Stillness of the Sea (7 page)

She must feel, he thinks, that Lumbarda is
somewhere
from another time, uncontaminated by what would happen later and free from thoughts of war, guilt and crime. Surely she can have only happy memories of
that bay with its small offshore islands, as he has seen it in a travel guide – a bay in which the sea, a solid blue mass of water, lies so still like that its peace will never be broken by winds and currents. But was it really possible to keep these memories apart from all that has happened since? Memory can be fatally impaired by a single event, which casts its shadow over everything and drives away all peace of mind.

Ana fell in love for the first time in Lumbarda; she was ten years old at the time and the object of her desires already a young man, an actor from Sarajevo. She told him this story when the two of them were playing spinning-the-bottle. They did this sitting opposite each other on bare floorboards in her room with an empty wine bottle between them. He had to spin it several time before the neck of the bottle pointed towards her. She could choose between action and truth, and she chose the truth. He asked her who her first love was.

“Macbeth,” she said.

The young man had recited
Macbeth
, perched on a cliff by a small inlet. She’d watched, listened as his voice rose above the sounds of the sea and seen him check the book he held in his hand, when unsure of his lines.

In a deep voice, accompanied by sweeping gestures, she mimicked him:

And she laughed because, in retrospect, it was so obvious that she would fall for the first man who could recite Shakespeare. Did her father read Shakespeare
aloud to her when she was little? “To my father, Shakespeare was life.”

He wanted to know what had happened in this, her first affair of the heart, and she said the end was tragic. She continued with her story, which amused her greatly, of how her father, once he had realised what an
impression
this actor had made on his daughter, had ordered him to stop acting in front of the girl. And then, when her Macbeth asked her father who he was, her father had replied, “Titus Andronicus.”

To her, this was a mere anecdote, a moment of paternal craziness, which demonstrated how much he cared for her and to which she clearly attached no deeper meaning. And to him, too, it came across as a burlesque scene featuring an eccentric father. It was only later that he looked back and tried to extract from this story an early insight into her father’s inscrutable character. A man who called himself Andronicus – wouldn’t that carry some weight with his prosecutor? Members of the Court, consider that the man who stands before you had named himself after the most brutal avenger ever created by Shakespeare. Might it not be evidence of an evil streak which, long before his crime, had lain undisturbed deep inside him and only surfaced when the rules of civilisation were set aside and replaced by the anarchy of war?

After listening to her anecdote, he decided to read that most miserable of Roman tragedies: fourteen murders, culminating with Andronicus arranging a meal for the Emperor’s wife, at which she is served the flesh of her own sons. To say “I am Titus Andronicus”, was this not an attempt to be something more than a mere onlooker? Was it not a frank expression of his desire for greatness, the ability to fashion a tragedy with such an
impact that it would condemn not only himself to ruin, but also others. Surely such thoughts must have occurred to Ana, too?

You told me of your Sundays together. Sunday was when you and your father would go for a walk along the banks of the Drina. You always ran along after him, trying to keep up with his long strides by stepping on the same tussocks and patches of gravel. You watched his
rucksack
as it bounced up and down, making the tackle rattle a little. You sat next to him while he fished and kept an eye on every twitch of the float. And when it started to dance about furiously and disappear under water, you were so excited and keenly observed your father’s calm movements as he played the fish, each time pulling it in a little closer. You waited for the moment when the fish would finally emerge from the water, fly wriggling through the air and land with a splash on the stones. Then he would hold it firmly against the ground with his fingers inserted into its gills until the tail and fins stopped flapping. To please him, you tried to kill a fish, but couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Although you realised that a fish must be killed before it is eaten, you couldn’t rid yourself of the vague sensation that there was an alien side to your father, that for a moment he had turned into another man, as if you had caught sight of him in a distorting mirror.

Wasn’t that how you felt? I did. Surely you remember me telling you of when I found two puppies dumped in a wood? They were whimpering softly and huddled together inside a cardboard box. One puppy had a cute black spot around one of his eyes. I carried them home and intended, first of all, to give them something to drink, and then buy them dog food and find a blanket to
cover the box. My plan was to put the box next to my bed. As I was walking along, I speculated about what to call the puppies, but when I got home and went into the kitchen to look for a small dish, I heard my father say to my mother, “We can’t keep dogs. Dogs are a pain in the neck.” He filled a plastic bucket with water and held the puppies under until they were both dead. All the time, I stood in the doorway and simply couldn’t take my eyes off him. Even now, this image is sharp in my mind. The ground seemed to have suddenly split open, allowing me to look down into an abyss, into a dark rift. I’m not sure if this was the reason why I could never again bear to drink from his glass.

I clearly remember you raising the white mug to your mouth, the mug with a small chip off it – it’s absurd to recall the chip, but I do, perhaps because at the time I worried about the sharp edges of the crack catching and cutting the lips I loved so much. You held the mug with both hands while I asked you about your relationship with your father. You stared at me in disbelief, or so it seemed to me, at the suggestion that one could have a bad relationship with one’s father. “I love my father,” you said, with just a hint of incomprehension. And perhaps you also felt it was a challenge, I’m not sure, as if I had doubted your love for him. But what reason would I have to doubt?

Do you know what I thought the first time I saw his photograph? I thought that you were lucky to have a father like him. And that you must have many good memories of this man. I liked him in that photo, with his slightly sceptical look, though there was nothing cold or distant about him. The scepticism, I felt, hid a kindness that made him always ready to reach out to his fellow men.

When you hung the photo next to your desk, it was enough to convince me that he meant something special to you. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to put my father’s picture on the wall, even if he were dead and the image held a particular memory. But your father wasn’t dead. Or possibly he was, even though he lived.

That was when I got this idea in my head. Perhaps he was lost to you, in another way, that’s true – but nonetheless, a sense of loss drove you to put his likeness on the wall.

You’ve told me how it amazes you that I discuss my father so coolly, that any son could speak of his father in that way. I tried to explain that I had always wanted him to show some weakness – even something like breaking his ankle when he went hiking. And that I even used to wish I’d been hurt in a car accident he’d caused. I dreamed of how, standing by my bedside, he would be forced to admit his guilt, since he’d been in the driving seat. I grew up in his shadow and lacked the strength to move out of it.

He was so full of life, always loud and always strong. As I’ve told you, he used to call me
zeko
; for a long time I didn’t realise that the word meant “little rabbit”. He liked to tell me stories about his early years in Germany, how he started out with empty pockets and went on to make something of his life, how he would often stay late in the garage to work on the cars to give me a better life than his own.

One of his workmates once knocked into a jack and released the safety catch when my father was lying underneath. Everyone expected to find him dead. He said that the doctors couldn’t get their heads round the fact that all his internal organs were undamaged and that they had to let him go after just an hour in the
hospital. Another of his stories was from his boyhood in the Pioneers, when he was sent off to spread tarmac on the coastal road during a summer holiday in Dalmatia. He was already apprenticed at the age of fourteen and had a trade at sixteen, while I was still sitting at a school desk at eighteen.

I did not tell you that whenever there was something to celebrate, especially within the family, he drank too much and started shouting at my mother; once we even went outside to sleep in the woods until he sobered up. I have often thought that this is why I don’t care much for alcohol and why I’m unenthusiastic about the prospect of family holidays. And I also wonder whether my father is the reason why I never learnt his language and have resisted, consciously or not, everything else to do with his share of my origins.

Even if one’s father has been a constant source of irritation, it seems that, for reasons I cannot
comprehend,
his voice will echo in one’s mind well into old age. My relationship with my father is still far from good, but all the same – or perhaps precisely because of that – I cling to the good memories that always exist when you long for them so much.

I never forget the time we played football in the garden, just because we fancied it at the time, and both of us stumbled at the same time and ended up side by side on the lawn. To this day, whenever I think of that afternoon, I hear the sound of his heavy breathing, and to this day, I can sense the happiness of the seconds spent lying next to him on the grass.

Mr Nurzet, Counsel for the Defence
,
rose to speak, but first looked quickly at his colleague to the right. She acknowledged his glance with a brief nod.

“Zlatko Šimić was born into a poor, honest farming family. He learnt independence early. He helped his parents on the farm and looked after the cows and the pigs. Generally, he was very fond of animals. He once brought up two piglets and pleaded tearfully for their lives until his father weakened. He loved to go riding. Ever since his earliest years, it made him happy to sit astride a horse. He was his father’s pride and joy. Zlatko Šimić was the first in his family to attend a secondary school and he went on to study English at the University of Sarajevo. Later, he became a professor at the same university and an internationally recognised expert on Shakespeare. He started a family, saw his two children grow up in a house he had built for them. He never had any conflicts with Muslims.

“His life changed in 1988. That was the year he lost his beloved son. The boy was sixteen when he died in a skiing accident in Slovenia. They spent two days searching for him. He had frozen to death when they
found him. I believe that every one of you can imagine what losing a son must mean to a father. Even today – and this event took place twenty years ago – I honestly believe that you will respond to the pain you can still see in his eyes. That was when he started to drink. There were a few hospital admissions and he occasionally underwent psychotherapy. You will hear witnesses confirm that Zlatko Šimić was sometimes so drunk that he would hold himself responsible for the tragedy.

“Since the death of his son, Zlatko Šimić has been a broken man. As you get to know him better, you will realise how unimaginable it is that this man, who appears before you, would have committed the crime you have heard him charged with in this court. It is true that he was in Pionirska Street on the day of the 14th of June 1992. He happened to be walking along the street in the direction of the town centre, when a group of women, children and elderly people were moving into the House by the Stream. He was also about in the street in the afternoon, but at quite a distance from the house in question. Walking past, he had spotted a horse in an abandoned yard. He went to get the horse and later rode it through the centre of Višegrad. It had rained that day and the streets were slippery, which may or may not have been the reason why the horse fell. Zlatko broke his shinbone in the fall.

“There were witnesses present and you will hear them describe what happened. One of them called the ambulance and Zlatko was taken to the hospital in Višegrad. A doctor examined him and referred him to the hospital in Užice for an X-ray of his leg. They took Zlatko to Užice by ambulance, but broke the journey in Vardište, a place on the road to Užice, where Zlatko’s cousin owned a café. They stayed in the café for a while.
Because of the cold, Zlatko was given a blanket. He remained in the ambulance all the time. They continued the journey and reached the hospital around ten o’clock in the evening. It was already getting dark.

“Zlatko Šimić could not have participated in the murder of the women, children and old folk. He didn’t even know of the fire that killed the Hasanović family during the night of the 14th of June 1992. Zlatko Šimić cannot even comprehend that there are people capable of doing something so dreadful.”

The defendant seems to be moved by his counsel’s words. While the lawyer speaks, Šimić is once more sitting up straight, breathing deeply and occasionally scratching his nose with his index finger. He closes his eyes, letting his chin rest on his chest, and, as his head tilts forward, a lock of hair slips out of place, strays down his temple and ends up hanging in a narrow fringe over his forehead. He makes no attempt to tidy his hair or get his comb out.

As the trial progresses, he gradually loses the conceit that he knows what’s going on. Perhaps this is all part of the tactics adopted by the defence. He asks himself if he was right to return to The

Hague. But he wanted to be there when the defendant took the witness stand, wanted to hear the man’s voice and find out how Šimić would defend himself against the prosecution’s arguments. Of course, he couldn’t have stayed on in The Hague for weeks on end and had to return to Berlin by the end of the first week. He assumed that his own impression of the man would be formed by then, but the first two days were enough to prove him wrong. He was quite unable to detach Šimić, the man, from the place where he observed him and from the accusations against him, even though he has a right to
be considered innocent until proven guilty. It seemed likely that the dozens of witnesses and experts, as well as an incredibly large mass of evidence, meant that a whole year could pass before the court reached its decision.

Why has he returned? Perhaps because to him, Šimić is the Black Man of the bridge over the Drina, and he can’t stop himself from staring into the dark slit. He is obsessed by the thought that he might have something in common with Šimić. He can’t work out what it is and wishes that he could simply get the man out of his mind. They both love Ana. What does Šimić know about him? he asks himself. What has Ana told him? He knows that she has been writing to her father. Has she sent him a photo?

He fears that Šimić might recognise him, pick him out among the members of the public. Look straight at him and smile.

When the counsel for the defence has finished speaking and sits down, the presiding judge addresses him.

“You have indicated that X-ray images were taken in the hospital. However, no X-rays have been included in the list of evidence presented to the court. They could be very important.”

The lawyer rises once more and, as he stands, strokes the folds of his robe with his right hand. “Your Honour, I agree that the X-rays would have been very important evidence. We would have greatly preferred to present them to the court. However, in Yugoslavia, the practice was to hand over the films to the patient and, unfortunately, the defendant no longer has them in his possession. When he had to leave his home, he could only manage to take a few things with him. The X-rays were not among them, because he assumed that he
would never need them again. However, Mr Šimić will state that such films existed.”

The judge gestures towards Šimić.

“Very well, Mr Šimić, would you please take the witness stand now?”

Why did Ana never tell him that she once had a brother? He has learnt about him here for the first time. Clearly, he was her older sibling: in 1988, she was seven and he sixteen. What reason did she have for keeping quiet about her brother?

His mind is in a whirl. A brother who froze to death after a skiing accident. Ana. Where was she while all this happened? Why doesn’t the defence ask where Ana was at the time?

Early on, he asked her if she had any brothers or sisters, but she only shook her head and he had simply accepted that, like him, she was an only child. Now he feels betrayed. She has kept many things from him, that much has become clear. Actually, he has been aware of this throughout the months he has known her, but he had no idea what it was she was so secretive about: her father’s crimes, the death of her brother. What will be revealed next?

Mr Nurzet catches Šimić’s eye and nods almost encouragingly.

“First of all, Mr Šimić, I would like to ask you a few personal questions. You were born in Višegrad, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“What is the name of your father?”

“Ranko.”

“And of your mother?”

“Ana.”

“Your date of birth?”

“I was born on the 25th of August 1948.”

“Do you have any sisters or brothers?”

“Yes, I do. Two brothers and one sister.”

“When did you start your own family, Mr Šimić?”

“I married in February 1970.”

“When were your children born?”

“My first child, a daughter, was … in fact, my first child was a son, but he died at birth, in 1970. Then my second son arrived on the 10th of June 1972. He died in an accident in 1988. Our daughter was born in 1980. In other words, I have one daughter and I thank God for her.”

His counsel nods.

Šimić rests his hands on the table, right hand on top of the left. He sits with his almost straightened arms stretched out in front of him.

“Where was your place of work?”

“I held the chair of English at the University of Sarajevo.”

“Have you been involved in any conflicts caused by ethnicity?”

“No. I always had good relationships with everyone. At the university, we worked together as colleagues and no one ever asked what the other person was – Croat, Muslim or Serb. It was of no interest.”

For the first time, Šimić raises his head and meets his lawyer’s eyes.

“Mr Šimić, we will now go on to talk about your health. You suffered some injuries – injuries and fractures. I am right in saying, am I not, that on the 14th of June 1992, a riding accident caused you to break your leg?”

“That’s correct.”

“Had you ever broken your leg prior to this?”

“No, neither an arm nor a leg. Not even a finger.”

“And after 1992?”

“I broke the same leg again in 1994.”

“In which hospitals did you receive treatment?”

“On both occasions I was admitted to the hospital in Užice.”

“Have you been an in-patient at any other point in time?”

“I was treated for a lymph gland condition in 1976. I spent two months in the Pod Hrastovima hospital in Sarajevo. In 1989, I was in hospital care because of my problems with alcohol. I was treated at the
neuropsychiatry
unit three times, I think.”

“Would it be correct to say that, prior to 1992, alcoholism was the reason for you being hospitalised?”

Silence for a moment, then the interpreter’s voice over the headphones: “Your reply was inaudible.”

The presiding judge intervenes and asks the defence advocate to repeat the question. Mr Nurzet clears his throat before turning to Šimić once more.

“Mr Šimić, I ask you this for a second time. Prior to 1992, were you hospitalised because of your alcoholism?”

“I said that I was in hospital for the first time in 1976 because I needed treatment for my lymph glands, but afterwards, yes, I confirm that I was in hospital twice because of my alcohol dependence.”

“Can you describe how it affected you? Did drinking make you aggressive?”

“No.”

“I will be more specific. Did you ever become
physically
aggressive?”

“No.”

“Have you ever attacked another person?”

“No, never. I have never attacked or injured anyone.”

“Were you in Pionirska Street on the day in 1992 when you suffered an injury?”

Silence once more. And once more, the presiding judge has to remind the witness, “The interpreter didn’t hear your reply, Mr Šimić. Yet again, you seem to have lost your voice. You must keep in mind that we should all be able to hear you and that includes the interpreter.”

Šimić nods.

“Yes. I was in Pionirska Street on that day.”

They were together on the bed, she sat between his legs and he leant his back against the wall with her head on his chin. They often read the same book sitting like this. Over time, they had become used to a shared reading speed and often managed to turn the page at exactly the right moment. Her knees were lightly bent, next to her on the floor she kept a glass of red wine. Now and then, she would reach for it and drink without looking up from the book.

It was one of those evenings when they hardly talked at all. He was pleased when they just read together in this trusting way. But for him, unlike her, reading was never quite enough. Distracted by her presence, he would look up from the lines of text to gaze at her legs, the way they were angled and her slender ankles. At home, she would put on her black-framed glasses, which he liked because they made her look so different and earnest. He told himself that he was the only one who saw her face like that; surely it meant that he belonged in her life and that they shared a togetherness that went beyond falling in love and experiencing that compelling curiosity about each other.

Once, she put the book down, got up, walked over to the bookshelf to pull out a cardboard box and carried it
back to the bed, where she settled down with crossed legs and the box in front of her. She put the lid down close by and took out a bundle of photographs. She then examined one photo after the other, handing them on to him in turn. She said, “You’re always so keen to find out what the place I come from looks like.” When he had scrutinised the first few photos, she moved closer to him and explained to him what they showed, often pointing with her finger and every time touching the image.

“My mother in our garden. We always used to grow tomatoes in the summer. Did you know that our word for tomatoes is
paradajz
?”

It was one of the few words that stuck in his mind, because it sounded like “paradise”.

“That’s the old bridge. When the weather was fine, my father would often sit on the stone seat in the middle. Look over there. He could sit on that seat for hours, alone or in the company of friends. His horse, look. I’m not sure where he got it from. My mother said that he was very happy with the horse. He would spend time with it every day, feed it and groom it. Look, this is the house where we lived.” It was a large house, three stories high and built of red brick which on the top floor was not covered with plaster. A vine was climbing up one of the walls.

It was the first time he had seen pictures of her part of the world. An almost idyllic peace emanated from the photographs.

Now, looking back, he knows what was missing in her box. There was no boy in any of the photos, no boy who looked like her and could have been her brother.

Once again, he listens to the voice of the defence counsel.

“Mr Šimić, I would like to find out what you remember of that day and especially of the time you spent in Pionirska Street.”

“Frankly, I only learnt here in The Hague that I stand accused of a crime in Pionirska Street.”