dinnertime. An impasse had been reached. Roman was thinking he would go to dinner, call Helen, and find out how much she was willing to pay.
At this point, Theo Ostropaki appeared. He was just a visitor, it seemed, but he was a representative of the agency that had sent Fedima to Brooklyn. Fortunately, he happened to be in the country on business. As a person interested in Fedima’s welfare, a man of authority, and a neutral—that is, neither a Serb nor an Albanian—he was a perfect intermediary. The others withdrew. Roman and Ostropaki conversed in English.
“This young woman has endured so much,” Ostropaki said. “I have a passing knowledge of her circumstances. She has lost her entire family. These people are only distant relatives; they have taken her in out of a sense of Muslim charity, a very great principle in their culture, you know. You can understand their reluctance to entrust her future to a … well, to you.”
Roman was impassive. He listened, then he said, “I am a Serb because my mother said I was. Otherwise, I am also a Jew for the same reason. It has no bearing, what I am. I am not buying this girl.”
“Oh, no, you misunderstand me,” Ostropaki assured him.
Roman ignored his comment. “I am here because another young woman, a rich American woman from Detroit, asked me to find Fedima Daliljaj, if she was alive. Of one thing I am sure: if Helen Sedlacek is interested in the girl, she will be safe. If these good people need to be paid for taking care of the girl, Helen Sedlacek will pay a fair sum.”
“Who is this Mrs. Sedlacek?” Ostropaki asked. “How did she hear of Fedima?”
“Miss Sedlacek,” Roman corrected. “She is the surviving child of a Detroit businessman. I don’t know how she learned of Fedima Daliljaj. I am only telling you that she has heard of her. She wants to help her.” Then he remembered something else. “She wants to help her rejoin her betrothed.” This was only an assumption on Roman’s part, but it was based on an impression he had gained from Helen’s request.
“Who is this betrothed?” Ostropaki said, surprised. “I have not heard of Fedima being betrothed.”
“I think it must be a man named Franko, who lives in Montana.”
“Franko!” Ostropaki was astounded. “Franko Bradovic? He is alive? Are you sure?”
Roman was not sure. He had no idea who Franko was. Helen had not informed him. But if Mr. Ostropaki wished, they could call her, at a number Helen had provided: Frank’s number.
Mr. Ostropaki wished. Within minutes they had reached Helen by telephone. Ostropaki talked to Helen for a long time. To Roman, they seemed to be haggling endlessly, but Roman paid little attention—his stomach grumbled.
As if in response—perhaps the old woman had heard the borborygmus from the next room—soup with filled dumplings was brought in, along with sweet-and-sour cabbage and some rolls that Roman recognized as klovac, but which they called by some other name. He sat to eat and shortly was joined by Ostropaki.
“Do you know,” Ostropaki said, when the meal was finished, “I am sure that this can be worked out, but I am rather surprised at Franko—or Paul, to give his real name. I knew him well in Kosovo, but he never mentioned Fedima to me. That is, I knew he was staying with the Daliljajs, but there was no mention of the girl.”
Roman had nothing to say to that, having no knowledge of the situation whatever, but he remarked, “Perhaps he did not feel it was proper.”
“You mean, not germane to our business?” Ostropaki said. “Well, it wasn’t, to be sure. But when a man is in love, and he is concerned about the safety of the people he is with, as he was—he mentioned it more than once to me—I would think he would mention the woman to whom he is betrothed. I had always the impression that he was not a romantic type of man, if you follow me.”
Roman did not. “She is very pretty,” he said. Now that his belly was full, he was content to discuss anything at length.
“She is also very young,” Ostropaki said. “Much younger than Fr—Paul. But more important, he is what I call a ‘rover’—a wanderer. Such men do not marry. They may have idle romances, but soon they are off to a new place, new romances.”
“Montana is not his home then?” Roman said.
“It is, and perhaps he has decided to settle down. I wish I could have spoken to him, but evidently he was not immediately available. Later, we can talk, I hope. Please tell him, when you see him. But now, let us see what arrangements we can make.”
Negotiations began in earnest. Helen had agreed to a fee that Roman felt was excessive, but it was within his means to pay. The question arose: what about chaperones? Roman didn’t see why Fedima would need a chaperone; he would accompany her to Butte. That was rejected; she must be accompanied by members of her people. Roman balked: he could see the entire family emigrating to Montana, at Helen’s expense. But at a certain point, the question was aired: what if the girl, once she had been reunited with her … suitor … preferred to return?
This was a breakthrough. From that point on, Roman knew that it was a matter of deciding who would be the person who would go and determine that the girl wished to stay and, if she didn’t, would be available to escort her back to Brooklyn. Questions of whether there were mosques in Butte, other Muslims, what sort of food was available, where she would sleep, and so on, could be resolved.
Just when Roman was beginning to think of eating again, an agreement was reached. The old woman would accompany Roman and Fedima on the airplane. Round-trip tickets for both must be provided—beyond the other agreed-upon funds.
It is not the easiest flight from La Guardia to Butte. There are other routes, but the one agreed upon was via Cincinnati, Minneapolis, and Great Falls. It took all of the following day before the plane dropped down over the Continental Divide and ground to a shuddering halt on the runway, at what seemed to be the end of earth.
The old lady, who had spoken only a few words to Roman the entire long day, looked on as the party of Helen, Joe, and Frank approached. Helen embraced Fedima, then, in her best Belgrade Serbian, welcomed her to Montana and introduced “Franko.”
The girl stared at Frank. He had shaved and was wearing a suit and a tie. This was a critical moment. Everyone except Roman, who was tired and bored, looked at the two young people expectantly.
Frank shook Fedima’s hand.
The girl looked around the small airport, momentarily alive with families and friends greeting the disembarking passengers. She could see no sign of her Franko. She looked at Roman, but he was no help. Then she looked at the very pretty woman who was no more than her own size, accompanied by a handsome man who could have been her brother. The woman, Helen, nodded her head so slightly that it almost could not be noticed, and there was a serious look in her eye.
Fedima understood. I
f asked, she could not have said what, exactly, she understood. But it was something important. She turned to Roman and said, “It is well.”
Helen took the ladies to the Finlen Hotel, where she had retained two suites, one for her and Fedima, the other for the duenna. The men returned to Frank’s place. Helen took the women shopping, then to dinner. Then she and Fedima settled in for a long talk.
Joe took Roman for a walk while Frank cleaned out a room for Fedima, in case she decided to stay.
Roman labored up the grassy slope to the ridge, slipping in his smooth-soled street shoes. He stood to catch his breath, his hands clasped behind the black suit, looking down on the river where it ran along the cliff. “Very peaceful,” he said, but he didn’t sound impressed.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” Joe said. “Perfect. Come on, I’ll show you where Helen and I want to build.”
“You staying?” Roman said, surprised. “Helen, too? Way out here?”
“Of course.” Joe walked him up on the ridge and away from the stream to a broad meadow backing against a large rock outcropping about the size of a church. This was a site, Joe said, that would be ideal. He pointed out where a road could be routed, where a well could be dug, and so on. The site had a good southern exposure, and from there Frank’s house was not visible, although one could see the windmills spinning. Perfect privacy.
Roman grunted—whether appreciatively or not, Joe couldn’t tell. “Well, we’ve got work to do,” Joe said. They trekked down to the site of Paulie’s camp. Joe explained what they were looking for. Roman would look about outside for possible hiding places while Joe checked out the tent.
As soon as Roman was engaged, Joe set to work. There were an awful lot of books for a camp, three wooden crates of them. And a laptop computer. Joe didn’t bother with that—Helen had the computer expertise. What Joe sought was a handy journal, or a notebook. But in the course of looking for one, he could check for other goods. There was nothing of that sort, he soon realized. He hadn’t expected to find any. Jammie had been either lying or simply wrong. But he did find the notebooks.
They were resting in plain sight, on the footlocker by Paulie’s camp bed. There were four journals, beautifully bound in hardboard covers that were printed with Egyptian emblems. The journals were labeled: India, Kashmir, Balkans, Montana. They were fishing journals. Inside were many sketches of fish, evidently drawn by Paulie, using colored inks. And the notations below the pictures, or alongside them, indicated the date, place, time, weather conditions, water conditions, numbers of fish of various types caught, along with occasional remarks about the day—“high, thin o’cast, fine for b-w-o, later good breeze sw—hoppers and mayflies …”
There were also ink sketches of plants, flowers, certain views of hills or a creek, occasionally a bird, or persons—a talented artist’s snapshots, things he’d seen on his way to and from the fishing.
Joe leafed through the Balkan book, admiring pictures of a man with a big mustache, wearing a turban and smoking a long pipe; two girls in Balkan peasant dress (Joe presumed), carrying bundles of sticks, laughing, pretty; one very attractive sketch of a farm girl, washing her naked upper torso, who much resembled Fedima. A horse wearing a hat, a dog sleeping, a minaret poking up through the trees. Some of these had been colored with water paints later, it seemed.
Paulie was a skilled artist, but it was clear that his aim was not art but accuracy. There was, for instance, a whole page of sketches of the innards of what Joe presumed was a fish: intestines, gills, organs—an eye, a tongue, something that might be a kidney. There were many very striking colored-ink representations of fishing flies, and drawings of how the flies were arranged on the fly line itself when more than one fly was used.
Joe looked for any notation that might suggest some activity other than fishing, but there were none that he could see. It was a brilliant piece of work, beautiful even, probably the sort of thing that anglers would treasure.
He idly flipped a page and there was Jamala Sanders. She was standing in a village street, hands on hips, wearing a khaki outfit, her hair pulled back in a puffy ponytail. She looked very handsome but intent on something up the street. She was shod in a stylish version of cowboy boots, not quite the real thing. A little notation said, “Am. woman, Tsamet.”
Joe hurriedly paged through the book and found three more small sketches of Jammie: one just a tiny head, full face; the others larger, barely sketched cartoons of her striding by a building and by a tree. And near the back was a full-page, ink and water color-enhanced drawing of Jammie nude. It was a great picture, Joe thought. She was lounging by the side of a stream, among the grass, tiny blue forget-me-nots at the stream edge, her arms back to support her on her elbows, with her full breasts exposed, her legs apart to clearly display profuse pubic hair that did not succeed in obscuring the artist’s characteristically meticulous delineation of her vulva. There was a remarkable grace to the disposition of those thighs. And the look on her face … a knowing smile. It was Jammie, to the bones. The notation read: “Emerging nymph.”
Joe examined the rest of the book carefully but could make no sense of the notations beyond their ostensible reports on fishing. Possibly these notations contained some evidence, but it wasn’t available to Joe. The other books were the same: fish, birds, bugs, girls, views.
Roman returned, having found nothing. Joe sighed. “I’ll have to pack all this up later,” he said.
“You need help?” Roman asked.
“You mean, you’d stay?” Joe said.
Roman shrugged. He had nothing else to do.
They hiked back to the house. Joe carried the books, stashing them in a safe place. The colonel had called. He was in Butte, with Schwind. Joe called his motel, to give him instructions on how to find Frank’s place.
There was still plenty of light when Tucker and Schwind arrived. They were tired from traveling, but they were eager to inspect the scene. Joe provided wading boots for the stream, and now that he knew the crossings better, he guided them across. As they hiked, he gave them a graphic description of the events.
The bodies were undisturbed, lying exactly as they’d fallen. He watched while Dinah Schwind calmly went about inspecting the wounds, trying not to move the bodies more than was necessary. She seemed unperturbed by the situation. Schwind was methodical, but it was not, after all, a clinical examination. She was soon done, and they walked back to the mouth of the tunnel.
The colonel gazed out on the broad scene before them. “Who owns all this?” he asked.
“Frank owns up to the center of the stream—I guess that’s the usual way, out here. Some of the rest is Bureau of Land Management, some is old mining claims, some is state forest. Frank says an old lady in Great Falls owns a huge chunk. I’ll take you over to the Seven Dials, where Paulie is,” he said. “That’s owned by Kibosh—Lester Collins. He filed a mining claim, several years back…. I’m not sure of the legal status.”
“I’ll find out,” the colonel said. He nodded at Schwind, who made a note. “Where’s Collins now?”
“He’s there, fixing it up,” Joe said. “Couldn’t talk him out of it. I offered to put him up in town, but no. He’s agreed to leave the murder scene alone.”
“We’ll have to remove Martinelli’s body,” the colonel said, as if thinking aloud, “but maybe we can leave these two. I’ll have to see if we can’t get the ownership rights to the site.” He peered back into the tunnel. “A little well-placed explosive could seal it off. Appropriate tomb for those two, you might say.”
Joe expressed no surprise, no objections.
“What’s your take on Collins?” the colonel asked. “Is he going to tell stories?”
“No,” Joe said. The colonel asked for no further explanation. “And neither will Frank.”
“Yes, Frank Oberavich,” the colonel said. “You left him out of your report, Joe. But,” he hastened on, “no harm done, I guess. Well, my dear”—he turned to Schwind—“we’ve got our work cu
t out. Better get moving.”
“Don’t you want to go over to the Seven Dials?” Joe asked.
“Tomorrow,” the colonel said, “unless you think Mr. Collins is nervous about the body. Schwind can get it removed. We have some people due in …” He looked at his watch. “Probably waiting for us, in Butte.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Joe said.
“Ah. Of course.” The colonel took an envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to Joe. “Your fee. We didn’t discuss it, but I think you’ll find that adequate.”
For once, Joe was surprised. He took the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket without looking at it. “I wasn’t thinking of that,” he said. “There’s a lot of details …”
“All in good time, Joe,” the colonel said. He began to ease gingerly down the path, but within a few steps he felt more at ease and walked casually. He was from this country, after all.
When they had waded the river and were walking back to the house, Schwind jogged ahead, already tapping at her cell phone, shaking it, looking at the sky wonderingly. She was on the job.
The colonel lagged behind with Joe. “You want to know about Sanders,” he said. “We don’t know the whole story yet, but it’s unfolding. We’ve found Ostropaki. I guess you didn’t hear about that? No, Sanders wouldn’t have had any reason to inform you. Anyway, he’s helping us put together the pieces.”
“Paulie had met her in Kosovo,” Joe volunteered.
“Martinelli? Did he? Well, that’s interesting. What else did you find out? How did he get involved?”
“He was just fishing,” Joe said. He talked about the notebooks.
“I’d love to see them sometime,” Tucker said. “Fly-fishing, eh? You know …” He stopped and looked back at the river. “It’s a religion out here.”
As they approached the house, the colonel nodded toward the barking dogs. “What will happen to them?” he asked.
Joe said that Frank had not decided, but he was concerned.
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