secure around.
But there was a secret path from the main road, along the side of the shop, through a stable yard, and into a shed that led into the neighbour’s garden, where there was a broken bit of fencing behind some big shrubs. Della Torre was pretty sure he was still the only person who knew about it.
He’d discovered it as a kid, when he’d lived in the apartment with his father and needed a way to get in and out at night without the old man noticing. No one had ever bothered to fix the fence or the bit of broken wall at the back of the shed. His father still owned the apartment, though he’d moved out to his old farmhouse in Istria, near the coast, after della Torre and Irena married. When della Torre left the marriage, Irena had stayed on in the flat. So now he thought of it as hers.
Della Torre had climbed up the back of the building as he had done in his youth, not realizing quite how difficult it would be with a busted knee and a cracked rib. Just as well there was little risk in stopping at each balcony. One of the apartments he passed on the way up was almost always empty; it was the home of a banker who mostly lived in New York. The other was occupied by a deaf old lady, the widow of a member of the Yugoslav politburo.
“The least Irena could have done was to leave the balcony door unlocked,” he grumbled.
Finally, a light came on in the kitchen.
“Oh, it’s you. Should have known,” she said, having first peered through the glass. She suppressed any enthusiasm she might have felt on seeing him.
“Who’d you think it was? Burglars?”
“I was hoping for a Romeo.”
“What? An Alfa Romeo? You want another car already?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Why didn’t you just let yourself in through the front door? You’ve got keys.”
“I do. But they’re at home,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“And you’re locked out and you need my spare set, but — don’t tell me — it was too much trouble to press the buzzer.”
“I didn’t want anyone to see me. And to tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind staying for the night.” He eased himself onto a wooden chair with a padded cushion, one of two in the small kitchen.
“You didn’t want anyone to know because it’s illegal to visit your wife?”
“Ex-wife.”
“Oh, so you signed the papers and sent them to the lawyers, then, did you?” She crossed her arms and frowned.
“Um, no. I don’t remember you giving me any papers. Have they got lost in the post?”
“No. I haven’t bothered doing anything about it,” she said.
“So it’s still wife, then.”
“It’s still wife.” It was a conversation they’d had more than once.
“Well, anyway, aren’t you going to offer to make me a cup of herbal tea or something?” He helpfully waved his hand towards the cupboard.
“Would you like a cup of herbal tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“The kettle’s there and you know where the tea’s kept.”
“Look, I’m sorry I’m so late. Um . . . you haven’t got company, by the way, have you?”
“Who’d be keeping me company this time of night? I just got back from work. I was in the shower.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I mean it’s been, what? Nearly two years?”
“More like three.” Irena remained standing.
“Three years? I thought doctors from the hospital would have been all over you now that you’re free.”
“Hmm. With a husband in the secret police I’d be a real catch for a middle-aged adrenaline junkie. Anyway, it’s really none of your business. You know very well I’m never going to lock you out of this place. And if I start seeing somebody, it won’t be here. So what’s the big deal that it means you have to climb in and out of your own apartment like a thief? Some scorned woman? Or her husband?”
“Maybe. Though I haven’t the foggiest which. All I know is whoever it is that doesn’t like me had a bunch of Bosnians sent around to have me killed.
But there was a secret path from the main road, along the side of the shop, through a stable yard, and into a shed that led into the neighbour’s garden, where there was a broken bit of fencing behind some big shrubs. Della Torre was pretty sure he was still the only person who knew about it.
He’d discovered it as a kid, when he’d lived in the apartment with his father and needed a way to get in and out at night without the old man noticing. No one had ever bothered to fix the fence or the bit of broken wall at the back of the shed. His father still owned the apartment, though he’d moved out to his old farmhouse in Istria, near the coast, after della Torre and Irena married. When della Torre left the marriage, Irena had stayed on in the flat. So now he thought of it as hers.
Della Torre had climbed up the back of the building as he had done in his youth, not realizing quite how difficult it would be with a busted knee and a cracked rib. Just as well there was little risk in stopping at each balcony. One of the apartments he passed on the way up was almost always empty; it was the home of a banker who mostly lived in New York. The other was occupied by a deaf old lady, the widow of a member of the Yugoslav politburo.
“The least Irena could have done was to leave the balcony door unlocked,” he grumbled.
Finally, a light came on in the kitchen.
“Oh, it’s you. Should have known,” she said, having first peered through the glass. She suppressed any enthusiasm she might have felt on seeing him.
“Who’d you think it was? Burglars?”
“I was hoping for a Romeo.”
“What? An Alfa Romeo? You want another car already?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “Why didn’t you just let yourself in through the front door? You’ve got keys.”
“I do. But they’re at home,” he said, closing the door behind him.
“And you’re locked out and you need my spare set, but — don’t tell me — it was too much trouble to press the buzzer.”
“I didn’t want anyone to see me. And to tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind staying for the night.” He eased himself onto a wooden chair with a padded cushion, one of two in the small kitchen.
“You didn’t want anyone to know because it’s illegal to visit your wife?”
“Ex-wife.”
“Oh, so you signed the papers and sent them to the lawyers, then, did you?” She crossed her arms and frowned.
“Um, no. I don’t remember you giving me any papers. Have they got lost in the post?”
“No. I haven’t bothered doing anything about it,” she said.
“So it’s still wife, then.”
“It’s still wife.” It was a conversation they’d had more than once.
“Well, anyway, aren’t you going to offer to make me a cup of herbal tea or something?” He helpfully waved his hand towards the cupboard.
“Would you like a cup of herbal tea?”
“Yes, please.”
“The kettle’s there and you know where the tea’s kept.”
“Look, I’m sorry I’m so late. Um . . . you haven’t got company, by the way, have you?”
“Who’d be keeping me company this time of night? I just got back from work. I was in the shower.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I mean it’s been, what? Nearly two years?”
“More like three.” Irena remained standing.
“Three years? I thought doctors from the hospital would have been all over you now that you’re free.”
“Hmm. With a husband in the secret police I’d be a real catch for a middle-aged adrenaline junkie. Anyway, it’s really none of your business. You know very well I’m never going to lock you out of this place. And if I start seeing somebody, it won’t be here. So what’s the big deal that it means you have to climb in and out of your own apartment like a thief? Some scorned woman? Or her husband?”
“Maybe. Though I haven’t the foggiest which. All I know is whoever it is that doesn’t like me had a bunch of Bosnians sent around to have me killed.
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