The Heart of Hell

by Alen Mattich

  He stood to leave. “Well, thank you for the lemon cordial, Miss Walker.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She walked him to the car. “Out of curiosity,” she said hesitantly, “what were you proposing to pay to get to Dubrovnik?”

  “I don’t know. Since nobody’s willing to go, I have no idea what the price would be. What do you think it would cost?”

  “Well,” she said, “I’d be surprised if you could do it for less than five hundred Deutschmarks. More if there are other passengers.”

  He whistled. “Sounds steep.” That amount could buy a return flight to Munich.

  “It might sound steep to you, but I for one wouldn’t do it for less than a thousand.”

  “That’s funny. The fishermen said they wouldn’t do it at any price.”

  “Maybe you just didn’t mention the right number.”

  “You think for a thousand they’d take me?”

  “Try them.”

  “But you’d do it?”

  “For a thousand?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sure.” She smiled.

  “Then, Miss Walker, it’s a done deal,” he said, surprising himself.

  She laughed again, looking for the joke. When she couldn’t see it, she stopped and contemplated him skeptically, quizzically. “I think, Mr. della Torre, we should do a little more talking,” she said. “Would you like some lunch, seeing as it’s about that time?”

  “Yes, please. I’m famished.”

  TAKING SOME AUTUMN vegetables and herbs from her garden and frying them in olive oil, she made a simple pasta sauce while della Torre smoked at the table outside and nibbled at small brown brined olives and slices of hard cheese. The nicotine made him light-headed.

  “I’m sorry there’s no meat with lunch,” she said. It was unusual for guests to be offered such simple fare in Croatia, where serving at least one meat dish was a sign of respect.

  “That’s all right. It makes for a nice change.”

  “That’s what I think. I’ve almost become a vegetarian. Some fish now and again, mostly what I catch. But meat’s become so expensive.”

  “Is that what you were doing on the water?” asked della Torre. “Fishing?”

  “I run a line while I sail. It’s a good way to catch mackerel. I caught a couple yesterday that I grilled. They were delicious.”

  “But that’s not why you were on the water.”

  “No, you were right,” she said. “I took a few people to Ploče.”

  “Because they couldn’t get a ferry?”

  “I didn’t ask. But the ferry passengers are screened by the militia, so maybe they didn’t want to be known.”

  “And you’re cheaper than the fishermen.”

  “Substantially. Though I stay out of their way, they get enough business. Enough people want to get away, and transport is iffy.”

  “What else do you do? I mean, what were you doing before the war?”

  “I taught English, did some translating. But I’m an artist. Painted ceramics mostly, though what sells is drawings and watercolours of Dubrovnik. I like the draftsmanship. I trained as an architect.”

  “Is that what brought you to Korčula?”

  “No, I came for a holiday.”

  “And you stayed.”

  “No, I went back to London. But when I stopped being married, I thought it would be a nice place to live for a while.”

  “How did you get residency?”

  “There’s an Englishman, Sir Fitzroy Maclean. You might have heard of him,” she said.

  Della Torre had indeed heard of Maclean, an English adventurer, soldier, and hero who had befriended Tito during the Second World War. Maclean had been the British representative to the Partizans, with whom he’d fought against the Nazis and whose privations he’d suffered and victory he’d helped to achieve. After the war he had come back to Korčula with his wife for holidays. Tito’s regard for the Englishman was so great that Sir Fitzroy was the only foreigner allowed to own property in Yugoslavia.

  “What’s your connection?” della Torre asked.

  “There isn’t one, really. My folks vaguely knew his wife. We visited once, when I was a teenager. But when I moved here, that connection was enough for the local authorities to turn a blind eye to the fact that I wasn’t a run-of-the-mill tourist. It helped that I don’t take work away from any locals, I pay taxes on whatever is due, and I don’t use any of the social services. The farmer is happy to have me maintain this house and keep it from falling down — not that anyone else wants to live here. So everyone’s happy. What about you, Mr. della Torre? How is it that you’re American and Istrian? And why do you want to go to Dubrovnik?”

  “I’m not really American,” he said. “I lived there from when I was very small until I was a teenager, and then we came back.”

  “Did your parents come back to retire?”

  “Oh, no. My father was still relatively young.”

  “It’s unusual for people to come back to live in the old country unless they’re retiring. Even then it’s pretty rare,” she said. “So your parents had had enough of the United States?”

  “My father did, anyway. It was just him and me who came back.”

  “Your mother stayed?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And now you want to go to Dubrovnik to rescue somebody?”

  She’d surprised him again.

  “Something like that.”

  “It’s not unusual. There’s a fair number of people in Korčula who are pulling their hair out trying to get family out of Dubrovnik.”

  “Something tells me you have some experience.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Isn’t it a bit dangerous for an artist?”

  “Why would it be more dangerous for an artist than for anyone else?”

  “Sorry,” della Torre said, bemused. “I meant it’s not the sort of danger an artist usually takes on.”

  She shrugged.

  “Have you done the trip before?” he asked.

  “I’ve sailed to Dubrovnik many times,” she said. “Once a month in the summers and then once or twice in the autumn or spring. Dubrovnik is a better market than Korčula for selling my pictures and pots.”

  “What about since the war started?”

  “Yes, I’ve sailed since then too.”

  “And during the blockade?”

  “Mr. della Torre, I feel that I should be the one asking questions if I’m expected to risk my boat for you. That thousand Deutschmarks is per round trip for a single passenger, by the way.”

  Della Torre was taken aback. “That’s a steep increase.”

  “No, this is called hammering out the details. I’ll take as many as four people there and back. Total fare would be four thousand. If it’s just you going but three of your friends return with us, that’s two and a half thousand. And a minimum of a thousand Deutschmarks even if it’s you on your own and you decide to stay in Dubrovnik. I still have to come back.” And then, almost hopefully, she said: “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Take it or leave it?” della Torre asked lightly.

  “Mr. della Torre, I don’t know why you’d want to go to Dubrovnik. Maybe you’re a criminal escaping justice and the only safe haven you’ve got is a war zone. Or you’re a romantic looking to join the fight. Or you’re a bit crazy.” She paused. “This isn’t something I’ll undertake lightly.”

  “But you’ll do it because you need the money.”

  This time her smile was forced. “Whatever my reasons are, Mr. della Torre, I don’t have a death wish.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said. “Neither do I.”

  He felt he was being read. She scrutinized him with an analytical intelligence he’d
seen in the best lawyers and in a professor of medicine at the University of Zagreb — namely Irena. The Englishwoman’s eyes narrowed slightly, so that the web of tiny lines radiating from their corners made it look almost like warmth. Almost.

  “Would you like a coffee? I might be able to scrape some up.”

  “Yes, please,” he said. “Semi-sweet.”

  She cooked up a thick Turkish coffee and poured it out into two small cups. He let the grounds settle before tasting. It had cooled sufficiently not to burn his tongue. When he’d drained the cup, he turned it over in his saucer.

  “You want your fortune told?” she said.

  “Sorry, a matter of habit.” Somewhere along the way, he’d come to assume that women who poured thick Turkish coffees would want to read the grounds. Sometimes, he realized, he was more Balkan than he cared to admit to himself.

  “I’m afraid I’m not really one for reading the future in coffee grounds,” she said. “I’m not very Yugoslav. Though I enjoy when other people do it.”

  “I never listen,” he replied.

  “You’ll have your own reasons for wanting to go to Dubrovnik, Mr. della Torre. Maybe you don’t want to tell me. But if we’re to spend a few days together, it’d be nice to know a little bit about you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “Ah, you want to know if I’m good for the money.” He grinned. “I’m a lawyer. Was a lawyer. I suppose I still am.”

  “For whom?”

  “I work for the Croat government these days.”

  He spun her a story about where he’d worked and what he’d done, mentioning that he’d gone to London to study for a master’s degree in international law after his mandatory military service. She listened politely, and they chatted a little about what he’d thought of Britain during his stay. But he knew most of her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Eventually she said, “A one-way trip? Will it be just you?”

  “Actually, there will be two of us going and three of us coming back — five one-way trips at five hundred each way. So two and a half thousand.”

  “I’d like to be paid up front,” she said.

  “What happens if you can’t get us there?”

  “Mr. della Torre, you know where I live. I’m good for a refund, less costs, if we have to turn around. The fare doesn’t include incidentals, like staying somewhere along the way, food, or any necessary bribes. So you’ll have to bring extra for that. And the turnaround time in Dubrovnik is two days. If you can’t find the person you’re looking for in that time, I’m afraid it’ll be too bad.”

  “You’re a tough negotiator,” he said.

  “I just want you to know I’m serious. And that I expect to be compensated for the risks I’ll be running. Even small sailing boats can be expensive to repair.”

  IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON by the time he drove back down the steep hill to Korčula, having left with a promise to return in the next couple of days with money and the supplies that Miranda Walker had asked for.

  By the time the track turned onto the main coastal road, he was laughing out loud at the thought of sailing through the blockade with this Englishwoman in her dinghy. Mostly he was laughing at himself, overcome with the feeling that his cousin had played a practical joke on him by planting the germ of the idea in his mind.

  Nonna answered the door when he rang the bell. She’d given him the key, albeit with the understanding he was to use it only when she was out, or at night.

  “Signor Anzulović went out with a Russian gentleman,” she said. Her face belied a sly intelligence. She seemed to know the stranger would interest della Torre.

  “Oh,” della Torre said, stepping into the broad, dim hallway. “Did the gentleman leave his name?”

  “No, he didn’t introduce himself.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He looked like a military man. His hair was very short on the sides and a little longer on top. He had very good teeth for a man with grey hair. He wasn’t as tall as you, or as slim. I would have thought he was German, but he asked for Major Anzulović in our language and then spoke to the man in Russian.”

  “Did they say where they were going?”

  “Ah, no. But Signor Anzulović said he would be here for dinner. Would a fish stew be good? There’s not the choice we have normally. So the . . .”

  Della Torre had already backed out of the pension, excusing himself, saying he had to buy cigarettes if he could find some.

  He wandered around Korčula’s little streets, vaguely looking for Anzulović. He was curious about the visitor. No doubt Anzulović would tell him later, over dinner. But the description of the man unsettled him. Russian? And then he remembered that Rebecca had spoken Russian, as did Anzulović — he was of the generation that had learned Russian and German at school; only now were children being taught English. Did the men speak Russian because Anzulović understood only the rudiments of English?

  Della Torre then noticed a man standing five paces back. He would have bet every gold coin his father had given him that the man was American. A big guy with a short haircut, white chinos, blue polo shirt, and Ray-Bans. Maybe it’s a uniform, della Torre thought.

  After waiting for a long time at the tobacco kiosk, only to be told he’d be limited to one packet of Lords, della Torre finally turned to the man. “Who are you?” The man didn’t answer. He just stood there with a drawn smile, perhaps pleased at how easy the tailing job he’d been given was proving to be.

  Della Torre walked along the harbourfront — since it was pointless trying to lose his American shadow, he ought to stick to a public place. He didn’t want to be detained again. Whenever he looked around, the silent, smiling American was still there. And then, not far behind, Anzulović and Jack Grimston appeared.

  “Gringo,” Anzulović said, poker-faced. “Our American friend came looking for you, so I left with him to help.”

  “You found me.”

  “Mr. della Torre,” Grimston said, holding out his hand. Despite himself, della Torre took it. “I seem to have caught you by surprise.”

  “Yes, though I might have guessed it was you, given the tail you put on me. He’s not very chatty, is he.”

  “Nope. My people do as they’re told,” Grimston said. “My understanding is that you don’t speak much Russian, Major della Torre.”

  “Only what I had to learn at school. My English and Italian excused me from spending too much time on other languages.”

  “And your German?”

  “Same.”

  “Shame. I haven’t been around long enough to build up my Serbo-Croat. We’ll just have to speak English.” And then, to Anzulović, he said, “Prostitye.”

  “Is no problem,” Anzulović answered with a shrug.

  “So it seems after our discussions that you decided to go to Dubrovnik after all. But you didn’t want to come with us. I hope you weren’t thinking of finding Mr. Strumbić on your own. Well, whatever your intentions, it seems you’ve had as much luck as we’ve had trying to organize transport to Dubrovnik.” Grimston surveyed the channel and the high, rocky ridge of the Pelješac peninsula. “I must congratulate you on your perseverance. Though I think a little sailboat is going to extremes. You’ll be looking to rent a canoe next.” He laughed, shaking his head.

  It dawned on della Torre that he’d been followed from the moment they’d landed in Korčula. Or since Istria.

  “We thought we’d arranged for a fast boat the other day. We would of course have made room for you and Major Anzulović, but . . .” He shrugged. “No matter, the convoy to Dubrovnik should be leaving Rijeka in the next few days, so we’ll just have to wait for it to collect us. In the meantime, if you do find a way to Dubrovnik you will let me know, won’t you, Major.”

  Della Torre took a de
ep breath, “Yes, of course.”

  “You won’t have to look hard to find me. I’ve invited you and Major Anzulović to stay with us at our hotel. It’s right on the waterfront, with lovely views of the sea and the mountains. Major Anzulović was happy to accept on your behalf. Of course, in a time of war we can’t really expect it to have all the usual comforts. But the hotel staff have found other accommodation for the refugees and have mostly tidied up the place. It’s much nicer than that rather gloomy pension you’ve found for yourselves.” Grimston was professional down to his smile. “And you can join me for dinner.”

  “I think Nonna is cooking for us,” della Torre said.

  “I’m sure that when you settle your account, she won’t care much who eats the food.”

  Della Torre doubted it.

  “Until later, gentlemen,” Grimston said.

  Della Torre turned to Anzulović after Grimston left.

  Anzulović shrugged. “It was a generous offer,” he said, glancing back at the silent American.

  Nonna was in a fluster when Anzulović told her they were leaving and on the verge of tears when he added they wouldn’t be having the fish brodetto she’d made. The aroma of cooked onion, garlic, and tomato seeping out of the kitchen filled della Torre with regret. Anzulović settled the bill, leaving a little extra for the old woman on the pillows of their beds so she wouldn’t have a chance to refuse it. They packed in a few quick minutes and left.

  The hotel was a handsome two-storey, built at the turn of the twentieth century, with rooftop eaves and rows of paired Norman arched windows. A quick count of the pigeonholes behind the front desk told della Torre that the hotel had around twenty rooms. That the Americans could clear a hotel that size in no time at all made Grimston’s power brutally apparent. And there were so many Americans; della Torre saw more than a dozen guests or visitors who fit the bill. Grimston wasn’t taking his mission lightly.

  All this for Strumbić?

  Della Torre and Anzulović were each given their own quarters under the eaves: light, airy rooms at the top of the building, with views of the channel and the mainland mountains framed by the ornamental palms fronting the building. Evidence of recent occupants could be found in the rooms, which had had only a cursory cleaning and smelled of meals cooked on single electric hot plates. What force could have cleared this hotel at such short notice? And then della Torre cursed his own simplicity. It was the same overwhelming might that Strumbić used so readily: the power of money.