over, began to chatter brightly to one another. I sat on one of the logs, between Josip and Dragan, as a fire was lit. A new bottle of slivovitz was opened and plastic cupfuls passed around. I tried to demur but a roar of disapproval forced me to accept a cup.
Dragan lifted his cup. “Paul Wood!” he said. With his other hand he clapped me on the back so hard I nearly spilled my slivovitz.
“Paul Wood!” the Tigers chorused, and they raised their glasses to me, then drained them. I was so surprised that I forgot to drink.
“It is friends like you we need, Paul,” Josip said. “Friends who can stand up to NATO and make them listen. Friends who can support our business.”
“I’m happy I could help,” I said cautiously. The appreciation was flattering. I had to admit I got a bit of a buzz from all those battle-hardened warriors smiling approvingly at me. But I wasn’t sure I really wanted to be an honorary member of the Mostar Tigers. A subject change seemed like a good idea. “What is this place?”
“One of the rich Turks lived here,” Josip said. “It was our headquarters during the war. We did great things here. Great things. And now, now we come here to drink. Look at us. Hiding here like children escaping their parents. It is a humiliation. Look at these men around you. Every one of us has killed men in battle. We saved one another’s lives times beyond counting. Our enemies trembled at our name. And now, now the war is over, all we do is drink and curse NATO and talk about how bold we once were. But look, Paul, look, I tell you, these are some of the bravest and most dangerous men in the world. We are not useless. But this peace,” he spat the word out, “this NATO peace, it comes with nothing, no opportunity. If we were given an opportunity, I tell you what we would do with it. We would make a miracle. We would make an empire.”
It was a stirring speech. I wished I was a rich Western investor, wished there was some way I could help Dragan and Josip and the Tigers. But they were aiming their speeches at the wrong man. I couldn’t even help myself.
“You are tired,” Josip said. “I understand. We will speak of this further tomorrow. But do not forget what I tell you. You are with men capable of great things.”
* * *
I woke early. Partly because ten time zones’ worth of jet lag was still making my metabolic clock spin like a compass in a magnet factory. Partly because I always wake up early when I’m badly hung over, as if my body wants me to suffer through as many hours of my self-inflicted agony as possible, some kind of moral lesson. It was barely dawn. Talena slept beside me. I didn’t remember coming into the house and going to sleep. I hoped I hadn’t woken her up.
The bathroom, I remembered, was downstairs. Standing up was a terrible mistake. A sledgehammer began to pound at my skull from the inside. I felt so weak that I tottered rather than walked. I descended the stairs slowly and clumsily. There was no rail, so I pressed my hands against the wood-panelled wall next to the stairs for support. The steps creaked beneath me. Eventually I reached the bathroom door and pushed it open.
The toilet lid was down, and Saskia sat atop it, her face in her hands, tears leaking from her closed eyes. She was crying without making a single noise, absolutely silent even though her whole body shook violently. She wore sweat pants and a black bra, and her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her stomach and upper arms were mottled with bruises the size of apples, vividly purple and yellow against her otherwise porcelain skin.
I stood there, stunned, my mind wrapped in my hangover’s thick blinding cloth, barely able to parse what I was seeing.
No wonder Talena was so upset
, was my first coherent thought. You’d be upset too if you met your half-sister and once-best-friend after eight years and found that she was a battered wife. I
Dragan lifted his cup. “Paul Wood!” he said. With his other hand he clapped me on the back so hard I nearly spilled my slivovitz.
“Paul Wood!” the Tigers chorused, and they raised their glasses to me, then drained them. I was so surprised that I forgot to drink.
“It is friends like you we need, Paul,” Josip said. “Friends who can stand up to NATO and make them listen. Friends who can support our business.”
“I’m happy I could help,” I said cautiously. The appreciation was flattering. I had to admit I got a bit of a buzz from all those battle-hardened warriors smiling approvingly at me. But I wasn’t sure I really wanted to be an honorary member of the Mostar Tigers. A subject change seemed like a good idea. “What is this place?”
“One of the rich Turks lived here,” Josip said. “It was our headquarters during the war. We did great things here. Great things. And now, now we come here to drink. Look at us. Hiding here like children escaping their parents. It is a humiliation. Look at these men around you. Every one of us has killed men in battle. We saved one another’s lives times beyond counting. Our enemies trembled at our name. And now, now the war is over, all we do is drink and curse NATO and talk about how bold we once were. But look, Paul, look, I tell you, these are some of the bravest and most dangerous men in the world. We are not useless. But this peace,” he spat the word out, “this NATO peace, it comes with nothing, no opportunity. If we were given an opportunity, I tell you what we would do with it. We would make a miracle. We would make an empire.”
It was a stirring speech. I wished I was a rich Western investor, wished there was some way I could help Dragan and Josip and the Tigers. But they were aiming their speeches at the wrong man. I couldn’t even help myself.
“You are tired,” Josip said. “I understand. We will speak of this further tomorrow. But do not forget what I tell you. You are with men capable of great things.”
* * *
I woke early. Partly because ten time zones’ worth of jet lag was still making my metabolic clock spin like a compass in a magnet factory. Partly because I always wake up early when I’m badly hung over, as if my body wants me to suffer through as many hours of my self-inflicted agony as possible, some kind of moral lesson. It was barely dawn. Talena slept beside me. I didn’t remember coming into the house and going to sleep. I hoped I hadn’t woken her up.
The bathroom, I remembered, was downstairs. Standing up was a terrible mistake. A sledgehammer began to pound at my skull from the inside. I felt so weak that I tottered rather than walked. I descended the stairs slowly and clumsily. There was no rail, so I pressed my hands against the wood-panelled wall next to the stairs for support. The steps creaked beneath me. Eventually I reached the bathroom door and pushed it open.
The toilet lid was down, and Saskia sat atop it, her face in her hands, tears leaking from her closed eyes. She was crying without making a single noise, absolutely silent even though her whole body shook violently. She wore sweat pants and a black bra, and her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her stomach and upper arms were mottled with bruises the size of apples, vividly purple and yellow against her otherwise porcelain skin.
I stood there, stunned, my mind wrapped in my hangover’s thick blinding cloth, barely able to parse what I was seeing.
No wonder Talena was so upset
, was my first coherent thought. You’d be upset too if you met your half-sister and once-best-friend after eight years and found that she was a battered wife. I
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