The Hired Man
Page 28
The next time the graffiti appeared it was on the wall of the railway station. We are all Krešimir Pavić. Talk in the bakery, in speech comprised of half-sentences, gestures and looks. The dark child is scratching on the walls, the scratching is becoming louder. In the Zodijak, a heavy silence. Fabjan sits surrounded by it. The words on the walls hold different meanings for different people, but nobody will say what those meanings are. People in Gost look at each other, mistrust seeps through every conversation. For days, it seems, we stand on the edge of something. We are all Krešimir Pavić. On the door of the empty Orthodox church. But who is responsible?
From the Town Hall the authorities have reacted furiously: with detergents and solvents, scrubbing brushes and high-pressure jets. It is laughable. They worry about the tourists, but the hunting season has started and tourists are even scarcer than the wild boar. Warnings are posted, of the penalties for defacing public buildings – the first time such a step has been taken, after all there is graffiti all over Gost. Krešimir, who is at the centre of it all, doesn’t know what to do. In the absence of the culprit being caught, he is taking the brunt of it. His swagger is all gone. Fabjan has had a word with him, advised him to keep a low profile, no sudden moves, that sort of thing. Too many people out there who might still be interested, journalists and the sort. Better not bring any more down on our heads. You can rely on Fabjan to get his point across. So Krešimir has decided to stay on in Gost.
Lucky for him the graffiti stopped. The authorities at least seemed to be on Krešimir’s side. As quickly as it went up, out they came with their hoses and rubber boots. So in the end whoever was responsible gave up. For two weeks nothing. The talk began to subside, the silence at the Zodijak to lift.
And then this afternoon, in town running my errands: a new blade for my saw, mousetraps for the blue house. I make sure I take a look in at least once a week, to check for leaks, that the window seals are sound, that no animals have gained entry. I like to walk through the rooms, you can imagine. Strange to be in there alone; in all the years I have known the house, there was always someone: first the Pavićs, then Javor and Anka, the family over this last summer. Today in town I passed by the Orthodox church and there, sprayed on its double, metal-studded wooden doors, massive: a rising red bird, with outspread wings of blue and a crown of gold, trailing a red and yellow tail. From its uplifted beak came curls of gold breath. It flew straight upwards into the sky.
Ah, but here is Fabjan now, parking his BMW. I am sitting at his table, so he has no choice but to come and join me. Probably you wonder how we all stand each other as I do sometimes, but the truth is we have no choice. In towns like this there is nothing to do but learn to live with each other. I must live with Fabjan, as he must live with me. I’ll ask him how his tooth is and if he intends to hire another girl next summer. He’ll have to sort something out in the long run. There are after all, and as Laura said, so many summers.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to:
Igor Zvonic, who shared his memories of life in the former Yugoslavia in the 1970s and 1980s, patiently answered all my questions and helped with translations, also Boris Bošković for his help with details of the text. To both for talking to me about the war in the former Yugoslavia.
Sam Kiley for his knowledge of the war in the Krajina and memories of reporting from the region for The Times in the early 1990s.
Igor Zvonic, Boris Bošković and Sam Kiley, also Michael May, Gertrude Thoma and Simon Westcott who took the time to read The Hired Man in draft and shared with me their comments and observations.
Simon, companion in life as well as during my research trips through Croatia and the part of the country that briefly became known as the Republic of Serbian Krajina.
Charles Perry, of the UK National Rifle Association, who taught me about guns and how to shoot them. Corrine Edwards gave me an insight into the ceramicist’s art.
Writers Slavenka Drakulić, Dubravka Ugrešić, Josip Novakovich, Ivo Andrić, Aleksandar Hemon, Misha Glenny, Laura Silber and Allan Little, Rory Maclean – authors whose work was most informative in researching this book.
Feral Tribune, Croatia’s all-too-short-lived satirical magazine whose reporting of and investigations into war crimes led to prosecutions of several of those responsible.
David Godwin: rock steady friend and so very wise.
Morgan Entrekin who sees a world full of stories and storytellers.
Everyone at Grove Atlantic, especially Amy Hundley, my eagle eyed editor, Deb Seager and John Mark Boling.
Mo.
A Note on the Author
Aminatta Forna was born in Glasgow, raised in Sierra Leone and Britain and also spent periods of her childhood in Iran, Thailand and Zambia. She is the award-winning author of two novels, The Memory of Love and Ancestor Stones, and a memoir, The Devil that Danced on the Water, which was shortlisted for the Samuel Johnson Prize. Aminatta Forna lives in London.
A Note on the Type
The text of this book is set in Bembo. This type was first used in 1495 by the Venetian printer Aldus Manutius for Cardinal Bembo’s De Aetna, and was cut for Manutius by Francesco Griffo. It was one of the types used by Claude Garamond (1480–1561) as a model for his Romain de L’Université, and so it was the forerunner of what became standard European type for the following two centuries. Its modern form follows the original types and was designed for Monotype in 1929.