remembered Tinto the dog, Giorgi put on a rather perplexed smile.
Giorgi said his father would be home soon. Did Serg want to stay and eat?
He looked at his watch. The train would be at the station in three hours.
The father was very surprised to meet a visitor from Vukovar.
'This is Serg,' Giorgi said. 'Serg Dolac.'
'Serg Dolac?' the father asked, scrutinising him. 'Yes, there's something familiar about you. Hm. Didn't I know your father? No?'
Darkness fell and after taking their places at the table, the father gave them large, white serviettes and loosened his red neckerchief and tied the serviette round his neck. The father said grace, made the sign of the cross and inclined his head to the only picture in the room, a framed photo of a woman.
As Giorgi and his father took their cutlery, he bowed and intoned: 'Who is this that comes from Edom, coming from Bozrah, his garments stained crimson? Who is this, in glorious apparel, marching in the greatness of his strength? 'It is I, who announce that right has won the day, it is I,' says the Lord, 'for I am mighty to save.''
The father eyed him in astonishment. Then he passed him the dish with the large, pale pieces of meat.
The meal continued in silence. The wind made the thin windows groan.
After the meat, there was dessert. Palacinka, thin pancakes filled with jam and chocolate spread over the top. He hadn't tasted palacinka since he was a child in Vukovar.
'Take another, dear Serg,' the father said. 'It's Christmas.'
He checked his watch. The train would leave in half an hour. It was time. He cleared his throat, put down the serviette and stood up: 'Giorgi and I have been talking about all the people we remember from Vukovar, but there is one person we haven't spoken about yet.'
'I see,' the father said, mystified, and smiled. 'Who is that, Serg?' The father had turned his head a little and viewed him with one eye, as though trying to identify something he could not put his finger on.
'His name was Bobo.'
He could see in Giorgi's father's eyes that now he knew. He might have been waiting for this moment. He heard his voice resound between the bare walls. 'You were sitting in the jeep and pointed him out to the Serbian commanding officer.' He swallowed. 'Bobo died.'
The room went still. The father put down his cutlery. 'It was war, Serg. We all have to die.' He said this with composure. Almost resignation.
The father and Giorgi were motionless as he took the gun from the waistband of his trousers, pointed it across the table and fired. The explosion was brief and dry, and the father's body jerked as the chair legs scraped against the floor. The father lowered his head and stared at the hole in the serviette hanging in front of his chest. Then it was sucked into his chest as the blood spread like a red flower over the white cloth.
'Look at me,' he ordered, and the father automatically raised his head.
The second shot made a tiny black hole in his forehead, which fell forward hitting the plate of palacinka with a soft thud.
He turned to Giorgi who was staring open-mouthed, a red line running down his cheek. It took him a second to realise that this was jam from his father's palacinka. He stuffed the pistol into the waistband of his trousers.
'You'll have to shoot me, too, Serg.'
'I don't have any scores to settle with you.' He walked out of the sitting room and took the jacket hanging by the door.
Giorgi followed. 'I'll get even with you! I'll find you and kill you, if you don't kill me!'
'And how will you find me, Giorgi?'
'You cannot hide. I know who you are.'
'Do you? You think I'm Serg. But Serg Dolac had red hair and was taller than me. And I'm not a fast runner, Giorgi. But let's just be happy you don't recognise me, Giorgi. It means I can spare your life.'
Then he leaned forward, kissed Giorgi hard on the mouth, opened the door and left.
The newspapers had written about the murder, but the police had never looked for anyone. And three months later, one Sunday, his mother told him about a Croat who had visited her to ask for help. The man had been unable to pay much, but he had collected some money from the family. A Serbian who had tortured his brother during the war had been found living nearby. And someone had mentioned something about the one they called the little redeemer.
The old man burned his fingertips on the thin roll-up and swore aloud.
He stood up and went to reception. Behind the boy on the other side of the glass partition was the red flag of the Salvation Army.
'Could I use the phone, please?'
The boy scowled at him. 'If it's a local call, yes.'
'It is.'
The boy pointed to a narrow office behind him, and he entered. Sat down at the desk and contemplated the telephone. He thought of his mother's voice. How concerned and frightened it could be, and gentle and warm at the same time. It was like an embrace. He stood up, closed the door to reception and punched in the number of Hotel International. She wasn't there. He didn't leave a message. The door opened.
'You're not allowed to close the door,' the boy said. 'OK?'
'OK. Sorry. Have you got a telephone directory?'
The boy rolled his eyes, pointed to a thick book beside the phone and left.
He found Jon Karlsen and Goteborggata 4, and dialled the number.
Thea Nilsen contemplated the ringing telephone.
She had locked herself in Jon's flat with the key he had given her.
They said there was a bullet hole somewhere. She had searched and found it in the cupboard door.
The man had tried to shoot Jon. To kill him. The thought made her strangely agitated. Not frightened at all. At times she thought she would never be frightened again, not like that, not about that, not about dying.
The police had been here, but they hadn't spent much time looking. No clues apart from the bullets, they had said.
In the hospital she had listened to Jon breathing in and out as he gazed at her. He had looked so helpless there in the large hospital bed.
As though all she had to do was place a pillow over his face and he would be dead. And she had liked that, seeing him weak. Perhaps the schoolteacher in Hamsun's Victoria was right: for some women their need to feel sympathy made them hate their strong, healthy men and in secret they wished their husbands were cripples and dependent on their kindness.
But now she was alone in his flat and the telephone was ringing. She looked at her watch. It was the middle of the night. No one would ring now. No one with honest intentions. Thea was not afraid to die. But she was afraid of this. Was it her, the woman Jon thought she knew nothing about?
She took two paces towards the phone. Paused. The fourth ring. It would stop after five. She hesitated. Another ring. She surged forward and picked up the receiver.
'Yes?'
It was quiet for a moment at the other end. Then a man spoke in English. 'Sorry for calling so late. My name is Edom. Is Jon there?'
'No,' she said with relief. 'He's in hospital.'
'Ah, yes, I heard about what happened today. I'm an old friend and would like to visit him. Which hospital is he in?'
'Ulleval.'
'Ulleval.'
'Yes. I don't know what the department is called in English – it's Neurokirurgisk in Norwegian. But there's a policeman sitting outside the room and he won't let you in. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'Understand?'
'My English… it's not very…'
'I understand perfectly. Thank you very much.'
She put down the receiver and stood rapt in thought for a long time.
