facing the wrong direction from Strumbić’s? The Zagreb cops had never been good on details. And if Strumbić lived? Maybe they’d pin the attempted murder on the Bosnian anyway.
Della Torre was tired. It was nice driving this car, but it didn’t make up for the evening he’d had. His knee and his ribs kept reminding him they weren’t happy. He was tempted to go straight home and into bed. But he knew that whoever had hired the Bosnians would probably be keeping an eye on his place too. Just in case.
He really couldn’t think offhand what he knew that would make somebody want to get rid of him. No, that wasn’t right. He knew lots about a lot of people in high-up places. Ugly things. But most of those people had other, more pressing problems. Having been deeply involved in the grubby parts of the Communist machine, they were exposed to all sorts of flying shrapnel now that the machine was flying apart. What della Torre knew may not have been the least of their worries. But it wasn’t top of the list either.
It wasn’t time to think about these things. Luckily traffic going into Zagreb was light, and he mostly let the car drive itself. If he couldn’t go home, he’d just have to go to Irena’s. Yes, that’d do the trick. He’d just have to hope his ex-wife didn’t have company.
AT FIRST HE knocked lightly on the glass door to the kitchen. Then he tossed pebbles at her bedroom window. No sign of anyone. He started to worry she might not be in. Where else could she be at this time on a Sunday night? He knew she wasn’t at work. She wasn’t on call. A thought occurred to him, but he pushed it out of his mind. Surely she wasn’t seeing anyone else. After all, he wasn’t. It’d be too unfair if she started first.
He hammered on the door that little bit louder, until the lights in a neighbouring apartment came on.
He was on the balcony of a building that was up a small hill overlooking the city. It had four flats, one on each storey. Hers was on the third.
He looked across at Zagreb’s illuminated streets, sparkling like necklaces. They reminded him of the first evening he’d spent with her. It had been a particularly warm evening late in the spring. Or maybe that was only how he remembered it. What he was sure of was that he’d spent much of the time trying not to look down the front of her dress. And failing. He’d recited odd lines from a not particularly appropriate poem, though he forgot what it was. Even now he cringed, hoping it hadn’t been the one comparing pretty girls to hitting tractor production figures.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” she’d said. They were standing at the top of the cannon tower in the old town, the medieval part of Zagreb built on its central hill.
“Aren’t you? It’s a beautiful view.”
“Hmm,” she said, looking into the distance. “The French have a word for it; it’s called décolletage.”
“Ah, yes, décolletage.” He repeated it a couple of times, burning it into his memory, pretending to know what it meant. If it didn’t work out with this girl, it’d be useful to have a bit of French to use on the next one who came along.
But he hadn’t wanted the next girl. He wanted this one. As soon as he looked the word up the following day, he realized he loved the strikingly pretty medical student friend of a friend.
Funny to think of it. The view of Zagreb that night had been a full frontal, with all the ugly industrial chimneys and distant tower blocks included. But the view from her balcony was a discreet look at the city’s prettiest, most seductive aspect. Zagreb’s décolletage.
At the base of the apartment building, a big communal garden made a steady descent to where the hill flattened. It ended at a high, blank brick wall — the back of a row of nineteenth-century stables and storage sheds. The sort of fences that surrounded tennis courts separated their building’s garden from the neighbouring ones, making it one of the most
Della Torre was tired. It was nice driving this car, but it didn’t make up for the evening he’d had. His knee and his ribs kept reminding him they weren’t happy. He was tempted to go straight home and into bed. But he knew that whoever had hired the Bosnians would probably be keeping an eye on his place too. Just in case.
He really couldn’t think offhand what he knew that would make somebody want to get rid of him. No, that wasn’t right. He knew lots about a lot of people in high-up places. Ugly things. But most of those people had other, more pressing problems. Having been deeply involved in the grubby parts of the Communist machine, they were exposed to all sorts of flying shrapnel now that the machine was flying apart. What della Torre knew may not have been the least of their worries. But it wasn’t top of the list either.
It wasn’t time to think about these things. Luckily traffic going into Zagreb was light, and he mostly let the car drive itself. If he couldn’t go home, he’d just have to go to Irena’s. Yes, that’d do the trick. He’d just have to hope his ex-wife didn’t have company.
AT FIRST HE knocked lightly on the glass door to the kitchen. Then he tossed pebbles at her bedroom window. No sign of anyone. He started to worry she might not be in. Where else could she be at this time on a Sunday night? He knew she wasn’t at work. She wasn’t on call. A thought occurred to him, but he pushed it out of his mind. Surely she wasn’t seeing anyone else. After all, he wasn’t. It’d be too unfair if she started first.
He hammered on the door that little bit louder, until the lights in a neighbouring apartment came on.
He was on the balcony of a building that was up a small hill overlooking the city. It had four flats, one on each storey. Hers was on the third.
He looked across at Zagreb’s illuminated streets, sparkling like necklaces. They reminded him of the first evening he’d spent with her. It had been a particularly warm evening late in the spring. Or maybe that was only how he remembered it. What he was sure of was that he’d spent much of the time trying not to look down the front of her dress. And failing. He’d recited odd lines from a not particularly appropriate poem, though he forgot what it was. Even now he cringed, hoping it hadn’t been the one comparing pretty girls to hitting tractor production figures.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” she’d said. They were standing at the top of the cannon tower in the old town, the medieval part of Zagreb built on its central hill.
“Aren’t you? It’s a beautiful view.”
“Hmm,” she said, looking into the distance. “The French have a word for it; it’s called décolletage.”
“Ah, yes, décolletage.” He repeated it a couple of times, burning it into his memory, pretending to know what it meant. If it didn’t work out with this girl, it’d be useful to have a bit of French to use on the next one who came along.
But he hadn’t wanted the next girl. He wanted this one. As soon as he looked the word up the following day, he realized he loved the strikingly pretty medical student friend of a friend.
Funny to think of it. The view of Zagreb that night had been a full frontal, with all the ugly industrial chimneys and distant tower blocks included. But the view from her balcony was a discreet look at the city’s prettiest, most seductive aspect. Zagreb’s décolletage.
At the base of the apartment building, a big communal garden made a steady descent to where the hill flattened. It ended at a high, blank brick wall — the back of a row of nineteenth-century stables and storage sheds. The sort of fences that surrounded tennis courts separated their building’s garden from the neighbouring ones, making it one of the most
Similar Books
