Fred Vargas - An Uncertain Place

‘Elegant, rich, nice figure, pity about the face,’ said Vladislav, watching her go. ‘Plog. I wouldn’t try anything.’

‘You went out to the toilet in the night?’

‘So did you.’

‘She left her door a little bit open, we could see her reading. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Unusual for a woman travelling alone to leave her door open on a night train.’

‘Plog,’ said Vladislav, who seemed to have adopted this new onomatopoeic word to mean ‘yes’, or ‘agreed’, or ‘obviously’, Adamsberg wasn’t sure which. The young man seemed to enjoy this made-up word as if it were a new kind of sweet, which one eats too many of at first.

‘Perhaps she was waiting for someone,’ Vladislav suggested.

‘Or she was trying to overhear someone. Us for instance. I think she was on the same flight as me to Venice.’

The two men got into the bus. ‘Stopping at Kaluderica, Smederevo, Kostalac, Klicevac and Kiseljevo,’ the driver announced, and these strange names gave Adamsberg the sensation of being completely lost, which pleased him. Vladislav glanced at the other passengers.

‘She’s not here,’ he said.

‘If she’s following me, she won’t be here, it’s too obvious in a bus. She’ll take the next one.’

‘But how will she know where we’re getting off?’

‘Did we mention Kisilova while we were having dinner?’

‘Before,’ said Vladislav, adjusting his ponytail and holding the rubber band between his teeth. ‘When we were drinking champagne.’

‘Did we leave our door open?’

‘Yes, because of the cigarettes. But a woman travelling alone has a perfect right to go to Belgrade.’

‘Who in this bus doesn’t look as if they’re a Slav?’

Vladislav went looking down the length of the bus, pretending to have lost something, then sat back down by Adamsberg.

‘The businessman is probably French or Swiss. The backpacker is from Germany; the couple are either southern French or Italian. They’re about fifty and are holding hands which isn’t usual for a Serbian couple in an old Serbian bus. And tourists aren’t coming much to Serbia at the moment.’

Adamsberg made a vague sign without replying. ‘Don’t mention the war.’ Danglard had dinned this into him several times.

Nobody else got off at the stop for Kiseljevo. Once they were outside, Adamsberg glanced quickly up at the window and it seemed to him as if the man in the unusual couple was watching them.

‘Alone,’ said Vladislav, stretching his arms up to the clear blue sky. ‘Kiseljevo,’ he added, pointing proudly to the village with its multicoloured walls and close-packed roofs, and its white church tower, nestling in the hills with the Danube sparkling lower down. Adamsberg got out his travel papers and showed him the name of the place they were staying: Krčma .

‘That’s not anyone’s name,’ said Vladislav, ‘it means “inn”. The landlady, if she’s still the same, is called Danica. She gave me my first sip of pivo – beer.’

‘How do you pronounce this word?’

‘With a “ch”: Krchma.’

‘Kruchema.’

‘That’ll do.’

Adamsberg followed Vladislav to the kruchema , which was a tall house with wooden timbers painted and carved decoratively. Conversation stopped as they went inside and suspicious faces turned towards them, reminding Adamsberg of the Norman drinkers in the cafe at Haroncourt or the Béarnais in the bistro at Caldhez. Vladislav introduced himself to the landlady and signed the register, explaining that he was Slavko Moldovan’s grandson.

‘Vladislav Moldovan!’ exclaimed Danica, and from her gestures, Adamsberg gathered that Vlad had grown, that last time she had seen him he was only so high.

The atmosphere immediately changed and people came up to shake Vladislav’s hand, the body language became more welcoming and Danica, who seemed as gentle as her name, sat them down immediately to eat. It was twelve thirty. Lunch today was burecis with pork, she said, putting a carafe of white wine on the table.

‘This is Smeredevka , a little known but reputed wine,’ said Vladislav, pouring out two glasses. ‘And how are you going to find any traces of your Vaudel? Show photos? Bad idea. Very bad. Hereabouts they don’t like people who ask questions, cops, journalists, nosy parkers. You’ll have to think of something else. But they don’t like historians either, or filmmakers or sociologists, anthropologists, photographers, novelists, nutters or ethnologists.’

‘That’s a lot of people they don’t like. Why don’t they like nosy parkers? Because of the war?’

‘No, just that they ask a lot of questions and they’ve had enough questions. All they want is to live in peace now. Except for him,’ he said, pointing to an old man who had just come in. ‘He’s the only one dares to get things going a bit.’

Looking happy, Vladislav crossed the room and caught the newcomer by the shoulders.

‘Arandjel!’ he cried, ‘ To sam ja! Slavko unuk! Zar me ne poznaješ? ’

The old man, who was very short, thin and rather unkempt, pulled back to examine him, then embraced Vladislav warmly, explaining with gestures that he had grown a lot, he was only so high last time he’d seen him.

‘He can see I’ve got a foreign friend here, he doesn’t want to interrupt,’ Vladislav explained, rejoining Adamsberg with flushed cheeks. ‘Arandjel was a big friend of my dedo. Not afraid of anything, either of them.’

‘I’m going for a walk,’ Adamsberg announced after finishing his dessert – some sugary balls whose ingredients he could not identify.

‘Have some coffee first, so as not to offend Danica. Where are you proposing to walk?’

‘Towards the woods.’

‘No, they won’t like that. Walk along the river, that would look more natural. They’re going to ask me about you, the minute you go. What shall I say? I can’t possibly say you’re a cop – that won’t do you any favours round here.’

‘It doesn’t do you any favours anywhere. Tell them I’ve had a nervous breakdown and have been told to take a rest in a quiet place.’

‘Why would you come all the way to Serbia for that?’

‘Because my baba knew your dedo.’

Vlad shrugged. Adamsberg gulped down his kafa and took out a pen.

‘Vlad, how do you say “hello”, “thank you” and “French” in this language?’

‘ Dobro veče , hvala , francuz .’

Adamsberg made him repeat the words and, as was his habit, wrote them on the back of his hand.

‘Not towards the woods,’ Vladislav said again.

‘I understand.’

The young man watched him move off, then signalled to Arandjel that he was now free to talk.

‘He’s had a nervous breakdown, he’s going to walk along by the Danube. He’s a friend of a friend of Dedo’s.’

Arandjel put a little glass of rakija in front of Vladislav. Danica, with a slightly anxious expression, watched the stranger going off on his own.

FIRST, ADAMSBERG WALKED ROUND THE VILLAGE THREE times, his eyes wide open to absorb the new sights. By following his instinctive sense of orientation, he quickly grasped the layout of the streets and lanes, the main square, the new cemetery, the stone staircases, the village fountain and the market hall. The decoration of the buildings was unfamiliar, with notices in Cyrillic script, and red-and-white bollards. The colours, the shapes of the roofs, the texture of the stones, the weeds by the wayside, everything was different, but he could make his way around and even feel at home in these remote places. He worked out the paths leading to other villages, towards the woods and fields as far as the eye could see, and towards the Danube, where a few ancient boats were pulled up on the bank. On the other side, the blue fortresses of the Carpathians cascaded abruptly down towards the river.