When Heaven Weeps (51 page)

“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 ‘fool' 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 himself— 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 it—this man's address— 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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

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 course—talk 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.

“Hello, Mira,” he called, passing the bakery where the plump baker swept clouds of flour through her doorway. “Nice day?”

She looked up, startled. “Oh, Janjic, there was a gentleman looking for you. I sent him down the street.”

“Oh? And did this gentleman have a name?”

“Molosov,” she said.

The name rang through Jan's mind like a manic rat. Molosov was looking for him? So the soldier from Sarajevo had heard that he'd returned. They'd discussed the possibility a hundred times and now it was happening.

“Hmm,” Jan finally managed.

“You send your wife down, and I will sell her something special, just for you,” the baker said.

He chuckled. “Good enough.”

Jan glanced up and down the street; it was empty. He left Mira and walked on, but with a stiff step now. Molosov. The name sounded strange after such a long time. And if Molosov had heard of his return, what of Karadzic?

The sun was out today. In Atlanta he would have been sweating like a pig. Here the warmth was like a smile from heaven. It had only been a month, and yet it felt like a year. He'd heard from Lorna, who had sent him the settlement statement from the ministry last week. She'd managed to pay off all of their debts and come away with nearly five thousand dollars. What should he do with it? Lorna wanted to know.

Give it to Karen
, he'd written back.
She deserves it and more
.

As for himself and Helen, they had four thousand dollars still, which was barely enough to carry them through the year. Then they would see. Honestly, he had no clue.

Helen wanted to return to America, he knew that much. But then she was young and it was her first time leaving the country. She would adjust. He prayed she would adjust.

“Janjic.”

He turned toward the voice. A man stood on the curb, staring at him. The street suddenly appeared vacant except for this one man. Jan stopped and looked at the figure. There were others striding in his peripheral vision, but one look at this man and they ceased to exist.

Janjic's pulse spiked. It was Molosov! The soldier he'd roamed Yugoslavia with, finding enemies to kill. One of the soldiers who had crucified the priest.

Now Molosov was here, grinning at him from the street.

“Janjic.” The man strode to him, and a smile suddenly split his face. “That is you, Janjic?”

“Yes. Molosov.”

The man thrust his hand out and Janjic took it. “You're back on the streets of Sarajevo,” Molosov said. “I'd heard you'd gone to America.”

“I'm back.” In any other place this man would be his mortal enemy. They had never gotten along well. But they had been through a war together, and they were both Serbs. That was the bond between them.

Molosov slapped him on the shoulder and Jan nearly lost his balance. “You are looking good. You've put some meat on your bones. I see America has been good to you.”

“I suppose,” Jan said. “And you? You are good?”

“Yes, good. Alive still. If you're alive in Bosnia, you are good.” He chuckled at his remark.

“You were looking for me?” Jan asked.

“Yes. My friend in the market told me about you a week ago, and I have watched for you. I am planning to go to America.” He said it proudly, as if he expected immediate affirmation for the disclosure.

“You are? Very good. I am not.”

Molosov wasn't put off. “This place is no longer for me. I was thinking you could help me. Just with information, of course.”

Jan nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. “Have you heard from the others?” Jan asked. “Puzup, Paul?”

“Puzup? He's dead. Paul left the country, I think. To his new homeland, Israel.”

“They were good men.” He wasn't sure why he said that. There was some goodness under everyone's skin, but Puzup and Paul were not especially well endowed with it and Jan had concluded as much in his book.

Molosov withdrew a cigarette. “And you, Janjic, you have a wife now?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm married.”

“A fat lady from America?”

Jan smiled with him. “As a matter of fact, she's from America. The loveliest woman I've ever known.”

He chuckled, pleased. “American women are the best, yes? Well, let me give you some advice, comrade,” Molosov said in good humor. “Keep her away from Karadzic. The beast will devour her!”

A spike drove down Jan's spine at the words. His feet felt suddenly rooted to the concrete. “Karadzic?”

The man's smile faded. “You two were not so close. Forgive me—it's been a long time.”

“Karadzic is . . . he's in Sarajevo?”

“He's always been in Sarajevo.”

Of course, Jan already knew that if the man were still alive, he would live somewhere near Sarajevo. But hearing it now sent a buzz through his skull. “And what's Karadzic up to these days?”

“The same. I worked for him, you know. For three years, until I couldn't stomach his nonsense. Karadzic was born to kill. He doesn't do well without a war, so he makes his own.”

“And how does he do that?”

“In the underground, of course. He's Sarajevo's prince of darkness.” The man laughed and drew on his cigarette.

“So Bosnia has its own Mob, is that it?”

“Mob? Ah, the American gangsters. Yes, but here it's all done with threads of nationalism. It legitimizes the business, you see.”

“But his business is illegitimate?”

“Are you joking?” He looked around to be certain they weren't overheard. “Karadzic doesn't have a legitimate bone in his body. If you're looking for drugs in Bosnia, his dirty fingers will have touched them somewhere along the line, no question.”