Badger Games (41 page)

Helen's light flashed in Jammie's eyes. Jammie swiveled, but it was too late. The shotgun roared. Jammie was thrown back like a rag doll, flopping on top of Bazok, arms flung wide.

Joe approached Helen and tried to embrace her, but she held him off with an elbow. She pointed the barrel of the gun so that the light played on the bodies, their blood mingling on the dirty floor.

“Make sure they're dead,” Helen said.

Joe knelt to inspect the bodies. He stood up. “Can't get any deader,” he said.

Helen let out her breath and lowered the gun. Joe put his arm around her. She stared down at the crumpled wreckage of Jammie. “My God,” she said. “Why?”

Joe picked up Jammie's laser-aimed Llama and the NiteOwl headset that had been thrown from her head. He held them up to show Helen.

“She would have killed you,” he said. “She killed Paulie.”

“Why?”

“What does it matter?” he said.

“It matters to me,” Helen said. “She didn't know us. She didn't know anything about us.”

“We were just in the way,” Joe said. “She was a determined woman. Dedicated, you could say.”

I
n the living room of the third-floor back of an apartment building a few blocks off Flatbush Avenue, Roman met an Albanian Muslim man to whom he gave one thousand dollars. A young woman was then brought into the room and introduced to Roman as Fedima. She was dressed like an American girl, in Levi's and an oversized jersey that bore the logo of the Mets. She wore Adidases. Her hair was black and tied in a ponytail. She was very pretty, a little thin, Roman thought, but with large, luminous brown eyes. She was wary. But for her diffidence, she reminded him of Helen, in fact.

The Albanian had explained the situation before the girl was produced. She had been through hell, he told Roman. Her abductor, a Serbian irregular with the
nom de guerre
of Bozi Bazok, had raped her, of course, many times. She was lucky he had not murdered her, as he had murdered all of her family, before her very eyes. He had cut their throats, mostly, but some he had simply shot. Fortunately for Fedima, the
bashi-bazouk
had needed someone to help him escape from Kosovo—he feared that he had been cut off from his outfit by the Kosovo Liberation Army.

This young woman was a very great heroine, the man told Roman. They would write songs about her. Despite her terror, her grief, and, it must be admitted, her ignorance of how to reach Albania,
she had managed to convince the
bashi-bazouk
that without her he would perish. In fact, they stumbled into Montenegro, after enduring horrendous nights of snow and very little food or drink—and for her, repeated abuse by the
bashi-bazouk
. Whereupon she had escaped and fled to Albania, perhaps through the intentional negligence of this Bazok, who had tired of her and no longer needed her assistance.

By then there was no sense in returning to Kosovo—no possibility, in fact. Refugees were streaming out of that land. Ultimately, Fedima found safety in a camp run by an international agency, and from there she was sent first to Sweden, then to America.

Alas, she was a ruined woman. Luckily, she had not gotten pregnant. But she would never find a Muslim husband. She was learning English, taking courses at the high school. She hoped to go to junior college. She would become a secretary, perhaps. She might even find an American man who would marry her. In some ways, the man said, she was lucky. She was alive, at least.

If Mr. Yakovich could help her, that would be wonderful. They—the family with which she was placed—got very little assistance from the international agency for taking her in.

“What happened to Bazok?” Roman inquired.

Apparently, he had gone back into Serbia. Who knows where he was now? Such a man will find justice, eventually. Allah does not forget. Very likely Serbia was now no longer a safe place for him.

“You understand,” the man said, evidently mindful of Roman's Serbian name, “that we do not blame the Serbian people, as such, for this tragedy. There were very bad people among them, but the Serbs have come to their senses and have rejected these gangsters. Now something must be done for the victims of their cruelty. Reparations must be made.”

“Yes, yes,” Roman said, absently, wondering how much this would ultimately cost the Liddle Angel.

That was when Fedima was brought in. An old grandmotherly type was also present. “I bring you greetings,” Roman said in Serbo-Croatian, “from Franko.” He had been instructed by Helen to tell her this.

The reaction was amazing. This downcast little woman flew to him, her eyes ablaze. “You have seen him? He is well?” she cried. “Where is he?”

“I have not seen him,” Roman said, “but I am told that he is well. He is in Montana. He wishes to see you.”

“Montana,” she breathed. “He wishes to see me?” She clasped her hands in rapture. Then suddenly she was downcast again. “No. It is impossible. He will not want to see me now.”

No, Roman, assured her. He had been told. It was certain. Franko wished to see her. If she was willing, Roman could take her to him.

Apparently, she was not willing. She was too mortified, too ashamed. But the old woman remonstrated with her. If a man such as Franko, of whom she had heard so many great things from Fedima, still desired her, it was impudence to refuse him. They argued about this while Roman waited patiently. Ultimately, the desires of the girl and the old woman merged. Now the only point was how it could be effected.

This was not so easily determined. A long discussion began, with the man, the grandmother, others who came in. The girl sat quietly in a corner while they talked. The family could in no way allow the girl to go with Roman, a stranger and a Serb at that. After all she had been through! No, it was impossible. There were also complications of her legal presence, her status as an immigrant. Roman and the man withdrew to another room, to drink a glass or two of slivovitz. Funds were mentioned. Roman mentioned a figure. A ridiculous counterfigure was suggested.

By now it was getting on toward dinnertime. An impasse had been reached. Roman was thinking he would go to dinner, call Helen, and find out how much she was willing to pay.

At this point, Theo Ostropaki appeared. He was just a visitor, it seemed, but he was a representative of the agency that had sent Fedima to Brooklyn. Fortunately, he happened to be in the country on business. As a person interested in Fedima's welfare, a man of authority, and a neutral—that is, neither a Serb nor an Albanian—he was a perfect intermediary. The others withdrew. Roman and Ostropaki conversed in English.

“This young woman has endured so much,” Ostropaki said. “I have a passing knowledge of her circumstances. She has lost her entire family. These people are only distant relatives; they have taken her in out of a sense of Muslim charity, a very great principle in their culture, you know. You can understand their reluctance to entrust her future to a … well, to you.”

Roman was impassive. He listened, then he said, “I am a Serb because my mother said I was. Otherwise, I am also a Jew for the same reason. It has no bearing, what I am. I am not buying this girl.”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand me,” Ostropaki assured him.

Roman ignored his comment. “I am here because another young woman, a rich American woman from Detroit, asked me to find Fedima Daliljaj, if she was alive. Of one thing I am sure: if Helen Sedlacek is interested in the girl, she will be safe. If these good people need to be paid for taking care of the girl, Helen Sedlacek will pay a fair sum.”

“Who is this Mrs. Sedlacek?” Ostropaki asked. “How did she hear of Fedima?”

“Miss Sedlacek,” Roman corrected. “She is the surviving child of a Detroit businessman. I don't know how she learned of Fedima Daliljaj. I am only telling you that she has heard of her. She wants
to help her.” Then he remembered something else. “She wants to help her rejoin her betrothed.” This was only an assumption on Roman's part, but it was based on an impression he had gained from Helen's request.

“Who is this betrothed?” Ostropaki said, surprised. “I have not heard of Fedima being betrothed.”

“I think it must be a man named Franko, who lives in Montana.”

“Franko!” Ostropaki was astounded. “Franko Bradovic? He is alive? Are you sure?”

Roman was not sure. He had no idea who Franko was. Helen had not informed him. But if Mr. Ostropaki wished, they could call her, at a number Helen had provided: Frank's number.

Mr. Ostropaki wished. Within minutes they had reached Helen by telephone. Ostropaki talked to Helen for a long time. To Roman, they seemed to be haggling endlessly, but Roman paid little attention—his stomach grumbled.

As if in response—perhaps the old woman had heard the borborygmus from the next room—soup with filled dumplings was brought in, along with sweet-and-sour cabbage and some rolls that Roman recognized as
klovac
, but which they called by some other name. He sat to eat and shortly was joined by Ostropaki.

“Do you know,” Ostropaki said, when the meal was finished, “I am sure that this can be worked out, but I am rather surprised at Franko—or Paul, to give his real name. I knew him well in Kosovo, but he never mentioned Fedima to me. That is, I knew he was staying with the Daliljajs, but there was no mention of the girl.”

Roman had nothing to say to that, having no knowledge of the situation whatever, but he remarked, “Perhaps he did not feel it was proper.”

“You mean, not germane to our business?” Ostropaki said. “Well, it wasn't, to be sure. But when a man is in love, and he is concerned
about the safety of the people he is with, as he was—he mentioned it more than once to me—I would think he would mention the woman to whom he is betrothed. I had always the impression that he was not a romantic type of man, if you follow me.”

Roman did not. “She is very pretty,” he said. Now that his belly was full, he was content to discuss anything at length.

“She is also very young,” Ostropaki said. “Much younger than Fr—Paul. But more important, he is what I call a ‘rover'—a wanderer. Such men do not marry. They may have idle romances, but soon they are off to a new place, new romances.”

“Montana is not his home then?” Roman said.

“It is, and perhaps he has decided to settle down. I wish I could have spoken to him, but evidently he was not immediately available. Later, we can talk, I hope. Please tell him, when you see him. But now, let us see what arrangements we can make.”

Negotiations began in earnest. Helen had agreed to a fee that Roman felt was excessive, but it was within his means to pay. The question arose: what about chaperones? Roman didn't see why Fedima would need a chaperone; he would accompany her to Butte. That was rejected; she must be accompanied by members of her people. Roman balked: he could see the entire family emigrating to Montana, at Helen's expense. But at a certain point, the question was aired: what if the girl, once she had been reunited with her … suitor … preferred to return?

This was a breakthrough. From that point on, Roman knew that it was a matter of deciding who would be the person who would go and determine that the girl wished to stay and, if she didn't, would be available to escort her back to Brooklyn. Questions of whether there were mosques in Butte, other Muslims, what sort of food was available, where she would sleep, and so on, could be resolved.

Just when Roman was beginning to think of eating again, an agreement was reached. The old woman would accompany Roman
and Fedima on the airplane. Round-trip tickets for both must be provided—beyond the other agreed-upon funds.

It is not the easiest flight from La Guardia to Butte. There are other routes, but the one agreed upon was via Cincinnati, Minneapolis, and Great Falls. It took all of the following day before the plane dropped down over the Continental Divide and ground to a shuddering halt on the runway, at what seemed to be the end of earth.

The old lady, who had spoken only a few words to Roman the entire long day, looked on as the party of Helen, Joe, and Frank approached. Helen embraced Fedima, then, in her best Belgrade Serbian, welcomed her to Montana and introduced “Franko.”

The girl stared at Frank. He had shaved and was wearing a suit and a tie. This was a critical moment. Everyone except Roman, who was tired and bored, looked at the two young people expectantly.

Frank shook Fedima's hand.

The girl looked around the small airport, momentarily alive with families and friends greeting the disembarking passengers. She could see no sign of her Franko. She looked at Roman, but he was no help. Then she looked at the very pretty woman who was no more than her own size, accompanied by a handsome man who could have been her brother. The woman, Helen, nodded her head so slightly that it almost could not be noticed, and there was a serious look in her eye.

Fedima understood. If asked, she could not have said what, exactly, she understood. But it was something important. She turned to Roman and said, “It is well.”

Helen took the ladies to the Finlen Hotel, where she had retained two suites, one for her and Fedima, the other for the duenna. The men returned to Frank's place. Helen took the women shopping, then to dinner. Then she and Fedima settled in for a long talk.

Joe took Roman for a walk while Frank cleaned out a room for Fedima, in case she decided to stay.

Roman labored up the grassy slope to the ridge, slipping in his smooth-soled street shoes. He stood to catch his breath, his hands clasped behind the black suit, looking down on the river where it ran along the cliff. “Very peaceful,” he said, but he didn't sound impressed.

“Yes, it's beautiful,” Joe said. “Perfect. Come on, I'll show you where Helen and I want to build.”

“You staying?” Roman said, surprised. “Helen, too? Way out here?”