But it wasn't America. Not at all. What was first-class in these hills would do well to pass for middle-class back home.
This is home, Helen. This is your new home.
She sipped at her hot tea. Behind her Jan sat at the kitchen table, a pair of old glasses hanging off his nose. He'd started working on his new book the very day they'd taken the apartment.
Clack, clack, clack . . .
They saw Ivena once, maybe twice a week now, but she had already fit back into her beloved homeland, with greater ease than Janâno surprise considering what each had given up to come here. The days Ivena came were Helen's favorite. She was family now. Besides Jan, her only family.
Helen looked to the street below; the market across the way bustled with a late-day rush. Which reminded her, she needed some potatoes for dinner. Helen turned around and leaned on the window sill. “Jan?”
He smiled and pried his eyes over those silly black-rimmed glasses. “Yes, dear?”
“I think I'll go down and buy some potatoes for supper. I was going to try that potato soup again. Maybe this time I can get it right.”
He chuckled. “It was fine last time. A bit crisp, perhaps, but in my mouth it was deliciously crisp.”
“Stop it. Not only am I learning to cook, I'm learning to cook strange foods. Maybe you'd like to cook tonight.”
“You're doing wonderfully, dear.”
Helen drank the rest of her tea in one gulp and set the cup on the tile counter with a clink. Every surface seemed harsh to her. If it wasn't cement, it was tile. If it wasn't tile it was brick or hard wood. Carpet was hardly known on this side of the world. She didn't care how upscale this flat was in Sarajevo, it still reminded her of the projects back home.
Clack, clack, clack . . .
Jan was intent over the machine again.
“I'll be going then. Do you need anything?”
Listen to me, “I'll be going then
.
” That's how a European would say, “I'm outta here.”
This land was changing her already.
“Not that I can think of,” Jan said.
She walked over to him and kissed his forehead. “I'll be back.”
“Make some friends,” he said with a grin.
“Yes, of course. The whole world is my friend.”
“I'm mad about you, you know?”
“And I love you too, Jan,” she said smiling, and she slipped out the door.
The steep stairs were enough to discourage more than one or two ascents each day, and the thought that she would be coming back up with a bag full of potatoes brought a frown to her face. They hadn't heard of elevators in this corner of Europe yet.
Helen walked briskly for the market, keeping her head down. A bicycle careened by, splashing water from the morning's shower onto the sidewalk just ahead of her. Horns beeped on the street. They didn't
honk
here; they beeped, a high tone expected of tiny cars.
Beep, Beep.
Clack, clack, clack . . .
Jan could work for twelve hours straight without a break on that book. Well, he did take breaks, every hour in fact. To smother her with kisses and words of love. She smiled. But otherwise it was only the book. Her and the book.
It was really
The Dance of the Dead
, but written from a whole new point of view. Ivena was right; the story wasn't finished, he said. It wasn't even that well told. And so he was up there clacking away, engrossed in a world even more foreign than this wacky world below.
Helen entered the open marketplace and nodded at a woman she'd seen shopping here before. One of the neighbors, evidently. Some of them spoke English, but she was growing tired of discovering which ones did not. A nod would have to do. The tin roof over her head began to tick softly. It was sprinkling again.
The market was crowded for late in the day. Helen passed a shop brimming with bolts of colored cloth. The owner was checking some plastic he'd strung across the back where the tin gaped above. A small kiosk selling snacks made on the spot filled her nostrils with the smell of frying pastries.
Helen made her way to the fresh vegetable stand and bought four large potatoes from a big man named Darko. He smiled wide and winked and Helen thought she'd made herself a friend as Janjic suggested. Perhaps not what he'd imagined.
She left the market and crossed the street. It was then that the deep male voice spoke behind her, like a distant rumble of thunder that pricked her heart. “Excuse me, miss.” Helen glanced back, saw the tall man keeping stride with her ten feet behind, but she immediately dismissed his comment as misdirected. She certainly did not know him.
“You are an American?”
Helen stopped. He was speaking to her. And then he was beside her, a very large man, square and wearing black cotton pants. His shirt was white with silver-and-pearl buttons, like those cowboy shirts she'd seen in the shops back home. She looked into his eyes. They were black, like his pants. Like Glenn's eyes.
“Yes?” she asked.
A crooked smile split the man's boxy jaw. “You are American, yes?”
He spoke with a heavy accent, but his English was good. “Yes. Can I help you?”
“Well, miss, actually I was going to ask you the same thing. I saw you in the market and I thought, now there is a pretty woman who looks like she could use some help.”
“Thank you, but I think I can handle four potatoes. Really.”
He tilted his head up and laughed. “An American with humor. So then humor me. What is your name?”
A bell of caution rang through Helen's bones. “My name? And who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Anton. You see, Anton? Is that such a bad name? And yours?”
“I'm not in the habit of giving my name to strangers, actually. I really should be going.” She turned to go. But did she really want to go? She stunned herself by answering the question quickly. No.
“You don't want to do that,” the man said. She looked at his face. White teeth flashed through his grin. “Really, you want to know me. I have what you're looking for.”
Helen stared at him. “You do, do you? And what is it that I'm looking for?”
“For a destination. For a place to go. A place that feels like home; that swims in your mind the way you like.”
She blinked. “I'm sorry, I need to leave.”
“No. No you shouldn't do that. You're American. I know a part of Sarajevo that's very . . . what should I say? Friendly to Americans. Do you like to fly, American?”
What was he talking about?
You know what he's talking about, Helen. You know, you know.
“What's your name?” the man asked again. The sky was still spitting the odd raindrops. Pedestrians had cleared the streets for the most part. To Helen's left, an alley ran between two gray buildings, dark and dingy.
“Why are you talking so strangely to me? Do I look like I have âfool' stamped on my forehead?”
He found the remark funny. “No. And that's precisely why I'm speaking strangely to you. Because you're not a fool. You know precisely what I'm talking about. You really should join us.”
Helen's blood was pumping steadily now. A thousand days from her past screamed through her spine. She should leave this man now. He was the devil himselfâ she should know, she'd shared the devil's bed many a night.
But her feet were not moving. Instead they were tingling, and it had been a while since her feet had tingled like this. She wet her lips, and then immediately hoped he did not read her too clearly.
“There are other Americans here?”
“Did I say that? No. There are others like you.”
She hesitated. Her breathing was coming harder now.
Run, Helen, Run!
“How do I know who you are?” Her ears were hot.
“I am Anton, and you must ask yourself another question; how do I know what I know? Unless I am who I say I am?”
“And who are you, Anton?”
“Tell me your name and I will tell you who I am.”
She cleared her throat. “Helen.”
He grinned wide and nodded his head once. “And I'm the one who will help you fly.”
She swallowed, looking up into his eyes.
“May I see your hand?” Anton asked
She opened her hand and glanced down at it. His large hand suddenly held hers gently. She tried to pull it free, but the man held her firmly and she saw that his eyes were not threatening. They were deep and dark and smiling. She let him take her hand. But he was not interested in her hand; his eyes followed her arm to the tiny pockmark from her old days on the needle.
Then the man who called himself Anton did a very strange thing. He leaned over and he kissed that tiny scar very gently. And Helen let him do it. His lips sent a shiver right up her arm and through her skull.
There was suddenly a small black card in his hand and Helen had no clue where it had come from. She took it. He held her eyes in his own for what seemed an eternity. Then he turned and left without another word.
It occurred to Helen that she had stopped breathing. Her heart was slamming in her chest. She looked at the card. It had an address on itâthis man's addressâ and a simple map. The den of iniquity. She should throw it to the ground and stamp her feet on it, she thought.
Instead she shoved it into her pocket and walked numbly for the flat.
HELEN HAD calmed herself before entering the apartment, but a tingle rode her spine and she was powerless to dismiss it.
“Did you find the potatoes?” Jan asked without looking up. He continued his typing, reached the end of a section and slapped the carriage back.
Ding!
He lowered his hands and looked at her. She held up the four large spuds.
“They'll make a fine soup,” he said and clapped his hands together once. “I'll give you a tip, my dear. Use a low flame. It may take a few minutes longer, but we'll be using ladles instead of forks if you do.”
She
humphed,
feigning disgust at him. “Come over here and I'll use a ladle on you, Jan Jovic.”
He threw his head back, delighted. Then he clambered out of his chair and padded over to her. “Have I told you recently that you're the light of my world?” he said, taking her head in his hands. He kissed her cheek. When he withdrew his eyes were on fire. No, his passion for her hadn't dimmed, not even a little, she thought.
“I love you, Jan,” she said.
Do you? I mean really, like he loves you?
He winked and returned to the table.
Helen slid into the kitchen and dumped the potatoes into the sink for cleaning.
Clack, clack, clack . . .
The day fell to darkness as Helen prepared their supper. Outside, the cars beeped on through the evening. Inside, the room kept time to Jan's clacking. But Helen was not hearing the sounds. She was still hearing the stranger's voice, soft and soothing.
And I am the one who will help you fly.
The card lay in her pocket. God forbid if Jan should find it! She eased into the bedroom and placed it under the mattress. He stopped his clacking and she rushed out, but he was only reading a page he'd written.
Do you want to fly, Helen?
The soup spoon slipped from her hand and splashed the hot liquid onto her arm. “Ouch!”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
She dug out the spoon and chided herself.
Stop this nonsense! Stop it! You are not an adolescent. You are the wife of Jan Jovic.
Yes, but do you want to fly, wife of Jan Jovic?
In the end she butchered the soup. It was not crispy; it was not even too thick. But it tasted bland and not until Jan mentioned salt near the end of their meal, did she remember that she'd forgotten the spice altogether. She apologized profusely.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Too much salt's bad for the heart. It's much better this way, Helen.”
She retired at nine, leaving Jan to finish his chapter. But she could not sleep. Her mind settled into a dream of sorts, wide awake but lost in the stranger's world, in recounting every detail of their meeting. And then it slipped into Glenn's Palace and a mound of powder and she gave up trying to fight the thoughts. Instead she let them run rampant through her mind, even embellishing them.
She pretended to be asleep when Jan came to bed, but in reality she dozed for another two hours. The card lay under her mattress, and at one point she was sure she could feel it. And if Jan rolled over here, he would feel it! She started and sat.
“What is it?” Jan asked, suddenly awake.
She gazed about in the darkness. “Nothing,” she said, and collapsed to her back.
Sleep finally overtook her near midnight. But even then she could not shake that man's haunting face.
Do you want to fly, Helen?
Yes, of course. Don't be silly. I would love to fly. I'm dying to fly.
Do you want to die, Helen?
I want to fly. I don't want to die.
I want to sleep.
JAN AMBLED down the avenue the following afternoon, stretching his legs, whistling into a light breeze. He'd asked Helen to walk with him but she seemed content to stay home. Perhaps even a little preoccupied with staying home.
The sights and sounds of Sarajevo came to him like a rich, soothing balm as they did every morning, healing wounds long forgotten. When he'd walked these streets five years earlier, the war's scars still mocked the city on every corner; blasted buildings and pitted roads.
But now . . . now his city was brimming with new life and a people fanatical about reestablishing their identity. There was some dissatisfaction with Tito and his government, of courseâtalk of an independent Bosnia. And there were occasional words between the Serbs and the Croats, even the Muslims. That had become a staple of the people; a prerequisite the land seemed to extract from its inhabitants. But the country was nothing like the war-torn shamble he'd left.