The amateurish and at times plain wobbly footage revealed an anonymous reporter scaling the spiral steps of an impressive bell tower. Staring through the eye of the camera, I stormed a stairwell in disrepair. There was no-one but me. Some of the thin concrete treads were shattered. I rose to the highest tier, the end of a staircase, to be greeted by a blond soldier sporting an unabashed, bucktoothed smile. He tied a flag to one of the colonnades, just below a semicircular arch. This time I appreciated the significance of the soldier’s actions. This time I recognised the flag, the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina. It seemed that Sarajevo had reclaimed the breakaway provinces of Bihać and Velika Kladuša in their entirety. Given the soldier’s broad, familiar smile, his relaxed nature, the amateurishness of the footage, I felt invited to share in the victory. In the viewing alone, the victory was partly mine. It seemed like we had claimed the city as our own; a close-up revealed a flag wide as a full-blown kite. The Romanesque tower was a powerful image encapsulating the regiment’s capture. Success! While standing on solid ground, I suffered the vertigo of an inexperienced cameraman who swooped wildly over the balustrade, losing vision, until the camera steadied its focus on a ragged group of soldiers on the ground below, roaring triumphantly.
The footage returned to the soldier, and his triumphant smile conveyed a significance that was beyond interpretation on first viewing. Through the eye of the camera I viewed him wearily. Yes, the gain was great and perhaps only equalled by the loss. Zlatko, his employer, and all those who defected were no longer able to claim their sovereignty. Yes, the municipality of Bihać had returned to the Federation of Bosnia. Yes, the breakaway state had been reclaimed. Yes, the soldier was triumphant! I contemplated these thoughts as I worked my way home.
The curtains were pulled tight. The window’s borders were reflected, so that the window itself seemed somewhat misaligned. I looked at the album covers through the long vertical bars opposite the bed. I felt a calm I hadn’t felt for a long time. The house was exceptionally quiet. I contemplated my ideas of home and various possibilities surfaced: Melbourne, Sydney, London, Malta. I knew Zlatko wouldn’t go back home, because home no longer existed. When the ‘old’ regime regained its power, Jasna regained her freedom of movement, apart from the areas of Bosnia proper that were claimed by the Republika Srpska. Formally speaking, she could visit these places but, I imagine, wouldn’t be inclined to. The constitution of the Republika Srpska defined it as a territorially unified, indivisible and inalienable constitutional and legal entity of Bosnia and Herzegovina, but many people felt that it was as separate as a hand is to an encompassing glove. Jasna and I had never met. I didn’t know if she was dead or alive, though given her involvement with Zlatko and the largely remorseless upheaval of the time …
I was wearing one of Zlatko’s shirts. It felt like a perfect fit, though he was considerably stockier than me. It was cut at the waist, loose cut, a handpicked second, from Sydney. The beige combats were mine, a handpicked second – they could have been anyone’s.
It was 2.15. The traffic was still light. I was hoping for a quick withdrawal of blood. One shot, one tube full and out.
No questions.
The clinic was surprisingly quiet, and after submitting my Medicare card, my clinic number, I was asked to take a seat. I sat opposite the plate-glass window and remembered the alarm I experienced the last time I was here. The fear had settled. It felt contained, though I was aware of its feathery brush, its smug, sleepy perch, lulling me.
I was about to nod off to sleep when I was nudged by the soft call of Adahy’s voice, a near whisper, ‘Silvio.’ I woke up to the beige and salmon surroundings, the blue and yellow cushions.
‘Give me a minute,’ he said, pointing to the bathroom.
‘Sure.’
‘Good to see you.’
It was at that moment Zlatko walked through the plate-glass window. He was wearing the pinstriped suit that I wore for the school interview. Zlatko looked conspicuous, his right arm tucked into the fold of his jacket. His grooming was impeccable. He looked suave, his hair gelled neatly, and, yes, he carried the suit well. ‘This is life,’ he said, pointing to the window, then freeing his right hand to hurl a sugar canister, ‘This is art.’ The glass shimmered in its fragile web, intact, two icy, opaque eyes at the centre, the blunt impact of steel and glass and the random pupils of light among a network of arteries – wild lines winding edge to edge.
Adahy closed the toilet door. Zlatko disappeared.
‘Silvio.’
‘Yes.’
I rolled up my sleeve. ‘Just a jab,’ he said routinely, ‘and it will be over.’
If only I could wash my hands free of it all. He tied the tourniquet tight: a black piece of binding with one plastic catch. The blood swam into the tube, life’s mucus, runny.
‘That’s it.’
I stared at the tube.
‘Your appointment’s all set.’
‘Two weeks.’
‘Two weeks,’ he affirmed.
He eyed his calendar, ‘The twenty-ninth.’ ‘
I have it marked.’
‘I will be away that week, so if you like, I can refer you to our sister clinic, or you could see me the following Monday?’
I left the question hanging and felt the sudden drop in my stomach. The unexpected delay, the changes seemed treacherous, especially after all my planning, the need to create a double date. ‘Sister clinic?’
‘St Kilda.’
‘Kilda,’ I repeated, echoing his accent. I shrugged my shoulders, rather hopelessly, not able to realise the impact, the full consequences, even the subtle bearings the change will have on the reading. It felt like vertigo.
He wrote down the doctor’s name. ‘She will tell you.’
‘I’ll need an address,’ I prompted, unable to decipher his script.
‘On the back,’ he said, tapping the edge of the card with his pen.
‘Parking?’ I asked, folding the card into the palm of my hand.
‘You can take a tram, train or bus.’
‘Easy!’
‘All set,’ he smiled broadly, a flash of white teeth.
‘Set?’ Zlatko asked.
I felt the head of his freebie dock keenly. His veined ‘toy’ was an ‘earning’, courtesy of Love Craft. I lay with my head half-buried in the pillow, focused on the anticipated act. ‘Mind over matter,’ I muttered.
I felt his breath against my ear. It would be ridiculous to say no now. Just as I felt the tide to my will turn, he slipped a sweet into my mouth. ‘Another?’
‘Jelly bean?’ and seeing an orange one balanced between thumb and forefinger, I obliged willingly.
‘And another?’ his voice descended a third and reverberated with sarcasm.
‘Providing it’s black,’ I demanded resolutely.
‘I might have to go to the bottom of the jar for that!’
‘Sure,’ I said, eyeing the near full jar of coloured beans.
He pushed my head back and demanded, ‘No peeping!’
‘Or …?’ my voice slid suggestively.
‘You’ll be spanked.’ And indeed, muffled against the pillow I was completely in the dark.
‘I’m not quite sure if you’ve earned my trust,’ I mumbled. ‘
I’m not quite sure if you’ve earned my jelly beans!’ he declared, slipping his finger through a fold in the pillow, feeding me another just the same.
‘So generous,’ I applauded.
‘Cheeky.’
I bit through the shell. ‘Lemon?’
‘Lemon,’ he complimented as his hand closed around my left ankle in a ring that burned. ‘You OK?’
‘Sure,’ I said, but he pushed me down again, giving me a sharp slap. ‘Stay put! I want you to … relax,’ he said with drawn-out sibilance. ‘Don’t move.’
He exited. In the dark my hearing was sharp and the sheets were crisp. Has he lost interest? Not now, not yet. I heard the faithful unwrapping, another ‘earning’,
one that he kept silent until now. I could hear him peel the tight plastic skin as he unscrewed a bottle of nitrate. Even before he inhaled, the brew manoeuvred sightlessly and I felt my resistance ebb. Though I knew otherwise and though I was in full knowledge, the bottle was presented as a laudable vial. I cradled it, successor to follow suit. Sense-savvy and quick-witted, he had me plugged to the root. I was goodwill and obedient submission, glutinous to the core; a steady equilibrium of two wills ensued. The silence measured by the beat of my heart, the rise of blood shifting in my ears. I was calm and thoughtlessly centred, though my heart beat as if I had run a mile. He was all competent handiwork and one broad smile.
I awoke with Zlakto running his finger along the small of my back. It felt like I had slept for well over an hour, if not two, but the cold light was as intense as before. Zlatko was kneeling beside me. His body cut a dark shadow against the window. Although I felt rested, it was as if no time had elapsed at all. Perhaps in my sleep I had orbited space, curled inside the burrowed kink of time, only to awake on earth, on Zlatko’s bed, a few seconds later. Zlatko sat silently.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Good,’ I said.
I rolled onto my side. He unfolded a towel and in no time had it pinned against the bed with his knees. ‘You’re hard,’ he declared. His hand tightened like a vice.
‘So are you.’
He unscrewed the bottle and left it on the side table, allowing the aroma to channel thinly into the room. Misting the windows as it rose; a genie coalesced steadily, ready to award us our next wish. He mouthed me clumsily and within seconds the second act unfolded. The unscripted agenda gaining cohesion as it was set plain. We set about fulfilling two roles, warmed by a muddling of the senses, persuaded by the rising temperature - momentum restored and tension released. The silence measured by the beat of my heart, the rise of blood shifting in my ears.
Despite the sun, it was a cool autumn afternoon and the windows were misted.
‘Kill this,’ I prompted, pointing to the heater.
‘We’re getting closer,’ Ludovico warned. The hunter was thin and dark and looked no more than nineteen. Ludovico pressed one focused eye, a cat’s eye, through a fringe of twigs and branches. The hunter moved enthusiastically. Now that he had cleared the surrounding foliage he was ready to hoist his trap. He tied each corner to a leafy anchor. The bat net took breath, pulled the anchoring branches an inch or two before filling like a balloon. Both Ludovico and the hunter looked up! Now the man was ready to make his trap work. He looked around him, but the moon’s light fell scant at this level. Even so, Ludovico saw his eye fix on their cover and he gestured to Zlatko, who was then looking over Ludovico’s shoulder, to be very still. Ludovico was well aware that his own eyes shone like luminescent emeralds. He lowered his gaze. He could rely on his hearing to measure the hunter’s progress, but when the hunter approached Ludovico couldn’t help but look up. Despite his youth, the hunter’s brow was wrinkled and the sunken craters of his eyes were glazed with a milky film. He approached, stepped right up to the screen of twigs where Ludovico was hiding, crouched to the forest floor and pulled out a caged grey plover from a khaki sack. It had all been prepared. Ludovico and Zlatko witnessed every minute detail. The drilled beak, the Coca-Cola tab, the masked head, the bound legs and the mirrors’ river light along its fanned wings.
This is how they had managed to be so successful. There was nothing random about the shootings and trappings, at least not here; every detail had been planned. Ludovico imagined blueprints, meetings and the clever hunters who so many people looked down on.
As he turned away, Ludovico stepped out from his screen of branches, grabbed the sack and hurled it over the young man’s head. It was thick and muffled his calls. Distressed, the hunter screamed like a mute. Ludovico pulled the drawstring with a deft yank so the sack ruffled above the hunter’s waist. ‘Untie the net,’ he hissed urgently in Zlatko’s direction, ‘I need some rope.’ The man tried to wrench himself from Ludovico’s grasp, but Ludovico locked his lean muscles. He struggled vainly, like a buffalo caught in a tiger’s locked jaw. Ludovico allowed him to wriggle until his strength ran out, hurled him to the ground and knotted the drawstring.
‘Get me his knife.’
Zlatko hesitated before suggesting, ‘We could just leave him here.’
‘Fine, get me his knife!’ Ludovico’s voice sounded harsh even to his own ears. He handed over the knife and Ludovico sliced open a mouth hole to allow the corpselike victim to breathe.
The first step had been completed. The bat net, anchored to three of its posts, flapped forcefully, an applauding gesture of victory. ‘Help me retie it.’
‘With what?’ Zlatko asked.
Ludovico relieved the hunter of his belt with a couple of deft yanks, ‘Here, try this.’ He could tell that the hunter’s belt would easily encompass the branch. ‘Tie it tight,’ Ludovico instructed. In no time the net was taut and unyielding. Ludovico picked up the rope and commenced making a noose.
‘I’m not going to kill anyone. I’m not going to get involved.’ Zlatko looked distressed. To his view, the night had got out of hand. ‘I want to help,’ he said, in a thin voice.
‘So do I,’ and with this he yanked the moaning hunter to his feet, put the noose around his masked head and secured the rope to the net. He then ripped off his shirt and knotted the hunter’s ankles together.
‘One last job.’ Ludovico walked up to the birdcage carefully propped on its tree stump and opened the grille. The plover panicked sending shards of light rippling through the forest. Ludovico cut through the strapping with his nails and cradled it tightly in his palm before removing the string through its beak. He gave the bird a kiss on the back of its neck before untying the hood and throwing it up towards the sky. It hovered just above Ludovico’s head and landed by his foot. The plover faltered badly, marooned by its mirrored wings. The mirrors, no more than shards, would have to be surgically removed.
‘Here, keep this with you.’ He put it back in the cage and handed it to Zlatko. ‘I’m going to free the other one downstream.’
‘How?’
‘Easy.’ Ludovico pulled a flute from his pocket. The flute Abrah had given him.
Out of the mimetic silence, the earth’s chill, Ludovico piped the resonating two-note trill. He held still, watching the other hunter tear from his grove with a loaded gun, the muzzle propped firmly in his supporting palm. He ran uphill leaving his carefully assembled paraphernalia behind. In the centre of the hunter’s niche hung a cage as big as a hatbox; inside was Nancy’s crimson finch, Igor, the Australian blood finch. Ludovico attempted to pacify the finch with his own birdsong, but it released a shrill cry. Its mirrored wings sent a ripple of light through the wood. Ludovico knew that he had to get away, but first he stole into the hunter’s abandoned space and stabbed the bat net until the skeletal sail resembled a shredded lung swaying with its irregular and contradictory chambers. Half-naked, drenched with sweat, he grabbed the cage and disappeared into the wood, the bandaged finch a stolen prize.
Prying through the resistance of the air-filled bubbles I pressed lightly against the industrial envelope. It was A4 and addressed to me. I was certain it was a novel, a manuscript of some kind. The envelope was sealed and on the front was my name: Silvio. There was no sender’s address, no stamp. I knew right away that it had to be from Zlatko. It had been hand-delivered, so the fact that he would come all this way without stopping by seemed odd.
Curiosity got the better of me, and resting against the brick fence I broke the seal. Inside was a book, the size of my journal, wrapped in brown paper and secured with brown string. I pulled the bow wondering if it was in fact my journal. With no tape the paper came apart easily. I found a book, a notebook with a worn mustard cover. I turned it around and tried to gauge a clue or two before opening up the spine-cracked relic, but with no title and no name it appeared anonymous. A diary, I thought. I gave the contents a quick flick; it
proved to be a scrapbook of sorts, a scrapbook written in Serbo-Croat. The book came to rest at Jasna’s red handkerchief and pinned to the opposite page was a translation in English. I closed the book and held it in both hands, feeling the aged leather between my fingers. Interspersed between the paste-ins and the entries were other poems. This was Jasna’s book of poems. As I turned to the front of the book, I noticed a card tucked into the front cover. It was addressed to me.
Silvio, I’m sorry, I can’t continue. I’m making a break. I’m leaving you Jasna’s notebook. I stole it before I fled Bosnia. I was not ready to give it to you before. Now I have decided to let it go. The book is yours. Do what you like with it, translate it, read it, publish it in your own name if you like. I am finished with it. I hope things will work out for you. Zlatko
The second I looked at Spiro I knew that he knew. In that unsuspecting split second we communicated and he revealed himself; poised over his self-doubt, he stumbled and in his quiet he spoke louder than his words would allow.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘Sydney,’ he said, without a second’s hesitation. We shared another communicative glance. ‘Told him to tell you.’ He looked at his hands and wiped them with the dishtowel tucked neatly in the drawstring of his apron.
‘Bills?’ I asked, shooting blindly.
He held my stare. Framed by beautiful black lashes, his eyes were as expressive as two glazed cherries.
‘Abrah?’ The name slipped unexpectedly, but he didn’t seem to know who I was talking about. I thought of the time I’d walked in on Zlatko writing his letter. I gave Spiro my hand.
‘Clearing off?’ He eyed me keenly.
I gave him a nod and acknowledged him with a keen wave.
I somehow managed to walk along the shopfront with measured steps. I caught the 16 tram to St Kilda. I went all the way to Southey Street, Zlatko’s flat. The letterbox had been cleared, not a single flier, nothing. The metal flap fell with such resonance that it sounded like some stone rang out from the horizon.
Antidote to a Curse Page 19