Gillian stared into her empty espresso paper cup and considered sipping the last remains of cold coffee. She decided against it and tapped the table with the bottom of the cup. Should she go outside and light another cigarette? No, it was too cold, and she had grown tired of tired of freezing for the sake of a few drags.

That was something she missed from Africa. Being able to smoke almost anywhere she pleased. . . No, not really. What she really missed was sharing a cigarette. In the Congo, smoking was still a social habit. She had shared cigarettes with almost everyone she knew. Smoking had been part of talking, being silent, drinking, relaxing together. Here in the States it was an individual habit, a private affair, something you did on your own while the people you knew were not watching.

She smiled grimly when she realized the irony on what she had just thought. When the people you knew were not watching. She only knew two people in Chicago. One of them was too busy coping with interminable insurance forms, medical bills and ID papers plus trying to get back to his already too demanding job to have some time or energy to spare in watching her smoke.

And the other one. . . Well, it was as if the other one was refusing to look at her. Already in Brussels, she had noticed Luka was uncomfortable with her taking care of him, so she had given up performing nursing chores as soon as there was medical staff that could do them. But then he had even been ashamed of her doing small things for him, things that only friends would do, like bringing clothes and toiletries for him, getting him something to read or some music, coaxing him to eat. . . He'd been constantly unresponsive to all her gestures of approach, had been retreating back into himself every time she got closer.

Just that morning, when she had made it to the hospital with a pot of strawberry ice cream in one hand and a can of shaving cream in the other, she hadn't been able to pull out a smile from him. He'd only stared at the items she had brought, had thanked her bleakly and had had a couple of spoonfuls of ice cream out of mere courtesy. She'd hung around for a few minutes, in a kind of awkward silence until the nurse had come to clean his pin sites. She had left for the cafeteria to have a cup of lukewarm coffee, for she knew he didn't want her around while his body was exposed.

Half an hour later she'd made her way down to his room again, and had found him giving the first steps by himself. She'd stood on the threshold as she watched him, dressed in the hospital gown and the robe she'd bought for him, leaning heavily on the Zimmer frame and following closely the instructions of the RN and the orderly which were encouraging him to cross the short distance between the bed and the recliner. When they had helped him to turn around and lowered him onto the chair, he had caught sight of her. A sudden flash of irritation had passed over his eyes. She had averted her gaze.

When she had looked up again, the rage had been replaced by the guarded, hooded look that was the constant in him now. She had complimented him for his first walking tour, but somehow her words had sounded hollow. So had his replies. They had kept silent for a while until she had made a lame excuse and left, telling him she'd drop by before she headed for the airport.

When she'd closed the door of his room, she'd realized it was the first time she ran from him. Running from lovers was not a new experience for her, but this was the first time she ran not because of fear of commitment from her part. This time she was being rejected, politely but firmly dismissed.

She chastised herself. What did she expect, anyway? Their relationship in the Congo had been established on a casual basis. No expectations, no bonding, no commitment. No talking about the past, no getting to know each other, just an enjoyment of each other's body, a way of loosing oneself in physical contact. Everything she'd felt from the time they had found him in the refugee camp had been for her to feel only. He didn't share it, and didn't want to. He only felt ashamed and humiliated because his once healthy and very attractive body had been reduced to a pained helplessness, and thus he wasn't the strong man that would gather her in his arms and make her forget the insanity of the war going on around them.

With a gesture of exasperation, Gillian stood up and checked for the hundredth time the arrival of a certain plane from Paris. It was delayed half an hour. She still had a forty five minute wait. She had come all too early to the airport and it hadn't been because she had been afraid of the traffic or getting lost in the maze of Chicago highways.

She had stopped by Luka's room that afternoon like she had promised. The hairdresser she had contacted the day before had been there, and Luka's hair had neatly been cut. Unable to hide the effect his good looks made on her, she had whistled admiringly, but his frown had cut short whatever teasing she could have embarked upon. Her attempts at light conversation had turned into meaningless sentences to which he had just answered with one word replies and curt smiles. At last he'd suddenly asked her when was she going to go home. She'd stammered that she still had a week of vacation, and he had observed that, according to his point of view, she'd already atoned for whatever she considered she had to expiate. She could spend the rest of her holiday having some real time off. She had tried to explain:

"Luka, I. . . "

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't give me any excuses. I've had enough of them."

"But I'm not. . . " She stopped short.

There was no easy way to put it. She really didn't recognize herself. She was behaving like a teenager, falling for a man she barely knew, resigning her job and even considering moving to another city for his sake. That's something you did when you were seventeen or eighteen, not when you were in the middle of your life and your career.

She had thought of Luka as a flame and herself as the moth attracted to it. Whatever beauty the image might still have in her eyes, she had to recognise it was a cliché, a mawkish commonplace. She laughed at herself. Gillian, the fancy-free, starring in a pg-13 melodrama.

She wiped her cheeks with her fingertips when she realized she was crying. She cast a look at the strangers around her and was reassured when they all turned away their glances in pretence of politeness. Angry at herself, she located the nearest bathroom and washed her face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Petar trudged along what he hoped was the last stretch of the interminable airport. He'd been worrying about not catching the connecting plane on time and not being able to speak to the immigration officers, but he'd never thought he'd have to walk down endless corridors bearing all the weight of his two suitcases and the large package with the paintings he'd brought over for Luka. The muscles on his arms ached, and he knew he was coming to the end of his stamina. He already could feel a slight tremor in his limbs. His knees were shaking. Years didn't come alone. With a sigh, he dropped into a chair and set everything down. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. He took a couple of minutes to gather himself and then stood up and picked up his things again. There was someone waiting for him outside the gates. His plane had been delayed. He'd better hurry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Gillian glanced over the crowd that was coming out of immigration stretching her neck, and holding high the piece of paper where she'd scribbled "Mr. Petar Kovac". She damned her fate for not being taller. Would Luka's father locate her among all these people? What would he look like? Would he hold a resemblance to Luka? An elderly, bald man made his way out of the gates. He was looking around and seemed slightly lost. Gillian decided that could be him. She raised her sign and started to smile in anticipation. The man's eyes brushed over her sign and past her, and she felt slightly ridiculous. She focused on the gates again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There were a lot of people outside the gates. Everybody was blending in hugs and kisses, or shaking hands politely. Petar found himself caught in the vortex of it, scanning for somebody that should be looking for him. He even felt a slight panic attack when he realized he didn't know who was supposed to pick him up. But then he spotted the petite woman, holding up the sign with his name, looking quite bewildered. He slowly made his way towards her, mumbling words of excuse when his suitcases hit the people around him.

Suddenly, there was a very tall, broad-shouldered man standing in front of her. When Gillian lifted her gaze, she found herself facing a grey bearded face and a pair of very kind, familiar hazel eyes.

"I'm Petar Kovac," said the man as he left his suitcases on the floor.

Gillian smiled broadly as a warm wave hit her. Petar's voice had the same deep, raspy intonation as Luka's.

"Welcome to America," she said.

Petar straightened in surprise, as he heard the words being spoken in Croatian.

"Do you speak Croatian?"

Gillian grinned and shrugged.

"Only this," she answered, holding up her thumb and index, signalling a very small amount. "And very badly."

"I don't think so. . . " Petar retorted, and held his hand out. "Nice meeting you. . . "

"Gillian," she answered. A flash of recognition passed over Petar's eyes, and they grew warmer, if possible. He gathered her to him and suddenly Gillian found herself drowning in his arms. The hug was cordial but short.

"Thank you. . . " whispered Petar as he let go of her. She seemed shocked, so he felt compelled to explain. "Thanks for saving my son's life."

Gillian understood he was thanking her, but didn't catch the last sentence.

"I don't understand," she replied, happy that she had been practicing sentences like that one.

Petar's forehead creased as he struggled with the foreign words.

"You were in Congo, no? You care about Luka. . . Thank you."

A sad smile played in the corners of Gillian's mouth as she considered the truth behind Petar's words. He'd meant to say that she had taken care of Luka, but yes, she DID care about him. Pity Luka didn't feel the same gratitude as his father, she thought bitterly. She was suddenly sickened by the disappointment that had been gnawing at her the past week, and which she had kept at bay until that day, when Luka's words had finally made things clear between them. She hurried to answer.

"There's nothing you have to thank me for. . . Shall I help you with these?"

She pointed at the suitcases, and when Petar didn't react (he was probably trying to figure out what she'd just said), she grabbed one of the suitcases and tried to lift it. It was much heavier than she'd thought.

"No, no. . . " muttered Petar. "That is..." he stopped, short of vocabulary. "Too heavy," he continued in Croatian.

Gillian smiled. She hadn't recognised the word, but she knew what he meant.

"Heavy," she offered in English.

"Heavy," he repeated. "Yes, heavy. I take it. You this," he gave her the package with the paintings.

She looked curiously at it and then tucked it under her arm while Petar lifted the suitcases.

"Paintings. For Luka," he explained.

Her face lit in understanding.

"Ah. . . and those?" She asked pointing at the suitcase she had tried to lift, before she could help herself. She regretted it instantly, fearing he'd be upset by her nosing where she was not supposed to. But her fears were quickly dispelled.

"Books. For Luka," Petar had fallen back to Croatian, but she understood.

"Books?"

Petar nodded. The suitcase was really heavy. It had to be full of them.

"Much books," she said.

"A LOT OF books," corrected Petar.

She smiled.

"A LOT OF books," she repeated. And then she tried another sentence. "All for Luka?"

"Yes, they're all for him," sighed Petar resignedly.

She chuckled, and started leading the way.

"Come," she tried a bit more Croatian. "The car is there."

"The car is OVER there," Petar gently corrected her, and got a full smile from her.

She'd learn a lot if she had the chance to spend some time with Luka's father. And maybe not only Croatian. She had never thought Luka was a keen reader. Gillian wondered what kinds of books he preferred.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When the doors of the elevator opened and they stepped out on the sixth floor, Gillian froze. At the end of the corridor stood the firing squad, as Luka had called them. Gillian had met them all earlier in the week, but though they were a bit intimidating, especially Weaver and Romano, they were not the reason for her fright. Beside them stood a middle aged, lanky man, dressed in a cassock. She recognised him immediately, and was about to go back into the elevator when Petar took her by the arm. She looked up. His warm eyes were regarding her inquisitively.

"I'm sorry, I think I forgot something in the car. . . " she stuttered.

He didn't release her from his grasp, but smiled, reassuringly.

"Not important," he said. "Come with me?"

"I really can't. . . "

The doors of the elevator were closing and the four people were coming towards them. If she didn't move straightaway, it'd be too late. But Petar's eyes had her nailed to the spot. Oh, hell. She'd face it. Luka had made it clear he didn't want her around any more. What would it matter if he and his father found about the tapes now? She could just hand them back to them before she left for Montreal. She smiled with what she hoped was more than a half faked grimace.

"All right."

Petar smiled in turn and winked at her reassuringly. He'd sensed her fear when she spotted the four people that were about to talk to them, and had seen how she had tried to escape. His curiosity had been piqued by it. Out of the halting conversation they had held in the car, he'd got a very good impression of her. She was amiable, good-natured. She was learning Croatian with an energy that spoke volumes about her interest in Luka. And her eyes sparkled when she spoke about him. Oh, well, he was maybe making up the last bit, but anyway.

"Mr. Kovac?"

He turned around to face the four people in front of him, still holding Gillian. He nodded.

"I'm Kerry Weaver."

He released Gillian and shook Dr. Weaver's hand heartily.

"Nice to meet you, doctor."

Kerry smiled. Petar noticed there was a tension around her eyes that didn't disappear with her smile. She continued the presentations. Petar shook the hands of the two other doctors, not understanding very clearly who they were, or why was he supposed to meet them. It struck him that, out of the three doctors, one was walking with the aid of a crutch and the other one had only one arm. But he didn't stare. He'd learnt to brush over such things back home. When he heard the name of the priest, he turned to Croatian.

"Pleased to meet you, father."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Kovac. I'm here to translate for you."

A wave of fear darkened Petar's expression.

"But surely Luka. . . Hasn't he. . . "

"No, Mr. Kovac. Luka's fine, and you'll get to see him soon. But Dr. Weaver would like to brief you over Luka's condition before, and. . . " The priest shot a glance at Gillian, who was staring fixedly at the floor. "And I think I should also inform you about some other things."

Petar's curiosity soared, but once again he managed to fake polite disinterestedness.

"All right," he said, and ducked his head in a slight bow. "Gentlemen. . . " his English made the three doctors smile.

Dr. Weaver gestured towards a door down the hall, and Petar took Gillian's arm once again. She would have stayed behind if he hadn't, and he was sure she wouldn't remain on the corridor until the end of his little medical conference. He noticed Father Pritic's contrite expression. There was definitely something wrong between Gillian and the priest. Dr. Weaver didn't seem too happy about him dragging the Canadian with him either, but Petar was not going to loosen his grasp. He was sure there was nothing about Luka's medical condition Gillian didn't know about already, since she had been the one to get Luka out of the Congo with this American doctor. . . What was his name now? Petar cursed his bad memory for foreign names.

They made their way into a small conference room and soon they were all sitting around the table. A mug of weak coffee was placed in front of Petar and Dr. Weaver started her report. Petar listened carefully. Both him and Stjepan had got to talk to Dr. Weaver several times over the phone. Stjepan was much better at it, and had dutifully translated the words of the doctor, but Petar still wasn't sure he understood what was wrong with Luka, besides having broken a lot of bones and having undergone surgery. He had the sensation the doctors weren't sure of it either. He wanted to confirm his impression. However, the longer the conference took, the more impatient he became. He had the urge to see Luka. Finally, Dr. Weaver was finished, and after a brief speech from the eldest doctor, they all rose. Still, Petar had a question.

"And Dr. . . " He stopped short. "The one that went to the Congo to get Luka?"

The priest translated.

"Dr. Carter?" asked Dr. Weaver.

"Yes, I would like to thank him."

Petar waited until Dr. Romano's answer was translated. It was the first time the man opened his mouth, after he had muttered his greetings in the corridor.

"Dr. Carter was on shift until three p.m. He worked part of the night. He must be home by now, but I'm sure you'll get to see him tomorrow."

Petar liked the little doctor's straightforwardness. He nodded and went out of the office, at the invitation of the doctors. He let Dr. Weaver and Gillian go out of the door first, and when he was about to cross the threshold, the priest stopped him.

"Mr. Kovac."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to have a couple of words with you after you've seen your son, if you don't mind."

Petar nodded.

Then he was escorted down the corridor by all the people. Dr. Weaver stopped by a room and knocked, but when she was about to open the door, the eldest doctor took the handle and motioned Petar to come in with his free hand. Petar found himself within a dim lit room while the door was closed behind him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The blinds were open, and Gillian couldn't take her eyes away from the room. She saw Petar go in, stop in his tracks. She saw Luka's anxious look, glued to his father. Then she heard their low, raspy voices, and she watched as Petar came close to the bed, bent over it and gave his son a hug. Luka's thin arms wrapped around the back of his father, tightly. Then a kind hand grabbed her elbow, much in the way Petar's had done earlier. She turned around at the sound of Dr. Anspaugh's voice.

"I think we'd better give them some privacy, hadn't we?"

Gillian nodded, and felt her cheeks burn.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Gillian glanced around. The priest was talking reservedly to Dr. Weaver, and Dr. Romano was just walking away.

"Yes, thank you," she said with a sigh. She suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her.

Dr. Anspaugh nodded his farewell towards Dr. Weaver and the priest and then turned towards Gillian.

"We'll take it in my office, if you don't mind," he said as he led her away.

Gillian nodded again, but then she stopped.

"But I have to take Mr. Kovac to. . . What if he comes out and doesn't. . . ?"

Dr. Anspaugh smiled again.

"We'll leave a message for him at the nurse's station. Or better still, we'll ask them to give us a call."

He stopped by the nurse's station and gave some instructions. Gillian watched Dr. Weaver and the priest absentmindedly, as she nervously bit one of her nails. Oh, God. She'd have to face THAT afterwards. Would the priest bring Dr. Weaver into the discussion? Then she noticed that Dr. Anspaugh was speaking to her.

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm just a bit tired."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Petar glanced one last time at Luka's sleeping form before he closed the door quietly. Luka had been fighting off sleep during the last half hour, but he'd at last fallen prey to it, and Petar was glad for it. Luka needed his rest. He looked so fragile and defenceless among the pillows. A memory, which Petar had fought off during their conversation, suddenly overwhelmed him. Luka, lying on another hospital bed, so thin his cheekbones protruded under his skin and his eyes seemed to have doubled their size, staring at him. Luka in so much pain he didn't seem himself anymore, having gone all the way past words, past tears and past desperation.

Petar shut his eyes tightly and leant his forehead on the door. Then, with an effort, he unstuck himself from it and glanced around. There wasn't anybody in the hall. He walked towards the nurse's station and then caught eye of Father Pritic sitting in the waiting area. The man stood up as soon as he saw him, and Petar found himself wishing the priest wasn't there.

He was so tired. He only wanted to go to Luka's apartment and crash there, and sleep a whole week. Jesus. He only wished he could get some sleep. Since he had got the first phone call from County he hadn't been able to sleep for more than two or three hours in a row. First had been the anxiousness about not knowing exactly what had happened to Luka. It had taken more than a phone conference and Stjepan's help to find that out. Then there had come the endless gathering of the documents he needed for the visa, the concern to get another negative answer from the American government on grounds of his poor wages, his talks with his boss to get a couple of weeks off and getting loans from friends and family for the flight.

And now that he was finally there, his concern for Luka had mounted heaps instead of decreasing. Petar knew that he should have been somewhat reassured. Luka's initial illness was under control, his bones were healing well and he was in a very good hospital. And well, he was conscious, not in the dazed state Dr. Weaver had described to him over the phone two weeks ago. That had freaked Petar so much that though he had spoken with Luka several times after that first phone call in the small hours of the morning, he hadn't been able to leave his worries behind. And now. . . Luka was weak and exhausted. And he was obviously in pain and not just physical pain.

Petar had got used to the idea he would probably never see Luka regain the vitality and capacity to enjoy life he had had before the war, but he'd hoped he would never have to see the look of grief that had haunted his son's eyes the years after the fall of Vukovar. And now it was there again, lingering deep inside.

And there was something else, a certain hardness and bluntness about Luka, something that Petar couldn't really spell out. He'd sensed it three years before, when Luka had been on a short visit for Christmas, but Petar had just dismissed it. He had told himself it was normal Luka had changed while living abroad. It was only a natural transformation, like the slight American accent that had slipped into the way he pronounced Croatian, and which caused Stjepan's daughters to tease their American uncle. Yet now the brusqueness was so intense he couldn't fool himself any longer. Petar sighed and tried to concentrate on Father Pritic's words.

"She has kept the tapes, and I'm afraid your son doesn't know about their existence, Mr. Kovac."

"I'm sorry, Father. I think I missed something. Which tapes?"

Father Pritic studied the man in front of him. He seemed tired and was so distracted he hadn't heard a word he had said.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Kovac?"

"I don't think so. I've had too many already."

"Would you like something else? Tea? Some water, perhaps?"

Petar let out a tired smile. He would have loved to tell Father Pritic precisely how he felt and what he wanted, but he feared his terms would be too rough for the priest's ears.

"No, thank you. You were telling me?"

Father Pritic started his tale once again, from the beginning. This time, after the first two minutes, he got Petar's full attention.

"Did she ask you to translate them for her?" Petar couldn't believe his own ears.

The father nodded, and Petar kept still for a while. He didn't need to ask what was on the tapes. He had a pretty good idea. They should resemble Luka's incoherent babble at the Red Cross hospital in Zagreb, and the nightmares that had plagued him during his first months back home. He tried not to shudder. THOSE were the things she had tried to understand. Petar didn't know whether he should be amazed or disgusted. She could have done that out of an earnest fondness for Luka, but also out of a sick curiosity, the one Petar had seen in the eyes of the numerous journalists that had tried to interview Luka when it was heard he had survived the massacre of the hospital in Vukovar.

The doors of the elevator down the corridor opened, and out stepped Gillian and the kind old doctor who had opened the door to Luka's room. Petar saw how she looked at him and the priest, how she stopped and recoiled, scared. Scared and ashamed. She knew Father Pritic had just told him. And she felt embarrassed. Petar stood up and smiled, as he walked towards her. This had never been the reaction of any of the journalists he'd known. They had always thought they had the RIGHT to know. They had always talked in a loud voice, full of arrogance and self-confidence, stepping over whoever was in their way. Petar held out his hands.

"You returned," he said.

Something in his words should have been wrong, for they elicited a smile both from Gillian and the doctor. Petar acknowledged the doctor's presence with a polite nod and shook his hand, while the man said something he didn't quite understand. He caught the word 'coffee' though. Were they offering him yet another cup? No, it wasn't the case. After shaking his hand a bit longer, the doctor turned around and headed down the corridor. Petar sighed in relief.

"We go home?" he asked Gillian, and his heart warmed when he got yet another smile from her. "You wait here. I go say good bye to Father Pritic, yes?"

Gillian nodded, trying to keep the smile pasted to her face. She wrung her hands while he walked down the corridor and shook the priest's hand. Father Pritic seemed shocked, but Petar didn't give him time to protest. He turned around and came back to Gillian, took her by the elbow in his cordial, gentlemanly way and escorted her to the elevator.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Petar dropped the two suitcases on the floor and had a look around the living room.

"This Luka's apartment?" He asked Gillian, unable to believe his own eyes.

"Yes. . . " Answered Gillian while she tried to understand Petar's surprise. Was the apartment too big for his standards? Maybe too stylish? Or too luxurious?

Petar looked at the polished floor and the dark furniture. The lines of the tables were angled, hard. The surfaces were so shiny and neat they almost repelled him. Everything was in the strictest order. There was not a single object there bearing the mark of a human hand, nothing that revealed somebody actually INHABITED that place. The room seemed a picture on the cover of a designer's magazine. The bare walls, painted in dark colours, gave out a cold atmosphere. Petar advanced until he was in the middle of the living room and then he spotted the gigantic fish tank. He let out a grin, and turned towards Gillian.

"THAT is Luka's," he said, pointing at the fish tank.

He came closer to it to admire the myriad of tropical fish that swam around. It was a beautiful fish tank with a filter, a warmer for the water and numerous plants. He shook his head and chuckled.

"Why?" Asked Gillian, and when Petar looked at her, a baffled expression on his face, she tried to phrase her question in Croatian. "Why you say the. . . the. . . that is Luka's?"

"Why DO you say that THE FISH TANK is Luka's?" Petar corrected, and made her repeat the question, before he attempted an answer in English.

"Luka want fish when little, always. He got them from sea. Had them in jars. Marmalade jars. But they always die. Now he has all fish in big jar."

A sad smile played in the corners of Gillian's mouth, as she fought back a knot in her throat. She blinked several times and took a deep breath.

"The bedroom is down the hall," she said in English. "And the kitchen is that room on the left. Would you like something to drink?"

She hurried into the kitchen and opened the fridge. When Petar got to the kitchen, she had her head stuck into it.

"Would you like some juice? Or maybe some water? Or a beer?" She asked, taking the items out so he could see them in case he didn't understand.

"Beer, thank you," answered Petar.

He was surprised by the sudden display of sadness in Gillian's eyes when he'd spoken about Luka.

"You drink with me?" He asked her when she handed him the beer.

"Yes."

Gillian took another beer from the fridge and two glasses from the counter. She followed Petar into the living room. Petar sat on one of the chairs and was a little surprised at how low he came to sit. He felt as if his knees were higher than his head. Jesus. With all the money he could spend on furniture, Luka couldn't get himself a proper armchair. Petar fought against the cushions to sit a little straighter. He then opened his beer and poured it into the glass Gillian had given him. They drank in silence. He cast an oblique look at her. She still seemed distressed and he didn't want to be too inquisitive.

"Are you hungry?" He asked her after a while.

Gillian sighed, and he feared she had not understood him.

"Only this," she answered, making the same gesture as she had done in the airport when he had asked her about her Croatian.

"Me too."

"Should we. . . " He watched as she battled with the words. "Should we call food?"

Petar's forehead creased. He didn't understand a thing.

"A restaurant? They bring food here."

"Ah. . . Yes."

She stood up with relief and got the phone book.

"What food?"

He frowned again. She continued in English.

"Chinese?" Petar shook his head. "Pizza? Chicago is famous for it's pizza."

He didn't seem too impressed, but acquiesced. She picked up the phone and dialled the number.

"They bring it in twenty minutes," she tried a longer sentence in Croatian and then she fell silent again.

He didn't correct her. She fidgeted a little with her beer glass. She was aware he was watching her from his armchair. Suddenly, Petar's huge hand covered hers and stopped her nervous movement. She looked up and met his worried eyes.

"How are you?"

She barely managed a smile.

"I'm good. But I am. . . " she sighed and tilted her head to a side, faking exhaustion.

"Tired," Petar provided. "You are tired."

"Yes."

"Me too. It was a long flight."

She nodded, and he continued, speaking very slowly and choosing simple words. She had just been at the verge of tears, and the small talk seemed to appease her.

"It was the first time I crossed the ocean."

"Yes? How was that?"

"Boring."

Her forehead creased. He faked a yawn and then tapped the back of the coffee table while he cupped his chin on the other hand, looking at the ceiling. She laughed.

"How do you say it in Croatian?"

"Boring."

She tried the word, and he corrected her pronunciation. Their conversation continued in a somewhat easier manner, despite the language limitations. After a little while, Gillian had to produce her French-Croatian dictionary and Petar was impressed by it. She couldn't resist the temptation of showing him her grammar. At last, she brought out the little phrase book, and that caused more than a laugh. Apparently some of the expressions in the book were totally outmoded.

Then the pizza came, and she brought in plates and napkins and set them on the coffee table. Petar stood up and took two other beers from the fridge. They ate in a companionable silence. When they were finished, she cleared up the table.

"This was not a real meal, Gillian," complained Petar as he followed her into the kitchen.

"Sorry?"

He tried it in English.

"This not good food. I make you good food tomorrow, yes?"

Gillian put the dishes in the sink. How could he be talking about making food for her if he already knew about the tapes? And how would she explain that Luka didn't want her around any more?

"I not very good, not Luka's mother, but I make food," continued Petar.

She suddenly felt how tears stung her eyes. She tried to repress them.

Petar was stunned when he saw her shoulders shake, but then he came close to her. He should have seen it coming, since she had become more and more gloomy during supper. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently around. He shushed her as she sobbed, and then embraced her, hoping he was not overstepping some limit. But she buried her face on his chest and grabbed him tightly.

"It's all right, it's all right. Everything is going to be fine," he mumbled, perfectly knowing that she didn't understand a thing but hoping the sound of his words would soothe her.

After a while she pulled away from him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she wiped the tears from her face with her fingertips.

Petar took out the handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her. She smiled and accepted it. Luka's father was the perfect old fashioned gentleman. When she made the gesture to give it back to him, he just held out his hands. The perfect gentleman. She was supposed to keep it.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, a little louder this time.

"Not a problem," he replied. "You tired and sad. Me tired and sad. We sleep tonight. Tomorrow better, no?"

She tried not to chuckle, as she realized his words could be interpreted as an invitation. She nodded.

"I think I'll go now."

Petar followed her into the living room.

"Should we take these to the bedroom?" She asked, when she noticed the two suitcases by the entrance. "I'll help you."

"No, no. This here," protested Petar, pointing at the larger, heavier suitcase. "I take that. You go sleep."

She sighed, defeated.

"Okay."

"But you come tomorrow, no?" Petar's eyes were worried and inquisitive. "You take me to hospital?"

"Okay."

"Okay, very American," commented Petar. "What time you come?"

"How about eight?"

"Eight? Good, good. I make food to you."

"No, Petar. You really. . . " Gillian protested. But he dismissed her protest with a wave of his hand while he took her coat from the rack and held it for her. She was forced to turn around and put it on. Then he handed her her scarf.

"I make food, you take me to hospital. Deal?"

She smiled.

"Deal, very American," she quipped.

"Yes, very American," he retorted, as he held out his hand. "Deal?"

She shook it.

"Okay, deal."

He opened the door for her. She went out, but then she changed her mind and turned around. She stood on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Good night," she said in Croatian.

He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

"Good night," he answered. "Sleep well."

And he watched as she went down the corridor. When Gillian went out of the building, she found herself hoping she had reminded him to lock the door.