Strings Attached
part 8
by Mrs. Eyre
"I like them." Abby took a moment to compose her features into an amiable smile before turning to face Ivica.
"Oh, yes, I like them too, but still, they are ridiculous. Green lions standing guard over high art. Green lions." Abby didn't respond. "And how are you today? You look tired. Me, I am a little hung over. Why don't we find somewhere, take some coffee, smoke a cigarette, settle into the morning."
"It's your vacation."
"You know somewhere?"
"I think I can find some coffee." Ivica gave a little bow. Did they teach them that in school?
"Lead on."
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It had been a long time since they had voluntarily spent the night apart, and more than once she reached a hand over to the other side of the bed, knowing she would find no-one but doing it anyway, like picking at a scab. Jesus, my whole life has been like picking at a scab. That's why it never gets better.
Once the adrenalin of her anger had dissipated she had felt achingly sad; she wanted to cry and she wanted Luka to see her do it. He wouldn't see; she didn't cry.
Suddenly hating her bed she shrugged into a sweater and trailed into the living room where she sat in the dark, twisting her hair between her fingers. "This sucks" she said aloud and reached for the 'phone, dialling his number in the dark. "Sonofabitch" she spat on hearing the engaged tone. "Get off the goddamned 'phone." She was tired, hungry, cold, lonely, angry. Full house. What had he done, what had he done, what had he done?
Well, what had he done? He'd forgotten himself and in the process he'd forgotten her, like everyone else did, and she finally gave into her tears. How could he do this after everything -- and here she stopped. After everything. After living with her dishonesty about her drinking, after stepping away when she was with Carter, after being enough of a friend to tell her that he would not help her to distort her life or anyone else's; sent flowers on her birthday, shown her his life and held her through the night after she'd laid out her own for his inspection. And in the months they'd been together since then he had lived with her recovery, had been watchful, careful of her; on countless occasions he had caught her eye, a half smile in his own when she had started to drift into old habits; had on at least two occasions simply handed her the 'phone with the word "Angela" and had nudged her and laughed. Two weeks ago he had told her that she had blood on her pyjama bottoms after she'd stayed the night.
"Dammit."
"You have what you need?"
"No."
"Go and take your shower - I'll go to the drugstore."
"They're the ones in the blue box with the - "
"I know."
He knew. And she'd shaken her head then and smiled to herself.
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She wondered whether he were sleeping, thought probably not. Perhaps she should try calling again ... but if he were sleeping. And what would she say anyway - "Hey, I'm missing you, you bastard." ? She felt pretty sure that his father would be sleeping. God, his father. She was angry. She was angry and she was scared but she realised that she'd learned enough over the past year to know the difference. And she knew too that a few hours earlier the two emotions had been too closely bound up with one another for her to tell them apart, and that a good measure of what she had let fly at Luka had been her fear. What was she afraid of precisely? That this meant that Luka didn't understand her? Of an elderly foreigner with paint stained fingers and a sardonic glint in his eye? An elderly foreigner who didn't trust her; who had had no trouble trusting Danijela.
"She's dead. She's been dead and buried more than 10 years and no-one digs her up but you, you moron."
She was surprised to find that she'd spoken aloud. She'd sometimes wished she could talk to her, that she could say "I'm sorry, it should be you here, shouldn't it? Is this OK with you?"
But then she'd been afraid of the answer.
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"You want one of these?"
"Yes. But we can't smoke in here."
"No?" Ivica slid the cigarettes back into his pocket irritably.
"We could go outside." Abby suggested.
"Too cold."
"Then we're stuck."
Ivica regarded her levelly, turning his cigarette lighter over and over in his fingers, stained with paint and nicotine. "You don't like me, do you?"
"I don't know you."
"But what you know ..."
"Not much, no."
"Not at all." She didn't answer that. "It doesn't matter if I'm not Luka's father, but I am so I suppose it does."
"Why? I mean we're not going to be dropping in for coffee Sundays after church."
"You go to church?"
"No. You?"
"No. See - we have something in common."
"You me and half the rest of the world."
"I'm not concerned with rest of the world. Would you like some more coffee? I would."
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Sonofabitch. Pay attention, Abby. She'd splashed hot water onto her hand whilst making tea and had cried all over again. Pay attention. Not her strong suit, not ever. She felt a little embarrassed if the truth be told. Sitting in the dark she had thought back to the conversations they'd had when he came back from Croatia. He'd apologised and she'd let him, and the following night she'd explained how she'd been working on being herself, a self she could live with and had told him plainly that she wanted him back or she wanted him gone, and he'd asked her on a date. They'd never been on the date. Instead they'd fallen back into bed and back into each other’s lives. For three months now she had luxuriated in a warm glow of relief; would catch herself smiling at nothing in the middle of a shift. Against this backdrop she'd continued to work at her recovery, like her masterpiece, and it was only now that she realised that, as much as Luka had forgotten himself, she too had overlooked him. Paying attention was one of his strong suits, and he'd listened to her, heard her; been there for her, kept quiet when she needed him to, kept away from her when she needed to be alone or to be lonely; told her to can it when she overstepped the mark, loved her enough to be critical. Now she allowed herself to entertain the real possibility that she was in danger of becoming addicted to her recovery, that it would become the silent, shadowy third in their relationship as the secret of her drinking had been before, as Carter had become and as she had accused Danijela of being.
Sometimes the blindingly obvious is no such thing. Now she rolled her eyes and sighed as she reminded herself that her recovery was not an end in itself, was not her travelling companion, not her masterpeice. It was her vehicle to get her from one day to the next, from imprisonment to freedom, from sickness to health. Her masterpiece was her life and masterpieces are made to be shared.
"Sonofabitch."
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"Look, look here, I brought something to show you." Ivica pulled an envelope from his pocket and from it took a photograph which he handed to Abby. "His confirmation." Luka, black and white, Sunday bested and brushed and polished to within an inch of his life; long limbed, a little too thin, but still, graceful and already handsome, already Luka. "He was 13." Abby realised that she was smiling. "Oh, and this." Another snap, colour this time, Luka, Damir and another youth, fair haired and blue eyed, obviously not related. "That's Drazan, they used to go fishing together. Does he remind you of anyone?"
"No."
"He was Tatijana's brother."
"Was?"
"He died."
"In the war?"
"In the war. His mother went a little crazy for a while after that, spends hours in the church, on her knees, babbling, worrying her beads. And when she isn't in church she never says a word, not a word. For two years she is like this. And then one day my telephone rings and it's her and she's asking do I know that Tatijana's pregnant again and why can't Damir give her a break? It was same with Luka. Oh, not church thing, but getting him to talk after Vukovar was just pain. For a long time only sound we hear from him is crying, although sometimes he'd wake in the night and he'd say things ... things I was glad his mother didn't hear."
"He still doesn't go to church." Abby remarked.
"I don't blame him." He handed her another photograph and Abby felt her blood turn to ice. Danijela, dark, pretty, laughing. "She's dead too." he said softly. "Dead, gone. You understand? Yes? You understand? I need a smoke." He stood up but Abby stared at the photograph for a moment longer.
I don't blame him either.
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"You know, Luka's grandmother wanted him to be a priest. He escaped that, thank God."
"Thank God? Because he was meant to be a doctor?"
"What? No. No, anyone can be doctor. He's good doctor?"
"Yes."
"I knew that. Well, I know he is a good doctor before, but ... things change."
"So ... "
"Because he was meant for a husband and father. He was good father. Better than me."
I'll bet
"Really that is his . . . vocation."
"Well, I can't have children."
"Oh? Can't?"
"My mother - "
"Ah."
" - her . . . condition might be passed on. I don't want to risk that."
"My wife played piano, you know."
"What?"
"She played beautifully, good enough to be professional. They expected her to do that, after state paid for her training."
"And?"
"She married me, had the boys, decided she didn't want it. Crazy woman in our family too, eh?" Abby supressed a smile. Ivica watched her for a second longer before continuing. "Me, I was painting, making no money at all, so she taught, you know, spent hours listening to terrible children torturing Mozart and Debussy. I still can't listen to Claire de Lune . Anyway, the babies, our babies, would sleep in the corner of the room and when they were old enough she sat them at the piano and she taught them."
"I didn't know Luka could play piano."
"You know what happened?" Abby shook her head. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Neither of them could do more than pick out the notes mechanically. Not a shred - is this right word, shred? - of Elena's gift had passed to them." Seeing where he was going with this she laughed.
"Not the same. Their lives, Luka's and Damir's, they aren't torn to bits because they can't play the piano."
"Not my point."
"Which is?"
"It's a risk. It's always a risk. No way to tell what they take from you. Elena had friend, played violin in orchestra in Dubrovnik, good player. He had a son, Antun, good player too. And a complete shit."
"I don't - "
"And if your children have this illness who knows what other great things they do? They can turn out bad even with such good parents. And they turn out good even where there is trouble, see? " Abby didn't answer. "You know what is feeling parents feel most?"
"No."
"Guess." "Love, I suppose."
"Wrong. Fear. From minute they're born.” He lit two cigarettes and handed one to her. "I saw that in film once."
"'Now Voyager'”
"That's it, yes, 'Now Voyager'. You're no Bette Davis, huh?"
"I hope not."
"And I'm not - " he stopped; "Eh, I forget."
"Paul Henreid."
"Yes? Really? I'm sure you're right. Anyway, you ask any parent what they feel. Fear. We felt it with Damir. We decided to make Luka anyway. Good thing, huh?"
"It's not the same."
"No, no, not the same. You, you're even afraid of being afraid."
"And what about Luka?"
"What?"
"What if he doesn't want to go through it again?"
"He said that?"
"No."
"No?"
"We haven't discussed it."
"But he knows how you feel."
"I think so."
"Nothing to discuss then."
"What?"
Ivica's laugh was not pleasant. "He won't try to persuade you."
"I - you - don't even know if he'd want to."
"Perhaps you should ask."
"And perhaps you should mind your own business."
Ivica held up his hands in mock surrender but his eyes were serious. "You're right, you're right, none of my business."
"You want to see the museum or not? It's open."
"Sure. A little Saturday morning ... alienation" and he spoke the word as though relishing every syllable.
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She'd never quite got the hang of cubism. Ivica displayed more enthusiasm than she could even pretend to.
"Look at this woman. Fragmented. Good word for stupid old foreign guy, eh?"
"I know how she feels."
"Yes? Me too. All the planes of her face seen at once. How terrible if all the planes of our faces can be seen at once. And yet they are, by the artist."
"Kinda like God then."
"Yes! God the creator who sees all things at all times. Very good. I like that. I am God!"
"I didn't mean you, actually."
Ivica nudged her and winked. "I know."
"Right. So - Hopper."
"Hopper."
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"You know what I see when I look at this?"
"I have a feeling you're about to tell me."
"They don't look at each other. Look - no, look. Not one of these people looks at anyone else. See all these pools of light – the don’t touch, they don’t melt together. Not really lighting everything up, just making the rest of the space dark. Like spotlight on stage or –“ Ivica was becoming animated now, warming to his subject, “ – or like light shining on prisoner being asked questions. It’s very, very cold.”
"I guess."
"What a way to live."
"They're not real."
"I know people like that, don't you?"
"I know people who don't look at themselves. That's worse."
"Me? You mean me? I knew you didn't like me. Doesn't matter, is OK because I like you. You know why? Luka. Luka loves you, and I trust his judgment. He made good choice before, I think he chose well this time."
"You don't know me."
"Don't need to. I know him. Good enough for me."
"His judgement isn't infallible you know."
"Of course not. What fun would a woman like you have with the Pope, eh? And we are probably not having this conversation if he hadn't pissed you off."
"Is that what he did?"
"Isn't it? I know he got scared and let you down - he didn't screw your best friend or steal your money. You obviously don't keep a dog so he didn't shoot that." Abby made a conscious effort to stop her mouth from falling open.
"What he did, Mr Kovac - "
"Ivica, please."
"What he did, Mr Kovac, is to assume he knew how I'd react."
"He was wrong?"
"Not the point. He made me ... powerless."
"You're joking."
"What?"
"You have all the power here now. He's handed it to you on a plate."
"I don't - "
"Give him a break, help him out here."
"You do see that this is about power, then?"
"Sure. It's always about power."
"There has to be balance. I don't want all the power."
"Too bad, you've got it. And what do you mean, balance? It's not ... I don't know the word ... constance -"
"Constant."
"Constant. Thank you. Sometimes him, sometimes you, sometimes both. Jesus Christ, you'll worry your way into a fucking early grave if you try and balance it all the time. He has to get to be the kid sometimes and you the mother, yes?" Abby was silent, but Ivica thought he saw the beginnings of a smile on her face. "Look, someone loves you, you have power over them; you love them, they have power over you, it's how it is. You have to be careful how you use it." Still she didn't answer. It seemed as though he were no longer talking to her. His eyes were trained on the Hopper but she didn't think he saw it. "I ..." his voice faltered. "It's taken him so long to ... when he came to Vodice in the summer I tell him he should stop thinking so much, he should tell you what he wanted, take his chances. And he did. And now ... now I'm thinking that -"
"You were wrong?"
He turned to her then. "Was I?"
"You'd have to ask him I think."
"Give him a chance." Abby had been tensed against this man all day and most of the preceding night, seeing his hostility, scepticism, his lack of faith in her. In fact, as she saw now, he was a father, desperate for his child.
"Are you going to cry?" she asked. "Your eyes are very bright."
"I don't know. Can I cry in museum?"
"If you can swear I guess you can cry."
Ivica scrubbed at his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"You know what. You going to make me say it? It's just ... I can't bear to think of him being hurt again. You understand?"
"I understand." And she did.
"What he did ... I feel responsible."
"You aren't."
"Of course. But if I am different, not so difficult ... "
"He did it, not you."
"He wasn't thinking. You never did that?"
"What?"
"Just hid from something. Pretended it wasn't happening."
"Only my entire life."
"We all do it. Only sometimes ... we have to stop because something happens and we can't do it any more. The place where dreams fail. He's been there. I don't want him to ever go there again."
"You want him to go on pretending?"
"I want that he doesn't have to. I don't want him to be always on his guard, walking on ... on ... "
"Egg shells" she supplied.
"Really? Egg shells? Egg shells. Not what I was thinking. Still."
"You're saying this is my fault."
"I'm not. How to deal with someone like Luka, with his past, not easy, I know that. Listen, you know about the man who spent years looking for the perfect woman? He found her. Problem is, she's looking for the perfect man."
"I don't understand."
"You have to let him be wrong, to fuck up. I mean, from what I hear you did enough of that into your life so far for both of you." This time Abby's jaw dropped. "He can't be perfect just because you aren't." She made to speak but he ploughed on. "You work hard to get better, yes? Good, that's good. But so does he. He didn't tell you about us because he was afraid of how you would feel, not to hurt you or make you feel bad. He was wrong, but haven't you done the same thing?"
"No."
"Oh, I thought when you were together before you didn't tell him about your ... problem."
"My problem?"
Ivica sighed impatiently. "Don't play games with me, it won't work. I'm too old to waste time with it or to care what you think about me. Your drinking. You didn't tell him." Abby took a deep breath.
"That was ... before. Things are different now."
"Different now? How long are you together now?"
"Three months."
"Three months." He snapped his fingers in her face. "Nothing. Eighteen years I'm with Elena and I buried her not knowing a tenth of what there was to know about her. It's how it is. And if you think you have it straight one day the next day it changes. You can't make him into what you want, you can only ask him for what you need and sometimes he'll let you down." He paused, a little out of breath and Abby was aware that other people in the gallery were looking covertly in their direction. Ivica shrugged, wearily. "You can live in your head, or you can live with Luka but you can't do both. But you can help him not to live in his head too. He is what he is, you are what you are. If he's not what you want let him go now. Ah, fuck it." He turned and left.
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9 down: a godlike transformation of communications centre theory, containing nothing.
Abby threw the newspaper aside and her pen with it. There was always one clue that eluded her, always one. Still, the solution would be in tomorrow's paper. Today's paper, she corrected herself. No options, no alternative answer which would fit and still make sense of the letters around it. In the bathroom she splashed cold water onto her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the basin.
Options.
She had options, although not many. She saw clearly that there were two directions to take here and two only: up or out. Take this as a setback. Hell, three months and she'd fallen into the trap of thinking that it was all all right, that if she worked on herself it would all be all right. But she'd forgotten that she wasn't the only one in this relationship. She'd overlooked the fact that Luka wasn't there to mould himself to her requirements, although he tried, that there were things he couldn't deal with without her help and he had not yet learned to take her strength for granted. She could in fact simply forgive him.
And the alternative? Out.
She didn't want out.
She returned her gaze to her face in the mirror and grimaced a little.
"Get over yourself."
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The well known tactic of counting to ten in moments of anger was a recent rediscovery for Abby. Like most overused advice it had turned out to be founded in common sense and now she exhaled slowly as she reached ten and got to her feet to follow the old man out of the gallery. She found him outside, near the silly green lions, half way through a cigarette.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things. I didn’t mean to say those things. Hopper makes me crazy."
"Do you always do this?"
"What?"
"Judge before you have grounds for judging."
"Maybe. Probably. Yes."
"It's not very helpful."
"No."
"Do I get to answer?"
Ivica lit another cigarette and she noticed with a twinge of compassion that the hand which held his lighter shook a little.
"Go ahead."
"You're assuming that I can't deal with this, with him. Like he assumed I wouldn't be able to deal with you. You're wrong, both of you. I can. It's taken me more than 30 years to be able to see how to do it, but I can. He was an idiot, like a scared kid. But I'm not stupid or heartless, Mr Kovac - "
"Ivica."
" - and I know that scared kids need reassurance, not punishment. This is a new place for me to be in, giving reassurance, and it feels good. I was mad, now I'm not. That's how it goes with human beings. And I am a human being. I'm not just a drunk - "
"Please - "
"Don't interrupt. I'm not just a drunk or the woman who screwed up before. It's true what you said. I don't have to like you, you don't have to like me. I like Luka. I like him enough to love him. He's my business and the only reason this has anything at all to do with you is that you love him too. Let the two of us deal with it, let me deal with it. You might not like me in the end but it won't be because I treated your boy badly. You get that?"
Ivica was silent for a moment before saying "You want to go see a movie?"
"A what?"
"A film. Let's get out of here. I show off too much around painting. We can get out of the cold and see a film and I'll buy the popcorn."
"I don't like popcorn."
"Me neither!" He took her arm and slipped through his. "We have so much in common you and I. You want a cigarette?"