The Woman from Bratislava (42 page)

Teddy came up beside him and regarded the cavalcade:

‘All the talk back home about smoking policies and home-helps and early retirement kind of pales into insignificance when you see this, eh, Per?’

‘Anybody would think Albania was at war.’

‘It’s been at war with itself since 1944.’

‘Well, there’s certainly nothing picturesque about the poverty in Albania.’

‘There never is anything picturesque about poverty, not in the eyes of the poor.’

‘The little philosopher again. You just can’t help it, can you.’

‘That could be the title of this picture:
Teddy the Philosopher Dismayed by the Misery of Albania.
’

‘What is it with you and these pictures of yourself?’

‘Oh, just a little game. If you stand back and look at yourself from the outside every now and again it’s harder to take yourself too seriously.’

‘I just don’t get you sometimes …’

‘Well, we all have our crosses to bear.’

Toftlund shot him an exasperated look and almost snapped at him; instead he shook his head and wandered over to Poulsen. Teddy called after him:

‘Hey, Toftlund, could we swap places for a while? My back’s killing me.’

‘He won’t let you smoke in the car.’

‘Ah well, the back before the baccy. That’s Teddy’s new motto.’

Toftlund travelled the rest of the way in the big front seat of Johnny’s Volvo. Now he could listen to Poulsen’s voice coming over the loudspeakers, giving the same incessant, precise, monotonous
directions. He could see what Teddy had meant when he said to one of the drivers during their rest stop that it was like one of those modern poems with no rhyme – the sort Lise was so fond of. Although Teddy had called it ‘broken prose’, but that had meant nothing to the driver or to Per. Poulsen had laughed and thanked him for the compliment. Johnny chatted about all the runs he had made over the past few years for the Danish Refugee Council, the UN and Red Cross and how he missed his family back home in Vendsyssel, but couldn’t live without the excitement and the
challenges
of this job. He certainly didn’t do it for the money, although the salary was okay, but it got into the blood. Toftlund knew exactly what he meant. He would have felt the same. He knew Johnny was not being cynical – although perhaps a little bit selfish – when he said he was always pleased when the early-morning call came from the Emergency Agency to say his services were required again.

They left the impoverished villages behind them and struck out across a floodplain covered in green meadows. This sight came as a total surprise to Toftlund. The landscape around them was
suddenly
so beautiful: a majestic, sweeping valley bounded by steep brown-black mountains, their peaks capped with what looked like snowy chef ’s hats. It appeared to be a fertile valley, but hardly any of the soil was under cultivation. Only in an occasional small garden or vegetable plot had some attempt been made to farm it. There was also something that might have been a rice field. Other than that there was nothing but grass and water, the emptiness broken only by the odd shepherd in the distance with his flock of sheep or a few cows. The river flowed slow and pregnant through the
greygreen
countryside like a brown ribbon. After another hour the convoy turned off and headed into the suburbs of Shkodra, only to be brought to a halt by a blue-uniformed policeman holding up his lollypop with the green circle on it.

Poulsen got out. Toftlund climbed down after him, stretched and looked to see what was going on. The convoy leader was
clearly trying to make himself understood to the policemen. Did they want money? Was he merely asking for directions? They had stopped right next to a brand-new Agia petrol station. Sporting the Italian colours it sat directly across from a completely new church, its cross glinting in the sunlight that was starting to peek through the clouds. Two of the ubiquitous mangy dogs were
scurrying
timidly about with their tails between their legs. Poulsen was shaking his head, apparently trying to explain something and showing the policemen some documents, but the four
officers
only shook their heads in return. Ahead of them lay what had to be Shkodra’s main street. There were surprisingly many people in the cafés. Drinking coffee or beer. Many of them well-dressed, and once again Toftlund could not help admiring the lovely young women parading about, making eyes at the young men and the outlandish, bearded drivers in the white trucks bearing the Emergency Agency’s foreign number plates. After decades of isolation their country was now crawling with foreigners and dangerous – but at the same time beguiling – ideas and influences.

Two mud-streaked Mercedes saloons drove up and six men got out, two of them in black, imitation leather jackets and black or blue jeans, the other four in ill-fitting suits. Five of the men, all with black, greased-back hair, looked to be in their thirties or thereabouts, though it was hard to tell. The sixth was a little older, with grey hair and a bushy moustache. As they climbed out of the cars Toftlund noted that they all carried guns in holsters at their waists. They could have been either plainclothes cops or gangsters and, thought Toftlund, were probably a bit of both. Their seams were pressed, but their shoes were caked with mud. The Albanians walked up to Poulsen. Toftlund could not hear what was said, but it sounded as if they were speaking Albanian. Even when Torsten tried to talk to them in English. Per took a step closer and leaned on the bonnet of Poulsen’s Toyota. He saw that the two guys in leather jackets were watching him and it pleased him to see their hands edge towards their belts. It was all to the good if they got
the impression that here was a man who might pose a threat. That they might not have it all their own way.

Poulsen walked back to him.

‘Does Teddy speak Albanian?’ he asked.

‘No, Teddy does not,’ the man himself replied, stepping out of the Toyota. ‘What do these Albanian gentlemen with the lovely manners want?’

‘I’ve no idea. Money most likely. They say they’re from the secret service. As far as I can tell. But they could just as easily be from the mafia. Where the hell’s the UNHCR rep? I called him an hour ago.’

A white Land Rover with Italian number plates came
speeding
down the road; it braked, sending muddy water splashing in all directions and pulled up at the petrol station. The driver was a tall, gaunt, sharp-featured man with receding black hair swept back from and accentuating his level brow. There were knife-edge seams in his grey trousers and his tie matched the light-coloured shirt under his expensive tan leather jerkin. His boots were new and spattered with muck. He ignored the six men, walked straight up to Poulsen and shook his hand.

‘It’s okay, Torsten,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

He approached the men and said something to them. They made no protest, but their faces darkened. Then four of them climbed back into one of the Mercedes and drove off. The other two strode across to the other car, but did not leave.

Poulsen muttered tonelessly:

‘His name’s André. Professor of literature at the University of Pristina in Kosovo. Now a refugee, of course. Acts as coordinator up here for the UNHCR. Brilliant man. His entire family – father, mother, his teacher wife, two young children – is missing. He admires the Albanians’ hospitality, but he’s also a little shocked by their low level of culture. The Kosovars are rather more advanced than their Albanian neighbours. In fact they are a highly civilised people. Or at least they were until the Serbs embarked on their
programme of ethnic cleansing and the eradication of the nation’s memory.’

André returned. He had no time to waste on pleasantries and simply ignored Teddy and Toftlund, taking them, perhaps, for reporters.

‘They’re asking for too much money, but they’ll show you the way to the camp. What have you brought?’

‘Blankets, tents, toilet paper, sanitary pads, canned goods, water purification tablets, plastic sheeting.’

‘How many trucks?’

‘Six, one with trailer. That’s the tents.’

‘I asked for at least twice that much.’

‘Talk to Tirana, André.’

‘Okay, let’s go. The tents and the truck carrying the plastic
sheeting
follow the Mercedes, the rest of you follow me to the factory.’

It was over ten years since the last cigarette had been rolled at the old tobacco factory. It lay in the mud on the outskirts of the town, surrounded by a fence, like a symbol of the whole situation: bleak and overflowing with people, all with eyes that looked as though they had stared into the heart of evil and would never forget the vision of the beast they had seen there. There was neither order nor disorder. Only a seemingly pointless state of turmoil, like that stirred up by a child on a hot summer day poking at an anthill with a stick, upsetting the normal routine and sending all the inhabitants dashing hither and yon in fear and confusion, trying to discover what powerful forces have invaded their home and smashed up their lives. But the bigger boys in the camp flocked around the trucks and – so rapidly that it was obvious they had done this before – formed a long line down which the cardboard boxes could be passed from hand to hand, from the back of the truck and into one of the old, four-storey factory buildings. Their brick walls had once been a warm red, but now they were fetid and filthy, the glass gone from their windows. From every one of the tall buildings there emanated the curiously dense, clammy
fug of unwashed bodies and urine. The earth between the
buildings
had been stamped into a black, sticky ooze. At one window Toftlund saw an elderly woman with a vacant gaze. From another a small child with its thumb in its mouth stared at him with great brown eyes. There were hardly any grown men to be seen. The few Toftlund did spot were old. One in particular caught his eye, a skinny little manikin with a grey beard and a long stick in his hand. Whenever he felt that the children were clamouring too wildly for chocolate and chewing gum he would scream and shout at them and whack them on the back with his stick. No one paid any mind. Nor was there any logic to the way he meted out punishment. Some kids could beg and laugh and jump up and down and
generally
make a nuisance of themselves without him doing a thing, while others were clouted if they so much as went near a piece of chocolate or gum. A child who was struck would give a little squeal or a howl, duck and run off. And they were very adept at
avoiding
the swishing cane. But this needless, petty instance of violence here, in this place – the grim result of large-scale, systematic
violence
– made Toftlund see red. A tiny lad in a pair of rubber boots several sizes too big for him and trails of snot running from his nose elbowed his way between the bigger boys and up to one of the British drivers who was handing out chocolate. The old man with the stick spotted him and tried several times to hit him, but the little kid was too quick for him. He made it to the front, was given a bar of chocolate and a pack of chewing gum. His face lit up in a big smile. The old guy took a couple of steps forward and raised his cane, and Toftlund snapped. He grabbed hold of the stick on its way down and felt his palm sting as he tore it out of the manikin’s hand, broke it across his knee and flung the pieces to the ground. The old man turned and stared at him aghast while the children pulled back into a circle and goggled fearfully at Toftlund’s furious face, the icy, alien blue eyes and the clenched fist raised to strike.

‘Leave them alone, you arsehole,’ Toftlund hissed. ‘For God’s sake just leave them alone. They only want a bit of chocolate.’

The old man looked at Toftlund, retreated a few steps, picked up the pieces of his stick and fell to mumbling unintelligibly, his head and his whole body shaking. He drew back, out of the crowd, away from the human chain which had ground to a standstill like a
conveyor
belt suddenly breaking down, and stood up against the wall, trembling, with the tears rolling down his cheeks. Three women gave Toftlund dirty looks as they went over to comfort him.

Toftlund felt a hand on his arm and half-turned, tensing his muscles. He relaxed when he saw André’s melancholy face.

‘Come, Mr Toftlund. Come with me and leave them alone.’

Per did as he was bid. Teddy was standing a little way off and had seen the whole thing. He smiled wryly. As soon as Toftlund had been pacified the cardboard boxes full of sanitary pads and toilet paper started moving again, the children’s cries resumed. And the old man was left with the remains of his stick.

‘Why was he hitting them? There was no call to,’ Toftlund said. His voice quivered slightly. He did not know why he had reacted like that. Every day people were murdered, burned to death,
tortured
, robbed, raped and chased from their homes and he had got upset over an old man hitting some half-grown boys.

As if André could read his mind he said:

‘At some point it becomes too much for all of us and we feel we have to do something, something that will show an immediate result. Then we can feel good about ourselves. We think that by doing one specific good deed we can make the colossal, abstract evil, which we can do nothing to prevent, disappear. We think that with such an act of exorcism we have absolved ourselves of all responsibility. You have no business here, Inspector Toftlund. I know you are looking for someone. Take a look around you. There are five thousand people here, hundreds more arriving every day, but you’re welcome to try. And then go home and let us do our work as best we can. Okay?’

‘Okay. But why was he hitting them? Why does he get away with that?’

‘He is the only man from his village still alive. All the rest are in a mass grave. He was nothing special in the village, he’s a bit of a halfwit really. But now he sees himself as the village elder and, as such, responsible for maintaining decorum, order and discipline. He doesn’t hit all of the children. Only the survivors from his own village. He only hits the ones he loves.’

‘That makes no sense.’