Killing Pilgrim

by Alen Mattich

  Boban, meanwhile, had arrived at the half-built houses.

  “Why the hell did you idiots let the captain park in a clear line of fire?” Boban said, running to the car. Without pulling the door shut, he started the engine and reversed so that the Golf stood next to the police car in the shelter of the bigger building.

  Della Torre rubbed his arm. And then it dawned on him. The neat circle with a small star-shaped pucker of peeled paint around it in the middle of the Golf’s door hadn’t been there before.

  “What the —?” he said. “There’s a hole in my car door.”

  “I tried to tell the captain,” said the policeman who’d approached him before.

  “Somebody shot my wife’s car.”

  “I mean, I was about to ask the captain to move —” the young policeman stammered to Boban.

  “You shouldn’t have let him pull into the space,” Boban said.

  “I mean, I know there’s no love for people from Zagreb around here, or for the UDBA,” della Torre continued, ignoring the others, “but this is absolutely —”

  “UDBA?” The young policeman blanched.

  “Calm down, Captain,” Boban said to della Torre. “There’s a shooter on the other side of the river, which is why we’ve got a little post here. To keep track of him and find out what’s going on over there. He shoots at us to keep us from looking.”

  “Fuck,” della Torre said, turning angrily to Boban and adding, as if by way of explanation, “That’s my wife’s car.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain. I should have warned you. We’ll get the people in the police garage to have a look at your wife’s car. I’m sure they can sort it pretty quickly. Bring it tomorrow and we’ll fix it,” Boban said, an edge of exasperation in his tone.

  “What the hell’s going on around here?”

  “Around here, Captain, people shoot at each other, because around here people want to start a war and the only thing stopping them is us, the police. Captain,” Boban said, his anger building to match della Torre’s, “you wanted to see what’s going on around here. Well, that’s what’s going on around here.”

  But della Torre wasn’t listening. Irena would have his nuts sliced and fed to the cats. How could he go back and say, “Darling, here’s your car. Doesn’t smell of cigarette smoke, but it does have extra ventilation.”

  Boban turned to the three policemen. “Have you fellows been watching behind yourselves as well?”

  A dark-haired man, about Boban’s age and with the same solid build, said, “No, sir. We’ve just been told to keep our eyes on the Serbs across the river. Why?”

  “Why? Because somebody’s been watching you from out there,” Boban said, pointing back to the field.

  “Over there? Where?” asked the policeman. “There’s nowhere for anyone to watch from.”

  “Oh? I think you’ll find that there are a few dips in the ground, if you have a little wander along the road. When there was wheat in the field, somebody spent a bit of time out there watching you. There’s a pile of cigarette butts and a couple of bottles and an old crap or two. So unless you guys head out there to do your business, somebody was making you their business,” Boban said.

  “Who do you think it was, sir?”

  “It wasn’t my grandmother. Who do you think it might have been? If it had been a friend, he’d have come over to share a drink and a dirty joke, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so, sir.”

  “Fuck,” Boban said. “Well, any of you want to make a report?”

  “Sorry, sir,” said the dark-haired one, who seemed to be the most senior of the three. “There’s not much, except Damir here —” He pointed at the tall, sandy-haired boy beside him, the youngest of the three. “— thinks he might have seen something this morning.”

  “If you follow me, sir,” Damir said, leading them into the bigger of the two buildings.

  Boban and Damir sheltered behind a wall as they looked out of a large opening left for a window fronting the river. The youth pointed to a spot across the river, his arm stretched into the empty space, while Boban held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Then they heard the sound of another crack from across the river, followed by the crunch of burst tile, along with yet another crack immediately after.

  “Ow.” Damir jerked his arm back into the building, holding it between his thighs. “Ow, ow, ow.”

  “What happened? What’s the matter?” Boban asked.

  “I think I’ve been shot,” the young man said, his voice rising, tearful. “In my arm.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Boban said.

  Damir held out his right arm. The fleshy part at the top of his forearm, just below the elbow, had been sliced open at a diagonal to the depth of three centimetres. The flesh pulled back cleanly, showing a white-pink gash. There was no blood.

  “Listen, boy, just a flesh wound. That’s not been made by a bullet. Probably a tile shard,” Boban said and then turned to the other two. “Boys, get me the first-aid kit. Double-quick time.”

  Damir sat on the floor, holding his arm out in front of him. It still hadn’t started to bleed, the open wound looking like a pork cutlet in a butcher’s window. Della Torre watched, fascinated.

  The dark-haired cop came running with a green tin box with a red cross on a white field on the lid. Boban worked quickly, applying a thick wadding to the wound and then wrapping it tightly in a long spiral of bandage up and down the arm, so that the young policeman couldn’t bend his elbow.

  “This, my boy, is going to need a few stitches. The captain here will drive us to the hospital. You’ll be there in ten minutes, and I promise you, the minute you start feeling proper pain, the doctors will give you a very nice little injection,” Boban said, helping the young man to his feet while keeping out of sight of the shooter across the river. “Ready, Captain?” he asked.

  All della Torre could think was that the newly shot Golf would soon also be covered in blood. But he nodded and led them to the car.

  Boban and the boy sat in the back. Della Torre drove as fast as he safely could, Boban directing him the whole way. It took less than a quarter of an hour to get to the hospital. Della Torre dropped them in front of the building and then went to park the car. For a moment he thought he might as well just leave, go to his hotel, get a nice tall beer, and then line up a row of shot glasses full of slivovitz. Shot glasses. He hated getting shot at.

  An admissions nurse pointed him to the emergency room, where he found Boban talking to a doctor in the corridor.

  “I have your briefcase, Lieutenant. And your radio is in the car,” della Torre said.

  Boban nodded at him.

  “Thank you, Captain, and thank you for driving us here. I can promise you that Damir didn’t leave a drop of blood in the back of your car.” And then he added: “Your wife’s car.”

  The doctor looked at della Torre with a slightly bemused expression. She had a thin and careworn face and plenty of grey in her hair, though della Torre guessed she was around his age.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Boban said. “Miljenka, this gentleman has come all the way from Zagreb to learn how to get shot at. Captain . . .” Boban paused. Had he really forgotten della Torre’s name?

  “Della Torre,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “Dr. Miljenka Boštrić. Dr. Boštrić runs emergency admissions,” Boban continued.

  “Della Torre, did you say? That’s an unusual name,” she said. “I have a friend who’s a della Torre. Irena della Torre. Do you know her?”

  “Irena? She’s my wife. Her car’s just been shot.”

  “Your wife.” Dr. Boštrić beamed at him. “She’s a wonderful friend. Oh, I am pleased to meet you.” She embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. “We’re so excited about her coming. It won’t be a moment too soon.”

  It was hard to tell who looked more
puzzled, della Torre or Boban.

  “Irena, coming here?” della Torre asked. “I didn’t know she was coming for a visit.”

  “Well, it’ll be some visit. She said she’d cover for six weeks.”

  “Cover?” della Torre asked.

  “Yes. She’s filling in for some colleagues. We’re very short-staffed, and she very kindly said she’d lend a hand.” A shadow of doubt crept into Dr. Boštrić’s eyes. Della Torre’s jaw moved up and down, as if he were miming language. “To help out. Until October . . .” Dr. Boštrić’s voice trailed off but then revived again. “She’ll be bringing an eminent surgeon from London. Not right away, but I think he’ll come in early September. A specialist in bullet wounds. We can use as many spare hands as we can.”

  “Irena’s coming here?” della Torre said again.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t you know?” Dr. Boštrić looked both embarrassed and uncertain.

  “No. I’m sure . . . I mean, we are so busy and have our own lives. Dr. Cohen is coming, right?”

  “Yes, yes, Dr. Cohen from London,” Dr. Boštrić said, worried about what damage she might be causing Irena.

  Della Torre took a deep breath and pulled out the smile he’d often used to get reluctant witnesses to remember things, to not be afraid of the UDBA man asking questions.

  “I’m sorry, the shock of being shot at made me forget,” he said. “Yes, of course I remember Irena telling me. With everything that’s happening, we don’t see much of each other these days. I’ve been on the road pretty constantly and she’s, well, you know what it’s like. She sleeps and eats at the hospital.”

  Dr. Boštrić looked thankful and relieved.

  “Oh, we know very well what it’s like,” said Boban, smiling at della Torre for the first time. “I didn’t realize you were the husband of the marvellous Dr. Irena. I haven’t met her, but I’ve heard so much from Miljenka. You should have said. But of course you wouldn’t have known to say.” Boban took della Torre’s hand and shook it with feeling. “We need doctors here. Many of the ones in the hospital have gone, disappeared. Some because they were Serb and life wasn’t nice for them, with the Croat nationalists coming from Zagreb. Others because they don’t want their families to be caught up in any fighting. They’re smart because they’re doctors; they know there’ll be plenty of blood spilled around here. It’s good to find friends. There are so few honest, real ones . . .”

  Della Torre acknowledged the half-apology with a half-shrug.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself properly,” he said. “I seldom think to mention that I’m Dr. Irena della Torre’s husband. I suppose I should more often.”

  “Definitely.” Both Boban and Dr. Boštrić nodded vigorously, oblivious to della Torre’s sarcasm.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Captain,” said Boban. “Maybe you’d like to have a cigarette outside. I’ll meet you out front in five minutes. Just to see how Damir’s stitching is coming along. It’s a clean wound, apparently.”

  “Yes, of course,” della Torre said. He held out a hand to Dr. Boštrić, but she put her arms around him and gave him a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek instead, as if they were old friends.

  • • •

  Della Torre was on his second Lucky when Boban reappeared.

  “I’m sorry for not being . . . more welcoming, Captain,” he said. “It’s just that Zagreb keeps sending us people who take up our time and do their utmost to complicate our lives.”

  “No, I understand perfectly. And I’m sorry about your officer being wounded,” he said, flexing his arm. “I know what it’s like.”

  Della Torre was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, no jacket. Boban took a long look at the scar on the inside of della Torre’s arm.

  “Bullet?” he asked.

  “Nine-millimetre, probably.”

  “Ouch. Made a bit of a mess, eh?”

  “Only because it hit square on the funny bone.”

  “Not much of a laugh.”

  “No.”

  “Serbs?”

  “Bosnians,” della Torre said, ignoring the policeman’s surprised expression. Boban didn’t push it.

  “Listen, Captain.” Boban’s tone had become considerably friendlier — conciliatory, even. “I’ll have to stick around until they’re done with Damir. I’ll get somebody else to drive me to Osijek.”

  “No problem. I’m staying in Vukovar anyway.”

  “Great, so except for the hole in your car, I haven’t inconvenienced you too much,” Boban said with a wry smile. “I’d like to buy you a drink, but I ought to stay at the hospital. There’ll be forms to fill out and I’ll have to talk to Damir’s parents and whatnot.”

  “No problem,” della Torre said again.

  “I’ll tell you what, if you still want to talk to the boss I’ll sort something out.”

  “Love to,” della Torre said, surprised.

  “We normally try to keep him insulated from Zagreb types. Time wasters, we call them. No offence.”

  “None taken.”

  “He’s pretty busy during the days, but he tries to keep an hour clear in the morning for admin, usually between nine and ten. We make sure he only gets interrupted for emergencies, but I can bend the rule for you.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” della Torre said.

  “Come to the Osijek station for nine and ask for me. You can bring the radio then. I promise not to report it stolen,” he laughed.

  They parted with a handshake.

  Della Torre decided to leave the car where it was and walk into the centre of town, along the river. The Danube, now dark in the shadows of the fading evening light, flashed between the buildings to his left. He’d never seen it blue. Sometimes it was milky white. And sometimes it took on a gunmetal hue. Usually it was the colour of faded asphalt, and as smooth as a newly paved road. It was indolent, except in the spring, following the rains and the winter melt, when it churned and elbowed its way beyond the banks, reminding everyone that it was one of the great rivers of the world.

  That night it was placid under the wall of clouds, which hung over the Serbian side, brooding and purple. They had warned of a storm to come even before he arrived in Osijek. Della Torre wondered when they’d break.

  It might have been a shitty day, but at least it was over as far as della Torre was concerned. His meeting with Horvat wasn’t due until the following afternoon. He was to stick around his hotel after lunch, and Horvat would come round and say hello. That’s how his people had put it. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d get his meeting with Rejkart over with in the morning, come back to Vukovar for the requisite chat and rigor mortis smile with Horvat, and then be the hell out of this dead end and back to Zagreb by dinnertime. And this free evening he’d use to catch up on his drinking with a mindlessly trashy novel — both of them lifting him out of this world, this existence, for an hour or two. He was looking forward to it.

  He stood at the bar of a café that was empty except for a couple of old men playing cards at an outdoor table. Vukovar was a pretty Austro-Hungarian town with low architecture dominated by rusticated stucco buildings and pavements sheltered by stone and brick arcades, a remnant of the empire at its greatest bloom.

  A solid young woman in a blue waitress uniform and white apron stood in the corner by the bar. She appeared to be wiping the counter without putting any effort into it. Della Torre looked her over, wondering whether she’d noticed him. She wore a pair of white wedge-soled sandals with ankle straps. They were the sort of shoes that just about every shopgirl in the country seemed to wear, and looked like something designed by a social realist with a foot fetish.

  He rapped on the bar.

  “Excuse me, can I order a drink?”

  She looked at him with utter indifference.

  The Yugoslav government had regulations for the oddest things;
anyone who wanted to wait on tables had to enrol in a special high school course and be awarded a special diploma before they could serve drinks. It might have been better if the students had been taught something useful, like how to smile. And be polite. But maybe there were regulations forbidding that too.

  “A beer and a coffee, please. Short coffee, long beer,” he said.

  He was relieved to find the espresso drinkable. She waited for him to pay before getting him the beer, and then came back slowly with the change. Maybe she’d heard foreigners tipped. People from Zagreb were considered foreign here. He massaged his sore arm after pocketing the change and then lit a Lucky Strike. The old woman who ran the kiosk at one end of Zagreb’s main square kept a few untaxed packets under the counter for favoured customers. And made them pay through the nose.

  Della Torre was only halfway through the bottle of Karlovačka when he saw the man in the tight black T-shirt and combat trousers from the Osijek police station.

  Outside, by the door, he could see another couple of men, similarly dressed, though looking less like bodybuilders than ex-bodybuilders. Their arms bulged, but so did their guts.

  The man came over to him and prodded a thumb behind him towards the door. “This way,” he said.

  Della Torre looked up, tired, shaken, and now irritated. “The door? Sure. You might want to use it.”

  “If you got a gun, you’ll want to give it to me,” the man said, holding out his hand.

  He had neatly combed dirty-blond hair. Della Torre couldn’t remember the last time he’d combed his own hair. His wedding day, he figured. The man had the sleepy eyes of somebody used to getting his way.

  “I’d love to give it to you,” della Torre said. “I’ve got to remember to carry one. Just for times like these.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  “I didn’t realize the café was shutting.”

  “Boss wants to see you.”

  “Does he, now? And which boss might that be?”