Stillness of the Sea (12 page)

It would be so much easier for him, had she ever expressed some doubts about her father, had she never created that image of her loving Dad. If only she had told him that he was given to outbursts of rage, as one of his neighbours has put on record. And that he could be unfair, and her mother, too often, was the target. The neighbour described a party where she contradicted him
on some point and he shouted at her in front of everyone. It was known that he expected to be waited on, to be served his food. And if he wanted the salt, she would fetch it from the house. Why didn’t Ana tell him about any of this? Her silence has put him in the position of prosecutor, who in the end will shatter the untarnished world she has defended for so long. He would tell her that her father is not a good man, whatever she believes. He would have to point out that a man who leads women and children to their death cannot be full of love. She picked him for this role – picked someone who, at the time, had been so far away – of all people, someone who had led another life in another world. It was downright wicked of her to demand that he should deliberate on moral questions, talk about conscience and claim for himself, as she must see it, the right to make judgements without knowing what had happened, without having been there at the time, without knowing her father and without really knowing her. She would feel attacked by him. His only other option is silence. But how can he stay silent in the face of all that has happened? If she regarded him as uninvolved, this might explain her behaviour when she finally told him, standing by the bookshelf while he sat on the bed. It could be why she didn’t come to him, didn’t sit down next to him and put her arms round him, didn’t kiss him or even hold his hand, didn’t want to talk about it and didn’t cry as you’d expect of someone who had carried this burden for nine months. You would think it would all have suddenly come pouring out, that she would have wept uncontrollably when the sadness she’d bottled up inside her finally spilled out into the open. You would have expected her to scream, hammer her fists on the wall, tear the books from the shelf and then run from the
room, leaving him to hear the front door slam a little later. That would have been easier for him: he could have taken her in his arms, hugged her tight and held her wrists down to stop her from hitting out. He could have pressed her face to his chest and freed her cheeks from strands of damp hair. He could have run after her, caught up with her in the street, grabbed her wrist as she ran and pulled her close, and, though she might well have fought him at first, she would have then clung to him and he would have wrapped her in his coat. They would have stood there while people walked past them, holding each other until he finally said, “Come, let’s go now.”

Ana looked at him. Searching his memory, he tries to visualise her hands as they were at the time she stood in front of the bookshelf, but it’s impossible, because he simply cannot escape the sensation of meeting her gaze, her cool, clear gaze, so hostile it paralysed him. He retains the image of her eyes, nothing else, as if they were detached from the rest of her body. He dwells on this from time to time. Was she not at least holding onto the bookshelf? He’s not sure, but thinks not and has instead come to believe that she stood there, in her separate space, upright and grounded in herself.

When Ana left the room, he got up hesitatingly. He saw the old edition of
King Lear
on the bookshelf, the book she had given him on one of their first evenings together and in which he had seen her father’s writing for the first time. He stood by the bookshelf. One step closer to the desk and he would be face to face with her father’s photograph.

He went over to the window and looked out. The woman on the third floor of the building opposite was
standing in the kitchen with her back to him, opening cupboard doors, presumably looking for something. Then she turned round, stood still for a moment as if lost in her own kitchen, before walking away and disappearing from sight. He heard someone’s footsteps in the courtyard and the clatter of a dustbin lid.

The flat was quiet. He didn’t know where Ana was. He hadn’t heard the front door go, so she could only be in the bathroom or the kitchen. What could she be doing? More footsteps in the yard, the person who had taken rubbish down must be walking back. No more sounds. Nothing moved. The kitchen across the way was still empty. A cupboard door hung open; the woman must have forgotten to close it.

He turned to the wall next to the desk and glanced at Šimić. Seeing that face was hard, because he felt betrayed. It had all been in vain, his vision of how they would sit together in harmony at the garden table, his hope of discovering in this man something of what he, as a son, had always missed. And he had been so grateful for Ana.

He has wished so often for something to remember her by, something of hers that he could touch. Apart from a small stone, he has nothing. No book, no clothes left in his flat, no object that she had given him. She had never given him a gift, though she had told him to keep the stone after he had spotted it on her bookshelf and asked what it meant. Surely gifts are part of loving someone? He had been bringing her things all the time: white or red roses, books he had wanted her to read. He had even written her a poem. He had always hoped she would surprise him with a small present, just once. A token of love. But, in the end, he had nothing to remember her by, except his own memories of her and the taste of Sarma.

He walked past the kitchen, where nothing had been tidied away; two plates were still on the table, and the mugs and scattered crumbs. The two chairs had been pulled back a little. There was coffee in the pot, cold by now. He put on his shoes and coat, and wound a scarf around his neck. The bathroom door was shut. He held his breath, trying to listen. Not a sound. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened the door and left her flat.

For days, he waited for her to phone. It was all he did – wait, mostly lying on the bed. He didn’t eat, but when he couldn’t bear staying in bed, he walked the streets. He would pass the tree in the park where they had lain together on the grass, sit down on a seat outside the café where he’d bought her coffee. He usually stayed there for a long while before going back home. He checked the downstairs letterbox every time he left his flat or returned to it, and when he walked up the last flight of stairs to his landing, he would close his eyes briefly, hoping that when he opened them he would see a note stuck to his door.

He can remember how fast his heart was beating the day he saw from below the outline of a figure sitting on the landing outside his flat. When he got up the stairs, it turned out to be a neighbour who had forgotten his key.

He phoned her shortly before his first visit to The Hague. She didn’t answer. He phoned her when he got back from The Hague and, just as he was near giving up, she answered. “Ana,” he said. She was silent. “I …” he mumbled and didn’t know what to say next, even though he had thought endlessly about this call. Then he said, “It’s time we talked.” She replied, “Yes, it’s time we did.” He said, “It makes me happy to hear your voice again.” And she responded, “I’m glad that you called.” He said,
“Ana, perhaps we can forget what happened.” “That’s the problem. I can’t forget.” “Ana, all this has nothing to do with us.” “But it has to do with me and that’s why it affects us.”

To him, the silence on the line seemed to last for an eternity. And he feared his voice would take on the earnest tone he wanted to avoid. He had tried to sound relaxed to make their talk easier, but her silence unsettled him.

Like him, she’d had a couple of weeks to think about things, time enough for her to put them into focus. He felt that by now she must surely have found a way to speak about what had happened. And that it would have become as clear to her as it was to him that the day she told him should not become their last one together.

“I…” he said, “I’d like to know how you are.”

He wondered if her language also had a word for stillness between two people. He could hear her breathing and could almost feel a gentle puff of air tickling his ear. He imagined Ana holding the receiver. Recalled her narrow nose, pale skin and serious eyes. It surprised him how quickly he was coming to enjoy being close to her again. He wished that he could stay on the line to her for hours on end.

He sensed she was about to say something, a tone of voice only, half a syllable. Later he would try to work out the word she had intended to use. He played around with a thousand possibilities, but to be honest, he couldn’t even be certain that the sound she’d made was consciously articulated, that it was actually meant to begin a word. Then he heard the click as she put her receiver down. True, she had hesitated a little and he held on until the disconnection signal penetrated his awareness and he too ended the call.

He phoned his father. It cost him to overcome his resistance and he couldn’t see why his father, of all people, should be able to help him. The old man had never taken his relationships seriously, neither with girls nor, later, with women. Earlier, he had always refused to say who he was going out with, or even to talk more generally about love. Now and then, his father would ask him about his love life and, every time, he replied, “Just fine.”

He had mentioned Ana to his parents, but not told them that her father was a war criminal. That was something he wouldn’t even tell his best friend. He wanted to keep the secret between Ana and himself, because he thought this would help them to think clearly about it and what it meant to them.

As always his father’s voice answered with his surname, and as always he sounded as if he had been disturbed.

“So it’s you,” his father said.

“It’s me.”

“Good. I was in the sitting room anyway.”

“I’d like to ask you something.”

“Are you in trouble?”

This was clearly his big worry. The kind of trouble his father had in mind included financial problems, a car accident or a broken fridge. Things he could deal with.

What was he supposed to say? That he was in love with the daughter of a Serb war criminal? He doubted his father would even begin to grasp the implications.

“I’d like to know why you never thought it worthwhile for me to learn Croat. And why haven’t you tried to make me feel more at home in your old country? Why be so
detached from the place you came from? It’s something I’d like an answer to.”

The line went silent. Then his father said: “You were born
here,
you’ve grown up
here
. This country is
your
home.”

“But you were born in Croatia. That’s where you grew up. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Why would you think it doesn’t mean anything to me?”

“Because you’ve never shown any interest. Other people visit the Croatian Cultural Society or read Croatian newspapers. You didn’t even pay much attention to the war.”

“Look here, my lad,” his father said. “I came to this country because I wanted to make something of my life. When you take a step like that, you have to make up your mind. It won’t do to try to belong here, there and everywhere, or you’ll end up not living anywhere properly. And as for the war, you should thank your lucky stars you saw nothing of it. We were all lucky. You’ve got no reason to complain. You’ve done well enough here.”

It annoyed him that his father didn’t understand what he really meant. It wasn’t about him or his son, but that’s how the old man always managed to make it sound.

“How’s your girlfriend?” his father asked.

“Fine.”

“Good! I’m glad that you’re happy. Did she like your cake?”

He needed to think for a moment before he realised what cake his father was talking about. He hadn’t thought about it since he’d called his father to ask for his aunt’s advice on how to bake that special cake.

“Yes, she did,” he said.

“My sister wanted to know who you were baking for.”

“What did you tell her?”

“For a woman.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She was pleased that you’d found yourself a lady friend.”

“And did you mention that she’s a Serb?”

“I told her your girlfriend is German.”

It seemed a bizarre flight of fancy to turn Ana into a German woman, an Anna like so many others. If his father met Ana, he would understand the absurdity of it.

“She’s no German,” he said. “Why did you say that?”

“Because your aunt couldn’t have coped with anything different. You know, don’t you, that the Serbs were shooting at her house? Or didn’t you hear about that?”

He hadn’t, but it seemed of no consequence.

He has no sense of how long he has been staring straight ahead. Mr Bloom, the prosecutor, is standing at his desk. Cross-examination of the witnesses is in full flow.

A clean-shaven, grey-suited man is at the witness seat. He appears to be in his late forties and is wearing glasses. His hand movements are restrained. Šimić is there too, just as he has been every day so far. But he seems older today, as if he has aged suddenly, from one day to the next. He looks tired, his face is pale and drawn. The light falling on him has a strangeness about it. On previous occasions, he has appeared distant, but deliberately so, as if to punish others with his disdain. Now the impression he gives is of a man who has simply withdrawn into himself, deep in thought.

He nudges Aisha to alert her, then gestures for her to take the headphones off.

“What’s this about?” he whispers.

“He’s a psychologist, I think. He treated Šimić when he was taken to the clinic with his broken leg.”

He nods a thank you and they both put their headphones back on.

“At the time, I diagnosed the patient’s condition as psychosis type 298.9, which was in accordance with the
International Classification of Diseases
after the
Ninth Revision, Clinical Modifications
. The numbers have in fact been changed since then. At the time, the 298.9 group included forms of so-called Unspecified or Atypical Psychoses. These are diagnostic categories that are frequently used when there are no specific
psychopathological
grounds for another classification. Generally, you observe indications of severe mental imbalance, which in this case expressed itself in disturbed, excited behaviour, profound restlessness and unstructured thought processes. When I questioned the patient’s wife, it emerged that he was a heavy drinker. Also, the death of a close relative was mentioned. Such factors may well have contributed to his severely disoriented state of mind.”