The Heart of Hell Page 17

  He could remember it vividly. The fig tree that overhung the rear courtyard. The white stone with its veiny rust-brown stain the colour of old blood. This was the place where his own blood had mingled with those of the dead men, where they’d tied him to the table and suffocated him until he talked. He felt again the thirst, the pain of being beaten while tied to a chair.

  Snapshots of that night’s turmoil flickered through his memory. Overturned chairs. Broken glass. The musty animal smell of dried piss. They’d concussed him and he’d wet himself. He had a brief atavistic urge to cross himself, as his grandmother might have done. Though he didn’t believe. Or didn’t think he believed.

  Could he really be blamed for bearing false witness, for implicating Strumbić to save himself?

  Yes, he thought. Yes.

  He shook himself into the present. There would be new horrors ahead. There was no reason to dwell on old ones.

  THE WIND HAD turned and was blowing from the east, not hard, not a bora, but cold nonetheless. Della Torre made sure his waterproofs were snug. Even so, he felt the chill in his feet, bare in the big rubber sailing boots.

  He thought he heard thunder but realized it was the sound of big guns rolling across the water. A drawn-out beat of short bursts followed by long silences.

  Behind him, Šipan faded into the mist and drizzle. He knew it was a short stretch of water between the islands, no more than a couple of kilometres, but to cross it still felt like madness. During breaks in the rain he could see three navy warships.

  “Do you think they’ll come after us? The Zodiac, I mean,” he asked.

  “They might. It’s a big risk. The RIB’s engine is very noisy. But even if they don’t get blown out of the water, they won’t find us.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll see.”

  It was a choppy crossing; the current running through the channel between the islands kicked up waves against the easterly wind. Despite his waterproofs, della Torre was soggy, bedraggled. Miranda was also wet, and once or twice he saw her shiver.

  They slipped past a small, uninhabited island and were quickly in Lopud’s broad bay. But rather than head into the sheltered harbour, Miranda steered the boat towards a distant stone pier. As she rounded the pier with a deft flick of the tiller, she jumped forward, dropped the sails, and hopped ashore.

  She showed him how to stow the sails, and they went through the routine of dropping the mast again. And then she pulled the boat along the shore, where della Torre was surprised to see a narrow inlet sheltered by the canopy of a couple of big pine trees. Gypsy fitted snugly into that space, a couple of rubber fenders cushioning her from the rocks.

  “Seems a clever place to park,” della Torre said.

  “You need to know the island well. None of the locals will tell you to keep your boat here. You don’t have to pay mooring or harbour fees. It also means the Yugoslav navy won’t see it.”

  “You seem to know a lot about evading the navy.”

  She shrugged. “The only downside to this parking place is that we stay up there.” She pointed to the other side of the harbour, up towards a steep hill that towered over the village. “And it’s a walk through the scrub to get to the road.”

  They trudged their way through the gloom and drizzle, carrying what they needed in their holdalls. The little port seemed shuttered, closed off from the wider world. They saw no one, though the smell of woodsmoke told them there was life.

  The house was modern, crudely built and unfinished, with iron reinforcing rods poking out from between the first and second storeys, where someone might once have contemplated building a balcony.

  The woman who opened the door for them was late-middle-aged, heavy though not fat, her apron-like dress patterned with small flowers.

  She clucked at them. “Signora, I wasn’t expecting you.”

  Miranda smiled. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you.” The woman crossed herself. “Come in, come in. You and the gentleman will catch a terrible cold. Go to the back room and take off your wet clothes and I’ll light the fire for the bath. It won’t take long to heat the water. And then I’ll try to find something for you to eat.”

  They entered, bedraggled and sodden. The woman led them to a concrete-floored back room, where they stripped down to their underwear, too tired and cold to be shy. They wrapped themselves in worn terry cloth bathrobes that were hanging on a peg, della Torre’s not quite reaching his knees.

  They waited for a quarter of an hour before the woman came back down.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to leave you freezing here. I just wanted to make sure the water was warm enough,” she said, horrified at how pale they looked. “Up, up.” She pointed to the stairs.

  “You go first,” della Torre said miserably.

  “Come, I think we can put aside chivalry and embarrassment in the name of thawing out, don’t you, Mr. della Torre?” Miranda said.

  “Marko.”

  “Marko.”

  He followed Miranda up the rough concrete staircase to the bathroom. The room was as basic as the one they’d left. The bathtub was the longest della Torre had ever seen. The hot water source was a tall white-enamelled cylinder tank in the corner of the room, fuelled by a wood fire in the stove built into its base. It was a primitive arrangement, but effective.

  Miranda shut the door.

  “It’s big enough for two,” she said. “I’m too tired, and I hope you are too, to get any ideas. You take one end, I’ll take the other. Keep your feet to yourself, and we can both get the chill out of our bones.”

  Della Torre nodded, unable to think of anything other than soaking in some warmth. And sleep.

  The water steamed as it filled the bath, condensation beading on the tile walls. When the water reached sufficient depth and was at a temperature just shy of scalding, Miranda stripped and slipped into the tub, her back to him, showing a modicum of modesty. When she leaned back, he could only just see the pink nipples on her pale white breasts. He followed suit, trying not to care how much the cold and tiredness had shrunk him.

  They reclined there, each in their own end, mostly submerged, colour seeping into their cheeks, not touching except when their feet bumped against each other.

  They were both too tired to talk. Della Torre lay in water to his chin, steam curling up in the yellow light of the smoking kerosene lantern. As with the other islands, the electricity supply from the mainland had been cut off; local generators provided power to only a few central buildings, and even then for only part of the day.

  “We ought to get out before we fall asleep,” della Torre said. But Miranda had already nodded off. The water cooled and he woke her.

  They dried themselves with thin towels and dressed with their backs to each other. He regretted not bringing more clothes.

  Their hostess had spread out a meal for them in the formal dining room, its heavy, dark Italianate furniture made gloomy by flickering candlelight. She’d prepared schnitzels — a neighbour had slaughtered a pig a few days earlier — and served them with thick ribbon pasta and boiled greens. It was just the sort of food their bodies craved after that long day, and was made more welcome still by the local wine, which was light enough to drink neat. The main course was served with hand-sliced home-cured ham and salami and a local cow’s-milk cheese, which della Torre and Miranda picked at throughout their meal.

  The woman sat with them, though she declined to eat. She was happy to have company, happy to have some new people to talk to. Her husband had died of cancer a few years before, and her son lived in Sweden with his Swedish wife. They drove down every summer, all that way, for just a week by the seaside. Now and again she’d interrupt her own monologue to ask, “How are we going to survive?” while dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief that looked like a big doily.

  After dinner, she brought them cups of tea made wi
th dried chamomile flowers from her own garden, and a bar of milk chocolate, turned white with age, that both her guests politely refused.

  Della Torre lit a cigarette. The warm smoke seeped into his lungs, soothing him. Miranda was visibly drooping over the table; the exhaustion of helming a small boat against a steady wind for most of the day and through the previous night was taking hold. As soon as it was polite, she said she’d like to turn in.

  “Signora, I’m so sorry,” the old woman said. “But I have only your room. The furniture I have taken from the upstairs rooms and stored away, in case they drop bombs.”

  “Never mind. The room still has a sofa as well as the bed?”

  “But of course.”

  “Then if we could have some extra sheets and blankets, the room will be sufficient.”

  The room was warm. The woman had stoked the green-tiled stove in the corner when they’d arrived. Miranda stripped, pulled on a linen nightshirt, and slipped into the bed. The sofa was all right angles, lumpy, and a fraction too short for della Torre’s frame, but it was as welcome as any he’d ever stretched out on.

  “You’re a puzzling person,” he said as she blew out the kerosene lamp, leaving them in total darkness. “Is it really just the money?”

  “Goodnight, Mr. della Torre,” she said.

  “Goodnight.”

  “And thank you for not taking advantage of the situation in the bath,” she said in a tone that precluded any more conversation.

  She woke him early the next morning. She was dressed and the blinds were partly drawn, the wooden shutters open slightly. The sun was bright, but there was a chill in the room. The faint smell of coffee pricked his attention.

  “Your friends are here,” she said. He sat up sharply and looked out the window in the direction she pointed. The water on the bay shimmered like fish scales. Beyond was a hilly ridge. It took him a while to spot the Zodiac in the harbour.

  “How?”

  “They must have crossed the channel after us.”

  “But I thought the farmer —”

  “He must have gotten a good offer.”

  “Fuck,” he said. “Have they found the boat?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “It was unlikely they’d make the crossing in the Zodiac.”

  “True,” she said.

  “I don’t suppose we could sneak out?”

  “Tonight. We’ll have to go in the dark,” she said. “But we would have had to anyway, because of the navy ships.”

  “They’ll be looking for us.”

  “I know, but there aren’t too many people to ask. The town’s mostly abandoned, and there are plenty of empty houses to search.”

  “What about the landlady here?”

  “I’ve asked her to say nothing about us if strangers come calling.”

  “Will she?”

  “She said she’s spending the day up the hill digging her potatoes and harvesting the rest of her beans. She’s got chickens and pigs that also need tending to. It’ll be a long winter and the supplies are pretty uncertain. So it’s us on our own. And if we don’t answer the door, would they really break in?”

  “Best we don’t move around the house too much.”

  They shuttered the blinds and had a simple breakfast of bread with homemade plum jam and chamomile tea, then settled in to wait out the day in their room.

  “I thought I smelled coffee,” della Torre said.

  “It’s not on offer.”

  Della Torre lay back on the sofa, Lucky in hand, watching the smoke snake, blue in the dim light. Miranda sat patiently, uncannily still, lost in thought.

  Sometime in the mid-morning they heard a knock on the door. Della Torre slipped onto the floor, out of sight of the window, and pulled the Beretta out of his bag, priming it with a pull on the slide.

  They heard whoever it was crunch across the gravel, trying to look in. The shutter was latched from the inside; the man on the other side made only a cursory effort to pull it open.

  They heard him walk back down the path, no doubt to try the house next door. Depending on how many people were searching, it would take most of the day to check all the houses on the island.

  Della Torre and Miranda stayed quiet for a long time. Even their breath was inaudible.

  Miranda broke the silence. “Would you have shot him?”

  “Maybe,” della Torre said.

  “You’re playing a dangerous game. For a while I thought you were going to Dubrovnik to get somebody out. But now I’m wondering whether you’re going there to get away.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You mean, because I’m being paid?” Without waiting for the answer, she said, “No, it doesn’t matter.”

  He was silent for a while, scrutinizing her in the dimness of the room. She wasn’t what passed for beautiful to most people, but she was striking, with her symmetrical, elegant features and self-possession. And she had that hard-as-nails quality della Torre had observed before.

  “You’ve got me stumped, Ms. Walker. I keep wondering whether you’re really that broke, or if you’re one of those suicidal types who don’t care about themselves, or if you’re just crazy. And I can’t really believe you’re any of those things.”

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Except you’ve got to get to Dubrovnik.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, why don’t we keep it to that simple transaction, Mr. della Torre. And you don’t need to worry about me.”

  He was glad they’d been exhausted in the bath, because he’d have been tempted. And he knew he would have been rebuffed in the most direct and unequivocal manner. No gentle letdown, no coquettishness, no half-flattery or suggestion that at another time, under different circumstances . . .

  He put the gun down on the floor next to him, lit a cigarette, and waited for the day to tick by.

  Their hostess came back for lunch. “A couple of men came asking if I’d seen you,” she said. “They described you. I told them you don’t see many strangers about these days. A neighbour told them I’d gone up to my vegetable garden.”

  “What language did they speak?” della Torre asked.

  “Croatian, of course. What language did you think they would speak?”

  “What did they look like?”

  “The one who talked was tall, the other one wasn’t so tall. Middle-aged. The quiet one dressed like a German.” She shrugged. “Before this war you couldn’t move for the tourists in the summer, all sorts. Even at this time of year. My house would be full all summer with foreigners and people from all over our country. An honest person could make a living. What will happen to us now? I’ll have to go. The radio says boats are coming to rescue us. But where can I go? My daughter-in-law won’t have me in Sweden. What’s to happen to us?”

  “Did you have a sense whether there were any more men?” della Torre asked, trying to sound less abrupt and insistent than he felt.

  “Ah.” She held up her hands in supplication. “I saw two. If the ships don’t come we’ll starve before the end of the winter. It’s just as well there are so few of us on the island. We have our hams and our gardens.”

  She cooked them a simple stew of potatoes, beans, cabbage, and tinned tomatoes, fortified by scraps of meat from their meal the night before. They ate in the kitchen, della Torre keeping a nervous eye on the window at the back of the house for any sign of the men.

  He filled the long day in the house as best he could, but as late afternoon drew on, Miranda said it was time to move. He paid their hostess from his dwindling stock of Deutschmarks. She was still weeping into her handkerchief as they left.

  They went out the back door and followed a path uphill through the scrub and trees, which were still damp from the previous day’s rain.
Della Torre guessed they were going to go around the village and approach the boat through the undergrowth. But the route Miranda took cut diagonally across the island. They passed another broad bay, opposite the village, this one sandy and beautiful, a magnet for day trippers from Dubrovnik during the good times. Will they ever return? he wondered.

  Eventually they ascended the crest of a hill along a path that had sunk into the ground and was shaded by overhanging branches, to a promontory that made up the far end of the bay. There the land was wild, all scrub and trees — the air full of pine resin. They passed the ruins of a small chapel and then the overgrown foundations of another, larger building. Here the land had once been terraced, but slowly the stones were being reclaimed by the earth.

  The colours of the light turned warm with the evening, and clouds had formed high above, the sinking sun making them an iridescent grey. Mackerel skies.

  They came to a small clearing with what might once have been a hamlet, though only one tiny stone structure seemed in good repair. An old man sat on the doorstep, watching them come along the path.

  “Good evening,” Miranda said.

  “Good evening,” he said, his voice neutral.

  “I’ve brought you some coffee,” she said, pulling a kilo bag of whole beans out of her holdall.

  The man wore an old blue beret and a week’s worth of grey stubble. He rose slowly and nodded.

  “Thank you. I’d run out. Cigarettes also getting low.”

  Della Torre offered him one from his nearly full pack and the old man took the lot, drawing one out before pocketing the rest. He went inside the little hut and came back out with the cigarette lit and the coffee put away.

  “Not many of us left on the island. When they come, when they bomb us, we’ll die in our houses. You can see them there.” He led della Torre and Miranda to the edge of the clearing, where between the trees they could make out another small island and Dubrovnik’s northern port and suburbs, now surprisingly close. But what caught della Torre’s eye was the warships.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. “Any more boats and you’d have to step over them to get to Dubrovnik.”