Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

Vlado weaved through the tables to the bar, where a young woman stood, looking bored as she searched through a shoebox of cassette tapes for the next selection. He had to shout twice to get her attention.

“Is Goran here?”

“Try next door,” she said. “In the theater.”

Vlado moved into the hallway, elbowing past four revelers just arriving, then approached another doorway where a man sat at a card table having just sold the last ticket for the evening’s first showing.

“Vlado,” the man greeted him, grinning, although Vlado couldn’t recall his name. “You’re looking for Goran?”

“Yes. In his office?”

“On the phone. But I’ll tell him you’re here. Wait inside. You can catch the first few minutes of the movie while I get him. On the house.”

Vlado eased through the door. It was chilly inside, though not so smoky, and apart from the conversation in English blaring occasionally from the movie soundtrack it was quiet as a tomb. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he saw that every seat was filled, a crowd of people still in their heavy coats, the rising vapor of their breath just visible overhead in the wide beam of light from the projector.

From countless other movies and TV shows Vlado could tell right away that this one was set in New York, and by the creeping cadence and low tones of the soundtrack, it was obvious something sinister was afoot, that danger was approaching. But what struck him most about the scene was its neatness and order. Here was a working society with streets uncluttered by shell holes and burned cars. A place with bright lights, glass storefronts. You could walk around the corner and have a beer, a hot meal, a cup of coffee, stay as late as you wanted, and go home to a warm apartment with clean sheets and a light switch on the wall. And all you had to worry about were a few criminals out trying to shoot you. It looked like paradise. Now he realized why these people so willingly gave up a week’s pay for two hours of entertainment.

A hand tapped his right shoulder.

“In here,” a voice whispered. “He can see you now.”

Vlado reluctantly left the streets of New York and walked in to find Goran at the keyboard, muttering, his shirttail hanging through the opening in the back of his folding chair.

He turned, a smile spreading on his broad, unshaven face. “Vlado. Well, it’s about time. For two weeks I can’t get you in here for a beer, and now you pick a day when I’m trying to finish with some comedy I’m not even sure I can translate. Too much American hip-hop language and inside jokes. So where’ve you been?”

“Around.”

“So I’ve heard. The man about town. Keeping late hours at his apartment all by himself. Exciting life, Vlado.”

Vlado smiled. It was an old and frequent topic between them.

“So what’s up, then. Something by the look in your eye tells me you’re not here for a movie or a beer.”

“I’m looking for somebody. Neven Halilovic. I can’t remember what happened after the raid. Whether he was killed, pardoned into the army, or is still in jail.”

“You can stop looking. Last I heard he was dead. He was put in the army, all right, but never made it past the first month. One of those wild attacks across the Jewish cemetery that never comes to anything but more bodies across the graves. But offhand I don’t remember who told me all that, so I can ask around to make sure. Why? You fellows finally getting into corruption cases, or have you joined the special police force without telling me?”

“Only on loan. It’s the Vitas investigation. I guess you heard about him.”

“Only this morning.” He shook his head. “So that’s yours, is it?” Goran paused a moment, then nodded slightly “Yes. I suppose that would figure. Impress the blue helmets with an independent man. Show that we’ve really cleaned up our act in all the right places.” He laughed. “All of which you believe entirely, Vlado, right?”

“As a loyal public servant, I can only wholeheartedly agree.”

“So what’s the story on Vitas? Christ, he wasn’t up to his neck in the local rat’s nest, too, was he?”

He handed Vlado a beer.

“Thanks. I was hoping you might already have formed an educated guess on that yourself. But the Ministry seems to think so. Or at least, Kasic and a few undercover men do.”

“Kasic,” Goran snorted. “As if he would know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing really. I’ve just always thought his machinery was a little too well oiled, a case of style over substance, and it’s always worked for him. One of those fellows who always manages to put himself in the right place for the next promotion.”

“We can’t all sell movies and beer for a living.”

“True. Some of us start painting little French soldiers for our jollies instead.”

Vlado laughed. “Now you’re getting personal. Those are my friends you’re making fun of. More mature conversation than I can get from Damir and not always on the make like Grebo. And I don’t need to spend a month’s salary or a carton of Marlboros to have an evening with them.”

“Now if you could only find a way to paint up one that’s about five-foot-five, a redhead with long legs and a low cut blouse, then you could become a businessman, too. And you could charge a hell of a lot more than a month’s salary.”

“Maybe if I melted down a whole division. The French over at Skenderia aren’t very picky. I could just prop her up on the porch of headquarters next to a price list. I’d have them beating a path of Marlboros to my door.”

“Just make sure you put all the holes in the right places. You can always ask me in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Another few months and I’ll need to.”

“Still that bad, huh?”

Vlado said nothing, just shook his head with a rueful smile.

“What do you hear from Jasmina?” Goran said. It was he who’d had the connections to get her and Sonja on the bus convoy out of town.

“The same. Still settling in. Still learning to speak German. Getting a little bit further from me with every phone call. Sometimes I think I’d be better off in the army. Then maybe at least I could try sneaking out over Igman.”

“That’s assuming you even want to leave this place.”

“What, you think I’m starting to enjoy it here?”

“No. You just couldn’t bear to leave it behind. You’re too scared it might disappear in a cloud of smoke while you’re gone, and you’d come back to a big hole in the ground.”

“You know why I stay-as if I had a choice anyway. Leave now and a family of refugees will be living in my house by the time the war’s over. And with government approval. I’ll be out of a job and, by then, out of money. And probably charged with desertion on top of everything else. Besides, if I can make it through two years of this then I might as well go the distance.”

“For what? The privilege of living here after the war?”

“Why not. It’s my home. Yours too. And if it’s such a good idea to get away why aren’t you sneaking up through the hills?”

“Don’t believe I haven’t thought about it. But right now I’m making money. Real money. Deutschemarks and dollars. To get out I’d need to spend half of it, and wherever I ended up I’d probably have to spend the rest to keep living while I was looking for work. But if this war ended tomorrow I’d be out of here in a shot. Off to Croatia. Or Slovenia. Anything to get out of this place.”

“That’s going to be the time to stay, not leave.”

“You really think so? When’s the last time you took a good, slow walk around your neighborhood.”

“Nobody takes slow walks in my neighborhood anymore.”

“You know what I mean, and you don’t have to take a slow walk to see what I’m talking about. How many of your old neighbors have either been killed or have packed up and gone.”