Under an Amber Sky

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Under an Amber Sky Page 8

by Rose Alexander


  When Frank had disappeared up the stairs, she went to the door and, breathing deeply of the fresh sea air, gazed out over the bay. It was windy today and white horses surged across the expanse of water. Seagulls were swooping and diving; there must be fish near the surface. Her fisherman had not appeared yet, rod primed for the catch, but she was sure he would arrive soon.

  She looked back inside, at the beautiful, uneven floor slabs whose cracks and crevices had, in places, worn smooth from years of use. She shut the newly mended doors, blocking out the sun. Would her own pain, eventually, soften and flatten out like this stone? The glimmerings of hope that that might happen were seeping around the edges of her heart like the tiny chinks of light through the shutter slats.

  ***

  That night, aching from the hard labour Frank had already put her to, Sophie sat up in bed, unable to sleep. She took the wooden box onto her lap and cradled it protectively, holding it close like the baby she was not having. The letters felt thick and abrasive with the aged dust they had become covered in; it seemed to have absorbed itself into the grains of the paper.

  Taking them out and placing them in her lap she released them from the loose string tie. They were grubby, fingerprinted, dog-eared. As she had seen during her brief encounter with them in the summer, all were intact and unopened. She examined them closely in the dim light of her torch; she still hadn’t acquired a bedside lamp. At least the address was written in the Latin alphabet, not the Cyrillic.

  Dragan Kovac

  Ostrvo Mamula

  Herceg Novi

  The date of the postmark was the Second of June 1942. It looked like a woman’s writing, careful and delicate. Letters to a soldier? But if so, why not read, treasured, pored over, reread? She put her hand back into the box and withdrew the watch. It was good quality, chunky, the leather strap marked and worn from years of loving use.

  Sophie turned it around and around in her hands, rubbing her fingertips against the smooth, hard metal. On the watch’s face, the time said midday and the date, the First of June. Had something cataclysmic happened to these people in the midst of World War Two? If so, they would hardly be the first, or the only ones. Though Sophie had previously had no idea that Montenegro had even been involved in the war; history in British schools did not teach that.

  She fingered the letters in the gloom. It seemed too much of a coincidence that the arrival of Frank – unexpected, bizarre, but somehow wonderful – had also heralded the rediscovery of the letters. She needed to know their contents, to unfold the tale they undoubtedly had to tell.

  Slowly, as if doing something forbidden, she opened one of the letters, slicing her fingers carefully along the envelope crease. She pulled out the paper. It crinkled between her fingers, thin as onion skin and yellowing with age. Sophie looked at it, wishing she could read the words, could decipher the script’s rounded, though tiny, letters. But the language was incomprehensible, all ‘s’ and ‘z’ and ‘j’ and strange accents and symbols.

  The ink was uneven, dark in some places, in others almost imperceptible, the mark of the nib offering the only clue to what had been inscribed there. Slowly, Sophie traced her finger across the page, wondering what emotions had been playing in the heart of the writer, what tales were told in these close-packed lines, and wanted more than ever to uncover their secrets.

  ***

  The next day, whilst in Kotor to top up her local phone card, she saw a sign swinging above a shop door:

  Darko Otasevic

  Lawyer, translator

  The elegant blue lettering on the cream background made it all seem obvious. Darko was the perfect person to help her. He had seemed friendly, and pleased to see her when they had met in snowy Kotor that day, so it seemed all right to enquire. Taking a deep breath, she stepped towards the door and rang the bell.

  ‘Did you bring the letters today?’ Darko asked, as soon as she’d explained her mission.

  ‘I didn’t, I’m sorry. I wasn’t actually … It was only when I saw your sign that it occurred to me that you might be able to help.’

  ‘Of course. I’d love to.’ Darko’s beautiful, pitch-black eyes lightened as he smiled at her. ‘Bring them any time. Or perhaps we could go out for a drink one evening and I could read them straight to you?’

  Sophie hesitated. ‘Thank you.’ She wasn’t sure if he would think her odd when she made her next suggestion. ‘The thing is – I want to go through them one at a time. I don’t know why – to make sure I understand them properly maybe.’

  Her explanation explained nothing, she knew as soon as the words were out. But she couldn’t make it clearer as she wasn’t quite sure herself what her reasons were.

  ‘Fine.’ Darko smiled and shrugged understandingly. ‘Whatever you wish.’

  She should have known it would be all right; she was learning that Montenegrin people were remarkably uncurious, or perhaps un-nosy would be a better word, taking you as they found you, demanding nothing that was not offered. No one had really even asked her why she had come here, what she was doing, how long she would be staying. They all just seemed to take it for granted that she was there and that was that. Now Darko followed suit. The lack of enquiry, strangely, encouraged her to be more forthcoming.

  ‘The only thing I know about them so far is that they’re addressed to somewhere called ‘Ostrvo Mamula,’ she ventured, not sure that this would be of any interest to Darko, or a place he would recognize.

  Darko’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the name.

  ‘Have you heard of it?’ asked Sophie, urgently. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  Darko nodded. ‘This is a place very important to the Montenegrins,’ he answered, pensively.

  Sophie was taken aback by the sudden gravity of his demeanour. ‘Oh,’ she said, still keeping her voice low. ‘So where is it? Or what is it, perhaps?’

  ‘The island called Lastavica, but more commonly known as Mamula, is located at the opening of the bay of Kotor.’ Darko paused to cough and clear his throat. His forehead creased, as if experiencing some unseen pain. ‘It was an Austro-Hungarian fortress which, in World War Two, the Italians turned into a prison. Or, in fact, more accurately it should be called a concentration camp. They rounded up Montenegrins who defied the occupation and took them there. Dragan Kovac might have been one of the insurgents held in that place of nightmares.’

  ‘So perhaps these are letters to a prisoner of war?’

  ‘That could be the case,’ answered Darko. ‘We will have to check the dates and postmarks – the Italians began to use Mamula at the very end of May 1942.’

  Sophie’s sharp intake of breath startled Darko.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Sophie swallowed and attempted to steady her breathing. ‘Yes. Sorry. It’s just that – I opened one of the letters and the date is the Second of June 1942. And the watch – it has stopped on the First of June.’

  Darko considered this wordlessly for a few moments, then nodded a couple of times. ‘So when shall we get started on the first letter?’

  They agreed to meet for a drink in the old town the following evening. Darko seemed distressed, his mood black, but it lifted as he tried in vain to explain to Sophie the location of the bar he was suggesting. After many fruitless attempts at elucidation and the drawing of a map, he resorted to arranging to meet Sophie by the main gates so that he could guide her there himself; it was clear she was not going to find it alone.

  ‘By the way,’ he called after her as she made her way towards the stairs that led down to the street door. ‘No charge for this, Sophie. I want to help. It is my history.’

  Chapter 10

  Arriving at Sandra and Petar’s house for the rakija invitation, Sophie was surprised to see a crowd gathered around their three-storey apartment building that was second line to the sea. It soon became apparent that it was something to do with the electricity company; the van parked outside and two overall-clad workmen up
ladders fiddling with electric cables being the clues.

  ‘Looks like they’re changing the meter boxes,’ Frank ascertained, knowledgeably. Sophie watched with barely disguised astonishment as Sandra emerged from the front door of the building, bearing a tray laden not only with steaming mugs of coffee, but also beer, a large bottle of clear liquid, and an assortment of glasses. Soon all the workmen were gathered around, slaking their thirst with beer and rakija chasers, followed by a nominal onslaught on the coffee.

  ‘Are they allowed to do that?’ she questioned Petar, when he had fallen silent after a particularly voluble Q&A session with the man who seemed to be in charge.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Petar affirmed, ‘it’s part of a programme of improvements that the electricity board is making.’

  Sophie giggled nervously. ‘No, I didn’t mean whatever they’re doing to the meters. I meant drinking alcohol, smoking – on the job.’ She watched as the man she had first seen up the ladder downed his shot of rakija, swept his arm wide in an expansive gesture of thanks, and leapt back up to his lofty workplace with a rather more sprightly, and imprecise, gait than he had displayed before. Once ensconced on high, he proceeded to expertly light a cigarette one-handed as he grappled for a tool from his belt with the other.

  ‘Is it safe?’ she added, grimacing fearfully.

  ‘Safe?’ Petar appeared puzzled.

  ‘Well, in the UK it would be illegal to drink.’ Sophie paused, suddenly unable to articulate the circumstances in which alcohol was prohibited, thinking instead of all Matt’s liquid lunches with important clients where it was impossible not to partake. ‘I mean, I don’t think people doing jobs like this … actually, you know what, I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

  Petar was staring at her, forehead creased in bemusement. Evidently giving up on making any sense of Sophie’s ramblings, he handed both her and Frank a small glass and took one for himself. He filled them all with the clear liquid from the litre bottle he was wielding. Sandra came over and greeted them both profusely, and was also provided with a glass.

  ‘Ziveli,’ cried Petar, tossing the rakija down his throat in one go.

  ‘Ziveli,’ echoed Frank and, nudging Sophie to indicate that she should follow suit, also drained his own glass. Sophie had only taken tiny sips of rakija before, those proffered by the fisherman, but this time she was swept up in the moment and drank the whole glass down.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she spluttered, once she had recovered enough from the burn in her throat. The heat of the alcohol seared all the way down into her stomach. ‘Bloody hell, that’s strong!’ The crowd, the workmen, the houses, all began to swirl and morph before her eyes. She reached out to Frank to stabilize herself with his rock-solid presence.

  ‘Got more punch than Muhammad Ali,’ agreed Frank, whose cheeks were already reddening.

  Sophie looked at the workman up the ladder. Her respect for him had increased tenfold in the space of a few seconds. How on earth could he stay balanced up a ladder with no hands after imbibing that stuff?

  ‘No health and safety gone mad here, then,’ she whispered to Frank, who grinned back complicitly.

  Sandra, having done her duty to the electricity board staff, ushered Sophie inside, smiling beatifically in the absence of being able to communicate. Frank, insisting on carrying the debris-laden tray, followed.

  ‘I never knew you were such a gentleman,’ Sophie joked to him as he placed it on the table in Sandra’s immaculate flat.

  ‘Add it to everything else you don’t know about me,’ replied Frank, opaquely.

  Before Sophie had a chance to respond, Petar was beside her and dishing out more rakija. They drank another toast, although Sophie had no idea who to or why. Having got the hang of it now, she downed it in one, the hit of alcohol almost knocking her over.

  ‘What is this stuff made of?’ she asked Petar, wondering what could possibly make it so strong.

  ‘Plums,’ pronounced Petar, proudly.

  ‘Wow,’ responded Sophie, looking down at her already empty glass with new respect. ‘Who would think an innocent little fruit could turn into something so lethal?’

  Thence ensued a long conversation about the exact processes involved in distilling sixty per cent alcohol rakija, by the end of which the bottle’s level was decidedly lower. Eventually, disturbed by her stomach’s urgent growls of hunger, Sophie managed to drag a boisterous Frank away from the party.

  ‘Well, Sophie,’ he slurred, as they wove their way down the short but steep road to the sea and turned left to their house, ‘you’ve made true friends now. Once you’ve shared rakija – you’re like that! Part of the community.’ He grabbed Sophie’s hand and squeezed it so tight in his own vice-like grip that she squealed in pain.

  ‘Right, got that, thanks, Frank.’ She grimaced, nursing her squashed fingers.

  Back home, Sophie set about the urgent task of making something to eat.

  ‘Food,’ she said firmly as Frank tried to uncork a bottle of wine. ‘Put that away and have some supper; we need something to absorb the alcohol.’

  She was conscious of everything being a bit blurry, of pans hitting the stove slightly too hard, of plates going down on the table with more of a bang than they should have done. Fortunately, she managed to dish up the tagliatelle carbonara without setting fire to herself or the kitchen. She handed Frank a fork.

  ‘Bon appétit,’ she said, tucking in with an appetite born of excessive rakija consumption on an empty stomach.

  ‘I got something I need to tell you,’ announced Frank, once he’d cleared his plate and was waiting for Sophie to finish. ‘It’s my guilty secret. You know, the thing you did when you were young that you’ll always regret.’

  ‘Right,’ said Sophie, putting her fork down. This was coming out of the blue. What if he were about to reveal that he was a murderer? A rapist? A frisson of fear ran through her body, as icy as the rakija had been hot. She really didn’t know this man who was living in her house at all.

  ‘I hung out with the wrong crowd when I was a lad. Petty crime, bit of burglary, shoplifting … it was all par for the course for youngsters where I grew up.’ Frank had started his story whilst Sophie’s mind was elsewhere. She tried to snap it back to concentration, although the alcohol made its journey a rather meandering one.

  ‘Helping yourself to a little bit of what everyone else took for granted – that’s how we viewed it,’ continued Frank, staring morosely at his empty plate.

  ‘Where did you grow up?’ Sophie suddenly realized that she didn’t know.

  ‘Islington, the East End, Hackney.’ Frank paused, hiccupped, and carried on. ‘We moved around a bit, me dad was often – well, we got evicted when he couldn’t pay the rent. He beat us around when he’d had a drink.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Whatever she said, or thought, was inadequate. It was a million miles from her own upbringing: her idyllic, safe, protected childhood. She had never known hardship, or heartache, of any sort – before Matt’s death. The fact that it was alcohol that brought out Frank’s father’s violent streak did not escape her. She hoped he hadn’t inherited the trait.

  ‘I, um – what I’m trying to tell you, Sophie, is that I’ve got a criminal record. I’ve been in prison.’

  Shock made Sophie open and shut her mouth rapidly a few times. She wasn’t sure she’d ever met a criminal before. Other than the ones she taught, she thought ironically, remembering a BBC London documentary that had featured one of her pupils caught stealing a bike in a sting operation. She would never forget the shot of his face looming towards the hidden camera, leering in the way Sophie was all too familiar with. He had always seemed to have a mocking expression.

  ‘I did a few months in Pentonville for forging a travel card.’

  Sophie absorbed this for a moment. ‘Just the one?’ No wonder the prisons were full to bursting if that’s all it took to get put inside.

  ‘Well – a few,’ admitted Frank,
shaking his head ruefully. ‘Couple of dozen, just for me and me mates. Maybe one or two more.’ He looked around him, then reached out to retrieve the bottle of wine Sophie had confiscated from him earlier. He pulled the cork and poured some for both of them, Sophie’s mixing with the remains of the water she still had in her glass. ‘It was stupid, I regret it, but I’ve been squeaky clean ever since. I just thought you ought to know. Seeing as how I’m living here with you in your house and all. You might not like it.’

  ‘How long ago was it?’

  As soon as she’d asked the question, Sophie felt that it was both crass and irrelevant. What did it matter the length of time that had elapsed? He’d done his time and learnt his lesson; that was all that was important.

  ‘Twenty years,’ answered Frank, broodingly contemplating his glass. ‘I paid for it, mind. Wife left me, lost me job, me home –’

  ‘Gosh.’ Sophie hadn’t been expecting any of this.

  ‘I married much too young, anyway. It weren’t never going to last.’ Frank sniffed. The more he drank, the more his English lapsed from what would be considered standard. Sophie had a terrible feeling that he was going to cry.

  ‘Here, Frank, finish it up,’ she cried, enthusiastically dolloping more carbonara onto his plate. ‘You need to keep your strength up, all this hard, manual labour you’re doing.’

  Frank dutifully ploughed into the pasta.

  ‘So your wife left because you were a criminal?’ ventured Sophie, spurred on to ask personal questions by a surfeit of alcohol.

  ‘No,’ said Frank, bluntly. ‘Because I weren’t a successful enough one not to get caught.’

  Sophie poured herself some wine. ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘It was a long time ago now.’ Frank glanced at Sophie’s glass and frowned. ‘You sure you should be drinking that? Just that you ain’t really used to it …’

  ‘Just a little bit more,’ she answered, flinging her arms wide, forgetting she’d already picked up the glass. An arc of red wine flew out of it and across the table, spattering onto the stone floor in a series of flat-sounding splats.

 

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