The Edge of Me (16 page)

‘Well, how do you know it’s your dad?’

‘Well … I found that letter … I showed you …’

‘Sanda!’ Peter’s calling from the living room.

‘Yeah … I know that … but how do you
know
…?’

I stand up. ‘Shit! Joe, I’ve got to go down. I’m so excited – scared too obviously – but I know it’s him. I just know it! It has to be. After all we’ve been through. My parents … Zbrisć … Oh Joe, it’s so good to have you back … I’ve been so worried … I mean, you’ve been … you were … And now I’m meeting … how do I look?’

In answer, he sits up, pulls me back down onto the bed and on top of him.

‘Joe, I’ll hurt you.’

‘You’re light as a feather.’

He puts an arm around me and brings me closer. My beanie falls over my eyes and I’m momentarily blinded. But just then everything stops because I feel his lips on my cheek, searching, loving, and then on my mouth. A lingering kiss as his dry lips open on mine and our tongues meet. I kiss him back and let myself fall into him.

After forever, he says, ‘You’re beautiful.’

And it’s there. That moment when the world stops, and
I can hear Peter calling me but it’s like he’s at the end of a long railway tunnel and I don’t care.

‘Oh, Joe …’ I kiss him again, and he cups my face in his hands.

Another call from Peter:
‘Sanda! He’s coming!’

‘Sanda …’ says Joe

‘Yes?’

‘Be careful.’

I squeeze his hand and skip out of the door.

I am a leaf on water. I am drifting and floating and curling at the edges. I cannot believe how and why it’s all happened in the middle of everything else but it has and I’m inside it and he’s in me, and I know now that things will work out. They have to because I’m in love. For real. Peter is talking to me but I don’t hear him. I gaze out of the window as a car pulls up and a tall man in dark glasses and an overcoat gets out.

My father.

He walks towards the inn, all the while talking on his phone. He has a sweep of black hair and pale skin. As he reaches the door, he hangs up. He pauses a moment, tugs at his sleeves, holds his throat.

I watch him.

And him walking to the door and me waiting is a thousand years. I hear the door opening, muffled exchanges. Already I can smell him: lemons, tar, tobacco. The room fills up with him.

And I’m face to face with my father. I’m dumb.

Peter coughs and says, ‘Sanda, this is your father.’

He and Natalija step back. It’s like there’s a strange chalked circle around me. Branko steps into it. He hesitates for a fraction of a second. His eyes are black under heavy brows.

‘So this is my beautiful daughter? I have waited so long to see you.’ He puts out his hand. I take it and it closes on mine. Dry and cold. The fingers grip for a little longer than is comfortable.

‘Hello,’ I say shyly.

‘How are you?’ he says, smiling.

There’s nothing in the rule book about meeting a long-lost parent. I don’t know what to do, how to
be
. We stand like two wrestlers before a bout. We watch each other, and in my head, I peel under his skin, poke and pull at every hair, pinch at his cheeks.

Everyone is quiet. Then Peter says, ‘Please. Sit down. Would you like a coffee?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Sanda?’

I just shake my head. I feel that I should be crying or dancing, rushing forward to hug him. I fiddle with my beanie, take it off and then put it back on when I see him glance at my hair.

‘I … I have been searching a long time for you, Sanda,’ he says.

I find my voice. ‘You live in France?’

He nods.

Peter says, ‘You’re in Bordeaux? Are you in the centre or outside? We know it quite well. We were there on our
honeymoon.’

‘Yes. Yes. France is very beautiful.’

France. A letter with a French stamp on the kitchen table in London; she knew he was coming. She knew.

‘Do you live with anyone? Are you …?’ I falter here but I so want to know more about him.

He looks at Peter as he answers me, ‘Ah. You have many questions! I will tell you all about it. We have a long journey together.’

I bring out the photograph I found in the attic in London and put it on the table in front of him.

‘I brought this. I kept it with me.’

It’s scratched and creased from being stuffed in endless pockets and folded and unfolded. He picks it up, turns it in his hands and bows his head.

Again he says, ‘Yes … yes … A long time to search. My dear girls. I wanted to find you.’

‘And my mother? What happened to my …?’ and now I’m crying. Miserable little whimpers that cough themselves out of me. Natalija rubs my back.

‘She died,’ Branko says softly. ‘In the war.’

‘Oh God. Oh God!’ I suppose I’ve known it all along. Known it, but the words break me. They wash themselves through me, over my ribs and into my heart. And again that hatred wells up for the woman who called herself my mother for all those years, for the lies she told and the bitter secrets she kept.

Branko pats my hand. ‘Shall we go?’ he says.

‘To find your other daughter?’ says Peter. ‘Where will
you start? We think she might have been taken to …’

‘I know where she is. I have found her. She is waiting to meet you, Sanda.’

‘Senka? You found her?’

‘Yes. She is safe. I have a house here. She is safe. She’s waiting to see you.’

‘Oh!’ I look back in excitement at Peter and Natalija.

Peter steps up. ‘That’s marvellous news! Listen, you can stay here tonight, if you like. Start out tomorrow?’

‘No. Please, I have a car. We need to go today. I have waited a long time to find my daughters. We go together.’

He takes my hand in his large paw.

Peter says, ‘I’ll come with you?’

Branko says, ‘Not necessary.’

‘But –,’ he says.

‘It’s OK, Peter,’ I say and smile. ‘I’ll call you when we get there. We’ll come and see you. With Senka? We can do that can’t we?’ I ask Branko.

‘Of course. Of course,’ he says.

‘Give me a minute,’ I say and I dash upstairs to Joe’s room. He’s sleeping. Very gently I brush the back of his hand, against the veins like sand under his skin. I breathe him in and I go.

Peter and Natalija are at the front door. Branko’s waiting by the car.

Peter scratches at his beard. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘I feel responsible for you, Sanda, we both do. I can’t just let you go – I’ve only met Branko once.’

Natalija says, ‘He’s a good man, Peter. I had a long talk with him yesterday. All he wants is to make up for lost time. He’s told me where his house is, where Sanda’s sister’s waiting. He’s given me the address for heaven’s sake.’

He looks from her to me. ‘You sure you’re OK? You don’t want me to come?’

I hug them both. ‘I’m OK. I’m going to see my sister. This is my family!’

I go to leave but Peter holds me a little longer. ‘You’re
sure
?’ I see a shadow arc across his face. His eyes are wide. ‘You know where we are.’

‘Yes, yes. I’m sure. I’ll call you in a couple of hours I promise. Thank you so much for your help. I am so grateful to you,’ I say.

Branko comes over, glancing at his watch. ‘Come, Sanda, let’s go to see your sister.’

And he walks.

And I follow him.

Away from the inn.

To find my sister.

There is a driver in the car. Branko says something to him and then joins me on the back seat. The seats are cream leather and the windows are tinted. As we pull away, Branko pats my hand again and sits back contentedly. We drive on through the countryside, and I begin to relax a little. And ask some questions. He answers me in short sentences, while he looks ahead, every so often switching to talk to the driver.

‘Tell me about your home,’ I say. ‘Where you were brought up?’

‘A small village, east of here. My father had horses.’

‘Really? And you have brothers and sisters?’

‘I had four brothers. All dead now.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘And how long have you lived in France?’

‘Oh. Many years, it’s a very beautiful place.’

‘I’ve never been.’

‘Oh. Yes.’

‘I lived in London.’

‘Yes.’

He seems irritable. Preoccupied maybe. But I’m getting frustrated. I want answers. I want to understand this man. I try to tell him a little about me, about my life in England. I even tell him about Joe. I’m about to tell him about Senka and how I found out about her, when the driver slows and turns to ask a question.

Branko leans forward to answer, and when he does, I see at the base of his neck, just below the hairline, a tattoo: a black scorpion.

19

My stomach churns. I can hear my heart pulsing in my ears and throat. Why would my father who suffered so much at the hands of the Serbs in the war, have such a potent symbol of a Serbian militia group tattooed on his neck?

And I know all at once that everything is wrong.

Branko settles back in the seat and I say, ‘Where are we going exactly?’

‘To see your sister.’

‘Yes, but where is –?’

‘You will see,’ he smiles.

‘Where are we going? Where are you taking me?’

‘That’s enough now.’

There’s a sour taste in my mouth, and a tail of cold sweat creeps down my spine.

‘
Who are you?
Who the fuck
are
you?’

‘Quiet please.’

‘You’re not my father, you’re
so
not my father, you’re not Branko.
Who are you?’

From the pocket of his coat, he draws a pistol and pushes it hard against my cheek. ‘Be. Quiet. Please. No. No I am not Branko. My name is Goran. That is all you need to know.’

I’m quiet. I am no one again. I am nobody. I have no name. I’ve put the people who helped me in danger and I’m no closer to finding my sister. Tears spill quietly into my hands while he growls into his phone.

Mountains loom in the distance: dark, lumpen masses pulling the sun down behind them as we drive on. I take a calculated risk that he isn’t going to shoot me just yet and say,

‘You won’t get away with this – you can’t. People know. They’ll know. They’ll guess what you’re doing. They’ll come for me.’

‘Maybe,’ he says, ‘but there won’t be any
you
to come for, my dear.’

‘My father … Where is …?’

‘You will see in good time.’

‘What are you going to do with me?’

Goran looks at me for a minute and blinks. He rubs his nose with the butt of the pistol. ‘Well, I’m going to take you to meet your dear sister like I told you.’

I’ve been a fool, a desperate, gullible child.

I try to console myself with the fact that Joe’s OK, that his mum will be on her way. He’ll go home, back to London to live a normal life, play in his band, go to school, get a girlfriend and forget about me. And a year down the line, no one will even remember who I was.

The car drives off the road down a dark tree-lined avenue. A deer starts in the headlights and jumps the fence at the side of the track. An old stone house comes into view, the windows black and blind, only a single light coming from the front porch. The car stops and the driver gets out and opens my door. Goran’s still pointing the gun at me as I slide across the seat and out into the cold night air. There’s a crust of frost on the ground that crackles like glass under my feet. He ushers me up the steps to the door and pushes it open.

We’re standing in a vast hall under the gaze of at least forty pairs of eyes. Stags’ heads of different shapes and sizes watch us as we cross the floor. Opposite the door is a large staircase. Up we go: one, then two flights as it twists round away from the hall, the gun always at my back if I slow down. It’s stiflingly hot in the house and I’m roasting in my hat and coat.

It’s funny because I don’t feel scared any more. I just feel sort of resigned. I want an end to this mad journey now. But what I want more than ever is to understand who I am and where I come from. The fact that it’s probably going to get me killed is kind of on the back burner at the moment. And Joe kissed me, and it felt so good. That’s what I try to think about.

We’re on the second floor now and we both pause for breath. To my left, I see a long passage, carpeted in blue and red swirls, that yawns away towards a high arched window where it bellies out into a small landing lit by a crystal chandelier. Under this, I see two people deep in
conversation. They hear us and look up but they make no move towards us. One is a man wearing a dark jumper and a shoulder holster; the other, tall and bony with bleached hair that fizzes in the light like nylon, is my ‘mother’ – Kristina.

Goran makes a sign to her and she nods sharply. We go on up another narrow flight on bare boards to the top of the house. A long, sloping corridor hung about with cobwebs stretches to the left of us. He switches on a dim bulb and I pick my way along past broken chairs and tea crates full of old china. At the end of the corridor, on the left, is a small door. There’s a key in the lock and he leans past me, turns it and throws open the door.

I peer in and around the room. As I do so, he shoves me inside, pulls the door shut and turns the key in the lock. The room is lit by another single low watt bulb. There’s an iron bedstead covered with a heap of blankets, a listing rocking chair and a cracked sink in the corner.

As his footsteps fall away, the heap of blankets moves and stirs and from underneath it, a figure crawls out trailing dust and fluff: my sister.

It’s unmistakeable. Like a bee sting, like soap in your eyes. It actually hurts to be close to her. She sloughs off the covers, gets down off the bed and stands to face me.

We stare at each other for a long time. I hold out my hand to her and she moves a little closer. I notice she walks with a kind of stoop as though she’s been carrying something heavy on one side forever. Her hair is a bit longer than mine and she’s very thin. She’s wearing a dirty nightdress that’s about ten sizes too big for her.

I whisper, ‘Senka?’

She comes towards me and holds out her hands. Her fingers when they touch me feel like plastic. I scan her face and mark every line: her nose, the curve of her brows and, of course, her eyes. My own face gazes back at me, my own eyes: one green, one blue. My sister. My family.