Venetian Masks Page 13

  By the time he returned to the compartment, the porter had folded the bunks back into the wall, leaving the five men crammed onto bench seats, their suitcases around their legs. Two of the men spoke softly to each other, one leaned against the window and dozed, and the fourth stared openly at Jeff, as if Jeff was something exotic in a zoo. Jeff didn’t know whether any of these guys spoke English, and he didn’t bother to find out.

  He had almost dozed off himself when he felt the train slow and then stop. A few minutes later, he heard voices and footsteps, and two men in uniform appeared outside the compartment. They both looked very young and stern. “Passports,” said the shorter one, holding out his hand, and then repeated the request in what Jeff assumed was Slovenian. He took his time inspecting each of the documents very carefully, peering slit-eyed at the passengers and comparing them to their photos. When he got to one of the men, the guy who’d been staring at Jeff, the man in uniform spelled what Jeff guessed was a name into his radio. The staring man didn’t look concerned. The taller border guard stamped each passport with a loud click-clunk and handed them back.

  Before Jeff could relax again, another man arrived—this one to check everyone’s tickets. He was followed by a woman in uniform who wanted to know if anyone had anything to declare. Jeff was a little fuzzy on what sorts of things needed declaring, but decided five days’ worth of clothing, a Kindle, a laptop, a scarf, earrings, and a mask probably didn’t count. He shook his head.

  Fifteen minutes later, the train began to move again, signaling that the gauntlet of Slovenian border customs was complete. Yet along came another uniformed man. This one seemed a little less officious than his predecessors and even wished Jeff a pleasant visit. Jeff checked the newest stamp on his passport. Apparently he was now in Croatia.

  Zagreb was only a short distance from the border, and less than half an hour after leaving Slovenia, the train pulled to a stop. Most of the passengers were already waiting near the doors, although Jeff’s bunkmates remained seated. Maybe they were going to ride all the way to Budapest. Jeff tipped the porter five euros, receiving a smile and thank-you in return, and stepped off the train.

  The Zagreb station—Glavni Kolodvor—was much smaller than Santa Lucia and very quiet. Of course, it was barely four thirty in the morning, so he hadn’t expected much activity. Apart from the debarking passengers, the only person in sight was a man in a blue jumpsuit who looked as though he’d been slowly sweeping the platform for the past hundred years. Jeff followed the other passengers along the tracks, down some stairs and then back up, and into the station proper. The building had a soaring ceiling, was older than the Venetian train station, and smelled like bread. The aroma probably had a lot to do with the three bakery counters located in the main hall. Two of the three were open, with sleepy-looking women in white waiting behind the glass cases. Their wares were tempting, but first Jeff needed cash.

  Following an overhead sign with a picture of a hand holding bills, he entered the slightly smaller room next door to the station’s main hall. There were several cash machines there. The one he chose had the option for instructions in English, and it cheerfully dispensed him several hundred kuna. According to his currency conversion app, kuna were worth roughly twenty cents each. The room also contained a tourist information counter, which was closed, so he grabbed a couple of brochures from a nearby rack. A few moments later, he ventured out of the station.

  It was still far too dark to make out many details, but across the street was an expanse of park, flanked on either side by three- and four-story buildings. He knew from the quick glances he’d had at Google Maps that the park continued for many blocks ahead of him. To his right was a large structure with a flight of stairs leading to the entrance. Pošta said the large yellow sign, so he guessed it was a post office. To his left was a small formal garden, with more buildings on the other side. A line of taxis idled at the street in front of him, the drivers leaning against their cars, smoking, talking quietly with one another. As he stood there, a blue tram came rattling up the tracks near the park, stopped, and let out a dozen passengers. Nothing about the scene was frightening, but it was still very foreign. At least he’d seen lots of pictures of Venice before he went and could decipher a word or two of menu Italian. Zagreb, the entire country of Croatia, and the Croatian language were almost complete unknowns to him.

  The time-share was only a short walk from the train station, but it was much too early to check in. He briefly considered going to Cleve’s hotel instead—he’d looked up that location as well—but he didn’t know which room was Cleve’s, or who might be there with him, or even whether Cleve was still there. Maybe he’d left town already, on his way to Christ knew where. According to the big timetables in the station, a lot of trains left Zagreb each day.

  Jeff had never felt quite as alone as he did at that very minute, standing in front of a train station in the early morning, suitcase clutched in one hand.

  Another tram arrived, this one white with pink advertising on the sides. Jeff watched as a few silent people got off and a few got on. One of the arriving passengers, a man in a blue uniform with a Pošta insignia, crossed over to Jeff’s side of the street, turned right, and sat down at one of the café tables that was arranged alongside the station. To Jeff’s surprise, a waiter came outside and took the man’s order. Somewhat heartened—at least he could wash the taste of the train breakfast from his mouth—Jeff followed the postman’s lead.

  The only menu was a small laminated card that appeared to list several kinds of espresso drinks and some other things Jeff didn’t recognize. The waiter gave a cup to the postman and then walked to Jeff’s table. “Dobar dan,” the waiter said, unsmiling.

  “Uh… English?” God, Jeff was blushing again. But the waiter only nodded, which gave Jeff a little courage. “Um, do you have food?”

  “No. In there.” The waiter gestured at the entrance to the station. “Here, just drinks. Espresso, beer, juice.”

  Beer before five in the morning was not Jeff’s cup of tea. “Espresso, please.”

  The waiter nodded and walked away. That wasn’t so bad, Jeff decided. He’d managed an entire conversation of sorts. It was only when the waiter returned with a tiny cup and a small glass of water that Jeff was calm enough to notice that the man was about his age, tall and muscular, with a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Very handsome. But not as handsome as Cleve, and his hair wasn’t nearly as interesting, and his arms probably weren’t covered in tattoos.

  Jeff had to muffle a groan at his own foolishness.

  The espresso was very good—as good as any he’d had in Italy—and if his mental math was correct, quite a bit cheaper. As Jeff slowly sipped, two more mailmen joined the first, and one of them ordered a beer. Jeff hoped the guy was getting off a shift instead of starting one.

  The waiter didn’t seem to care if Jeff sat there for the rest of the day. In fact, the guy didn’t even come by to ask for payment, but that was something Jeff had become accustomed to in Italy: catching the waiter’s eye and asking for the bill. He wondered if American waiters seemed pushy to European tourists. In any case, if this guy didn’t mind, then Jeff was content to sit there and watch as the morning commute gradually grew. The trams became more frequent and more crowded, and large numbers of people began to appear and disappear at a set of escalators that seemed to lead under the train station, or maybe under the park. He idly wondered what was down there.

  The sky had brightened bit by bit, and he gradually made out more details of his surroundings. Very few of the locals were smiling. But trees were flowering in the park, people were walking dogs, and there was a large statue of some guy on a horse. Trams came every few minutes, rounding a bend and coming to a brake-screeching halt. The crowds exiting the station became thicker. Sometimes someone would get into the first cab in line, and after it started its engine and pulled away, all the cabbies would work together to push the line forward a little, bumper-to-bumper. Saved on gas, Jeff su
pposed. A group of high school-aged boys ascended the escalator, most of them eating and engaging in a little horseplay the way boys do. The way Jeff did, until the accident left him prematurely sober. Of all the locals he had seen, only these boys were laughing and chattering loudly.

  The group of postmen went away but were replaced by more, and other people began to populate the café tables as well. Some of them read newspapers; others smoked or talked to each other. A few texted on their phones, but nobody brought out a laptop. Another waiter came on duty and then another, and they hurried around, never cracking a smile and never rushing anyone away.

  When Jeff realized his legs were cramped and he was in danger of attracting pigeons, like the statue of the horseman, he waved down the waiter. The espresso was eight kuna. Jeff gave him ten, and the waiter managed a thank-you and a tiny grin.

  Jeff stood and grabbed his suitcase. It was time to make some progress.

  Chapter 12

  CROATIANS, Jeff concluded, had some sort of obsession with carbs and caffeine. He had only a four-block walk to the time-share—two blocks along the park and two blocks to the right—but along the way, he passed at least a half dozen bakeries, and the sidewalks were jammed with cafés. The buildings lining the park were quite grand, painted in various shades of yellow and cream, some with ornate designs and a few with rounded domes. Several flew international flags, and he guessed they might be embassies. But as soon as he turned away from the park, the buildings turned dull and gray, the paint long since worn away and the plaster missing in spots, like wounds. There was a lot of graffiti too. He couldn’t understand any of it, but then he generally couldn’t understand graffiti in Sacramento either. The structures he was passing were probably several centuries newer than most of Venice, yet these looked tired and worn-out. He wondered if decades of communism were to blame, or the war that tore Yugoslavia apart, or maybe just poverty. The people on the streets didn’t look especially poor, though, and the passing cars were fairly new.

  The time-share was not very impressive on the outside, although its exterior was in slightly better repair than the neighbors’. When Jeff had searched the company databases back in Venice, he’d learned that his employer had acquired this particular property only about a year earlier. It had been a hotel. A fair amount of money had been sunk into renovating the interior, but the outside upgrades hadn’t yet happened. He’d heard some of the people at work grumble that getting permits and so forth could be time-consuming excursions through bureaucratic hell in some countries. Maybe Croatia was one of those.

  The lobby was small—just a counter, a couple of armchairs, and a potted plant—but it was clean and bright. A very tall, slender young woman stood behind the counter. She wore a gray suit, and her blonde hair was in a neat ponytail. Even a gay man could see she was very beautiful. “Dobar dan,” she said pleasantly.

  “Hi. I’m Jeff Dawkins.”

  “Oh, of course,” she replied in slightly British-accented English. “Welcome. My name is Jelena.”

  “I know I’m not supposed to check in until this afternoon, but I was wondering whether you could store my suitcase for me.”

  “Actually, your room was vacant last night. It is ready for you now.”

  That news was unexpected but welcome. “Perfect!”

  She took a few minutes to check him in and issue a key card. His room was on the third floor—which he remembered actually meant that it was on the fourth, because Americans seemed to count stories differently than the rest of the world. She gave him a large map of the city, marking their location with a small circle.

  “This is Trg bana Jelačića,” she said, making an X. “Main square. There is tourist information office there, but also it is possible to get some information from me.”

  “Thanks,” he said with a smile.

  “Would you like any assistance now?”

  “No—yes. Is there a particular place in town where people go to hang out? Tourists especially.” If he couldn’t track down Cleve at his hotel, maybe he could find him there.

  Jelena nodded. “Yes, of course. Many people spend time in Trg bana Jelačića, or on this street.” She pointed with her pen. “Tkalčićeva. It is for pedestrians only. This is where I go when I have the evening free. Also it is possible to find many people here, in Cvjetni trg. Flower Square.” She pointed to a spot very close to the main square. “And there are many cafés in the surrounding area.”

  That seemed promising to Jeff, if maybe a little overwhelming. He thanked Jelena and then crammed himself into the tiny elevator.

  His room was much smaller than the one in Venice, but he was lucky to have been able to get anything on such short notice. This was only a single room with a little kitchenette area tucked into a corner and an uninspiring view of the building across the street. It was furnished with a double bed, a dresser, a love seat, a table for two, and a pair of plastic chairs. The floor was wooden parquet in a chevron pattern, and the décor was bright and modern, reminding him a little of an IKEA showroom. The bathroom had a shower stall with a curved glass surround, a toilet, sink, mirror, and miniature washing machine.

  The bed was covered in a duvet with a geometric blue design, and it looked very inviting. He hadn’t really gotten enough sleep on the train, and the extra dosage of pills made him groggy. But if Cleve was still in Zagreb, a nap might give him time to slip away. The bed would have to wait.

  Jeff pulled his laptop out and logged on to the time-share’s Wi-Fi. He didn’t bother checking his e-mail—that could wait until later. Instead, he signed into the account for the stolen credit card. His heart flip-flopped in relief when he saw another charge for Cleve’s hotel, this one from the previous day. He snapped the computer shut and rushed to the elevator.

  Jelena stopped him before he could leave the building. “I am sorry,” she said. “I forgot to request your passport.”

  “My passport?” he asked, slightly alarmed.

  “It is Croatian law. Visitors must register with police. You can do it yourself if you wish, but it will be much easier for me.” She shrugged and gave a small smile. “The women who work at the Foreigners Desk do not speak English.”

  He had decided to keep his passport on his person rather than in his room, in case events with Cleve required a really hasty exit, or in case officials got involved and he needed ID. So now he fished it out of his pocket and handed it over.

  “Thank you. I will return it tomorrow,” she said.

  Out on the sidewalk, he consulted his map as unobtrusively as possible and then set off for the main square. Cleve’s hotel, the Empire, was not far from there. Jeff made a quick stop at one of the bakeries along the way and pointed at something that was probably apple strudel. Munching contentedly, he resumed his walk. It was a little strange to be around cars again. There were a heck of a lot fewer tourists here than in Venice, and not a single mask or glass jewelry shop in sight. He kind of preferred Zagreb’s ubiquitous cafés and bakeries.

  Trg bana Jelačića was large, surrounded by billboard-crowned buildings, with the twin spires of a cathedral rising up behind. There were several cafés in the square, a couple of newsstands, and a round fountain. There was another statue of a man on horseback, and this guy was holding a pointy sword aloft. The pavement of the square was crowded with people who dodged between the trams. He saw the tourist information center but didn’t feel the need to enter. He already had a map and he wasn’t here to see the sights, whatever those sights might be.

  The long, narrow street that led out of the square was called Ilica and seemed to be a shopping mecca. Glances down the side streets to his left showed him yet more cafés, every one of them packed with customers on a fine spring morning. He was beginning to wonder if anyone in Zagreb actually worked, other than the waiters, but nobody seemed in a hurry to leave their espresso. When he looked to his right, he was slightly startled to see a small blue train car trundling its way up a short but steep hillside. A funicular, he thought. There wa
s something oddly whimsical about the conveyance, and he grinned slightly.

  The Hotel Empire was only a few blocks farther, wedged between one of many shoe stores—of which Croatians seemed inordinately fond—and a chocolate shop. Judging by the hotel lobby, it had once been fairly swanky, but those days were long past. The décor was faded and worn, matching the era when the Orient Express had been in its prime: overstuffed maroon armchairs, ornately carved little tables, slightly dusty crystal chandeliers. The floor was marble, laid in a fancy pattern. The man behind the long marble-topped counter smiled. “Dobar dan.”

  “Uh, dobar dan,” Jeff replied, feeling slightly proud of his vast mastery of the Croatian language. He walked to the counter. “Do you speak English?”

  “Of course. How can I help you?”

  “A friend of mine is staying here, but I don’t know the room number. Can you give him a message for me please?”

  “Yes. His name?”

  “Cleve Prieto.”

  “One moment, please.” The clerk tapped at his computer, which seemed oddly out of place in the antiquated lobby. After a few minutes, he frowned. “I am sorry, sir. I cannot find your friend in our records.”

  Jeff wasn’t exactly surprised, but still he sagged with disappointment. Cleve had probably registered under a different name—maybe even his real name, which was probably on his passport. But Jeff couldn’t even guess what that name might be. He made another stab at it. “He’s American, about my age. Dark hair. Lots of tattoos on his arms.”

  The clerk looked genuinely regretful. “I am sorry. I cannot help you.”

  Jeff noticed the ambiguity of that statement—can’t help because he’s never seen anyone matching that description, or can’t help because he won’t rat out a customer? Either way, Jeff didn’t have the skills to intimidate or cross-examine. “Okay. Thanks,” he said and left the Empire.