The Hired Man

19

Things in Gost had begun to get to some people.

Grace, the first to see the damage, was red-eyed with crying. Laura stood with her hand over her mouth and her arm around her daughter. Matthew was sitting at the outside table, sleep-slow, his mind fractionally behind his body. He’d been woken up by Grace’s shouts.

Paint all over the mosaic: white gloss paint. Loops of it cover the rising bird, sliding immensely slowly downwards. Clots of paint lie under the water on the mosaic of fish and weeds. A trail of white between the wall and the fountain. No sign of the can. Whoever had done this had brought the paint with them, because it wasn’t mine. The gloss paint I’d been using was locked away in the outbuilding and anyway was blue. It must have happened the night before or very early in the morning, while they were all asleep. Not one of the family heard a thing.

‘How could this happen?’ asked Matthew.

‘You wouldn’t have woken up anyway,’ said Grace. ‘Maybe none of us would.’

‘I mean there’s no one else around here. They’d have had to come in a car or else it’s a very long walk.’

‘Probably they parked somewhere and walked the rest of the way,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ said Laura. ‘That would figure.’

‘But why?’ asked Grace. She rubbed an eye leaving a streak of white across her cheek. Paint on her face and hands.

‘They’re louts. Too many young men who don’t want to work and then don’t like it when other people have some money,’ I said quickly.

‘We’re going to have to go to the police,’ said Laura. ‘I mean, this is awful.’

I doubted, I said, they’d be moved to mount much of an investigation, though I could be wrong. It would be very interesting to see what they would do, certainly nothing that they thought would be bad for tourism. It was an idea in which people had never lost faith: the hordes of tourists who would one day return to fish and cycle and hike in the hills, transform the grey fate of towns like Gost. On the other hand they would want Laura to feel they were taking her seriously. They would make a show of investigating, but they had no interest in actually finding the culprit.

‘How do you get this stuff off?’ asked Grace.

‘We’ll do it. Easier before it dries too much.’ I touched the paint lightly with my forefinger. The skin was still quite thin and the paint was wet beneath, meaning it hadn’t been thrown all that long ago. If I’d gone up into the hills that morning, as I so often did, I even might have caught them in the act. Because so many of the tiles were glazed the paint wouldn’t be too hard to get off. On the whitewashed surface of the wall, white on white, it barely mattered.

‘What about the police? They’ll want to see it,’ said Laura.

I said most likely a photograph would do and so Grace went to fetch her camera.

A few hours later you could hardly tell it had happened. I fetched some soft rags from my house and we wiped away the worst of the mess. On the glass and glazed tiles the paint hadn’t taken. Worst affected were the cream-coloured tiles that made up the background, which were some kind of soft stone. For those we had to use stripper, trying not to do too much damage to the surface. I only had a third of a can remaining and so I left Grace at work while I headed into town to pick some up.

In town I went to the hardware shop (the one which is not part-owned by Fabjan, of course) and on my way back I caught sight of Krešimir. This time I made sure he didn’t see me: the last thing I needed was a repeat of the other day when he’d lost his temper with me at the Zodijak. Most probably he was going home for lunch. He was dressed for the office in a jacket and trousers, a pair of loafers. I watched him for a while, more or less to enjoy the sight of him. I wondered how he was feeling. The talk and the rumours slid through every street and house in Gost and, whenever the blue house was mentioned, so was Krešimir’s name. Krešimir Pavić. People would fall silent at his approach and drop their gaze, begin to talk again once he was (almost) out of earshot. They’d be enjoying it. Of all of this I was certain. He walked like he was in a bit of a hurry, with his shoulders square and his chin out. To look at him you’d think everything was fine. But I know Krešimir like nobody else. He hates to be shown up, he hates it. So he puts on a bit of bluff, meaning the more confident he looks the worse it is. At the door of the house he stopped and searched for his keys, but not finding them he rapped on the door. I expected to see his wife, but when the door opened there was Vinka, her black hair pulled back in the style she’d worn all the time I’d known her; from where I stood I could see the sharp divide of colour at the roots. Her face was skeletal, skin like uncooked fish. She was without lipstick but her eyebrows were crayoned sloppily and comically high on her forehead. Unsteady on her feet, she almost fell out of the door as Krešimir shouldered past her and would have, but for the fact she managed to catch the doorframe. Unseen, I watched as she turned to follow Krešimir, patting her hair like a faded belle and closing the door behind them.

I fried sausages and onions for my supper and peeled and boiled some potatoes. It occurred to me I would miss Laura and the family when they went. In four weeks I’d grown used to having them around. That moment I decided to call my mother and Danica. My mother had finally moved into her own flat, the years on the waiting list had paid off. All the same it was she who picked up the phone when I telephoned Danica and Luka’s place. Over the sound of the television in the background she began to complain. ‘The bedroom’s damp. It makes my legs hurt.’

‘Won’t the social housing people come to fix it?’

‘They say they will, but they make me wait. If you were here you could do it for me.’

‘I could, but then so can Luka.’

Silence. Then, ‘I don’t like to ask. He’s busy.’

I said, ‘Let me talk to him for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said my mother, not really satisfied. She’d never stopped asking when I was coming. To stop her doing so again I asked to speak to Danica. Danica came to the phone. I heard her telling my mother she’d take it in the bedroom.

‘She’s watching her television programmes. Those Brazilian soaps.’

‘How is she?’

‘Getting older, she misses you.’

I didn’t reply and when Danica didn’t say anything either, I said, ‘She says there’s damp in the bedroom of her new flat.’

‘I know she does, but the flat is fine. I think she’s lonely there on her own.’ She paused. ‘I was going to call you. There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

‘Well here I am.’

‘Luka and me, we’ve been accepted to go to New Zealand.’

The news winded me. Danica told me the application process had taken a year, but they had almost reached the end now. All they were waiting for was the official letter.

‘When will you go?’

‘Before Christmas.’

‘And Mother?’

‘She wants to come with us. She’s a dependant, so she’s allowed so long as we take care of her. A lot of families have moved to Auckland. She’ll probably even know some people.’

I was silent. Down the line I could hear Danica breathing and, faintly, the sound of the television in the other room. Then she sighed. ‘Life goes on, Duro.’

After the phone call I ate the food I’d cooked and tidied up the house. I found the strip of braided thread Grace had given me the day I killed Kos. I put it in a drawer where I saw the green and blue tiles I’d brought from the blue house. I thought about the attack on the mosaic. For all that I disliked Krešimir it would be too easy to blame him. Krešimir’s methods are far more underhand. He likes anonymous letters and poisonous words. Though I was not at all tired, for some reason I remained ravenously hungry even after I’d eaten. I fried more sausages and drank several glasses of wine. I tried to read the newspaper, but I wasn’t really in the mood, I was restless. I turned on the television and let the pictures and canned laughter blot out my thoughts. I ate the sausages with my fingers straight from the pan, sitting in front of the television. I flicked channels. A re-run of ’Allo ’Allo, which had been one of the most popular television programmes in the country twenty years ago. I watched it for a while and even laughed, helped by the wine. Also now for the first time I could understand the joke of Officer Crabtree’s accent. ‘Good moaning,’ he says to René. ‘Good moaning.’ I laughed, but the joke quickly wore off. I switched channels, pressing the remote control over and over, until the television stopped responding. I still didn’t feel the least bit tired but I could think of nothing I wanted to do, so I prepared to go upstairs to bed and a night of sleeplessness.

Before I went I opened the door and stepped outside. The night was warm, the air that slipped past me into the room brought with it the scent of the night, clean and fragrant. A light wind was blowing, dry from the desert. Down on the coast it carried a red dust that coated your skin, and sucked the moisture from everything, even the fruit on the trees. The last strip of light lay across the horizon. Whirr, whirr. Pat, pat, pat. Whirr. The nightjar. I closed the door and slid the bolts.

I climbed the stairs, washed and got into bed, between clean sheets that smelt of nothing. I lay for a while staring at the ceiling and then, though I hadn’t thought I would, I went to sleep after all, a half-sleep, patterned with dreams. I dreamt I was eating a fine meal, soup and meat, surrounded by people who knew me. Even though it was a dream I could taste the food, even the texture of the meat. The dream switched. I was in the woods following a great boar. The boar was unafraid of me, as I was of it. He walked ahead and I walked behind at exactly the same pace. I wasn’t carrying a gun, just walking through the plantation in the same direction. Zeka started to bark and I shushed him, but he disobeyed me and went on and on. And then I heard the sound of a girl calling me.

I surfaced like a man who has nearly drowned. Outside Zeka was barking. My chest heaved and my heart was beating hard, my neck was damp with sweat. I lay still and listened. A banging on the door. A voice calling my name. Grace. I pulled on a pair of jeans, ran down the stairs and opened the door. Grace’s face was round and pale in the darkness, her eyes wide with fright. She was wearing nothing but a nightdress. She said, ‘Oh Duro, you have to come. There’s a man in the house.’

‘A man? Who is he?’

‘I don’t know who. He said he wanted to talk to Mum, and I was frightened so I called her. Now he’s got her and won’t go. I think he’s drunk and he seems very angry about something, but she doesn’t know what he’s on about.’

‘How did he get in?’

‘The door wasn’t locked.’

I went to the back door and picked up a shotgun. ‘Stay here,’ I ordered Grace. I was without shirt or shoes, the gravel sharp beneath my bare soles. In less than a minute I reached the blue house. I ignored the front door and skirted round to the back; barefoot and on the grass now I made no sound. Inside, a single light from a table lamp and Laura, sitting on the sofa. She was wearing a robe; the family had evidently been in bed when the intruder arrived. She was sitting up very straight on the sofa, as if to attention, expressionless, her hand at her throat like she would strangle herself. I couldn’t see any sign of a man, but Laura’s posture was enough to tell me of the threat in the room. Whoever was with her was hidden by the angle of the wall. I listened: the rumble of a male voice. Krešimir?

A movement. A man’s hand stroked Laura’s hair. Laura flinched and leaned away, she put her own hand up over her hair to cover it, but the man’s hand pushed Laura’s out of the way and carried on stroking, picking up strands of her hair and letting them fall. Laura skewed her neck away, I saw her mouth open in protest, but if she said anything I couldn’t hear her.

I pushed down on the handle of the back door and stepped inside. Laura turned to me, clearly with no idea what to expect; when she saw me she closed her eyes, breathed out and let her shoulders drop. I walked into the room.

Fabjan.

Sitting next to Laura on the sofa. At the sight of me his hand froze. He lowered it, though only as far as Laura’s shoulder where he let it rest, like a man with his hand on a dog’s head. He sat with his legs apart, looking like he did every day, wearing his butter-coloured suede jacket, a pair of jeans (the belt cutting into his gut, faded patch around his balls), loafers without socks. His eyes were narrow and puffy, his lips moist and red, a day’s growth of stubble shaded the lower part of his face. He’d been drinking, though he was far from drunk, just drunk enough to be dangerous. He smiled and said in English, ‘Ah, Duro. The hero. Welcome. Come in.’ I took a few steps forward. His eyes darted to the gun. ‘So you’ve come armed. What are you going to do, shoot me?’

‘If I have to,’ I said in Cro. ‘Take your hand off her.’

Fabjan lowered his hand with a slow insolence.

‘What are you doing?’ I said, again in Cro.

‘Well — and not that it’s got anything to do with you — I’m paying a visit to this lady, who’s a friend of mine. Right?’ He looked at Laura, who didn’t answer. Her hand was back at her throat and her eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.

‘Speak Cro,’ I said.

‘Fuck off.’

I jerked the shotgun upwards. Fabjan’s eyes followed it, so did Laura’s. ‘What do you want?’

‘I told you. I’m visiting a friend.’ He leered at Laura a second time, let his eyes travel down the front of her body. She lowered her hand from her neck and pulled her dressing gown further across her breasts. Fabjan pushed his face close to hers and flicked his tongue against the back of his teeth in a suggestive manner. ‘What’s it to you? Unless you’re fucking her. Or maybe you just want to.’ He no longer spoke in English, he turned towards me.

‘She doesn’t want you,’ I said. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to find out what the fuck’s going on.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I want to know who’s playing games.’

‘No one’s playing games.’

‘Yes, they are. And people are talking. And they’re talking now about this house, about the red car. About this stupid bitch. Because of this stupid bitch.’ He swung his head round to look at Laura. This time she flinched and looked at him and then immediately back at the spot on the floor.

‘Don’t look at her,’ I said. Then in English, ‘Laura, go to my house. Grace is there.’

Laura rose and left the room, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her, her head down. She went without a word, as though she was afraid of being called back. Once outside she began to run, I listened until her footsteps faded. I reached for one of the kitchen chairs and sat down, the gun between my knees.

‘Put that thing away, would you?’ said Fabjan. ‘You’re not going to shoot anyone.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not if I don’t have to. But I’m close enough here to take your foot off. Or blow away your face. Have you ever seen a gunshot wound? Probably not. I forget you don’t hunt. You were never in the Army either, of course. Well, at close range the pellets haven’t yet fanned out, they enter the flesh in a wad. The cartridge opens like a flower, it’s made of plastic, you know. The cartridge follows the shot into the flesh and it leaves a wound the shape of a flower. Very pretty. It would kill you of course. But then I wouldn’t shoot you at close range, nothing to make it worth going to hospital for — what with all the explanations about what you were doing here. No, you’d prefer to ask your wife to pick pellets out of you for the next week.’

He looked me in the eye, some seconds passed. ‘This is crap,’ he said after a bit. ‘I’m fucked if I know what’s going on.’

‘You know.’

I didn’t say anything else. The years of silence spoke. Fabjan half opened his mouth and stopped, his narrowed eyes held my gaze. He didn’t want to risk saying anything else. He shrugged as if nothing mattered. ‘If you say so.’

‘Go,’ I said. ‘Don’t come back.’

Fabjan rose and walked towards the door, stopped, his hand on the door knob, and turned to me. ‘What do you want anyway?’

‘Krešimir says he’s leaving Gost.’

Fabjan was silent. He pursed his lips. ‘So?’

‘I’ll miss him,’ I said. ‘And so would you.’

For a few seconds Fabjan considered my words. He didn’t add anything. We understood each other.

When Fabjan had gone I sat for a few minutes and thought about what to tell Laura. A sound made me turn. Matthew: standing on the stairs. I’d completely forgotten about him. ‘Duro.’ He rubbed an eye. ‘What are you doing here?’

We walked over to my house. I boiled water, made coffee. I told Laura that Fabjan was a businessman with many interests in Gost, a thug who operated outside the law. He and Krešimir had a falling out over money, I said. Krešimir owed Fabjan money and Fabjan wanted to be repaid from the sale of the house. I said I didn’t know more details but I supposed that’s what it had been about. Fabjan was used to getting what he wanted with threats. Laura didn’t pretend to understand; she was still stunned. If she had questions they’d come later, by which time I would have thought up more answers. For the time being the explanation I’d given was good enough. Matthew had slept through everything and his questions about what had happened prevented the need for further analysis, rehearsing the sequence of events from Grace being surprised by Fabjan when he walked in without knocking, frightening the life out of her where she stood in the kitchen, to Laura coming down the stairs in answer to her daughter’s call, Grace running to fetch me.

I walked them back to the blue house and stayed there the night. I lay on my back on the couch. I thought about Fabjan’s question. He asked me what I wanted, a question to which he already knew the answer and had known it for many years. It was why we were still here, we three in Gost, when so many had left.

I wanted everything the way it had always been.

Along the edge of the field: a dense scattering of pink pimpernel, the flowers came up at this time of the year in the farmers’ fields. The day was hot, cloudless, the trees shimmered behind currents of air in which a pair of kestrels hovered. The heron passed overhead on its way to the river. No wind. Dust in the air. The darkness of the trees came abruptly and I had to slow down until my eyes adjusted to the change. I’m getting old, I thought. Once or twice I heard the sound of other living things in the woods, but I hadn’t come to hunt, I’d come to escape the house. I carried nothing and had left with no particular destination in mind, but now I found myself headed for Gudura Uspomena.

In Gost talk about the blue house continued. People knew about the paint attack, though not about Fabjan’s visit. I imagined eyes following Krešimir wherever he went. I didn’t go to the Zodijak, I thought I’d give Fabjan a day or two. Anyway his car wasn’t parked outside. When I went back to the blue house the doors, which had stood open so much of the summer, were closed and Laura answered my knock warily, her hand at her throat as it had been last night. Inside the house was slightly altered: no vase of flowers on the table, the throws on the chairs, the cushions, these things were missing. Put away, I supposed. Laura was preparing to leave. We drank coffee at the kitchen table and she said she’d spoken to Conor who’d offered to fly out, but she’d told him they were OK. He’d asked her to give me his thanks. It seemed to me the full extent of what had happened the night before was just beginning to be felt.

‘What about the police?’ I asked Laura.

‘Conor says we might have to stay on if there’s an investigation.’

I told her that was likely to be true, that I was there if she needed me. ‘But he won’t be back,’ I’d promised her. ‘He was drunk. It’s over.’

Below me the water level in the swimming hole was low and the water barely moved. Shades of green, white rocks visible beneath the surface. Downstream the waterfall had narrowed to a spout, which spilled evenly into the pool below. The sound rode upwards through the still air. For twenty minutes I stood and stared at the view. I’d known it all my life and it changed every hour of every day.

A noise behind me made me turn. Something moved in the trees. The footfall, too heavy for a deer, belonged to a person. I waited with my back to the ravine. A figure appeared: Grace. She walked towards me, the sweat shone on her forehead and she was breathing heavily. A few metres out of the trees she stopped, looked at the sky and then out across the ravine, shading her eyes. She came over to where I was standing. ‘Isn’t it amazing? You never brought us up here. I found it by myself.’

I turned away, to look out over the ravine. ‘What do you want?’

‘I wanted to talk to you about the man who came last night.’

‘His name is Fabjan.’

‘And he runs the café where Matt went to use the Internet. Mum told me. She couldn’t remember his name. Is he a friend of yours?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Do you have any friends?’

‘Not really.’

Grace was quiet. She chewed her top lip. ‘But you used to.’ She said it as a statement, not a question.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘So what happened to them?’

I shrugged.

‘You knew the people who lived in our house before, didn’t you?’

‘Gost is a small place. I live a few hundred metres away. How could I not know them?’

‘Yeah but.’ She raised her hand to shade her eyes as she turned to look at me, I had my back to the sun. ‘I think you knew them quite well.’

‘So I did. So what?’

‘Mum hasn’t figured it out because she doesn’t care to look. It’s how she is. She sees the world the way she wants to see it, and then she believes that’s the way the world actually is, if that makes sense. And Matt, well you know Matt.’ She stopped and smiled at me: a sweet, small smile. ‘But it’s not that hard. Remember you told me how Kos found her way around? The places she knew by heart, you’d never know she was blind. Then other places, I remember you said she’d rely on Zeka or sometimes you’d have to call to her.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘So Kos knows our house. I mean, she knew it.’ Grace paused. ‘She knew where the doors were and where to lie down so she was out of the way without anyone having to tell her.’

I shrugged again.

Grace went on, ‘Also the way you touch the table. I’ve seen you do it. Of course, you knew the mosaic was there all along. I worked that out ages ago. ’ She stopped talking and bent to pick a blade of grass and smoothed it between her fingers. ‘So I think you knew the people well and you used to visit there a lot. Before us.’ She sat down on the ground and began to chew the end of the blade of grass. ‘It’s OK. You can tell me. I want to know.’