The Small Boat of Great Sorrows

by Dan Fesperman

  “Sounds like what she said about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We had a chance to talk in Berlin. While we were waiting for you to get home. She said the war had hardened you. And part of it was good. She said there would never be anything that could beat you or break you after you’d survived the siege. But she worried about you, too. All those emotions you’d stored up. She said you’d learned a little too well how to keep things from bubbling to the surface. It’s what you’d expect a woman to say about a man, I guess. None of them think we can communicate. But still.”

  Vlado nodded, feeling his heartbeat quicken. He desperately wished he were home. If he were there just now, he’d finally be able to talk about everything, not just from the past few days but from all seven years. It would come out of him like an illness, a dark liquid purged from his system. Yet there would be sweetness as well. And then he would share a drink or two with Jasmina, and as the night grew still they would slink off to bed, and enjoy a welcome bliss where there was no past but their own.

  “How’d you two meet?” Pine asked.

  Vlado smiled. “Like peasants. I was the city boy visiting her village, staying with some old friends of my mother’s. There was a big celebration for the Feast of Saint Damien, the village patron saint.”

  “I thought Jasmina was a Muslim name?”

  “It is. But no one missed a feast like this. Lambs on a spit. A big dance. And it’s where all the courtship took place. Especially if your parents were part of the old ways, and hers were. So there I was, the city boy in his blue jeans. I held myself above all that courtly business and the stupid traditional costumes. But they made a big circle and went round and round, dancing the kolo. Once that starts, you can’t help but join in. And I saw this girl on the other side of the circle looking at me, so I smiled back. I think she liked that, liked it that a city boy so disdainful of it all still found time to do some shopping. She was fed up with all the farm boys with thick necks, especially the ones her parents kept picking out. So we spent the evening talking, way too much for her uncles and her aunts, but her mother was okay about it. The hell with tradition for a change.

  “After that I started driving out from Sarajevo on weekends, borrowing my father’s car. All very formal for a while, and always with a chaperone, but she minded it more than I did. I thought it was kind of charming. Romantic. And it was always such a victory when we managed to sneak away.”

  Vlado remembered one such time in particular, slipping off to a farm pond during another feast day, darting barefoot through the pines. Vlado tiptoeing on his city-boy feet in a way that had made her laugh. Then reaching the water’s edge, shedding their clothes without a word or a prompt, the entire village off somewhere else. They’d plunged into the cool water, laughing, playing like otters, lithe with their touches and feints. Then, drying off, they’d looked each other in the eye and understood what their future would be without even speaking, and they’d tumbled together onto the grassy bank, wet bodies molding to each other, sliding and warm. He’d pressed his face to her hair, smelling the pond, and afterward, as they held each other, they’d spoken of what their lives would become, adorning their futures with the sorts of dreams they had never before admitted to anyone. Four months later they’d married—more dancing of the kolo, then a golden age with a child and success, and no hint of war or upheaval or separation.

  If Jasmina had known all the trials ahead, Vlado wondered, would she have come along with him anyway, especially if she could have foreseen his latest and darkest secret? It was this painful question that at last burst the dam of his thoughts and made him realize he had to tell Pine everything, now, no matter what—that if he didn’t do it this instant, he might never, and somehow it would poison them all.

  “Calvin, there’s something I need to tell you. Something that may be related to the case. Or maybe not. Only Harkness and LeBlanc probably know for sure. But you need to be told.”

  Pine furrowed his brow, obviously caught by surprise. “Okay,” he said. “I’m listening.”

  So Vlado told him all about Haris, Huso, and Popovic, and the body in the trunk. He held back only when it came to Harkness—the man’s threats, and Vlado’s worst suspicions. Those, at least, would have to wait until he knew his family was on safer ground.

  When he was finished, Pine shook his head slowly in apparent sympathy. “Jesus, what a spot to be in. No wonder you looked so wary when I showed up in Berlin. But don’t worry. Nobody will hear it from me. The tribunal needs to know Popovic is dead, but nobody needs to know my source. They probably suspect as much by now, anyway, given how long he’s been missing.”

  “Thanks. But I can’t ask you to protect me. Not once our work is finished. You’ll have to tell them what you know. Or maybe I’ll tell them first.”

  Pine scowled. “You think you’re the only cop I’ve ever had to cover for? In Baltimore it must have happened once a month. Planted evidence? Look the other way, buddy. Botched warrant? Here, sign this one instead, postdated. A little trigger-happy in that shoot-out? Hey, that’s the streets, the guy was dirty anyway. At least with you the victim was truly deserving, not some fifteen-year-old from a housing project with his mom strung out on heroin. It’s why I left. Why I volunteered for the tribunal. What could be a clearer and cleaner mission than hunting genocidal maniacs? Even an old one like Matek.” He paused, shaking his head again. “But look at us now. Wondering who’s calling the shots, or how long we’ll be able to stay on it. Confess later if you want, but you might think first about your wife and daughter.”

  It was exactly who he’d been thinking about, wondering with each passing mile if they were still okay. Vlado nodded, relieved that he’d spoken but still unsure of his next move, half wishing Pine hadn’t let him off the hook so easily.

  Pine, in fact, was soon moving on to other matters, such as how Vlado’s revelations might figure into their pursuit.

  “So, how was Popovic supposed to have fit into all this?” he asked. “It still doesn’t make sense. From what I gather, Popovic has been a sort of glorified errand boy for Harkness since the war ended. When he wasn’t out killing Kosovars, anyway. And he almost definitely had ties to Andric. The whole sick crowd of Serb generals and paramilitaries. It’s why he was so valuable to the tribunal as a possible witness. But damned if I know how Matek fits that picture.”

  They drove a while longer in silence, turning over in their heads what they knew, or thought they knew.

  “Then there’s LeBlanc,” Pine finally said. “I wouldn’t underestimate his ability for mischief any more than I would Harkness’s. For all we know Castellammare could already be pretty crowded. And if they know more than we do . . .” He shrugged. “Then everything might be over before we even get started.”

  “Like what happened to Fordham.”

  Pine nodded grimly. “Where would you go first then, if you’re Harkness or LeBlanc?”

  Vlado shrugged. “I don’t travel in their world. I can only tell you what a policeman would do.”

  “Good enough for me. I’m just a prosecutor. What does the out-of-town cop do first?”

  “Visits the local cops. Partly as a courtesy, partly to get a few more eyes and ears working for you. You don’t mention any crates of gold, of course, unless you want the whole town in an uproar.”

  Pine frowned. “I don’t exactly want the local yokels to know what we’re up to. Not yet. I’ve had enough dealings with the carabinieri before. Too military. They’re breathing down your neck until you’re boarding the flight home.”

  “Then go to the polizia di stato. It’s who I dealt with whenever we had to contact the Italians over smugglers or fugitives. You’re more likely to get somebody in a suit. And they hate the carabinieri more than you do.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Big rivalry. They monitor each other’s scanners. Steal each other’s sources. It’s all very Italian.”

  “I should travel with Europ
eans more often. Broaden my world-view.”

  The Autostrada ended just as it reached Castellammare di Stabia, giving way to a winding two-lane road that crept up and over hills, hugging the rocky slopes that fell away to the Amalfi. The town— more like a city—was the gateway to a string of resorts, with the gray hump of Capri visible offshore in the distance. Castellammare had once been a resort itself, going back to ancient times when its mineral springs fed Roman baths. Then came the green parks and princely villas. Local boosters still liked to think of their town in those terms, but the dominant sights today were gantry cranes and bustling wharves. It was the last oily smudge of industry before the shoreline gave way exclusively to leisure.

  It was also the home to citrus groves, terraced forests, mostly lemons, harvested for every sort of product, including a strong local liqueur.

  “Look,” Pine said, as they passed the first of the orchards. “Like the one in your photograph.”

  Vlado had been thinking the same thing, although at this time of year the trees held no fruit, so there were no workers up on ladders. Nonetheless, he felt strange seeing the orchard, as if he were moving ever closer to the heart of something he wasn’t yet sure he wanted to reach.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  They checked in to a small hotel with decent views and an attentive staff, which seemed to have little to do in the off-season. The bellman threw open a window to freshen the room, and Vlado took deep breaths of the briny air off the sea. His room faced the mountains, not the ocean. The manager had apologized—sea views were more popular, not to mention more expensive—but Vlado preferred it this way. Who wanted to be enticed by sparkling green water when it was still too cold for swimming? Give him the hills and the terraces, with the narrow roads disappearing into rocky folds.

  He rummaged in his satchel and pulled out the old photograph, studying it again while the piping chatter of children drifted in from the streets. For what must have been the twentieth time he gazed closely at the face of his father, then at the woman’s. It was clear that their relationship had been no mere fling, even if it endured for only a summer. They seemed at peace with each other in a way that Matek and his companion clearly weren’t. Or perhaps Vlado was reading too much into it, a troubled son trying to make the best of things. Maybe their contentment was just weariness, resignation, a moment of repose at the end of a long and tiring day, climbing those ladders and shaking lemons from the trees.

  There was a knock at his door, followed by Pine’s voice. “Ready to roll?”

  “Be right there.”

  The regional headquarters for the polizia di stato was only a kilometer away, so they walked, stretching their legs after the long drive. The building was an eyesore of sharp corners and dark glass, tucked at the edges of the port. A din of clanging metal and whining forklifts drowned out the street noises as they approached. They entered to face a reception counter. Behind it, rows of desks were piled with papers. The few officers on weekend duty strolled about in two-tone blue uniforms, coffee in hand, cigarettes burning in their lips. Pine sized it up right away.

  “Typical cop shop,” he said. “You sure about this?”

  “Maybe we’ll get an atypical cop.”

  A woman up front asked them a question in Italian, but when Pine responded slowly in English she replied crisply in kind. “What is your business, gentlemen?”

  “We’re from the war crimes tribunal in The Hague,” Vlado said, taking the lead if only because he’d dealt with the Italian police before. “We’re here as a courtesy, and to alert you to the possible presence of two suspects.”

  “I have just the man for you,” she said, picking up a phone.

  “Two?” Pine said under his breath.

  “Think big. They’ll be more impressed. And Harkness did say the cases were connected.”

  “Just like he said Fordham was a lying windbag.”

  “Detective Inspector Torello will see you,” she said. “Follow me.”

  She led them to a nearby door, then through a maze of desks to a glassed-in office in the back, where Torello was waiting in the doorway.

  He was tall and slender and wore a suit—just what they’d wanted, unless he turned out to be some sort of glorified public relations functionary—and seemed attentive and alert. The office eager beaver, Vlado thought, agreeable to overtime and weekends if that’s what it took to get him out of this backwater.

  “Please,” he said, handing each of them a business card. “I’m assuming you’d rather speak English, and mine is quite good, if I say so myself. Welcome to Castellammare, gentlemen. When did you arrive?”

  It was a social question with a point. He wanted to know how long they’d already been prowling around on his turf.

  “Just got here,” Pine said. “Drove down this morning from Rome.”

  “Well, I am of course at your service, although our usual run of international cases is smugglers and refugees.”

  “You could say these fellows are refugees,” Pine said. “Suspects who’ve recently eluded us in Bosnia, and we have reason to believe one or both might be in your neighborhood.”

  Torello raised his eyebrows, then offered cigarettes from a desk drawer. Vlado took one while Pine shook his head, bracing for the inevitable onslaught of smoke. The man was handsome and wore no wedding ring. Yes, he was ambitious all right, or he’d be out on some beach with a young woman on a warm Sunday like this. Vlado looked for family pictures and found none but did notice a pressed dinner jacket, fresh from the cleaners, hanging from a hook in the corner.

  Torello studied Pine’s business card a moment. “So, tell me who it is you’re looking for, and why you think they may have come here.”

  “We can give you two possible names for one of them,” Pine said. Vlado knew he had no intention of answering Torello’s latter question. “Pero Matek, aka Pero Rudec. The other fellow you may have heard of. Marko Andric, Serbian general. One of our ranking suspects. I’ve got particulars and a photo on each, if you’ve got a copy machine handy.”

  “Of course. And I’ll check with some of the hotels and pensions this afternoon to see if any holders of Yugoslav passports have registered recently. I’ll also provide you with official letters of introduction, if you’d like. They’d be helpful if you’ll be making any inquiries locally. Will you be?”

  The man was good. Offering a service while poking his nose a little deeper into their business. Pine hesitated, so Vlado answered.

  “We might be. What can you tell us about the local citrus growers? Their hiring practices, and any employment records they might keep?”

  “Right now they’re not very busy. They won’t be hiring seasonal help for a few months. As for records”—he shrugged—“same as everyone else, at least in name. But with the seasonal hires you can never be sure. We find some illegals now and then. Albanians. A few Bosnians, too. You think your men might be looking for work?”

  Vlado looked at Pine, unsure whether to take it further. Pine nodded. “One of them might have worked in the orchard a while back.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Fifty years. Maybe 1952. Or as recent as ’61.”

  Torello raised his eyebrows. “Right after the war, then. Well. Those were interesting times here.”

  “How so?”

  “In the usual way of wars, I guess. There were no jobs, really, so anyone making money was probably doing something illegal. Lots of people on the move. And the soldiers, of course. Occupation forces. Mostly Americans, who seemed to like hanging around on the beach. All this is secondhand, of course. From some of the older guys.”

  “You’re not from here?” Vlado asked.

  “Florence. Like night and day.” That would explain why he’d want to get out of this place. “I can give you names of some of the larger growers,” he continued. “Their offices will be open tomorrow. I doubt their records will be much help, if they even have any from that far back. But it’s a start.” He paused, knocking the ashes off
his cigarette. “In the meantime, answer me this, please. Why would not just one but two Balkan war criminals on the run, with all of Europe to choose from, want to come to this little blight on the pretty Amalfi coast?”

  “I guess we’d like to know that, too,” Pine said. “To be frank, our coming here is sort of a shot in the dark.”

  Torello smiled crookedly, as if to say he could live with that lame explanation for now. “Well, if you should ever come up with a more complete answer, let me know. In the meantime, leave me the number where you’re staying. I’ll send over the names of those citrus growers later this afternoon, along with the letter of introduction.”

  Another deft move, Vlado thought, finding out right away where he and Pine were staying. But unless some local cop got lucky turning up one of their suspects—a doubtful proposition, at best—he figured this was the last they’d see of Signor Torello.

  They ate a big lunch on the way back to the hotel, deciding to enjoy the afternoon while they could. They’d been on the move almost constantly for three days now, and the meal gave them a much needed chance to unwind, even if Vlado kept expecting to see Harkness at almost any moment, grinning from the next table.

  As the waiter cleared away their dishes before bringing coffee, Pine leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach, and said, “It is true what they say. The Italians know how to live. Have your big meal in the middle of the day, then sleep it off. Is that how Bosnia was before the war?”

  “Except for the food and the naps.”

  They laughed, enjoying the warmth and the smell of the sea, then returned to the hotel to find the information from Torello waiting as promised, copies for each tucked into their key slots.

  “Efficient as a German,” Pine said. “And on a Sunday.”

  “He’d very much like to know what we’re really up to.”

  “I got that impression. Shit. What’s this?” There was a pink phone message at the bottom of Pine’s pile. “ ‘Call ASAP. Urgent. Janet,’ ” he read aloud. “So much for a restful afternoon. You better come up. You can listen in. It’s one of those places with an extension in the bathroom.”