Jonathan Rabb - The Book of Q

Pearse thought of answering, but couldn’t. They stood there for a moment. The sound of a plate being dropped momentarily broke the silence. Instinctively, she turned toward the kitchen, then back to Pearse.

“Salko,” she said.

She started down the hall; Pearse reached out and took her hand. He felt her entire body tense. Just as quickly, she relaxed and turned to him.

“Not yet,” she said softly. She slowly pulled her hand away. For just a moment, she let it rest on his chest, then turned and headed for the living room. Pearse watched her go, then followed.

Mendravic was at the fridge.

“It’s not going to be enough,” he said, his head deep inside. “You hardly have a thing.”

“It’s not as if I was expecting you,” she said as she sidled past him and opened several cabinets along the cupboard by the stove. From the one at the top, she produced crackers, a collection of boxes filled with foods Pearse had never heard of, and pasta.

Mendravic removed himself from the fridge and peered over at the scant offerings. Crinkling his face, he shook his head. “Crackers? This is Salko.” When she continued to stare at him-no hint of mercy in her eyes-his expression at once became more benign. “The orange was good,” he said sheepishly.

Ten minutes later, he had convinced her that they needed to go out. Ten-thirty. Not so late in this part of the world. The boy would be fine. Yes, he knew the right place. Yes, it was very close by. They’d be away half an hour. Forty-five minutes at the most. With tremendous reluctance, and a constant barrage of encouragement, she had knocked on her neighbor’s door. Explanations of friends from out of town, nothing in the house. The woman had been more than accommodating.

“I know the place,” she had said. “Go. It’ll do you good. He’ll be fine with me.” A wink from Mendravic hadn’t hurt, either.

True to his word, the cafe was no more than a five-minute drive from the apartment. A good deal more than crackers and pasta.

And, as with just about everything else, Mendravic seemed to be on familiar terms with everyone at the restaurant. The promised crowds, however, proved to be no more than a waiter and cashier, both eager to close up shop. Evidently, his recollection of late-night carousing wasn’t terribly accurate. No matter. The two were more than happy to keep the kitchen open a little while longer. For an old friend.

“I’m in the mood for burek ,” Mendravic began, the waiter nodding his approval. “And some of the lemon-ginger rakija .”

“‘Burek?’” asked Pearse.

“Like Greek spanokopita .” When Pearse continued to stare blankly, Mendravic explained: “Casserole. Spinach, cheese, light pastry. Delicious.”

Pearse’s expression showed far less enthusiasm. “Nothing heavier?” he said.

“One order of the burek , and one of the maslenica ,” Petra told the waiter. “And a bottle of prokupac .”

“Masle what?” Again Pearse was at a loss.

“Trust me.” She smiled. “Heavier. Much heavier.”

Half an hour later, there was still plenty on the plate, even Mendravic too full to take a taste of the generous helping of stew. The wine and brandy were another matter.

“You’re telling me one person usually eats this whole thing,” said Pearse, having had a bit more to drink than he was used to, and unable to wrap his mind around the Bosnian capacity for consumption.

“Sure.” Petra laughed. “Ivo has at least two of them each night for dinner.”

Mendravic laughed as well, a few hums of approval as he now began to pick at the bits of feta that had broken free of the remaining heap of meat.

“Ivo?” Pearse couldn’t recall an Ivo.

Before Petra could answer, Mendravic cut in: “Her son. Your son. Ivo. It’s as close as you get to Ian in Croatian.” He was hunting for the last of the mushrooms. Poking away with his fork, he added, “Two of them, easy.” A lazy laugh as he pushed the plate away.

Ivo. Pearse realized he hadn’t even bothered to ask. For some reason, he laughed as well. Only for a moment, but distinctly, a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” asked Petra.

He shook his head, the laughter subsiding, a nervous energy competing with the effects of the brandy.

“Good a reason as any,” Mendravic chimed in as he hoisted himself up. “Men’s room,” the declaration more to remind himself why he’d gotten up than to update his dinner companions. He picked one last mushroom from the plate, swallowed it, and headed back.

When Petra turned to him, she saw Pearse was staring at her.

“What?” she said.

“Hearing his name … it made me laugh.”

“It’s a good name,” she said. “Good enough for you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Yes, I know you know.”

Petra refilled their glasses. She took a sip, then placed hers on the table.

After another awkward silence, Pearse spoke: “It’s just when I first saw him, it made me … I can’t explain it. To see him and know how much I hadn’t seen, how much he was without my ever having …” The thought trailed off. “And then hearing his name. I don’t know. It just … came out of nowhere.” Without any thought, he picked up his fork and began to run it along the plate. “Does that make any sense?”

Petra continued to look at him. “He’s your son. He has your name. Yes. That should make you happy.”

Pearse nodded, his focus still on the plate. After several moments, he asked, “And you?”

“And me, what?”

“Does it make you happy?”

She waited before answering. “That’s a silly question.”

“Why?” he asked, turning back toward her.

“‘Why?’” Again she paused. “You saw him. It’s a silly question.”

Once again, an overwhelming sense of loss cut through him. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“A priest with a son?” A smile, a shake of the head. “We both know you would have thrown that all away, done the right thing. And I wasn’t going to do that to any of us. You asked me to understand.” She held his gaze. “Don’t you see, I finally did.”

“Maybe better than I did.”

She stopped, never for a moment thinking he would say that. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s never been as clear as I thought it would be. It’s never made as much sense.”

“As what?”

He continued to look at her.

“Don’t … don’t say that. Every day you didn’t come back confirmed how right your choice was. That you belonged in another life. And every one of those days made me feel stronger about what I was doing. About the decision I made.”

It was several seconds before he spoke.

“Does he know about me?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“That I’m a priest.”

Now she laughed. Her reaction caught him by surprise. “You don’t tell a seven-year-old his father is a priest, Ian.” She reached for her glass. “Don’t worry. It’s not that strange for a boy here not to have a father. Half his friends are the same way. Except theirs are dead. At least he knows you’re alive.”

“I guess that’s something.”

“Believe me, it is.” She took a sip. “He knows you’re an American. He knows you fought with Salko and me during the war.” She stopped and placed the glass on the table. She then looked up at him. “And he knows you’re a good man.”

He stared at her for several seconds. “Thank you,” he said.

“I’m not going to lie to my son.”

“Except for that bit about the priest.”

“Right. Except for that.”

He waited. “Look, I’m sorry-”

“Don’t do that, okay?”