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Marin tied on to a buoy, fished out masks and snorkels for his pas-
sengers, and watched them dive in and stroke powerfully towards
the town beach. In truth, it was not so much a beach as a natural
inlet set against the backdrop of a great limestone wall, part of the
fortifications built centuries ago by the Venetians, who colonised
the port and called it Rovigno. Their engineers were men who under-
stood how to make an organic connection between sea and land.
High on the upper reaches of the structure, dozens of white
tablecloths had been hung out to dry in the sun. Tall, indented
stone archways punctuated the length of the wall just above the
water, creating perches for somnolent sunbathers. A topless woman
with bleached white hair and leathery skin slid from hers down
into the water, barely creating a ripple as she pushed slowly through
the shallows.
The human rookery created bright swatches of colour on the
rocky outcrops at either end of the cove. The water was turquoise
in patches and darker over the submerged rocks. A small child
ringed with a plastic float climbed down the stainless-steel ladder
embedded in the rock. From a large, round boulder, silhouetted
teenagers threw themselves screaming into the depths, ignoring
the angry cries from two old women breaststroking side by
side, their heads held high to preserve Tito-era perms.
Presently Derek, limber as a seal, hauled himself back into the
boat, and pulled off his goggles.
‘Brilliant,’ he said, wiping water from his face and throwing
himself onto the vinyl seat to laze in the sun. ‘Clear as glass and
hundreds of fish down there.’
Greg came over the stern rail and stood, spare and toned,
dripping onto the deck as he towelled his hair dry. He edged his
way into the front cockpit, standing a little too close to Marin as he
dried the rest of him.
‘So where are you from, Tomo?’ he asked.
‘I live here.’
‘Lucky man,’ said Derek, opening his eyes. ‘Were you born in
Rovinj?’
‘Come on!’ said Greg, clearly annoyed. ‘No one escaped the shit
here. Tough guy like you, you must’ve picked up a gun, right?’
‘What’s with all the questions?’
‘Just pegged you for a soldier, that’s all. Derek and me, we’ve seen
plenty of shit. But what happened here—that’s something else. I’m
just curious about it.’
‘You’ve come to the wrong place,’ said Marin. ‘There was no
fighting in Rovinj.’
‘I’ve heard it’s full of veterans.’
‘That was years ago.’
‘They sent the wounded here to recuperate, didn’t they?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Were you one of them?’
Marin turned sharply to his inquisitor and let the boat slew
off course.
‘That’s enough fucking questions.’
‘Hey!’ Derek yelled from the back. ‘Up ahead! Watch out for
those rocks!’
Marin ignored him, his eyes fixed on Greg, who now saw the
reef coming at them fast.
‘Fuck!’ Greg yelled, reaching for the wheel. Marin caught
his hand and squeezed it hard until he saw him wince. With his
other hand, Marin flipped the wheel and came about at a steep
angle, missing the reef by a whisker.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Greg exclaimed when Marin finally let his hand go.
‘You could’ve killed us!’ Derek had leapt to his feet.
Greg was spluttering with anger. Marin saw that he was the one
most likely to retaliate, but dealing with two of them would be dif-
ficult. He turned and pushed Derek hard in the chest so that he fell
back into the chair in the rear cockpit.
‘Stay there!’ he ordered him, yawing the boat again.
Greg was now caught off balance, forced to grip the taffrail to
avoid going overboard. There was fury in his face. He seemed ready
to throw himself at Marin.
‘Sit down!’ Marin shouted. ‘Or I swear I’ll put you over the
side.’
‘You maniac,’ Greg seethed. ‘I’ve killed men for less.’
Marin laughed. ‘You don’t look too dangerous in your speedos,
mate . . . Sit down, I said!’
To Marin’s surprise, Greg did as he was told. ‘That was fucking
crazy,’ he muttered.
‘Maybe I am crazy. Don’t push your luck.’
‘I was just talking soldier to soldier.’
‘You sounded more like a cop to me,’ said Marin.
He put the boat into another fast turn until they were pointed
back towards Rovinj.
‘The sunset cruise is over.’
•
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‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Jasna. She plucked the gum from
her mouth and wrapped it in an old supermarket receipt. ‘It wasn’t
like this before the war.’
The Englishman had read Fitzroy Maclean. He thought he had a
pretty good grasp of the history.
‘Come on, Jasna,’ he said. ‘This used to be part of Italy. Italians
and Croatians have always lived here side by side.’
‘Listen, honey.’ Jasna wagged a finger at him. ‘It was never
part of Italy—this is Croatia, always Croatia. Then Yugoslavia, now
Croatia again.’ She laughed and slapped her knee. ‘If they don’t
speak Croatian, fuck them.’
‘Fuck them!’ echoed the soldier. He was a thuggish-looking
Special Forces man who had cut his teeth a decade earlier expel-
ling Serbs from the Krajina.
‘Okay, forget about it. It’s not important,’ said Duncan irritably.
‘Let’s get down to business. What have you got for us, Jasna?’
She passed him the manila folder. ‘Look at these photos.’
Duncan pulled a seat over to the coffee table and spread a series
of enlarged images across it. The other team members gathered to
look over his shoulder.
‘Greg, Dez,’ he said. ‘You fellows see these wounds?’
Derek let out a sharp whistle. ‘Nasty,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Greg. ‘He never took off his T-shirt.’
‘You scared him off, honey,’ Jasna chided. ‘Should have been
softly-softly.’
Greg’s face darkened. ‘The man’s a fucking nutter.’
‘You did come it a bit strong with him,’ said Derek.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Greg responded. ‘There’ll be no softly-
softly when we pick him up.’
‘If we pick him up, sergeant, if,’ said Duncan. ‘But these pictures
do fit the intel—a pattern of wounds right down his left side, below
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the heart. Must have taken out a lung, at the very least. It’s a miracle
he survived. Well done, Jasna.’
‘These I have emailed to Zagreb,’ she said, and surprised them all
by lighting a cigarette. ‘I need this one. Fucking gum doesn’t work.
We will have an answer soon.’
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‘No, not at all. They were a pair of English finocchi, though I say
that without prejudice . . .’
‘You call a man faggot without prejudice?’
‘I don’t care who they fuck,’ said Marin. ‘I told you they were
Englishmen. That’s enough to justify any prejudice.’
‘Si, you have a point.’
‘It was how they behaved, pestering me with questions. They just
wouldn’t stop. Where were you born? Why are you here? Did you
fight in the war? On and on.’
Rossi pushed up his open bishop. ‘Just curious, perhaps.’
‘No, it was more than that.’
The old man drank some wine, pondering this. After a while, he
asked, ‘Who would send a pair of English homosexuals to torment
you, Tomo?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Marin. ‘But it felt like the old days.’
Rossi regarded him with something like pity. ‘Capito,’ he said
with a sigh. ‘The old days leave deep scars.’
Marin made his next move, keeping his finger on the piece.
‘They remind you that no one can be trusted.’ After he lifted his
finger, he looked into Rossi’s perpetually worried eyes and smiled.
‘Present company excluded, of course.’
A waiter came with plates of charred calamari, served in the
local style with potatoes and garlic spinach steeped in green oil and,
as the two men fought out an increasingly complex battle on the
chessboard, the meal unfolded with perfect timing. The carafe was
refilled again and again as fresh courses arrived. The aromatic wine,
the food, all of it fresh from the morning market, along with the old
man’s gentle companionship, began to ease Marin’s tension, a slow
unwinding welcome to both of them. Yet one phrase lingered in
each of their thoughts:
Like the old days.
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As Rossi stared down at the board, Marin studied the old man’s
face. It was marked by the secret history for which he was the only
keeper. There were baggy pouches under the hooded eyes and deep
lines flowed up his brow as if a succession of waves were gradually
eroding his hairline.
Then Rossi’s untidy eyebrows shot up. He had realised too late
that Marin had outmanoeuvred him; there was sadness in his eyes
as he glanced back at his younger opponent. Rossi carefully laid
down his king in surrender, reached for the grappa and raised
his glass.
‘A worthy contest,’ he said. ‘Saluti.’
‘You’re too generous. We should have played it out.’
‘It is better, more elegante, to die with dignity.’
‘This has nothing to do with death,’ said Marin.
Rossi looked at him wistfully, as if at a foolish child.
‘You’re wrong about that, Tomo. At my age every defeat, it is una
piccolo morte. The staircase that has become too steep, the summer
you stop swimming in the ocean, the faltering flow of your own
piss, the chess game you can’t win—’
‘Come on, Alberto . . .’
‘—the book they refuse to publish.’
‘What?’
‘The Italians rejected my manuscript. The letter came today.’
‘Oh, fuck. You kept this to yourself? They seemed so sure, they
were—’
‘—encouraging, si,’ said Rossi.
‘It was perfect for them.’
‘So you would think. A forgotten Italian tribe viene decimata—
decimated.’
‘More than that, I think,’ said Marin.
‘Si, si. Tito’s true legacy is genocidio, GEN-O-CID-IO!’ Rossi
slammed the table and began a tirade long familiar to Marin. ‘This
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People here know what really happened and they worry it could
happen again. Those now in power in Zagreb are old communists,
but they’re also rabid nationalists. Before he died, Tudjman accused
us as irredentists. The president! He called us the spies of Italy. Then
comes Mesic and he is just as bad. He blocks any investigation of
the partisans’ war crimes. They wish to control history.’
Rossi had waited until all the witnesses had died before finally
sending his manuscript to the publisher, but now came the rejec-
tion. Marin knew what an unbearable blow it was for the old man.
He watched Rossi down another shot of grappa and promptly refill
his glass.
‘Forget about them,’ said Marin. ‘You must send it to others.’
‘Only God knows what would be enough per quei bastardi. I have
to accept they’ve said no to me—no to my work, no to my people.’
•
It was late when Marin made his way back down the steep, deserted
streets. He had early morning tours booked and had left Rossi
working his way steadily through the bottle of grappa. Lamplight
yellowed the cobbled limestone paths. They were so shiny-smooth
that they appeared wet, although it hadn’t rained at all that evening.
He kept his head down, unaware of the shadow he cast on the
ancient walls. As he passed, his hulking familiar stained shuttered
windows and doors with darkness.
Marin reached the bottom of the hill where the narrow lane
ended at a wide square from which five paths radiated, each
climbing into different quarters of the old town. A dual sign named
the square in Croatian—Trg Na Mostu—and beneath that was its
Italian name—Piazza Del Ponte. Evidence of the town’s bipolar
nature was there on every signpost.
Even at this late hour, people were crowded into a few bars
and cafés. A small boy on the loose from an outdoor table found
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himself staring up at the man who had just lurched into the piazza.
Marin stopped, looked down at the little fellow and felt a twinge of
sadness, of pain for the child in his dreams, the son he would never
have. The boy stared back at Marin wide-eyed until his mother
called and he ran back to lean against her legs and peer out at the
strange giant. Marin left the square on the wide street that took him
to the harbour. Hundreds of small boats sat there jostling against
each other in the light breeze. He looked up at the dark spire of the
church, silhouetted against the star-filled sky, and he recalled that
this was where Rossi’s manuscript had begun.
•
It was the summer of 1944 and the twelve-year-old Rossi was horsing
around with his mates on the quay. The boys heard a roaring noise
and looked up to see two fighter planes coming in fast and low over
the cathedral. The planes dived either side of St Euphemia, levelling
out just above the masts of the fishing fleet. They angled towards a
small motor launch that had just entered the harbour. Rossi saw
flames erupt from the guns in the plane’s wings, then heard the
deafening racket as both aircraft strafed the launch, riddling it with
deadly fire. The tri-colour roundels on the underside of the wings
told him these were British fighters.
When the shattered vessel reached the dockside there was pan-
demonium. A bloodied body was hauled up from the bottom of the
boat and the boy recognised it as the Nazi commander of Rovigno,
a lofty and aristocratic presence in the town with the power of an
ancient satrap. The guileless German had been targeted returning
from lunch at the home of an Austrian baroness, widowed now and
living on the island of Sant’Andrea. As it transpired, neither party
would survive the consequences of that fateful meal. The German
soon died of his wounds, but what happened to the baroness and
her daughter would help inspire Rossi’s hatred of Tito’s Yugoslavia.
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Marin walked the length of the darkened quay. Just offshore, the
outline of Sveta Katarina was clear in the starlight. Many years ago,
while he was recovering from his wounds, Marin used to swim
out to the island on hot nights. He did so many times until one
morning he watched a fisherman haul an eight-foot shark onto the
dock. It was a beautiful thing, blue as the Adriatic, but Marin knew
that beauty and savagery could exist in the one place. The history of
Rovinj was proof of that, although for him the old town had been
his sanctuary.
The limestone flagging around the harbour’s edge, spectral white
under the stars, had been worn smooth. It was not hard for Marin
to imagine that the ancient buildings and their narrow connecting
pathways really were full of ghosts, as Rossi claimed. He imagined
they were like the ones who would always follow him through
his life.
For years now he had lived in an apartment he rented from
Rossi. It was on the waterfront, above the Sportz Bar—three storeys
up, overlooking the harbour. Marin threw open the shutters. He
had rationed himself to one cigarette a day and he smoked it now,
watching his old wooden boat bobbing at the back of the fleet.
He cared little for material possessions, but this superannuated
Venetian water taxi was an exception. He had found it for sale in a
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Marin hit the nearest of them hard, a short-armed jab. The man’s
legs crumpled. Weapons were pointed at him. He knew they’d have
shot him already if they intended to. A man grabbed at Marin’s
arms from behind.
A masked figure appeared in front of him and he yelled at it:
‘Jebi se!’
Marin headbutted the masked face, felt the crack of cartilage.
‘Ahhh! You fucking cunt! You’ll pay for that!’
The curses were in English. Marin recognised the voice. He
managed to tear off the man’s balaclava, uncovering a grimacing
bloody face full of anger, a face he had already seen that day.
Marin only had time to cry out: ‘You!’
Two more powerful men pinned his arms from behind. One of
them yelled in his ear, ‘On your fucking knees, Maric!’
English again. He knew that voice too—Derek. Greg and Derek.
He barely had time to process the thought before Greg began
thumping his face. Left fist, right fist, punch after punch.
‘I told you,’ said Greg, hitting him again, ‘I’ve killed men for less.’
Marin felt his legs go from under him.
‘Stand down, Sergeant!’ A third English voice. The beating
continued. ‘Stand down, I said! That’s an order.’
Marin clung on to consciousness. His body was a dead weight
in the arms of his captors, but still he registered a woman’s face
floating before him—a pair of smiling plum-coloured lips.
‘Hi, honey,’ she said, producing a hypodermic. ‘I’m Jasna. And
you’re under arrest.’
‘I’m Croatian,’ he blurted out as she plunged the needle into
his arm.
‘Believe me. We don’t want you. You’re on your own.’
Marin felt his brain shutting down as Jasna leant in close.
‘Tell me one thing, honey. Your funny Italian boat. Why you
called it Anna?’
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