communicating with her. She’d have it all to herself.
8
The corpse was floating facedown, its outspread arms parallel to the coast. A young cormorant landed on its back and spread its wings to dry its feathers. The bird drifted past Obradin’s cutter on the back of the corpse and was carried by the current toward the promontory, whose northern tip extended into the sea for miles.
Obradin had gone out to sea, not in order to fish, but to collect his thoughts. He went slowly so as to spare the gasping engine. When the mainland was out of sight he turned it off and let the cutter drift. He sat down on the foredeck to smoke a Bosnian cigarette. He could have been mistaken, in which case it wasn’t Henry’s car he’d seen so clearly the night before. Then the man at the wheel wasn’t Henry either—or his double had just stolen his Maserati. It had been nothing but a disconcertingly detailed dream, right down to the butts that Helga had cleared off the windowsill and put on his bedside table.
And even if he hadn’t been mistaken—and there was reason to believe that this was the case—a man is entitled to drive wherever he likes at night with his lights off, and his wife’s entitled to drown wherever and whenever she likes. Coincidence without connection, and nobody’s business anyway. But then there was that matter of the bike.
Obradin had woken up before sunrise after only an hour’s sleep, and had gotten out of bed at once. He dressed quietly and drove to the harbor a few minutes later. The Drina lay rocking sluggishly at the pier. Obradin checked the ropes and the lashed-down nets, opened and closed all the hatches, made sure that the anchor was in place, jumped back onto the pier, and climbed over the concrete breakwaters that had been built by forced laborers in the last months of the war.
The sun rose. Obradin covered the few hundred yards to the beach on foot. He saw Martha’s bike propped up against a rock; every day she rode it past his shop down to the bay. But never before lunchtime. Her neatly folded clothes lay next to the bike. He shielded his eyes from the intense rays of the rising sun. After searching the bay in vain for Henry’s wife, he returned to his cutter.
Obradin gazed after the cormorant as it flew over the radio mast of his cutter toward the coast. Then he started up the diesel again. The current had pulled him a few nautical miles out to sea. He sailed slowly back to the harbor, moored the Drina, and was soon walking through the door of his fishmonger’s shop.
“The diesel’s had it,” he said. “And without the cutter we may as well give up.”
Without another word he strode past Helga (who as usual was on the phone instead of working), opened the wooden hatch in the floor, and disappeared into the cellar. He reemerged with a barrel of slivovitz on his shoulder and kicked the hatch shut.
Helga covered the receiver with her hand. “What are you up to?”
“What does it look like?”
“What about the shop?”
“We’re closing.”
“What about the fish soup?”
“There won’t be any.”
“When are you coming back?”
Obradin went around the fish counter to his Helga, stroked her cheek with his hairy fingers, and kissed her good-bye on the mouth.
“You know when.”
Only minutes later, Helga called the game warden and the doctor from the neighboring town. The two of them were to stand by at the ready; in about two hours it would be time to act again. The doctor packed his bag when he heard this; the game warden opened his gun cabinet and took out a special gun.
———
Pale and unshaven, Henry stood outside the house in his rubber boots, his shirt hanging out of his trousers. He was leaning on a shovel when Moreany’s Jaguar came over the hill. The car was trailing a cloud of dust. Even from a distance, Henry could see that Moreany was not alone. Poncho ran to meet the car and leaped around, barking. Henry saw Betty in the passenger seat. She made no
8
The corpse was floating facedown, its outspread arms parallel to the coast. A young cormorant landed on its back and spread its wings to dry its feathers. The bird drifted past Obradin’s cutter on the back of the corpse and was carried by the current toward the promontory, whose northern tip extended into the sea for miles.
Obradin had gone out to sea, not in order to fish, but to collect his thoughts. He went slowly so as to spare the gasping engine. When the mainland was out of sight he turned it off and let the cutter drift. He sat down on the foredeck to smoke a Bosnian cigarette. He could have been mistaken, in which case it wasn’t Henry’s car he’d seen so clearly the night before. Then the man at the wheel wasn’t Henry either—or his double had just stolen his Maserati. It had been nothing but a disconcertingly detailed dream, right down to the butts that Helga had cleared off the windowsill and put on his bedside table.
And even if he hadn’t been mistaken—and there was reason to believe that this was the case—a man is entitled to drive wherever he likes at night with his lights off, and his wife’s entitled to drown wherever and whenever she likes. Coincidence without connection, and nobody’s business anyway. But then there was that matter of the bike.
Obradin had woken up before sunrise after only an hour’s sleep, and had gotten out of bed at once. He dressed quietly and drove to the harbor a few minutes later. The Drina lay rocking sluggishly at the pier. Obradin checked the ropes and the lashed-down nets, opened and closed all the hatches, made sure that the anchor was in place, jumped back onto the pier, and climbed over the concrete breakwaters that had been built by forced laborers in the last months of the war.
The sun rose. Obradin covered the few hundred yards to the beach on foot. He saw Martha’s bike propped up against a rock; every day she rode it past his shop down to the bay. But never before lunchtime. Her neatly folded clothes lay next to the bike. He shielded his eyes from the intense rays of the rising sun. After searching the bay in vain for Henry’s wife, he returned to his cutter.
Obradin gazed after the cormorant as it flew over the radio mast of his cutter toward the coast. Then he started up the diesel again. The current had pulled him a few nautical miles out to sea. He sailed slowly back to the harbor, moored the Drina, and was soon walking through the door of his fishmonger’s shop.
“The diesel’s had it,” he said. “And without the cutter we may as well give up.”
Without another word he strode past Helga (who as usual was on the phone instead of working), opened the wooden hatch in the floor, and disappeared into the cellar. He reemerged with a barrel of slivovitz on his shoulder and kicked the hatch shut.
Helga covered the receiver with her hand. “What are you up to?”
“What does it look like?”
“What about the shop?”
“We’re closing.”
“What about the fish soup?”
“There won’t be any.”
“When are you coming back?”
Obradin went around the fish counter to his Helga, stroked her cheek with his hairy fingers, and kissed her good-bye on the mouth.
“You know when.”
Only minutes later, Helga called the game warden and the doctor from the neighboring town. The two of them were to stand by at the ready; in about two hours it would be time to act again. The doctor packed his bag when he heard this; the game warden opened his gun cabinet and took out a special gun.
———
Pale and unshaven, Henry stood outside the house in his rubber boots, his shirt hanging out of his trousers. He was leaning on a shovel when Moreany’s Jaguar came over the hill. The car was trailing a cloud of dust. Even from a distance, Henry could see that Moreany was not alone. Poncho ran to meet the car and leaped around, barking. Henry saw Betty in the passenger seat. She made no
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