Antidote to a Curse

  She steered herself blindly down the path. How could she continue on here, in this county? Her parents, those gorgeous scriptwriters, had it all planned. She would work at the local baker’s, in the kitchen out the back. Jasna would support her sister and her sister’s family, while Esmira would raise Jasna’s child. She would become invisible yet remain on home turf. She could only marvel at the hours of conversation they must have held in her absence, perhaps while she was bartering for food in exchange for firewood.

  She came within earshot of the river. Her thoughts were so insistent it felt like she had been walking for thirty minutes, but in fact it was close to two hours. Just as she was going to turn, make her way back up along the path, she noticed something shining on the lower branch of a sickly-looking willow. She walked up to the tree and saw the purple beads in the dim light of the woods. They shimmered a little above eye level. Jasna admired how even here in the shade, the light managed to infiltrate each bead. The fact that they were just hanging here within arm’s reach, in a Muslim stronghold, seemed bizarre. She hesitated for at least a minute, a reprieve from her thoughts.

  She pressed her hands into the small of her back and surveyed the forest around her. She took her time observing the spaces between the trees, looking for any sign of an observer or a soldier. She seemed alone. With her hands still pressed to the small of her back she felt for her wallet. As she breathed in deeply, she could feel her wallet pressing against her thigh. She took a few steps away, only to circle the tree and return to the same spot. She couldn’t help but interpret the worn silver crucifix as a sign. Weary of her train of thought, she surrendered and allowed her surroundings to guide her: of course it had to be a sign! Given her recent thoughts of defection, it had to be more than just a coincidence.

  She held out her hand and let the rosary beads drape between her fingers, before pulling the chain off its twig and stashing it, alongside her money and poems. With the crucifix tucked neatly away, she felt free to think about its significance. A course seemed to beckon. Yes, it was vague, and yes, it required more thinking through, but remaining dependent on a group of people who ultimately rejected her felt like certain death.

  The light in the wood seemed to intensify. She looked at the paths that snaked in various directions, and the leaves glittering at each opening. The risk was enormous, she knew this, but if she left, if she defected, she could start again. Yes, her poems were nothing more than promising drafts, and yes, a life alone would test her resolve, but defection was her only hope. Ambitious and self-willed, she could steer her way and perhaps find some burnt-out shell to call her own.

  I hid in the hallway, careful not to make a sound.

  ‘How long have you been helping me here?’ Nancy’s voice was measured and low.

  Lina echoed the question. She had every intention of standing her ground.

  ‘Oh, Lina – I run a household based on openness and trust.’ Nancy’s response was so quick it startled me.

  ‘There’s certainly a lot of openness,’ Lina retorted.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I didn’t start this, Nancy, you did.’

  I measured a pause, the beating pendulum of the grandfather clock. ‘How do you explain the photos?’

  ‘What photos?’

  ‘Not important,’ Nancy decided. ‘Perhaps you can help me find it.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Lina asked, her tone undiminished.

  ‘Yes, Lina,’ and after a brief pause and a breath audible even to my ears, she excused herself.

  ‘You’ve been going through my bag, haven’t you?’

  Nancy hesitated. I discerned the light patter of her slippers. ‘Lina, this isn’t about my misconduct, it’s about yours,’ she erupted, obviously exhausted by it all.

  ‘My misconduct?’

  Again I heard the grandfather clock beat out the intervening seconds. ‘This is getting us nowhere. This is not the way I operate and not the way I want to run this house.’

  ‘That pervert takes my clothes and you think you can lecture me about trying on your red dress?’

  ‘I’m not …’ Stopping herself short, she asked, ‘Who, Henry?’

  ‘Not Henry – Silvio!’

  ‘Silvio? What business would …?’

  My mind snagged on the time I tried on Lina’s housecoat and slippers. I slunk further into the shadows.

  I heard someone clap their hands.

  ‘Nothing’s missing, is it, Lina?’ Nancy asked pointedly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why say such things?’

  ‘Because I could smell his sex! His perfume!’

  ‘What perfume?’ Nancy’s refusal to be swayed was evident. ‘He’s gay, not a transvestite.’

  ‘My God, the things I have to listen to!’

  ‘Lina, I would prefer it if you just left for now, this is getting us nowhere. I don’t want a household run on mistrust and suspicion.’

  ‘You won’t have to see me again.’

  I slipped into the adjoining room, doubting my agility. Lina’s heels struck the hall floor with a reverberant stride. I heard her dump her keys in the crystal ashtray, displaying alacrity of both mind and spirit. She pulled the door so that it locked behind her, but was careful not to let the security flywire slam.

  I walked into the hallway to face Nancy, who looked terribly upset. She could tell from my silence that I had heard everything, or at least enough. ‘You mustn’t take any notice of those comments, Silvio.’

  I shrugged, obviously surprised.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Nancy, I have a confession to make.’

  ‘What?’ she asked with a note of obvious alarm.

  ‘I did try on her housecoat once, just for a joke.’

  The tide of her thoughts ebbed. She leaned backwards.

  ‘It was a joke,’ I insisted.

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘Anything of mine?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about your red dress.’

  ‘Thank God!’ and to my surprise Nancy actually made the sign of the cross.

  ‘And those fluffy high-heeled slippers,’ I confessed.

  ‘Oh, you lunatic – and to think I defended you.’

  ‘They were awfully good fun.’

  After a few moments’ hesitation, after allowing a smile to settle in the corner of her mouth, she admitted, ‘Oh, so did I.’

  ‘Perhaps you can call her when the dust settles.’

  Nancy Triganza was a Gemini, a twin; her birthday was 21 May. I suppose any birthday after seventy is to be considered an achievement, but this birthday was grand and I suspected one of her last: eighty-one years old. She had practically seen the entire twentieth century through. I was about to turn thirty just nine days later, on the 30th. I was still considered young. I couldn’t imagine myself at eighty-one.

  I wanted the flame of her longevity. I imagined mulled wine held to candlelight.

  I had invited her to the Langham, but within minutes she pulled an envelope out from her bag.

  ‘A card,’ I said enthusiastically, prepared to open it ahead of time.

  ‘It’s more than a card,’ she said with an air of pique as she leaned towards me.

  I could see straight away that I was wrong. The envelope was much too thick to be a card and much too thin to be a book.

  ‘Can I open it?’ I asked.

  She leaned in towards me. ‘I have a story to tell you.’

  Taking the fish knife, I slid the edge under the flap and let rip. Inside was a book, a booklet. ‘The Stari Most,’ I read out loud. I couldn’t help but say, ‘How wonderfully odd.’ I looked at the old black-and-white photograph of an oriental stone bridge. From the side, the parapet formed a distinctive arch. The walkway resembled an inverted V. It was bordered by two observation towers of varying height and character. The bridge rose above the river like an extraordinary frame that provided a wonderful window to peer through.

  ‘A foot bridge?’ I ask
ed, immediately casting a glance at the Yarra’s humpback bridge.

  Her moistened lips quivered. ‘Well spotted,’ she spattered sharply.

  I looked at her with concern, appreciative of the huge effort she was making.

  ‘Guess where?’ she goaded, between coughs.

  I looked from the book to her focused gaze and blurted, ‘Bosnia.’ Behind the guess surfaced a suspicion that she had spoken to Zlatko.

  ‘Wrong!’ and she rubbed her hands together as if she had somehow managed to outwit me.

  ‘OK, Turkey,’ the Ottoman influence marked in the geometric-shaped parapet.

  ‘Wrong again!’ and she rubbed her hands together enthusiastically, as if summoning her own private genie. ‘Ah, don’t open the book. That would be cheating.’

  ‘OK, I think it’s time for my story.’

  ‘I think it might be.’ She gave a little wiggle of her bum as if to indicate that she was fully settled in her chair.

  Just then Lang approached with the menus. ‘An aperitif?’ he asked.

  ‘No, let’s just jump straight in.’ Nancy directed with a pointed finger.

  ‘Saint-Émilion, ma’am?’ he asked, eyeing her studiously.

  ‘Yes, a bottle.’

  ‘Of course.’ He nodded, casting an inquisitive glance at the book title before turning on his polished shoe in a half-pirouette.

  ‘Ok, so where it is?’ I asked.

  ‘Herzegovina,’ she declared, leaning forward.

  I smiled knowingly. ‘You know that Herzegovina is part of Bosnia?’

  ‘Is it?’ she asked, looking somewhat uncertain.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – it is called Bosnia and Herzegovina,’ I admitted, equally unsure. ‘Was this Zlatko’s idea, by any chance?’ I asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said almost indignantly. ‘It’s obvious you are up to something with all those books spread all over the house. I thought you’d appreciate it!’

  ‘Ah,’ I allowed, ‘and yes, I do.’ Realising that I wasn’t as discreet as I’d imagined, I wondered what else Nancy knew about me.

  ‘So can I open the book?’

  ‘Of course, but what about the story?’

  ‘Continue.’

  A gong resonated from the upper level and Lang approached with the anticipated Saint-Émilion. ‘Ah!’ we chimed, almost in unison.

  ‘Ma’am?’ Lang asked as he presented the bottle. But Nancy, being all selfless gallantry, redirected the honour and held her hand towards me.

  I looked at the label, a second or two longer than I normally would. I was prepared to play the part. He poured, holding the bottle at the base, creating one long line from his shoulder to the tip, barely arching his back. I knew I was no match for such refinement, but whirled the wine around the base of the glass, invoking the essence, while leaning back for the tasting. After placing the glass firmly on the table, I looked towards Nancy and gave an approving nod. With this, Lang proceeded to fill our glasses while remaining as unobtrusive as possible. ‘Your order?’

  ‘A few more minutes?’ Nancy asked, her eyes glittering as she focused on the rising level in her glass.

  ‘We’ve been chatting,’ I explained apologetically.

  ‘Take all the time you like,’ he said, arranging the menus within easy reach. ‘Sing out when you’re ready.’

  ‘Will do!’ Nancy promised.

  The glasses rang out – a moment’s grace savoured and best wishes bestowed. We tilted the glasses to consummate the toast and sat back to contemplate the milestone it marked.

  ‘First of all, you can’t say “old Stari Most” because stari means old. Stari Most is “old bridge” in Serbo-Croat,’ she lectured.

  I was about to swill the contents of my glass but refrained, deciding it would be best to remain sober. ‘You’ve done your homework.’

  She settled back in her chair, looking pleased with herself.

  I turned the book to look at the spine. It looked new.

  ‘Isn’t Zlatko teaching you the language?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, surprised that she would ask.

  ‘Ah, I thought that’s why you were spending so much time together. His English is sharp,’ she acknowledged.

  Always reading the paper, I mused. Taking another sip, I pointed with my right hand.

  She reached for the book and opened it; after flicking through a few pages she went on. ‘Well, as you can see from the cover, the bridge is humpbacked and yes, it’s exactly that, a footbridge –’ she lowered her eyes – ‘but goods are ferried by all sorts of means from one side to the other, as a lively tourist market exists on either side.’

  ‘Wow.’ It seemed a sight!

  ‘Yes, but listen to this. It was commissioned by Suleiman the Magnificent in 1557 – apparently he was a Turkish noble who was a bit of a tyrant. Anyway, it was commissioned by Suleiman the Magnificent to replace an old wooden bridge. Now, this is the interesting bit.’ Nancy paused and almost drained her glass before returning to the book. ‘The architect was charged to succeed at building a bridge of unprecedented proportions, or …’ And she hovered there, expecting to pass the reins of the story into my hands.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘He would be executed!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘It was such a risky undertaking that the architect prepared his own funeral the day the scaffolding was to be removed!’

  Ludovico felt something tickle the inside of his mouth. He inserted a finger and pulled out a hair. He held it at eye level. Chestnut. It glinted in the sun.

  Jasna raised the volume of the CD and the overture wafted across the hall and into the room. Ludovico froze. The second that Jasna walked back into the bedroom, she asked, ‘Do you know this?’ He held his head back, doglike – he imagined, strangely enough – his palm resting on his knee, while his fingers tapped along to the melody. ‘I’m trying to decipher it.’

  ‘Rossini,’ she blurted out. ‘Il turco in Italia.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ludovico said in an unconvincing show of recognition.

  Jasna’s loose hair whipped the air behind her as she walked over to the chest and pulled the first drawer open. She placed a square of velvet on top of her chest of drawers. The cloth was ocean blue and no bigger than a dinner plate. Ludovico half expected her to pull out a silver-backed brush, but from the centre of her palm she let slip a key and then a ring. She positioned them diagonally, a few inches apart. In her violet petticoat, she turned towards Ludovico, who was still sprawled naked on her small single bed, his right hand swaying to the lively flow of Rossini.

  ‘This will let you in.’

  He gently pulled her hand towards him. His eye settled on the tiny key.

  ‘The front door?’ Ludovico asked, raising his voice.

  ‘No, my drawer.’ Out of the direct light, Jasna stood in sharp relief.

  ‘Your poems?’ he asked, pushing himself forward so that he was now sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case something happens.’

  ‘You’d like me to take the poems?’

  Jasna stepped to the right of the chest and stood in front of the wall-length mirror. Glancing at her hair, she raised her brows dismissively before turning towards Ludovico. Pinned between her fingers, the key gleamed in the shaft of light.

  ‘What will I do with them?’

  She gave a hopeless shrug.

  ‘The front door?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll find the key in the letterbox,’ and after a brief pause, ‘I rarely lock it.’

  His forehead pleated deeply. ‘I wouldn’t be too inviting.’ Though she gave a nod in acquiescence, he sensed it wouldn’t change a thing, ‘And the drawer?’ he queried.

  ‘Locked,’ she pronounced resolutely. She gave a half-turn towards her right shoulder. Ludovico traced the drop to the bottom drawer. Sure enough, it was the only drawer with a keyhole.

  Leaning forward, he took the key and transfer
red it to his left palm. ‘I accept,’ he said, clenching his fist.

  Both key and the keyhole’s frame were gold, matte, an obvious match. Jasna bent forward towards the mirror and raked her fingers through the tangled fold of hair. The sun illuminated the strands that fell in erubescent waves as she massaged her scalp. She picked up the ring, slipped it onto her fourth finger, pressing the tip against her thumb to form a circle. The ring fell and anchored around her thumb nail. ‘Twinned like a plait of two parts and each part divided in two.’

  Ludovico smiled, and though he wanted to listen to the opera said, ‘I can’t listen to music and poetry at the same time.’

  ‘Too loud?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She picked up the remote from the top of the chest and aimed it at the door. ‘Better?’

  The rustle of leaves alerted him to the open window. Ludovico gave a little nod. ‘Recite, if you must.’

  Jasna repeated herself, her voice low. ‘Twinned like a plait of two parts and each part divided in two.’ The ring glinted between thumb and finger.