6. CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SIX
The remainder of the day passed in a blur as I wandered about town, eager for eight o’clock to roll around. The devastation of the war remained fresh in the outlying buildings where bullet holes had bitten into the stone structures, windows still spider-webbed with cracks. I even saw a faded sign warning of undetonated landmines, so I didn’t stray too far from the town center. In my mind, I kept wandering back to Emil’s words about the war. With the signs of it so close by, I wondered if it really was so simple for Mostar’s residents to forgive and forget as making art from the remains of the violence. The obvious answer most certainly was that it was complicated and, I suspected, would remain so for a long time to come.
Intrigued by my good Samaritan, I arrived early outside the shop, settling in to people-watch. I had only been there perhaps ten minutes before a woman carrying a quiet child approached me. Her face was youthful, but her stooped shoulders and careful countenance spoke of years of hardship.
She said something in Bosnian, I assumed, but I waved my hand at her apologetically.
“Sorry, I don’t understand. ”
She held out a tin cup, battered and tarnished.
“Oh.” I bit my lip as my eyes found the infant, who was still fast asleep in the crook of her arm. A few euros in her hands were certainly worth more than in mine. I dug into my purse and dropped a few coins into the cup with a clang.
“Mallory!”
Emil stood outside the shop, closing up. He wore a crisp, white button-down shirt, slacks, and black leather shoes, cutting a fine figure, if I did say so myself. I straightened and waved, the excitement automatically returning for our evening out, but my hand faltered as his expression didn’t match my enthusiasm. His eyes were hard as he looked from me to the woman. I twisted back toward her, but she was already several houses away. She shot a worried look at me before scurrying around the corner.
Emil’s footsteps clapped softly against the stones, and I stared at him curiously.
“Is something the matter?” I asked.
His jaw was tight, and he gave a little jerk of his head. “You shouldn’t have paid her.”
I bristled, instantly on the defense. “She had a baby. It seemed like she could use any help she could get.”
He sighed, his expression easing. “Her name is Elena, and she’s not from here. She comes back almost every summer during the height of tourist season, carrying a new child. She is sent here by her husband or her brother, whoever can take advantage to earn extra cash.”
My stomach flipped. “Oh.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound angry. You meant well.” He turned, gesturing for me to follow, and continued. “The problem isn’t just why she’s sent. She could also get into trouble for begging. It’s a large fine for someone who only makes very little each day. It’s better to leave it next time.”
I nodded, still feeling a bit ill. “All right.”
He led me across the river and turned right. All along the street waited bustling restaurants and cheerful patrons. The charred smell of fire from a grill and the clink of glassware jump-started my appetite. I’d been so excited about the evening, I’d forgotten how hungry I actually was.
With a gentle brush of his fingers across my lower back, he guided me toward one that I couldn’t have picked out from the rest. Of course, that meant it was as gorgeous as any, emanating that same soft, warm glow while an arbor of vines enveloped the outdoor seating area. The host directed us to an open table in the front, which overlooked a small square. Several children kicked a ball around as he handed over menus.
“Do you like wine?” Emil asked.
“Please.”
I stared at the menu and unfamiliar names, then looked at Emil.
“I’m willing to try anything,” I said. “I don’t know what’s good here. Do you mind?”
He smiled softly at my open-mindedness and turned to the waiter to order for us.
Everything was delicious. Emil explained the variety of dishes, which included sides of warm pita bread, a platter of various finely sliced and minced meats, and grilled vegetables, all of which burst with novel spices and flavors. The bottle of wine we shared was silky and full-bodied. With busy hands and captivating cuisine, it was easy to pass the time. Once the waiter cleared the last of the plates, however, an awkward silence descended.
I shifted in my seat and took a sip of water for something to do. His eyes were focused on his lap, watching his fingers twist. I cleared my throat, which finally dragged his gaze to mine.
“Chilly,” I quipped wryly, trying to break the ice.
“Are you cold?” he asked, concerned.
It was dry and warm, even long after the sun had set.
Instead, I tried a different tack. “Have you lived here all your life?”
He hesitated before giving a simple, “Yes.”
“What do you do for fun? ”
He shrugged. “I enjoy things outdoors, swim in the river, fish. A group of us go hiking most weekends.” He gestured toward the steep hillsides.
My eyebrows rose, impressed. “That’s cool.” I wasn’t a hiker, but even I could tell any trail up those ridges wouldn’t be a walk in the park. “I don’t know the area at all. Are there other towns close by? I couldn’t see much on the drive in. It was too dark.”
“A few. Smaller, not like this.”
A solo guitar twanged, the sound coming from somewhere within the restaurant.
“What kind of music do you listen to?”
“I’m fine with most anything.”
“So long as you can dance to it, right?” I joked. The sarcasm was lost on him.
“I don’t really dance.”
I nodded. And waited…in vain.
“Okay, break time. It’s your turn.”
He looked down, staring at his lap again. “Sorry. I’m not good at conversation.”
“You did fine earlier,” I countered.
“I’m not good at small talk.”
“Then don’t do small,” I encouraged.
His gaze turned to me again before he leaned toward the table, resting his elbows there, his beautiful face tilted closer. I stared into his toffee-green eyes, then glanced along his strong, stubbled jawline. The thick coarseness of his hair made me guess he had a constant five-o’clock shadow, no matter how often he shaved.
“All right,” he said, his soft voice alluring. “Tell me about your life, Mallory—?”
“Roth.”
“Mallory Roth.” He let the letters slip across his tongue like he was tasting a fine vintage.
Wow, hadn’t this man been as nervous as a boy just a moment ago ?
“It sounds like a fairy tale.”
I laughed a little. “Surprisingly, you’re not the first person who has said that to me.”
“Really? And who is my competition?”
I choked on my next sip of water. “I think you can take a ninety-pound old lady.”
He blinked. “What?”
“She wasn’t coming on to me,” I said, then added with mock-seriousness, “At least…I don’t believe she was.” I stroked my chin for effect.
Emil looked nonplussed for a moment before the crease in his brow lifted. “You’re joking?”
Finally!
I dropped the pretense and grinned. “Yes.”
“Very well.” He grew serious once more and prompted me back on track. “Your life.”
I thought it would be difficult, speaking to a complete stranger about my history. I talked about where I was from, my silly hobbies, and even a little about my family. Emil listened quietly for the most part, only interjecting a few times with a question or comment.
“So I worked and hoarded every penny I could for school,” I concluded. “I graduated in May.”
“How old are you?” He looked at me as though I were some strange species.
“I’ll turn twenty-six when I’m in London in a few weeks. I finished high school early by taking some advanced classes and summer courses, but the time off I took to save for the nursing program…” My words faltered, tainted with regret. I hated that it had put me so far behind.
“Why are you in a hurry?”
No one had ever asked me that before. I paused, considering.
“Because…of all of this.” I waved my hands around. “The world, life, seeing things, experiencing them. I didn’t want to wait. I want to do things now. Four walls and a chalkboard might fill your head with kn owledge, but it can’t teach you what it’s like beyond them, not really. Plus, the quicker I could become a nurse, the sooner I could help people and could start really living. I just wanted to have the job-part figured out before I went out and lived a little myself first.”
He watched me, barely blinking, never moving except for the small smile slowly growing on his face.
I responded before he could. “Go ahead, laugh. I know how idealistic and naive I sound.” I hesitated, my own words sending my good mood dropping in an instant. “I know that now.” I felt like a different person than the bright-eyed optimist I’d been at the airport back home only days ago. Idealistic and naive, that’s exactly what I’d been before…
“Hey.” His hand urged my face up, concern etched across his own. “What just happened?”
His touch was distracting. Apart from running into him the first night, and the brief graze of fingers in the shop, this was new. His skin was warm, with a slight toughness of callouses on his index finger and thumb, but still gentle. My head told me to pull away, but this was one command I would not be following. It felt good, secure, reassuring.
But this subject wasn’t a bridge I was ready to cross yet. So I smiled, even as tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “It’s nothing.”
The slight cock of his head and look of reproach told me he wasn’t about to buy it. I held my breath, trying to force the tears from falling. Traitor tears. It wasn’t working.
“Breathe,” he whispered. I exhaled slowly and took a steady breath back in. He released my chin, and my skin was suddenly cool from the slight breeze wafting down the street. I already missed his warm touch.
Without it, though, I turned instantly on guard. Would he press the matter?
He removed the napkin from his lap, and my stomach plummeted. I’d ruined the moment. Perhaps he wanted to wrap this up. I grabbed my purse from the back of my chair as he stood. The happiness I’d felt before had taken a headfirst dive into the river, everything running cold inside me.
“What are you doing?”
My wallet was in my hand, already halfway out of my purse. “Paying.”
He shook his head, standing at my side. “Not yet.” He held out his hand once more. “Come.”
He led me through the restaurant and down several steps to a second terrace where a few tables and a square of open space overlooked the river. Beside a lush, flower-draped railing sat a guitarist, who was plucking out a remorseful, soul-stricken tune. Emil stopped and turned to face me. His hand was still in mine.
“Would you like to dance?” His voice had all the enthusiasm of one about to have a root canal, but his expression held firm.
“You don’t have to do this.” My fingers were ice cold.
“That’s not an answer.” He stepped forward. I could feel the heat from his body, we were so close. Except for our hands, we weren’t touching. He waited.
“Okay.” I sucked in a breath as I closed the distance. His right hand slid along my lower back, the fingers of his left settling between mine. I brushed my free hand down his neck before stopping at his collar. My face pressed against his shirt, and I breathed in the clean, natural scent of him. I was practically lying on him, comfort and calm slinking back through my body.
We rotated in a nondescript circle, swaying gently to the music without any kind of talent or proper form. But neither of us cared. Eventually, his cheek rested against the top of my head, and I felt the stiffness in him melt a little.
This didn’t happen. You don’t go out for one night and immediately dissolve into the ease most people take months or years to achieve. It wasn’t natural.
I froze. What was I doing? Why was I letting this stranger so close? I wasn’t being careful. Had I learned nothing? He knew where I was staying. He knew I was alone. It was history on repeat, and it wasn’t even ancient history!
I began to pull back when suddenly an ethereal voice joined the guitarist. Emil must not have noticed that my movement had begun too early, because he was smiling when I caught sight of his face admiring the newest addition. I followed his gaze. An elegantly dressed, middle-aged woman stood by the guitarist, both of whom were watching us with warm eyes.
Why were they staring at us like that?
I looked around the tables to find the exact same expression on other people’s faces. As the singer and musician struck a harmonious chorus together, I turned back to Emil. He’d been affected by the good-will bug, too, it seemed. His tender gaze thawed my fears, and I forced myself to remember that I had been the initiator, not him. I was in control, I tried to convince myself.
“This is an old song,” Emil said. “My mother sings it sometimes.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said. “What is it about?”
“What slow, haunting songs are usually about. Love and loss.”
“And it’s still your mother’s favorite?” I wondered aloud at the sadness in the singer’s voice.
He lifted a shoulder as we swayed. “Isn’t that what music is supposed to do, connect with the moments in our lives when we need understanding the most? Why else would there be such a variety?”
He was right. Sad songs helped during a breakup or through grief. Upbeat songs boosted a road trip or party. Others had the power to lull you to sleep on a dreamless night.
The song drifted to a close, and there was a smattering of applause. Emil and I parted to join in, and the singer and guitarist each gave a bow. Soon, he was plucking a more cheerful tune, and some guests began clapping along.
“I’m not good at this pace,” Emil said with a grimace.
I laughed. “Me neither. But it’s about the spirit of it, not the skill.”
“Hmm. I have a suggestion…one with a more age-appropriate scene. ”
“Oh dear, have you been holding out on me? I thought I’d seen the real you, but you’re a partier?”
He rolled his eyes. “You caught me.” He waved me ahead, so I lead the way back through the restaurant to our table. “No, this is not usually my kind of place. Too touristy.”
“Wait, what?” My hands planted on my hips as I spun around. “I told you to take me to your favorite spot to eat. I wanted genuine, not touristy. That was not our deal!”
His shoulders tightened infinitesimally, his cautious look peeking back through. “No, it wasn’t, was it? I apologize. Where I go—it’s not the same.” He waved his hand around vaguely, which I took to mean the setting.
There was something strange in his tone, as if I was asking him to reveal a closely guarded secret. I didn’t press it. “Fine. But I would still like to try it.”
His mouth quirked. “Maybe I’ll owe you someday.”
My foot tapped as I stared at the surrounding patrons. He was right. We were surrounded mostly by older people. They had a certain cruise-ship vibe about them, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“So why here, if this isn’t your normal crowd?”
He seemed to sense he was forgiven. “Let’s just say you encourage me to try unexpected things.”
Hopefully I didn’t give off the vibe that this was my kind of scene. I pulled my purse onto my lap as we sat, digging inside for my wallet. “Well, I’m intrigued, Mister…I don’t know your last name.”
“Bajri?.”
“Well, Mr. Bajri?, what did you have in mind?”
His face filled with reproach as I set bills on the table. I raised an eyebrow. “Nonnegotiable, remember?”
“All right, then. Since this is my idea, my treat.”
“You’re on!”