Estoril

by Dejan Tiago-Stankovic

  ‘So, children, tell me. Tell me everything. Do you have any pictures I can see?’

  Grada was the first to take a photo album out of his bag. Most of the pictures showed him in uniform, posing next to an aeroplane, first by himself, then lined up with his colleagues from the aviation unit. In the other pictures, he looked more relaxed: in one, he was sitting on the wing of a plane, clowning around while his fellow airmen stood on the runway laughing; in another, he winked at the photographer as he climbed into the cockpit.

  But his mother’s favourite was the one taken at the photographer’s studio, with his hair slicked back, his pilot’s beret at an angle, gazing into the distance. She immediately forgot all about the months, when he flew, she had spent afraid for his life, terrified if a letter arrived or the phone rang, her nights full of nightmares.

  ‘Mama’s big boy! Mama’s brave young man!’ she murmured, tears in her eyes as she looked at her son and then at the picture.

  ‘It’s not good for a man to be so handsome. He’ll turn out to be a sissy,’ said his sister Gordana.

  Both his mother and his older sister kept kissing him, though. Three years is a long time not to have seen someone, and if it’s a brother or son, it’s far too long.

  Gradimir explained that there had really been no reason for them to worry about him. He hadn’t been fighting for long. First it took him some time to convince the English that he really did want to fight on their side; then he spent a few months in training, flying with Polish instructors on short flights over England, nothing too ambitious, they had to save on fuel. Immediately after the Allied landing in Normandy he started flying over the Channel and Continent. He told them how several times he had flown into liberated France and Holland, and at the end of the war, he flew over the territory of the Reich at daybreak and on one occasion found himself in danger and had to shake some German hunter-planes off his tail. He thrilled in telling them that not a stone was left standing in Germany. His mother stopped him there. She did not want to talk about unpleasant things.

  But some subjects could not be avoided. Such as their own story and the miserable fate that Yugoslavia had experienced. Not much was reported in Lisbon about what was happening there, partly because it was far away and partly because of the censorship. Generally speaking, they knew that the Bolsheviks had taken over power there and that things looked bleak. People in London knew more; the king was there and the Yugoslav government-in-exile, which had spent the whole war in London and until recently had been working there, had lots of contact with people in the field. They said that things were pretty awful in Belgrade. It wasn’t as badly destroyed as London, and not anywhere near as badly as Berlin and Dresden, but in the summer and autumn of 1944 the Allies had repeatedly bombed Yugoslavia, especially Belgrade. The British claimed that both the communists in the area and the government-in-exile had asked for air raids on strategic German targets in the Balkans in order to assist the local guerrillas. What they got was the carpet-bombing of Belgrade. It destroyed a wing of the maternity hospital, killing all the mothers, but the babies, who were in the other wing, survived to become orphans. The civilian toll was far higher than the military’s. According to Radio Berlin, there were four thousand casualties; according to Allied sources two thousand. Whatever the number, there were too many.

  When the Germans pulled out of the city in October ’44, the Russians came in, and with them came the partisans. The Russians looted and raped but they did not stay long, thank God; they continued northwards, towards Budapest and Berlin. They left power in the hands of the local communists. At first the communists established a reign of terror; then they called a plebiscite in which the vast majority of the people opted for the new government − over ninety per cent. In other words, the communists’ strength and reign of terror was such that even if somebody was against them they kept as quiet as a mouse.

  ‘Because we fled during the occupation, we have been declared traitors and the state has confiscated all our property.’

  Nobody responded.

  ‘They’ve taken everything away from us,’ Grada repeated.

  ‘Everything?’ his mother asked.

  ‘Everything! We’ve got nothing left in Yugoslavia. They’ve even taken away our civil rights. And the house in Knez Miloš Street. The last thing they take from you is the family home. Then all you’ve got left is your life.’

  ‘Maybe with time it’ll all settle down,’ Madame Radmila said, thinking aloud.

  ‘Maybe. But it won’t be soon, believe me, Mama... They executed so many decent people just because they were rich. The people are afraid of them, and everything that’s done is done in the name of the people.’

  ‘In other words, we can’t go back?’ Gordana said.

  ‘No, there’s no going back. The only house we have for the time being is this one.’

  Everyone fell silent and stared at the floor, as if they were paying tribute to the deceased with a minute of silence.

  No matter how rich you are, you cannot be indifferent when you hear someone say: ‘there’s no going back’. Still, Lila and Grada did not take it that badly. They had gone out into the world when they were young and had quickly learned that they came from nowhere and everywhere. For them, Belgrade was merely the place where they were born and they seemed to have made their peace with the fact that they would spend the rest of their life in London or a third place. Gordana was more tied to her native land. That was where she had gone to university, where she had worked in her father’s bank, where her best friends still were. And she was of a different temperament.

  ‘Let them take the house, we’ll build another,’ she said. And she would. On her own. She was already doing it. In defiance of everything.

  Her mother simply sighed.

  ‘I just don’t want to be buried far away from your father... But, enough of all these dark thoughts. Lila, darling, tell me, what’s it like at college? Have you made friends? People you can talk to? Do you fancy anybody? Have you got a beau?’

  Lila had been unusually quiet that evening; she had cuddled up to her mother and listened to her brother as if everything he said was completely new to her. She took out her own photographs to show around:

  Taking a walk by the Thames; at the races with a hat; sitting on a bench with two girlfriends.

  ‘Mother’s beautiful girl. How pretty you look...’

  Her favourite photograph was of her daughter in a light summer dress, sitting in a flowering garden. She took the picture to get it framed, along with the portrait of her son gazing into the distance.

  It was only when they pressed her that Lila told them how when they arrived in London they had found a house at a reasonable rent on the King’s Road. She enrolled at the university the following autumn and was studying fashion; that meant she had no problem getting clothes. She talked about what they got on the black market, and how they made do. She told them that she had made girlfriends, both English and from other countries.

  And then three familiar faces appeared on one of the photographs. Lila in a long evening gown, wearing a glittering diamond necklace; Grada in his formal air force uniform; and a gentleman in a tuxedo, with a medal pinned to his chest.

  ‘You look so thin in that dress, as thin as a pencil,’ said her mother. It was only then that she recognized the man in the tuxedo. ‘Is this, the man with the slicked-back hair, Duško?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Radmila was taken aback. They had not yet said a word about Duško. His name was taboo for several reasons; mostly because when they heard of his arrest, they worried that it might harm both Grada and Lila. Also, he owed them a lot of money; reason enough to try to forget a friend like that.

  ‘But wasn’t he arrested? We heard he was arrested... It was even said that he’d been hanged as a spy!’

  ‘He’s alive and kicking!’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Radmila said, so happy that she almost cried. ‘I recognized him from his mole. He’s put on some we
ight.’

  ‘He’s thirty-four years old too, Mama,’ said Gordana.

  ‘How time flies... How is he? I wanted to ask but then I told myself, better not...’

  Grada turned to his younger sister:

  ‘Shall we tell them now?’ Since she said nothing to the contrary he told Gordana and his mother:

  ‘Please keep what I’m about to tell you in the strictest confidence... It’s still not sure, and it’s not a good idea to talk about it. You’ve got to promise me that you won’t tell anybody...’

  His mother and sister looked at him perplexed, but nodded their agreement with his terms.

  ‘This, then, is strictly entre nous, but just so you know,’ and here he stopped to take a breath before saying quietly: ‘Duško was an agent all through the war... A British agent.’

  Gordana laughed out loud.

  ‘Duško was what?’

  ‘All that time that he was travelling all over the place during the war, he was working as an agent for the British.’

  ‘Are you sure we’re talking about the same Duško?! Popov?’

  ‘The very same, Gordana.’

  ‘So, he’s still free?’ Their mother wanted to get it straight.

  ‘Of course he is. I’m telling you, he was never arrested. First he was with us in London, for almost a year. He really helped us out...’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then, some time before the end of 1944, he left one morning on a business trip and didn’t come back. We knew he was doing something for the British government. I phoned his colleagues. They told me not to worry and not to inquire about him. We didn’t see each other again until recently. We were guests of honour when he received the OBE.’

  Grada turned over the picture on the last page of Lila’s album and asked them to read what it said:

  28 Nov. 1947. OBE award ceremony, Hotel Ritz, London.

  ‘What’s an OBE?’ his mother asked.

  ‘It stands for Order of the British Empire and it’s a medal. See, there it is on his chest. Duško, you know, is now an Officer of the British Empire.’

  ‘And who gave him that decoration?’ asked Gordana.

  ‘Who represents the Empire? The king.’

  ‘Their king? The British king?’ Gordana asked her brother.

  ‘What kind of question is that? It’s certainly not the Japanese who’ll give him the Order of the British Empire.’

  ‘But if it’s the British king, does he work in London at the Ritz? Is he having Buckingham Palace painted?’ Gordana asked.

  ‘They wanted it done discreetly. It was Duško who suggested the Ritz.’

  ‘OK. OK. But what exactly did he do for Britain? It must have been very dirty if they wanted it to be so discreet,’ Gordana said to her brother.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s secret, but it was certainly something important. Otherwise they wouldn’t have given him a decoration.’

  ‘He says a special hello to you, Mama. He wanted me to tell you that he hasn’t forgotten that he owes you.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it now, son; it’s not the time,’ his mother said.

  ‘I’m just passing on what he said. He sent a few small presents for you and our Gaby. How is Gaby? Is he here?’

  ‘Yes, he’s here. He’s always asking after you. You’ll see him tomorrow. He’s coming to lunch.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Gradimir said, ‘speaking of greetings, while we were in touch with the court and the government-in-exile everybody kept asking about you and sending their best. Especially the Prime Minister. But we don’t see them anymore. We haven’t seen the king since his wedding...’

  Lila remembered something.

  ‘You know who I ran into the other day? I didn’t tell even you, Grada. You remember that diplomat of ours, some poet... I can’t recall his name. He and his wife were here at the start of the war. He has a slight drawl when he talks...’

  ‘Crnjanski?’ Gordana hazarded.

  ‘Yes, Crnjanski.’

  ‘He’s not “some poet”, Lila. He’s probably our very best poet and you can’t even remember his name.’

  ‘Whatever. Don’t nit-pick. Now let me tell you about it. I know London’s a big city but I ran into his wife recently.’

  ‘With everything that’s been happening I forgot that those wonderful people even existed,’ said her mother, pleased to hear that Crnjanski and his wife were alive and well. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Ever since Mr Crnjanski lost his job at the Yugoslav embassy, it hasn’t been easy for them, it seems. He’s afraid to return to the country; he’s sure they’ll put him in prison because he spoke and wrote against the communists even before the war. His wife is brave and bearing up; she’s working. He’s decided that the solution to his problems is to enrol at the university. He’ll be a student at the age of fifty something.’

  They all laughed, except for Radmila. She did not find it funny.

  ‘Women are often braver than men,’ she said. ‘You’ve certainly heard, haven’t you, children, that Mr Dučić died in America a few years ago? May God rest his soul.’

  ‘Yes, we heard...’

  Their mother, as is the custom when talking about the dead, crossed herself, sighed and then said: ‘I was so excited about you coming that I woke up very early this morning and now I’m about to collapse. My head is drooping. Come and walk me to my room, Lila, child, and talk to me until I fall asleep. Then you can go back to your brother and sister. And tomorrow, God willing, we’ll talk some more. Come, my darling.’

  Walking across the sitting room, they stopped at the fireplace where there was an array of postcards on the mantelpiece. They were from all over the world: the Azores, the Bahamas, Cuba, New York, London, Madrid, Casablanca, Tangiers, Gibraltar, London again, Hawaii and Los Angeles. They were all addressed to the same place: La Famille Bajloni, Quinta dos Grilos, Carnaxide, Lisbonne, Portugal. And the message was always the same: Love, Your D.

  ‘Had somebody told me...’ Madame Radmila sighed, looking at the small collection, ‘I would have said that he’s the least discreet but, by God, the most charming young man I know.’

  ‘Let’s go to bed, Mama. We’re both tired,’ her daughter said. Those colourful postcards were tearing at her heart.

  * * *

  They were now alone in the library, each sitting in an armchair under the gold-framed portrait of the viscountess when she was young, the same woman from whom they had recently bought their property. Lately, brother and sister had been writing to each other about exporting the tins to England from Portugal.

  ‘How are things going?’ Gradimir asked his entrepreneurial sister.

  ‘I can’t complain! The farm and dairy factory are doing very well. The tins are not doing so well and are bringing in less money since the war ended. I’ve started making silk. I reached an agreement with the municipality where we prune their mulberry trees in the parks in return for which we can feed the worms with their leaves. Tomorrow I’ll show you where we keep them... It’s a lot of work.’

  ‘Are you lonely?’ her brother asked her.

  ‘Yes, we’re lonely,’ she said after a pause. ‘I manage but all this is much harder on Mama. Why don’t you come back? You, at least; and Lila when she graduates? You’d be a welcome support for Mama. And I need your help too. It would mean a lot to us if you came back to work with me here.’

  ‘I want to try my luck in London. And I don’t want to leave Lila. She hasn’t got anybody there. I’ll try and help you as much as I can from there... If it doesn’t work out... I can always come back.’

  Silence.

  ‘You didn’t invest in shares?’ he asked her.

  ‘Just in some gold mines in South Africa, and even then not much. I got the shares cheap. All the papers are in the safe; the combination is still the same...’ She stopped, thought for a moment and then said to her brother: ‘I need to sit down with you and brief you at least a little on the business. Mama knows some things but she has alrea
dy started to forget. If anything should happen to me, God forbid, you need to know that the property was bought and entered in the Land Registry in Mama’s name. The papers for whatever we have in the bank are in the safe. I sometimes deposit francs in Switzerland, but my turnover here is in escudos. I also bought a few paintings, small French Impressionist paintings that the Jews left behind when they fled. They’re also in the safe.’ She did not sound as if she had embarked on this conversation because of some presentiment about the future; it was just a natural desire to share these responsibilities with someone. ‘And don’t forget, I need to give you power-of-attorney for the bank accounts while you’re here.’

  This time it was Gordana who broke the ensuing silence.

  ‘Now you tell me, is Lila very hurt?’

  ‘She’s better now. When I think of how she was...’ her brother answered vaguely.

  ‘When did they break up?’

  ‘They didn’t break up. At first he lived with us; then he started staying out, coming back now and then, almost as if he was duty-bound. She would sit at home waiting for him for days. And then he disappeared. And we didn’t see him for over a year, until he reappeared last autumn. And when he did, he was hyperactive, euphoric, with an armful of presents. He strafed us with his story. “Hello. Here I am after all this time. And this little girl is my wife. We got married last summer in the Alps. I’m sorry I couldn’t be in touch; I’m a spy but please don’t tell anybody. Will you be my guests at the presentation ceremony for the Order of the British Empire at the Ritz?”’

  ‘And how did Lila react?’

  ‘Very bravely. She had a smile on her face the whole time. But she retreated into herself and into the house and lost a lot of weight. She took some drops to sleep. She couldn’t bear sober reality. She grieved for days but, like an actress, she put a smile on her face at the presentation ceremony. She was more than polite to that wife of his.’