We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day, Ivana Bodrozic [adventure books to read txt] 📗

as a student. She was one of those women who didn’t stand out right away, with her midlength light hair tied back, usually, in a careless twist, always in slim jeans and dark tops. She was built like a boy, with a symmetrical face, an olive-hued complexion, and ever-so-slightly slanted eyes. But if a person looked at her more closely, her face was not easily forgotten. When she gave a heartfelt laugh, which was rare, she warmed up the room. When she listened closely to the person she was talking to, her eyes drinking in every gesture and the hue of the conversation, the person had to look away. Too intense. Perhaps because she seldom approached anything superficially, except the things she preferred to forget.

“Just one ride?” she pleaded.

“Okay, but where? As long as it’s not too far . . .”

“Švapsko Hill, Republike Austrije Street, near the Kruna—”

“Mesara, I know; that’s not ten minutes from here.”

“I know, but as I’m not familiar . . .”

“Okay, off we go, but you’ll have to make your way back on your own.”

“No problem, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

The cab driver unlocked the doors. The inside of the old car was spotless. And she noticed there were no insignia hanging from the rearview mirror, or anywhere else on display—no rosaries, coats of arms, declaring allegiance to one side or the other. There were not even any stickers suggesting who the driver’s favorite soccer team was, only a little green tree-shaped air freshener that gave off a penetrating scent of green apple. She hadn’t seen a cassette player in a car for years; as they started off, the driver switched it on. There were speakers only in front, barely audible over the rumble of the motor, but despite all the noise she still recognized the voice of Johnny Štulić, and the words tvoje ruke u neskladu, “your hands in discord” . . . Music like this always sent her spinning back in time; those singers and beats were from a different era—song lyrics people seldom listened to anymore, yet the words said so much. About a time that was lived, a time now so far away that whatever was left of life was forever catching up. When they set off, she remembered there was another meeting to schedule, this one with Kristina’s former principal, whom she’d called the night before. She’d been promised an interview today. The principal interested her because a recording had been made public a few weeks before of the mayor trying to bribe the woman, but, to Nora’s regret, a colleague, not she, had been assigned that story. Though she didn’t ask him to, when she took her cell phone from her purse the cab driver turned the volume down without looking at her, and this gave her an instant to study his profile. He had a largish nose, attractive, sharp.

“Hello?” said the voice over the phone.

“Hello, forgive me, am I speaking to Ms. Arsovska?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Nora Kirin here, from Vrijeme. I wrote to you last week. Calling about this afternoon? A half hour is all I need, a brief conversation . . . I know others have called you, but I won’t be much of a bother. It’s about Kristina, a teacher at your school . . .”

“Listen, I’ve said all there is to say about her, and I have a very full schedule. It’s a tragic story; I regret that I have nothing to add.”

“I won’t mention you by name. But I do need to clarify a few points.”

“You won’t mention me by name? The media has been besieging me recently . . .”

“I won’t, I promise; it’s about Kristina.”

“Okay, fine, but just half an hour. Hotel Lav; I’ll get back to you about the time.”

“Thank you. Looking forward.”

She was glad to think she’d be done with her interviews by evening and would be able to catch the last bus for Zagreb, or the first one out the next morning, and get away from here.

“Thirteen?” The taxi slowed.

“Let me check.” Nora glanced at her pad. “Yes, thirteen.” She looked over at him. “How did you know? I didn’t give you the number.”

He pulled up in front of a small gray house, identical to all the other houses all down the block, the only difference being the house number. Once a city has been ravaged and leveled, nothing can bring it back to life. Even with vast effort, neighborhoods that used to have a special feel now looked more like an artificial arm or leg, a prosthetic limb of brick, concrete, and iron. He turned to her and said:

“I heard you were taking about Kristina, the teacher. This is a small city, and everyone knows everybody else. Ante’s mother lives here, and I doubt she’ll open the door for you. But, hey, go for it.”

Nodding, Nora got out of the cab. Everything he was saying made sense.

“Thanks; still, I’ll try.” Just then she remembered she hadn’t paid him, nor had he asked her for money, and she began rummaging through her purse.

“No problem,” he said, “my meter’s broken.”

“Gee, really? Thanks . . .”

She stepped away from the car and walked toward the front gate. The Corsa turned, and then the driver rolled down the window.

“Nora!” He called her by name. “Take care.”

This struck her as odd. He didn’t give her the impression of being an overly courteous man, though she liked the quip about the meter; apparently he was observant.

She didn’t see a doorbell by the door. There was a button to the right on the doorframe, but no name on it. She decided to try. When she pressed it, she heard the harsh buzz of the bell, and then, a half minute later, the shuffle of feet across the floor. From the dark belly of the front hall came a snow-white head, a foot or so below her eye level. The old woman looked up at Nora.

“Who are you?” she asked in a rasping voice, with no greeting.

“Forgive me for