Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

Vitas had been dead for less than a week, so there hadn’t yet been time for his absence to show up in her supply of firewood or on the shelves of her pantry. But it wouldn’t take long, and then what would happen?

When a war swallowed up a city you always heard first and last about the children, it occurred to Vlado, and their tragedy was undeniable; playmates killed by a shellburst as they sledded or played ball; orphans with sad eyes and no apparent future, hardened beyond their years.

Yet the young always had the resilience and energy to keep going, absorbing the blows by the sheer strength of numbers in the great clan of youth. No matter how many of their friends died, there would always be new friends to make. Those who made it through in one piece would always have another life to lead once the shooting stopped.

The old ones, however, ended up like this, or like Glavas, cut off and alone, collapsing from the weight of either fear or neglect, hanging on just long enough to die unremarked, or to waste away until life no longer mattered. One way or another, the war finished them.

There was no way of knowing how long Vitas’s mother had been like this, but based on what little Vlado had seen of her in previous years, he figured she’d probably been close to this state before the first shot was fired. Then her youngest son had died-Esmir would have broken the news of that, perhaps-and, if she’d still been clinging to the edge, that would have pushed her across.

At least she still had her house. Even if it was musty and layered with dust, with some plastic on windows here and there, it was mostly intact. And until last week you could say that she still had her chief protector, a son with enough connections to keep her warm and fed.

But now? The rot would begin, and Vlado doubted she’d have the awareness to do anything but slowly succumb to it.

He stood and stepped toward the fireplace, warming his hands, listening to the hissing of the teakettle from the kitchen. He placed another log across the embers, immediately regretting it. The less used now, the better. If she survived the winter perhaps the spring or a ceasefire might finally lure her outdoors, where she’d catch the attention of a neighbor, though he knew he was grasping at straws.

In a few moments the log was burning merrily with loud snaps and pops, smelling of pine resin. Vlado pulled off his wet shoes and propped them against the screen, then peeled off his wet socks and draped them across the top. He stood, arms folded, peering into the flames, into that little world of embers wavering at the bottom, and this was his pose as Mrs. Vitas re-entered the room. She was balancing a silver tray loaded with teapot, cups, a sugar bowl-full, to his astonishment-and a pair of small cakes.

“Please,” she said, “be seated on the couch. It’s where Esmir always sits.”

She took an opposite chair, a vacant smile on her face, while Vlado dipped quickly toward the cakes, mouth watering. He stuffed one into his mouth, his tongue snaking out to lap up any straying crumbs, and the sugary flavor burst in his mouth like a drug. He loaded three tea-spoons of sugar into the teacup. He would have spooned the rest into his pockets if he’d had half a chance, though he felt shamed by the temptation.

For a moment he had a sensation of descending into temporary insanity. To be confronted with all these comforts so hard on the heels of his harrowing day had pushed him onto an emotional ledge, and for a precarious moment it was all he could do to keep from bursting into tears. He contemplated what had nearly become of him at the river. Now he was here, blocks away, yet practically on another planet.

For the briefest of moments he considered staying. It would probably be easy enough to convince her that Esmir had assigned him to be her live-in caretaker. But he’d be just as powerless to keep the supply lines from drying up. The longer he stayed, in fact, the more quickly her wood, water and food would dwindle. Besides, he had work to do here, and he must do it soon. He blinked back his tears.

“What messages do you bring from my son?” she asked.

“I can only tell you that he is well,” he said, swallowing hard. “He gives you his best. He speaks of you often.”

It was exactly what she’d wanted to hear, and she smiled broadly. So far, so good.

“And he will be coming soon for a visit?”

Vlado looked down at the table. “Yes,” he answered, barely audible. “Yes, soon.” He looked back up into her beaming face. Her eyes glittered, but her gaze was slightly off center, just as it had been during his visit to this same room years before, as if she were sneaking a look at something over his shoulder.

“He wanted to come this time,” Vlado said. “But his work made it impossible. So he said I was to come instead.” He weighed his next words, feeling it was important to phrase them just right. “He said that I was to check the house thoroughly, to see if anything needed fixing. He said I was to attend to all the business that he usually attends to.”

She seemed to brighten, to change expression, as if his words had unlocked some door. “Ah,” she said. “You will want to see his things, then. To check on his things. It is always the first thing he does after tea.”

“Yes. Of course.”

She smiled, seemingly happy to have gotten it right. Then they drank their tea, smiled at each other some more, and it was time. Vlado rose to his feet.

“Where should I begin?” he asked.

“In the cellar, of course,” she said briskly, as if dealing with a dolt. “It is where all his things are.”

Vlado weaved slightly as he stood. The sugar was just beginning to flare into his bloodstream, crawling like a slow lightning. The basement door was in the kitchen, with a full box of candles and matches on a facing countertop. He lit one and stepped carefully down the steep, narrow steps, shielding the flame with his left hand.

Cobwebs clung to his face, and from below he heard the skittering of mice, perhaps something larger, running for cover at the approach of his candle. This would indeed be a popular place with rodents, he imagined, probably the only house on the block with heating and a full pantry.

And down here in the cellar? He turned one way and saw an old coal furnace, still and cold. Even Vitas and all his connections hadn’t been able to provide that precious commodity. Across another wall were old tools, thick with dust and cobwebs, and Vlado began to despair of finding anything at all.

He stepped off in the next direction, and as he reached the far corner the light revealed two items that made his heart soar. Here, at last, were Vitas’s “things,” as his mother had put it. Although Vitas doubtless would have described them as evidence, the sort that one might collect from the captured headquarters of a warlord mobster.

One item was two small, wooden file drawers, the sort one finds in libraries and archives, and it was filled from front to back with index cards. Vlado flipped through a few and saw they were just as Glavas had described them, right down to his initials, scribbled at the bottom of each. There were hundreds, which meant that it must be about complete. This, at last, was the transfer file.

The other item was a wooden crate, about eight feet high, six feet across, and two feet deep, marked with a blue #96 at the top, just as it had been listed on the inventory forms in the ministry’s records.

He’d have to hand it to them, they took good care of their art work when they moved it out of the country. Crated to museum specifications no doubt. It probably would have been easy enough to learn just how from an idiot like Murovic.

Vlado wondered idly what sort of painting must be inside, but had neither the time nor the tools to find out. Of greater interest was the blue-and-white invoice sealed beneath a sheet of plastic across the outside.