And then her eyes opened. No change in expression. No hint of movement. Only the eyes peering down at him.
Somehow, Mendravic sensed it. Without a word, he pulled away and moved off down the corridor, the sound of a squealing hinge in the distance a few moments later.
The two of them continued to stare.
Whatever image Pearse had carried with him for the last eight years came to life as she looked down at him. If she had aged, it was only around the eyes, one or two creases. The battle with her hair continued to rage on, the familiar wisps draped along her cheek. She wore a simple shirt, skirt—something he had never seen before, never even imagined on her—ankle-length, bobbing atop her bare feet.
She leaned back against the railing. Silence.
“Hey,” he said finally, regretting the choice before the word had even left his mouth.
“Hey,” she answered.
“You look—”
She nodded to herself before he could finish the thought. “I look great, right?”
Again, he realized how stupid it must have sounded. He tried a smile. “Right.”
She shook her head. “You still don’t look like a priest.”
“I guess some things never change.”
“No, I guess they don’t.” She waited. “Amazing how long you imagine this, and it doesn’t make it any easier, does it?” Again, she waited. “Why are you here, Ian?”
He wanted to move to her but couldn’t. “It’s a long story.”
She continued to stare at him. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“I know.” Another stab at the smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to.”
“Neither was I, for a while.” She was about to say something else, then stopped.
Another awkward silence. Finally, he spoke: “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Salko told you.” A dismissive laugh. “Of course he told you. That’s why you’re here.”
“It’s not the only reason.”
She’d become preoccupied with something on the step, her foot rubbing away at it. “I didn’t know the last time we spoke.”
“So why didn’t you get in touch with me when you found out?”
Again, silence. When she turned to him, her expression was far from what he expected. Her own attempt at a smile. Not terribly convincing. “Right to the tough stuff,” she said. “That isn’t fair, is it?” He tried to answer. “Look, Salko’s probably halfway through the fridge. Why don’t you come inside?” Not waiting for him, she turned and headed down the hall.
The apartment was much as he’d expected it—living room, galley kitchen, narrow hall, rooms somewhere beyond. A low overstuffed couch took up much of the far wall, Mendravic now taking up much of it, already a plate of something in his lap. A small table perched under the near window, half of it reserved for a rather ancient television—an even older video game hooked up to its back—two chairs around the far end for mother and son. A bookshelf—slanting just a bit—stood by the entry to the hall, a wide assortment of knickknacks, pictures, and books atop its six shelves. Pearse recognized a few of the faces, Mendravic’s the most prominent, one shot of him caught in midlaugh, the boy clutched in his arms, outside, winter hats.
“He was four in that picture,” Petra said, noticing where Pearse’s eyes had come to rest. “It’s a park in Sarajevo. Veliki. I think you were there once. It still had some trees left. Near where we lived.”
“Dusanov,” chimed in Mendravic, his mouth busy with a piece of orange. “It was Dusanov, the other side of the river. Remember, he cut himself when he fell?”
Petra shook her head and moved toward the shelf. “That happened in Veliki.” She picked up the plastic frame, slid the picture out, and flipped it over. A moment later, the smile on her face signaled her capitulation. “‘November fifth, 1997,’” she read. “‘Dusanov Park with Salko.’” She looked over at Mendravic. “How do you always do that?”
He shrugged as he finished off the wedge. “Must be that I love him more than you do.” A smile peeked out from behind the rind.
“That must be it,” she said. She was about to put it back in its frame. Instead, she handed it to Pearse.
He looked down into the child’s face and realized he was staring into Petra’s eyes, tinier versions to be sure, but the same deep charcoal, the same long black lashes above, that pinch at either end when lost in laughter. The cheekbones were hers as well, sharply contoured around the dollop of nose, lips already hinting at his mother’s fullness. But where the individual features were hers, the shape of the face was not, most notably in the jaw, its curve more pronounced, its line more angular—a child’s size of one Pearse knew all too well.
Five minuscule fingers squeezed at Mendravic’s large nose, the howls of laughter from them both almost audible.
“He’s beautiful,” Pearse finally said.
“Yes, he is.” She waited for him to hand back the picture. She looked at it for several seconds, then slotted it into the frame and placed it on the shelf. “He’s asleep,” she said. She looked at Pearse, the first hint of softness in her eyes. “You’ll have to be quiet.” Not waiting for an answer, she started down the hall, Pearse at once behind her.
With a finger to her lips, she quietly opened the door, the mustiness of a sleeping seven-year-old at once rising up to greet them. Waiting a moment for her eyes to adjust, she led the way through, a tangle of clothes and toys scattered along the path, a sliver of shadow cutting across the room through a slit in the curtains. When she reached the bed, she remained perfectly still for several seconds, Pearse at her side.
The boy lay curled up on his side, hands nestled under his chin, a thin blanket draped along his back, only his feet peeking out at the edge. Beneath the cover, a small shoulder rose and fell, the sound of gentle breath on pillow. Nothing else to break the silence. A few years older—the chin more pronounced, the lips having lived up to their promise—the face remained hers. Pearse couldn’t help but marvel at him, the quiet wonder of this boy. He had a sudden need to reach out to him, hold him, equally desperate not to disrupt the moment’s perfect serenity. Torn between the two impulses, he crouched down and brought his face to within a hair’s breadth of the boy’s cheek, the closeness almost unbearable. Shutting his eyes, he felt the warmth just beyond his grasp, and a sense of overwhelming loss.
Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to hold his son, no matter how great the need. He hovered on the brink, eyes now open, his own breath growing shorter and shorter. When it became too much, he pulled himself back and turned to her. She had been looking at him all along. She continued to stare, her eyes unwilling to give into the tears.
Then, without a sound, she stepped closer into the bed, leaned past him and kissed her son. The child moved, his lips parting, a deep breath, as if he might say something; then, just as quickly, he was still. She waited, then nodded to Pearse and headed for the door.
When she had pulled it shut, she turned to him. She seemed unsure for a moment. “You could have held him,” she finally said. “It would have been all right.”
Pearse thought of answering, but couldn’t. They stood there for a moment. The sound of a plate being dropped momentarily broke the silence. Instinctively, she turned toward the kitchen, then back to Pearse.
“Salko,” she said.
She started down the hall; Pearse reached out and took her hand. He felt her entire body tense. Just as quickly, she relaxed and turned to him.
“Not yet,” she said softly. She slowly pulled her hand away. For just a moment, she let it rest on his chest, then turned and headed for the living room. Pearse watched her go, then followed.
Mendravic was at the fridge.
“It’s not going to be enough,” he said, his head deep inside. “You hardly have a thing.”
“It’s not as if I was expecting you,” she said as she sidled past him and opened several cabinets along the cupboard by the stove. From the one at the top, she produced crackers, a collection of boxes filled with foods Pearse had never heard of, and pasta.
Mendravic removed himself from the fridge and peered over at the scant offerings. Crinkling his face, he shook his head. “Crackers? This is Salko.” When she continued to stare at him—no hint of mercy in her eyes—his expression at once became more benign. “The orange was good,” he said sheepishly.
Ten minutes later, he had convinced her that they needed to go out. Ten-thirty. Not so late in this part of the world. The boy would be fine. Yes, he knew the right place. Yes, it was very close by. They’d be away half an hour. Forty-five minutes at the most. With tremendous reluctance, and a constant barrage of encouragement, she had knocked on her neighbor’s door. Explanations of friends from out of town, nothing in the house. The woman had been more than accommodating.
“I know the place,” she had said. “Go. It’ll do you good. He’ll be fine with me.” A wink from Mendravic hadn’t hurt, either.
True to his word, the café was no more than a five-minute drive from the apartment. A good deal more than crackers and pasta.
And, as with just about everything else, Mendravic seemed to be on familiar terms with everyone at the restaurant. The promised crowds, however, proved to be no more than a waiter and cashier, both eager to close up shop. Evidently, his recollection of late-night carousing wasn’t terribly accurate. No matter. The two were more than happy to keep the kitchen open a little while longer. For an old friend.
“I’m in the mood for
burek
,” Mendravic began, the waiter nodding his approval. “And some of the lemon-ginger
rakija
.”
“‘Burek?’”
asked Pearse.
“Like Greek
spanokopita
.” When Pearse continued to stare blankly, Mendravic explained: “Casserole. Spinach, cheese, light pastry. Delicious.”
Pearse’s expression showed far less enthusiasm. “Nothing heavier?” he said.
“One order of the
burek
, and one of the
maslenica
,” Petra told the waiter. “And a bottle of
prokupac
.”
“Masle what?” Again Pearse was at a loss.
“Trust me.” She smiled. “Heavier. Much heavier.”
Half an hour later, there was still plenty on the plate, even Mendravic too full to take a taste of the generous helping of stew. The wine and brandy were another matter.
“You’re telling me one person usually eats this whole thing,” said Pearse, having had a bit more to drink than he was used to, and unable to wrap his mind around the Bosnian capacity for consumption.
“Sure.” Petra laughed. “Ivo has at least two of them each night for dinner.”
Mendravic laughed as well, a few hums of approval as he now began to pick at the bits of feta that had broken free of the remaining heap of meat.
“Ivo?” Pearse couldn’t recall an Ivo.
Before Petra could answer, Mendravic cut in: “Her son. Your son. Ivo. It’s as close as you get to Ian in Croatian.” He was hunting for the last of the mushrooms. Poking away with his fork, he added, “Two of them, easy.” A lazy laugh as he pushed the plate away.
Ivo. Pearse realized he hadn’t even bothered to ask. For some reason, he laughed as well. Only for a moment, but distinctly, a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” asked Petra.
He shook his head, the laughter subsiding, a nervous energy competing with the effects of the brandy.
“Good a reason as any,” Mendravic chimed in as he hoisted himself up. “Men’s room,” the declaration more to remind himself why he’d gotten up than to update his dinner companions. He picked one last mushroom from the plate, swallowed it, and headed back.
When Petra turned to him, she saw Pearse was staring at her.
“What?” she said.
“Hearing his name … it made me laugh.”
“It’s a good name,” she said. “Good enough for you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Yes, I know you know.”
Petra refilled their glasses. She took a sip, then placed hers on the table.
After another awkward silence, Pearse spoke: “It’s just when I first saw him, it made me … I can’t explain it. To see him and know how much I hadn’t seen, how much he was without my ever having …” The thought trailed off. “And then hearing his name. I don’t know. It just … came out of nowhere.” Without any thought, he picked up his fork and began to run it along the plate. “Does that make any sense?”
Petra continued to look at him. “He’s your son. He has your name. Yes. That should make you happy.”
Pearse nodded, his focus still on the plate. After several moments, he asked, “And you?”
“And me, what?”
“Does it make you happy?”
She waited before answering. “That’s a silly question.”
“Why?” he asked, turning back toward her.
“‘Why?’” Again she paused. “You saw him. It’s a silly question.”
Once again, an overwhelming sense of loss cut through him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“A priest with a son?” A smile, a shake of the head. “We both know you would have thrown that all away, done the right thing. And I wasn’t going to do that to any of us. You asked me to understand.” She held his gaze. “Don’t you see, I finally did.”
“Maybe better than I did.”
She stopped, never for a moment thinking he would say that. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s never been as clear as I thought it would be. It’s never made as much sense.”
“As what?”
He continued to look at her.
“Don’t … don’t say that. Every day you didn’t come back confirmed how right your choice was. That you belonged in another life. And every one of those days made me feel stronger about what I was doing. About the decision
I
made.”
It was several seconds before he spoke.
“Does he know about me?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“That I’m a priest.”
Now she laughed. Her reaction caught him by surprise. “You don’t tell a seven-year-old his father is a priest, Ian.” She reached for her glass. “Don’t worry. It’s not that strange for a boy here not to have a father. Half his friends are the same way. Except theirs are dead. At least he knows you’re alive.”
“I guess that’s something.”
“Believe me, it is.” She took a sip. “He knows you’re an American. He knows you fought with Salko and me during the war.” She stopped and placed the glass on the table. She then looked up at him. “And he knows you’re a good man.”