level. Pearse knew the drill. Nothing to wash with, save the rainwater.
The town itself-bombed beyond recognition even a year after the official cease-fire-blended into the morass of canvas landscaping, the few remaining buildings given over to medical facilities. Even so, he was told that the spillover into the camp was beginning to take its toll, especially with the hot weather. Humidity meant flies; flies meant the threat of epidemic. A section of the camp had been isolated for several weeks, though never quarantined, family members insisting they be kept together. There was little any of the relief organizations could do to dissuade them.
An hour walking. It was all he could handle his first time out.
As much as knew he needed to get moving-Angeli’s voice never far from him-he also knew the doctors were right. He needed to take the time to recover. What they probably didn’t realize, however, was how much more they had given him.
For three more days, as his head cleared, he did what he could, “Baba Pearsic” allowed again to act the priest. Women, children, old men-the latter in the familiar flat hats, wool jackets, and countless layers of clothing-all seemed strangely comforted by him, those who knew they wouldn’t survive the camp eager to talk with him. Not about God or faith, but simply to talk. There were plenty of village
At night, he managed what little sleep he could, trying to ignore the occasional screams within the camp, depravity, like a virus, having spread even to the hunted. It only sharpened his memories. No one ever talked of rape, he remembered. Not because it was a sin, or because it might be too painful for the women involved, but because husbands and fathers thought of its victims as abominations, forever unclean, no matter what the circumstances or who the perpetrator. Proof that barbarism played no favorites.
It wasn’t all that difficult for the “Hodoporia” to slip to the back of his mind.
On the fifth morning, he was in the medical tent, the driver still stretched out on a bare mattress. Pearse had been with him through the latest surgery and half the night. When the most recent dose of morphine began to kick in, Pearse stood and started for the next mattress.
A voice from behind broke in: “I told you you could give absolution.”
The words in English stopped Pearse in his tracks. Not sure if he had heard correctly, he turned. The face he saw nearly knocked him to the floor.
“Salko?” Mendravic was already sidestepping his way through the mattresses, the same immense figure he had known a lifetime ago, his embrace as suffocating as the last one they had shared.
“It’s good to see you, too, Ian,” Mendravic whispered in his ear. He then stepped back, the familiar grin etched across his face. “Father, I mean.”
It took Pearse several seconds to recover. “Salko. What are you-”
“The priest’s outfit suits you.”
Still dazed, he asked again, “What are you doing here?”
“That’s all you have to say?” He laughed.
“No, I’m …” Pearse could only shake his head. Without warning, he pulled Mendravic in and embraced him again. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You, too. You, too.”
When Pearse finally let go, he was no less confused. “I still don’t understand-”
“Fighting the Serbs. I’ve been smuggling people in from Pri?stina for the last few months. Mainly through Montenegro.”
“So why here?” It seemed to be all he was capable of saying.
“Because two days ago, I heard about a ‘Baba Pearsic’ in Kukes-an American who’d been in Bosnia. Slitna, to be exact. Most of the Catholic priests are either in the north or in Macedonia. I thought I’d come and see for myself. And here you are. So, how’s the head?”
“That’s unbelievable.”
“You’ve stayed in one place for a few days. Not so unbelievable. Again, how’s the head?”
“About ninety percent.”
“So, better than it was before.” He laughed.
Pearse was about to answer, when movement from one of the beds broke through.
“You do what you need to do here,” Mendravic said. “I’ll be outside.”
Twenty minutes later, Pearse joined him. They began to walk.
“You make a good priest.”
“You make a good rebel.”
Again, Mendravic laughed. “Don’t flatter me. I’m not with the KLA, but I understand what they’re doing. It was the same with us. Except here, Dayton only made Milos?evic? stronger. Until your friends in the West understand that, there’s really no choice but to fight these people.”
“So you never went back to Zagreb?”
“Of course I went back. It never felt right. It wasn’t mine anymore.”
“And Slitna? You knew the people there.”
Mendravic took hold of his arm and stopped. “Slitna?” Pearse began to list names; again, Mendravic cut him off. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Petra didn’t tell you?” Before Pearse could respond, Mendravic continued. “The entire village was destroyed. Wiped out. The day after you left. You were very lucky.”
“‘The entire …’” The news hit Pearse as if it had happened yesterday. “Why?”
The loss seemed no less immediate for Mendravic. He shook his head. “They never really needed reasons.”
“But you and Petra-”
“We were also very lucky. Off getting something-I don’t remember what. Whatever we were so desperate to find in those days. When we came back, it was as if the place had never existed. Except for the rubble. And the bodies.”
“I … didn’t know.”
“Yes. Well … I was sure Petra would have told you-” He stopped abruptly, only now aware of the look in Pearse’s eyes. “When was the last time you spoke with her?”
“Petra? A month, maybe two after I left. Why? Is she all right?”
“Oh, she’s fine. She’s outside of Sarajevo now. Teaching again.” He started to walk. “She has a son.”
Pearse smiled to himself. “So she got married. Good for her.”
“No. She never married.”
Pearse’s reaction was immediate. “My God. Was she-”
Again, Mendravic cut him off. “No. Nothing like that. You didn’t have to worry about that with Petra.”
Pearse nodded.
“The boy turned seven just this May,” Mendravic added, his gaze now straight ahead.
“Really?”
“Really.”
It took another moment for Pearse to understand what Mendravic was saying. Seven years.
Pearse stopped. A son.
The Croat continued on, Pearse unable to follow.
FILIUS
four
Nigel Harris sat in the breakfast nook of his penthouse suite atop London’s Claridges Hotel, fifteen newspapers piled on a small table in front of him. Nestled in among them stood a cup of weak tea, a plate with two hard-boiled eggs, no yolks, and a bowl of piping hot oatmeal-the same breakfast he’d had every morning for the
