“Fine, thanks for your time,” Nora managed to say. “Take care,” she added.
Kristina looked over at her and then went back, absently, to her nails. She was trying to reattach one of the ones that had come loose, licking it and pressing down hard. This was the last image Nora took away with her. She hoped against hope that this one visit would suffice, that she’d extract a few sturdy, logically grounded facts that would then allow her to get something down on paper and polish the story for style. She hoped she wouldn’t have to venture into the city or, if she did, that she wouldn’t have to linger long, interviewing witnesses. They’d already said everything, anyway; they’d been waiting in line during the investigation to have their say. People like that always knew everything. Of course, from what she’d gleaned in the two hours spent over the torn fingernails, there was a story here, a story about silence and anguish, but this story was of interest to no one else but her, and least of all her editor. Something here was pulling Nora in, however, even more than she’d expected. She jotted down incoherent sentences in her notebook as soon as she left, shut her eyes tight, shook her head, and decided to see when there was a bus leaving Požega for the city that afternoon.
ÄÄÄ
Forget this city
and forget this city
forget this city
forget this city
Many years ago, she’d had a friend in the city. They met poolside, during the summer when they both turned eleven. She remembered how one evening, after a whole day spent together, their shoulders sunburned and eyes red from the chlorine, they’d traded addresses, hugged for a long time in their wet swimsuits, and then, for a few months, they’d written each other regularly. That same last day, a boy had gone missing from the city pool, and this was part of what had kept them close. They remembered him, too, or at least talked each other into believing he’d been swimming with friends right near them. When the pool began to empty out as kids left to go home, Dražen was nowhere to be found. His towel, wristwatch, and gnawed peach pits were still there by the railing. The lifeguards quickly drained the Olympic-size pool, thinking he’d drowned, but no body was found. It was only weeks later, entirely by chance, when the Danube swelled with autumn rains, that a rock slid out from the noose someone had tied around the child’s neck, and the bloated corpse rose to the surface.
Children began disappearing from the city that summer as never before. Rumors made the rounds about a white van parked out in front of the school and a beautiful woman who sneaked out from the van to entice kids with candy; about people roaming the streets at night dressed in black, seeking children; about the hearts and kidneys they cut from them. The two girls wrote to each other about all these things, crafted their own detective story and believed they were the only ones who could solve the mystery. The last letter Nora wrote her friend was when the war had already begun—about ankle boot–style shoes with inch-high heels she’d bought at the Novska open-air market for five hundred Croatian dinars—but her letter was returned to her, undeliverable. Never again did she hear from her summertime friend, or from the many others she’d known back then, some of them really close friends. As the bus pulled into the station she remembered that her friend’s father had worked at Hotel Danube, the only hotel in town when she was a child. She hoped it was still standing. She knew she wouldn’t be able to find anyone to interview at eight o’clock at night except random passersby, if there was anyone passing by at random. What she needed was a little peace of mind and quiet so she could cobble together a plan for the next day and, if nothing else, identify the relatives and acquaintances who still had doubts from a list she’d been given by colleagues from the other newspapers.
There was almost nobody at the station; hers was probably the last bus to pull in for the night, bringing Nora and three other passengers. None of them were met. She looked over at the two peeling station benches. A drunk was nodding off on one, cracking open an eye every so often. By Platform One a man suddenly hopped to his feet from the other bench and started walking toward her. He seemed ordinary enough, in jeans and a leather jacket, frowning, maybe in his early forties. He had no obvious reason for approaching her. When he was only two steps away she veered to step around him, with her small suitcase in one hand and a backpack on her back, but he stood in front of her and gave no ground, determined to get her attention. Their eyes met for a second. He was tall and heavyset, his hands in his pockets, blocking her view of the city, which she was comparing mentally with her childhood memories.
“Taxi,” was all he said, his voice clean and dark.
“Ah,” sighed Nora, shaking her head, “I’m not going far; thanks.”
He merely nodded and went on to his car; he’d probably been waiting for the last passengers to disembark. Nora watched him unlock an old white Opel Corsa that had no taxi sign on the roof but, despite rust spots here and there, seemed well enough maintained. He stubbed out his cigarette as he got in, slid the key into the ignition, and shifted into reverse. Only then did it occur to Nora that she could have asked him a few questions.
Hotel Danube was no longer the only hotel in town, but it was the only one where she knew she’d find a room her editor would pay for. The newer Hotel
