The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga Page 16

  Luisa laughs. The light reflected from the candle stub is pathetic, but the coloured paper lanterns beneath the canvas canopy cast a cheerful glow against the night’s blackness. Another waiter sidles over and Luisa and Bex order the grilled swordfish and a salad to share.

  ‘Maybe some of those fava beans too,’ says Bex. ‘They were delicious the other night.’ Luisa casts her a sideways glance. It would be petty to quibble, but she’s surprised Bex isn’t pulling back on her spending now that she’s agreed to the new plan.

  ‘The drinks?’ asks the waiter.

  ‘Water,’ they both chorus, then splutter with laughter.

  The waiter backs off and Luisa thinks how she could kill for a beer. She wouldn’t have hesitated a week ago and with Yugoslavia so close she feels like celebrating.

  ‘Decision time.’ Luisa pulls out the map and spreads it on the table. It’s been tougher than she anticipated, poring over the guidebook these past few days. It’s brought home just how little of Yugoslavia they will get to see before arriving on Korčula. There’s no point nit-picking, it’s a small price to pay and she can always return. What’s important is completing what she set out to do with her family.

  Bex opens the guidebook at a marked page. ‘Here’s what I think,’ she says, and Luisa feels like one of her pupils again. Not that she’d ever say — there will be something Bex finds annoying about her too. ‘If we take a train through to Bitola,’ Bex continues, pointing at the map, ‘at this part of the Macedonian border, we could make it on to Lake Ohrid in the afternoon.’

  ‘But why go all the way over there? We talked about heading to Skopje, and then on to Belgrade. Don’t we want the most direct route?’

  ‘This will still be direct,’ says Bex. ‘And look.’ She points to a photo. ‘Ohrid’s a Unesco World Heritage site.’ She rubs her hands together. ‘The mosaics are meant to be a-mazing.’

  ‘You and your bloody mosaics,’ Luisa laughs. ‘Haven’t you seen enough by now?’ Through Turkey and Greece, Bex has become obsessed with them as a teaching tool. Still, Luisa is impressed that teaching is a vocation for Bex, not just a job.

  Bex is adamant. ‘Never! But I can list all the other good reasons. One, it’ll be cheaper to stay out of the city. Two, it’ll be far more interesting going this way, and three—’

  Luisa chimes in with what has become their catch-cry: ‘The route less travelled is always the most interesting.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Bex.

  ‘Still,’ says Luisa. ‘I wonder if we should keep it simple this time. There’s a train from here that takes us straight through to Skopje. How do we even get to Lake Ohrid?’ She looked at this option a couple of days back and the information was sketchy.

  Bex stares at her. ‘From the train we take a bus. It’s in the book.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Luisa, thinking she should recheck, but Bex’s research is usually spot on.

  The waiter returns and Bex pushes aside the paperwork to make room for the food. Luisa divides their meal. Thankfully the portions are generous: Luisa is so ravenous she could easily devour a full meal. The fish is a little dry, but the feta and black olives in the salad have the perfect balance of salt and sharp. As usual there’s a small pile of olives building at the side of Bex’s plate which Luisa will savour later.

  ‘Hang on, we know those guys, don’t we?’ Bex points to the street. ‘Oh my God, it’s definitely them! The Dick and Dan show.’ Bex is on tiptoes now, waving. ‘Hey, Deek! Over here!’

  When they first met back on their first night in the Big Apple, Bex had teased Dick about his Aussie accent. The international hostel was on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. An old brownstone where Luisa had half expected to find Bert or Ernie from Sesame Street lounging on the wide front steps, or welcoming them at the front door under the grand portico entrance.

  Luisa feels a flash of irritation. She would rather focus on their planning, and these guys will be a distraction. There’s no mistaking them. Tall and spindly Dan, sporting his distinctive Lennon-style glasses, and Dick, a beer can of a guy with muscles to match. Nearly four months on, Dan’s hair is an unruly ginger thatch. In New York they discussed the possibility of meeting, knowing their paths might cross in Greece, but the guys were going to London first and then travelling south. Luisa had forgotten about them and besides, everyone’s plan could change on a whim or a train timetable. But then, travelling had been all about turning expectations on their head.

  ‘Deek’s wearing his tan well,’ whispers Bex.

  ‘I thought you were changing all that?’ says Luisa under her breath. She means it as a joke but she worries it sounded like an accusation.

  ‘Lighten up. What’s wrong with looking?’ She grins. ‘You should practise more often.’

  Luisa shrugs off the snide. She hasn’t been brave enough to broach again what Bex told her on Samos, but she’s seen no evidence of her changing. She might as well be a chameleon disguising her convictions under a light-hearted shell. This is the first time Luisa’s pushed back but she won’t do it again in a hurry. Maybe Bex’s man-radar will always be fine-tuned. Mike is back in her head and she blinks him away. She and Bex will have to differ on this point — chopping and changing isn’t the solution either.

  ‘You girls look great,’ says Dick, and Bex welcomes him with a hug. ‘No jet-lag this time, eh?’ Luisa scrambles to her feet and Dick raises his hand to acknowledge her.

  ‘Small world,’ says Dan, smiling across at Luisa. Bex wraps him in a hug too. Luisa hangs back, thinking, We hardly know these guys, but says, ‘Why not join us? Have you eaten yet?’

  ‘Yeah, down the road,’ says Dick.

  ‘A beer, then?’ says Bex.

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ Dick pulls out a chair.

  ‘Round of ouzo?’ says Dan. ‘To celebrate running into each other again.’

  ‘Let’s stick to beer,’ says Luisa firmly, catching Bex’s eye. ‘We’ve still got some planning to do.’ Bex will thank me later.

  The waiter returns. ‘Amstels?’ says Dick, glancing around the table. Bex gives Dick the thumbs-up. ‘Four please, mate.’

  The waiter nods and smiles but Luisa wonders, not for the first time, what the locals really think, if they get tired of the banter from the invading backpackers.

  ‘Hey, remember the last time?’ Luisa picks up her fork to finish her meal, determined to lighten the mood again. She uses her best American drawl. ‘Dollar for a slice, miss.’

  ‘Jeez, that’s right,’ says Dan. ‘Don’t want those problems tonight.’

  They last ate together in a pizza joint. A dishevelled man crashed in beside their table demanding a slice of pizza. Luisa felt both repulsed and sympathetic.

  ‘And remember that guy who just about mowed us down, Lou? Fook New York.’ Bex has the knack of getting the intonation just right.

  Dick and Dan laugh. ‘There were some crazy people, all right,’ says Dick.

  The waiter returns holding the beers high on a tray. He clears the girls’ plates.

  Dick raises his bottle. ‘Here’s to all the mad, bad experiences. Been a blast though, eh?’

  They clink bottles and Dan takes a swig. ‘New York was a shocker. I honestly believe murders did happen every day. Couldn’t wait to get out. Where’s next for you girls?’

  ‘Yugoslavia,’ says Luisa. ‘Mum was born there. We’re staying with my rellies.’

  ‘Yugoslavia!’ says Dick. ‘Just been through.’

  ‘Really? What did you think?’

  ‘Crazy place. Didn’t see much. Stopped in Belgrade and what was the other place, mate?’

  ‘Sarajevo,’ says Dan. ‘Where the First World War started. Hey, your money goes a long way. Economy’s a joke — prices go up every Thursday.’

  Luisa tries to figure out what this means.

  ‘To cheap travel then,’ Bex says, raising her bottle and smiling at Luisa.

  Perhaps shortening our trip wasn’t necessary. Luisa wonders whether Bex feels a
ny trace of guilt.

  ‘Seriously, though,’ says Dan, clinking his bottle against Luisa’s. ‘You’re lucky to know someone there. We had a blast in Holland at my aunt’s.’

  It’s the same argument Luisa threw at Bex but she’s frustrated. Dick and Dan are shining examples of backpackers catching a glimpse of a country. There have been a number of times on this trip where she’s felt like they’ve all been stuck outside, looking through a window, a bunch of foreigners talking about themselves and their own experiences. She wants to feel a connection in Yugoslavia.

  The guys convince them to have another round and Luisa relaxes. She needs to do this more often, to go with the flow. Since Mike dumped her it’s been too easy to lose the knack. She enjoys the banter as they catch up on the places they’ve been, and when it’s time to leave it’s like seeing off old friends. Dan picks up the bill from where its propped between the salt and pepper shaker then places a collection of drachma notes and coins on the table. Luisa itches to check the bill. Stop it! she warns herself.

  ‘Great seeing you girls,’ says Dick, hugging Bex then Luisa. ‘Good luck with the planning.’

  Dan does the same. ‘Look after yourselves,’ he says.

  When they sit back down, Luisa checks the bill. Dan’s contribution more than covers his and Dick’s share of the beers. Bex reaches for the guidebook but Luisa doesn’t hesitate. ‘No more planning needed,’ she says, and Bex’s mouth drops open.

  Luisa grins back. ‘Being young isn’t about being sensible, you know.’

  Yugoslavia, of all places, should be where they opt out of the travel-worn routes. The Dick and Dan show has put this in perspective. Lake Ohrid will be the first step to exploring the true heart of the country she’s longed to embrace, not just the ‘flimsy wrapping’, as she’s come to think of the popular tourist routes. One more day and what she has dreamed of will be a reality.

  AUGUST

  Wednesday

  The no-frills train pulls into Florina station. The simple wooden building is scuffed at the edges and spattered with graffiti. A lone guard paces the platform. Even the tracks have reduced to a single line.

  ‘Jeez, check out the station,’ says Bex. ‘What a dump.’

  ‘Give it a chance.’ Luisa’s voice carries a sharp edge. She’s disappointed but determined not to admit it. ‘A lick of paint would do wonders.’

  They haul themselves out onto the platform from where the smattering of passengers left on the train have rushed off already. The guard looks away. It’s just after midday but the furnace-like temperatures of Greece feel much further than a morning away. It’s as though they’ve shrugged off summer and stepped into autumn. Luisa glances further up the track. Yugoslavia must start somewhere up there but it’s nothing like the pictures she’s been carrying in her head. The mountains are dark and deeply forested with thick clouds hugging their tops. She reassures herself that what Mum described is in a completely different part of the country; the Croatian coast is miles away and Macedonia’s a separate republic. It would be like comparing Bluff with the Bay of Islands at home. Bex is still looking unimpressed and Luisa forces a smile.

  Inside the tiny station the waiting room is deserted. They dump their packs against a wall and Luisa checks the timetable. The journey from Thessaloniki was meant to have taken five hours but took six. Bloody ‘Greek-maybe’ time! The next connecting train to Bitola is at 2 p.m. but they could have caught one half an hour ago if their first train had run to time.

  ‘Just over an hour to kill,’ says Luisa.

  Bex rummages in her pack. ‘Jeez, where’re my trackies? What’s happened to summer?’ She digs deep and the black pants with their distinctive three stripes emerge like a snake. She glances around before slipping out of her shorts, down to her underwear.

  There’s the sound of shuffling at the door and Luisa turns. A young guy, his face like a fox, leans up against the doorjamb, leering.

  ‘Jesus!’ says Bex, twisting around with a jump and scrambling to pull up her pants. She backs up against the wall.

  The fox makes a clicking noise with his tongue. They’ve got used to this blatant attention through Greece and Turkey but there’s always been more people around.

  ‘Must be the local come-on,’ says Luisa under her breath, glaring at him. ‘How’re we going to lose this sleaze-ball?’

  ‘Click. Click. Click.’

  ‘Just ignore him,’ says Bex.

  ‘Piss off!’ Luisa says, waving her fist, but he doesn’t budge.

  Without taking her eyes off him, she reaches back and unzips the flap at the top of her pack, groping around until her fingers curl around her Swiss Army knife. Disguising it in her palm, she draws out the longest blade. Everything feels like slow motion as she takes a step towards the fox. ‘Don’t mess with us!’ she growls, stamping her foot and aiming the blade at his head like a miniature gun, looking him in the eye.

  How long does she stand there? It feels like minutes. The creep backs out of the room, his hands held high as though in surrender. It’s not until she hears him driving off that she relaxes her arm and snaps the knife shut.

  Bex dissolves into laughter. ‘What was that about? I’ve never seen you so tough. Genius!’

  Luisa’s hands shake now. She leans against the wall for support and laughter takes over. Every time she attempts to speak she erupts in hysterics. ‘Oh my God, he was probably harmless,’ she finally manages to splutter. ‘But I wasn’t taking any chances.’ The laughter takes over again. ‘Was I?’

  ‘Nope,’ says Bex, wiping away her tears. ‘I’ll keep you on my side.’

  ‘Imagine if I’d had to face that guy on my own!’ Luisa hugs her. ‘We’re a good team.’

  It’s not the first time she has relied on that little red knife, tucked away in the pocket of her daypack or under her pillow at night. Dad gave it to her as a leaving present and although he wouldn’t have thought of it as a weapon, she’s been relieved to have it on a number of occasions. Especially in New York, a city itching with agitation where the warnings followed them around: Be careful girls, murders happen every day. Stay safe.

  Luisa searches for her own warm clothes, pulling out the same Adidas tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt. ‘I’m going to find the bathroom.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll mind our packs,’ says Bex.

  The bathroom smells like disinfectant. Luisa wants to make this quick but it’s an effort to wrench up her pants because the fabric’s so stiff. She tries to remember when she last wore them. Once she has hooked the stirrups under her heels, the three stripes run like tracks at the sides of her legs. She pulls her red woolly socks over the top, folding them down at the ankle like leg-warmers. That’s better. The fabric clings against her legs as though giving them a mini-massage. There’s something about the elastane that makes her feel in control, just as she was with that creep. She swallows another explosion of laughter as she returns to join Bex.

  The battered local train sits waiting, and the ruddy-faced guard paces the platform looking officious and eyeing them with contempt. His blue uniform looks shabby but the row of brass buttons running in a line up to his neck gleam. A pen pops out from behind his ear underneath his conductors cap. ‘Passports!’ he demands, holding out one hand and twirling an ancient-looking stamp contraption in the other.

  Luisa hands hers over and he leafs through each page with painstaking care, licking his tobacco-stained forefinger. Luisa wonders what he’s looking for, if he’s surprised by the number of stamps crowding the pages. When he checks Bex’s passport it’s with the same raised eyebrows.

  ‘Open!’ he orders, pointing at their backpacks. He gives their possessions only the most cursory of looks before thumping his stamp down on their passports. ‘Okay, okay,’ he says, waving them on.

  Welcome to Yugoslavia, Luisa thinks. She had hoped for so much more. She wonders what Bex is thinking. Of all the places they’ve been this is definitely the most disappointing.

  Inside, the t
iny train is like a tin shack on wheels. They sit opposite each other and use their packs as padding against the corrugated sides. There’s just one carriage and only seven other passengers, all of them male. The train is so slow to get going that Luisa doubts they’ll even struggle up, let alone conquer, the mountainous terrain ahead, but the rhythm kicks in, and they rattle and lurch forward. She stares out the window. Are these peasant farms they’re passing? There are hay stacks everywhere, tepee shapes with pitchforks sticking out the top. They look like they’ve been rolled by hand. A woman at the side of the tracks puts down her slops bucket and waves. Is that hessian sacking she’s dressed in? None of these images match the pictures she’s been carrying in her head.

  ‘Hi,’ says a lanky guy, leaning on Bex’s seat back. ‘I can practise my English? My name is Nikola. I am pleasure to meet you.’

  He slides into the seat beside Bex and when he flashes Luisa a smile his brown eyes twinkle. He looks about their age but wears old-man serge trousers teamed with a tan corduroy jacket. His shoes look like the type they used to wear to school — regulation black and just as scuffed up. His hair seems slathered with wax and crinkles back in waves like an inky skullcap. I am pleasure to meet you too, thinks Luisa — very cute. Somehow he reminds her of Mike, not just his olive skin and dark eyes, the way he moves perhaps? Mike had the same sureness. The fact she’s lost him still sticks like a dagger. Bex gives Luisa a raised eyebrow: What about this for luck. She’s quick to introduce herself, then Luisa.

  ‘Where you come from?’ he asks, beaming again, as though this is the best thing to have happened to him all day.

  ‘Nova Zelanda,’ Luisa replies, sounding out the syllables.

  ‘Ah, Amerika. My friends go. Nice place.’

  ‘Not Americans. Kiwis,’ says Bex, nudging him.

  ‘Ah, Kiwi girls.’ Nikola smiles.

  ‘And you. From Bitola?’ Bex asks. ‘It’s good living here?’

  Luisa cringes at Bex’s pronunciation, her pure Kiwi accent.