Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Author's notes: A special thanks to Mrs. Eyre, Brandywine and Carby Luva for betaing and comments. You've been of great help scaring my writer's paranoia away!
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Luka fidgeted with the small slip of paper between his fingers, while he read the same sentence for the tenth time. He stopped halfway through it when he realised he wasn't understanding a word he read. He stared blankly at the page for some minutes and then he put the book face down on the bed. He'd been trying to read for over an hour and hadn't been able to get past a few pages.
He flung his head backwards and looked at the ceiling. It had been just over two weeks since she had left for Montreal, over a week since he had been discharged from the hospital. He hadn't heard a word from her. Well, what did he expect, anyway? He had treated her with an unbearable aloofness the last time they'd been together. He'd thanked her for taking care of him and for keeping his father company. He'd wished her a pleasant journey and a good life, had said they could maybe get together some time in the future. If he had been her, he would have told himself he should shove his thanks and good wishes up his. . . He had in fact cursed himself more than once for those words, but only after she left. While he spoke to her, while he watched the hurt and sadness surface in her eyes, he'd been telling to himself it was better for them this way. It was better for HER this way. As for him. . .
He had a look at the slip of paper he was holding in his hand. It was doubled over. He unfolded it and stared at the two telephone numbers scribbled down in a hasty handwriting. He brushed the numbers with his forefinger lightly. He had already learnt them by heart. He then cast a quick glance at the cordless phone. He lifted it and cradled it in his hand for a while. He turned it on, then turned it off.
What would he say to her? That he wanted to have a friendly chat? He scoffed under his breath. After all his standoffishness? She'd never believe he called because he cared, because he honestly wanted to know how she was doing. She'd think he was only calling because he felt indebted to her. He wouldn't be able to convince her of the opposite. He knew himself. He'd never been good with words. Their conversation would turn out to be an empty exchange of polite formulae.
With a sigh, he let the phone down. He doubled the slip of paper, lifted the book and put the slip between its pages as a bookmark. He glanced at the watch. Eleven thirty. Jesus. He had a whole day ahead of him. A whole, long, empty day. He sat up, trying not to grimace, and reached for the crutches. He stood up and slowly made his way out of the room. He lowered himself onto the couch, got the remote control and flickered through the channels. After a while, he turned the TV off and stared at the blank screen for a while.
He cast a glance at the phone on the little table by the couch. It was the middle of the day; she would be working. He could leave a message on her answering machine. Nothing too impersonal, just a few words to let her know. . . To let her know what? Well, to let her know he'd call later, and then their conversation wouldn't be that awkward because he wouldn't catch her by surprise. Or he could ask her to return his call, so he wouldn't spend hours on end gathering the courage to dial her number again. Yeah, that was a good idea. Before he changed his mind, he picked up the receiver and dialled the number. The feeling of nervous anticipation grew as he heard it ring. He fought the urge to hang up. After the fourth ring, a female voice answered.
"Allo?"
Luka was stunned.
"Allo?" repeated the voice.
"Eh. . . huh. . . Gillian?" he stammered, and cursed himself inwardly. He sounded like an idiot.
There was a short silence.
"Pardon?"
That wasn't Gillian's voice.
"Uh. . . I'd like to talk to Gillian, please," he slurred in French.
"Sorry?"
Luka hesitated. Had he dialled the wrong number?
"Gillian Ronin?" He asked.
"Oh. . . No, I'm sorry, she doesn't live here anymore."
It was as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Luka ran a hand through his hair, and tried to focus.
"Eh. . . How long ago?" he blurted out when he managed to find his voice.
"I'm sorry, to whom am I speaking?" Asked the woman, cautiously.
"Luka Kovac. I'm. . . I'm a friend of Gillian's. . ." he faltered. "Uh. . . Did she. . . Did she leave a phone number?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"Could I. . . Could I leave a message with you in case she calls?"
"Well. . . I don't think that would be a very good idea. I don't think she'll call."
Of course not.
"Oh, well. . . Thank you, anyway. . ."
"You're welcome."
And with that, she hung up the phone. Luka heard the familiar click and cradled the receiver in his hand for a while before he managed to hang up himself.
She had moved shortly after she'd given him her phone number. Had she known that she was going to move when she gave it to him? She had given him her mother's phone number, too. She had said that her mother would know where to contact her. . . So, why had she given him a phone number she knew wouldn't be of any use? Was this some kind of subtle message? And if she didn't want him to get in touch with her, why had she given him her mother's phone number? Luka shook his head. It didn't make any sense.
After a moment's consideration, he dropped the thought of calling Gillian's mother. He didn't want to have another awkward conversation like the one he had just held. He had always found it faintly disgusting that his accent when he spoke English or French would only add to people's instinctive mistrust. He didn't want to start explaining who he was, or why he was calling Gillian. Maybe she had put that slight barrier so he would get discouraged, and she had given him her mother's number only to keep up the appearance that she was being kind.
He turned the TV on and wandered through the channels. He settled down on a football game between Manchester United and Milan. Hmm. Normally, he'd have followed the game with interest, but today he couldn't bring himself to concentrate on anything. Hell, he had to admit he hadn't been able to focus ever since. . . Ever since when? Practically since coming back from the Congo. It hadn't been that bad when Tata had been there. Tata's presence had forced him to make an effort to get a grip on himself the first few days he spent in the apartment. It had been nice to have him around.
Luka had borne Tata's critiques about his furniture and decoration (or rather, like Tata had put it, his stylish LACK of decoration), and his teasing about his car and fish tank. He'd agreed both on the idea of putting some more of himself in the apartment and on selling his car (he desperately needed the money anyway). He'd been touched when Tata had unwrapped the paintings he had brought, and had insisted on having them hung up straightaway. He'd also listened carefully to Tata's endless descriptions of the paintings he'd seen in the museums and grudgingly accepted Tata's help in the most basic chores. He had even liked the long silences they had shared over the meals Tata had made, or over the games they had watched together. He now even missed the way they snapped at each other. Jesus. He missed Tata so much he was on the verge of admitting he even missed their huge quarrel the day before Tata left.
It had been about those cursed tapes. Luka still couldn't accept Gillian had taped his ramblings, despite the vehement defence Tata had made of her motives. It sounded too much like the sick curiosity everybody tried hard to conceal when they learned about what he'd gone through during the war. And the fact he'd agreed to translate some of it to her, and the fact he'd told her about Vukovar and Danijella, and the children. . . Tata had really overstepped the limits. That was part of Luka's life. And she didn't have any right. . . Luka bit his lip. She didn't have any right, but it was also true he'd mused over the possibility he'd someday be able to tell her about it. Luka had been struck, like Tata had, by Gillian's apparently endless capacity to understand, to grasp, as if through a sixth sense, the power and nature of his demons. How had she guessed, back in Brussels, that he had been overwhelmed by the memories of Vukovar?
Luka shook his head in disgust as he remembered the argument with his father. The worst had been that Tata had thrown away the tapes before he got the chance to listen to them. . . Tata had said he'd done it because there was no need for Luka to listen to his own incoherent babble. By God! Tata had never been so patronising. But then, Luka wasn't proud of his own attitude and arguments. There was a bitter aftertaste in his mouth whenever he thought about that discussion. True, they had made up the next day, but Luka was afraid he had opened a rift between them and he was terrified by the prospect. If there was somebody he didn't want to drive away then it was Tata, despite all his stubbornness and irritating overprotection.
The key turning in the lock startled him out of his musings. A tall, sandy- haired man stood on the threshold, loaded with shopping bags.
"Gee, Luka, you got out of bed!"
Luka smiled sheepishly at his personal orderly and physiotherapist, Jack Tanner. Carter had hired Jack without telling Luka anything about it, and that had led him to a dispute worse than the one about psychiatrists. However, this time, no matter what Luka had said, Carter hadn't lost his temper, nor he had given in a single bit. Luka could shout and curse as much as he wanted, Carter had stated, Carter would make sure he got home help. If Luka was rude towards Jack and got him fed up with the job, Carter would hire someone else, and someone else, and someone else, until Luka gave up and accepted it. Hell, he would hire somebody to hire somebody if it was necessary. At that last argument, Luka had given up. There had been a flash of a steady resolution in Carter's eyes that made Luka yield grudgingly, despite his annoyance.
He still hadn't fully come to terms with the fact that there was somebody taking care of him the whole day. He still felt himself a little. . . How to describe it? Watched? Scrutinized? He now had fully come to understand how lab rats felt. Luckily Jack's mild sense of humour had made things much less awkward and embarrassing than Luka had thought they would be. And Luka had to admit he wouldn't have been able to manage on his own. He was still weak and had too much trouble moving around.
Most of the common things in his life had become very complicated now. Just having a shower or making himself a cup of coffee had turned out to be huge challenges; let alone doing the laundry or going shopping. So Jack's expertise had proven itself priceless. Not only had he taught Luka how to correctly stand up, sit down, avoid slamming the contraption attached to his leg against thresholds and furniture and manoeuvre with the crutches. He also knew a lot of small tricks that had made Luka's life much easier. He'd got a spill proof cup for him so he could take his coffee wherever he wanted; had bought cargo pants with a lot of pockets where he could store the things he would usually carry in his hands and had replaced the seam on the left leg with Velcro, so the annoying contraption attached to his leg didn't get in the way; he had wrapped the handles of the crutches in tennis racquet grip so Luka's hands were not beaten about. And he was doing his laundry, going shopping, getting his mail. . . At this point Luka was in fact wondering how would he have done without Jack's help.
"Who's playing?" Asked Jack while he put the bags on the kitchen counter.
"Milan vs. Manchester."
"Any good?"
Luka cast Jack a look of reproach. Like most Americans, Jack didn't know a thing about soccer and didn't mind broadcasting his ignorance.
"They're two of the best teams in the world. It's supposed to be good."
"Oh. . ." Jack wasn't, of course, too impressed with Luka's mock scorn. "And what's the score?"
"Huh?"
"The score? You know, Luka, whenever a team gets the ball in the net of the opposite team?"
"Ha, ha," replied Luka unenthusiastically. But then he realised he hadn't got the slightest idea. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Hey, look: it's only a couple of minutes since I turned the TV on."
Luka's voice was maybe a bit too harsh, but then he didn't want to get those kinds of stares from Jack. He needed Jack's help, but he couldn't stand his concern. That's when he felt like a trapped hamster. Besides, he was keenly aware of the fact Jack reported to Carter every few days, and he didn't feel comfortable knowing he must have been telling him about his. . . Well, it was better to call it by its name: his depression. It took him about an hour to get out of bed every morning, if he got out of bed at all. It took him a superhuman effort of will to grasp the meaning of a paragraph, and he had to convince himself to chew and gulp down every bite of food, for he had completely lost his appetite. He knew what that meant. That kind of listlessness and him were old acquaintances. But he didn't want to get any medication, and he didn't want to talk to a shrink.
He knew antidepressants would make him feel better, but was convinced, on the other hand, that they wouldn't help if he didn't manage to get himself together. And he knew he could only do it by himself. Alone. He'd done it before, and he'd do it once again. The only thing was that he couldn't figure out how. Not this time. In the past, back home, he'd had Tata and Stjepan around. When it had happened in America he'd always packed his few things and moved on. It had been his way of starting anew. But after some years, he'd come to realise he lost more of himself every time he moved, so he'd decided to stay in one place. He had focused on his work, and for a short time, he had been able to turn his mind off everything and just go through the motions of life. As long as he had filled his mind with the countless small things that had to be taken care of every day, he had managedt to keep at bay the feelings of desperation. It hadn't helped, all the same. And then, in the last few months before travelling to the Congo. . . Luka stopped the course of his thoughts. He turned off the TV, turned around in the couch and forced himself to formulate a question for Jack. Any question. Talking would do him better than staring blankly at the screen.
"What did you buy?"
"Everything you told me. But I also got vegetables to make you some decent meals."
"Vegetables?"
"Yeah. The kind of leafy green things that are stacked beside the fruit? Well, some of them are round and red. They're called. . ."
"Oh, come on. What vegetables?"
"Tomatoes, bell peppers, squash, spinach. . . Have you tried spinach and ricotta quiche?"
Luka shook his head.
"It's great."
Luka forced out a faint smile.
"Gee, I almost forgot. You've got mail."
"More bills?"
"No. A package. It looks like a book."
"From Croatia?"
"No, I don't think so. . . :
Luka cocked an eyebrow. Now Jack had got his full attention. He watched as Jack picked up a package from the counter and tossed it to him. There was no name or address of the sender. He examined the stamps. They were American. He looked closely at the postmark. There was a blurred "Chicago" right above one of the stamps. Chicago?
"Hey."
Luka looked up. Jack was offering him a pair of scissors. He took them, opened the bubble envelope and retrieved its contents. He weighed the package in his hand, astonished. It was wrapped like a gift. There was no card attached to the gift paper.
"Hey, congrats. Is it your birthday?"
"No. . . not close to it."
Luka looked into the envelope, but there wasn't any card in there either. He opened the package. It was a book, a novel by Milan Kundera. He opened it, but there was no inscription on the first pages. No card, no nothing. Who could have sent it to him? Carter? No. He would have given him the book, not send it by mail. Abby? No. She didn't like reading. Weaver? Nonsense. . . He had another look at the cover, baffled. "Ignorance" was the title. Luka smiled wryly. It was strangely appropriate to the situation.
"So. . . Do you know who sent it?"
Luka shook his head.
"I haven't got the slightest idea."
Jack shrugged, took the scissors and then went back to the kitchen.
"Well, maybe if you read it you'll find out. Don't you think?"
"Yeah. Maybe."
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Gillian considered it for a second right before the EL got to the station. Then she stood up and went out, adjusting her scarf against the cold wind. She was hungry, tired, cold and in need of company. There was no point in going back to her empty and dark apartment, where there was scarcely the most essential furniture. She had brought her clothes and some personal things with her, but the rest of her things would come from Montreal in about a week, so the place still looked barren and inhospitable.
She went down the stairs and crossed the street, walked down two blocks and turned left. When her hand was on the handle of the door, she smiled to herself. She'd been there. . . five? No. Six? Yeah, six evenings since she'd started working, a couple of weeks ago. That meant she'd been there three times a week. But then, she felt as if the people in this place had adopted her already. She had barely crossed the threshold when she heard the hearty welcome.
"Gillian!" Roared Anto from the other side of the little restaurant, where he was waiting at one of the tables. "Welcome! Mama! Gillian's here!" He called in an even louder voice.
An ample form burst out of the kitchen door, wiping her hands in her apron. Two seconds later, Gillian found herself drowning in Marija's embrace and fighting for breath. Then a pair of kind hands held her cheeks while Marija examined her.
"Welcome, Gillian! Jesus, child! You're really cold. Take off your coat and sit down there. You need something warm. How about a nice plate of soup?"
As always, Gillian had to make an extra effort to follow her fast words. It didn't matter how many times Anto and his wife, Bojana, told Marija that she had to speak slowly so Gillian could understand her. She kept on rattling around at an astounding speed. She had been delighted to know that at least one American was willing to learn her mother tongue, so she had decided on improving Gillian's skills as fast as she could. Besides, that had made her fall for Gillian from the start. Well, not from the start, really.
Petar had taken Gillian to that restaurant the last evening she spent in Chicago before travelling to Montreal to pack up. They had had a quiet dinner together, Petar indicating her the best dishes on the menu, ordering the best wine of the house and keeping his voice low when they spoke together. He'd engaged in a short conversation with the owner of the restaurant, but had kept his distance, making that dinner as friendly and intimate as he could, trying to show his appreciation towards her. He'd been so kind, so gentle, that Gillian had felt as if she'd been invited to dinner by her father.
When she had returned to Chicago she had come back to the restaurant to commemorate that last evening, but hadn't dared to speak to the owner in Croatian. It had only been during her third visit that she'd ventured a faltering and probably incorrect sentence. That had triggered it. Immediately, Anton, Bojana and Marija had gathered around her, had started a friendly chat that lasted until closing time, had served her the speciality of the house, had served her a couple of glasses of rajika to celebrate and had toasted to her health. They had also bombarded her with questions, but as soon as they noticed the sadness in her voice and the vagueness of her answers, they had dropped asking for the reasons why she'd decided to learn Croatian. The next times she'd been there, Anton and Bojana had avoided the subject tactfully and had, instead, asked her about how was she settling down and whether she liked the city and her new job. Marija dropped some caustic comments on the stupidity of men which elicited some reproachful looks from her son and daughter-in-law, but soon even her comments, peppered with light-hearted teasing, had become part of the chat, which was one of the reasons that made Gillian come back to the restaurant almost every other evening. Now she always sat by the counter and even helped in small chores like folding napkins or organising glasses. She often wondered at the speed in which she'd been welcome in Anton's, Bojana's and Marija's small circle.
Bojana stuck her head out of the kitchen and gave her a wink.
"Hi, Gillian! I'll be there with you as soon as I finish here."
Gillian gave her a big smile, but didn't have time to figure out a reply before Marija landed a plate full of soup in front of her and ordered her to eat. Gillian took the spoon and attacked the scalding soup, knowing that if she hesitated a single second Marija would either start complaining Gillian didn't like her food or would start fidgeting around her, stating that she was too thin to be healthy. Soon afterwards, Anto came to the counter and greeted her properly, with a peck on the cheek. He served a glass of beer for her and set it on the counter. He served the drinks for the people at the table and stuck his head in the kitchen to make the order. He went away with the drinks, while Gillian took a little break with the soup. Marija and Bojana would be busy in the kitchen preparing the courses the next few minutes, so she could take it easy. Anto came back to the counter, and served himself another glass of beer.
"So, how is it going with your working permit?"
"Good. My working place sponsors it. They say I get it in short time."
Anto raised his eyebrows. All of his family had had great trouble getting a working visa and immigrating to the States. Just to get an audience at the American embassy back home had taken months. For him, it was almost unbelievable that a Canadian could get her working papers in order in a matter of weeks. Gillian had said that Canadian nurses were very appreciated in the States; they had a very good training. But still. . . Oh, well. He was glad at least somebody had no trouble dealing with immigration. And he was glad it was Gillian.
"Good for you. When do you have your appointment?"
"Sorry?"
"Your appointment. With immigration."
"In two days, I think."
"Let me know. I'll come with you."
Gillian looked at him disapprovingly.
"Anto, I can go alone."
"I know, but it's always so boring to stand on that line. . ."
Gillian smiled, and Anto was glad she'd caught his joke. Bojana called him from the kitchen and he went to get the dishes. Gillian attacked her soup again, and shuddered when the door opened and a gust of cold wind let itself in, together with some more customers. Anto went out of the kitchen and greeted them while he made his way to the other table, loaded with the entrees. They were Croatian, and apparently they knew Anto well. Bojana came out of the kitchen and winked at Gillian again. She went round the counter, greeted the new customers, and led them to a table at the back of the local among laughs and comments Gillian didn't understand. Gillian finished her soup and leant back, giving out a satisfied sigh. She had another sip of beer, while she calmly watched Bojana interact with her other customers. Both Anto and Bojana were very sociable, but they had somehow felt Gillian wasn't really eager to get to know a lot of people. They hadn't made any effort to introduce her to their many acquaintances, and the few times Marija had boasted Gillian's will to learn Croatian in front of other customers they had reservedly hushed her. Gillian was thankful for that. She craved their friendship, but she wasn't ready to enlarge her circle of acquaintances yet. Bojana came back and smiled at her, before giving her a peck in the cheek.
"Now I can finally greet you properly," she said.
"Sorry?"
"Now I can really say hello to you," she tried simpler words for Gillian.
"Ah. . . Yes."
"Would you like some more soup?"
Gillian put a hand to her stomach.
"No, thank you. I've already had enough," she said, and then she smiled when she realised she already knew every sentence related to food and food related states.
"Mama won't be of the same opinion."
Gillian laughed. Part of her improvement in food vocabulary was undoubtedly due to Marija's insistence on fattening her up. Bojana took Anto's glass from the counter and had a sip of beer.
"When do you have your appointment with immigration?"
"In two days."
"Do you want some company?"
"For the line?"
Bojana nodded, as she started serving the drinks for her customers.
"Anto say he comes with me."
"Anto SAID he WOULD COME with me," Bojana corrected, and Gillian repeated the sentence.
She was thankful Bojana would correct her. Anto and Marija often taught her new words, but they never corrected what she said. They insisted that Gillian first had to learn enough words and then she'd have to learn how to use them properly. Gillian wasn't too sure of the accuracy of their theory, since both of them spoke quite a broken English despite the years they had spent in the States.
"It's incredible how fast you're going to get your papers. . ." Bojana commented.
"I think it is for my boss sponsors my visa."
"Still. . ."
Anto came back to the counter only to be sent back to the table with the drinks. Bojana went to the kitchen while Gillian grabbed an ashtray from the other side of the counter, and lit a cigarette. She knew the entire conversation that evening would turn on the astounding speed at which she'd got her working visa in Canada, and how fast she was going to get the rest of her working papers in order. Anto, Bojana and Marija would tell her again about how difficult it had been for them to get the same documents, and they would start telling horror stories about endless lines and absurd requirements in official offices. She knew the stories were true. She wondered how Luka had managed to get through the whole process. It must have been hard. Maybe it was easier for a doctor to get a working visa, but still, Anto, Bojana and Marija had, at least, been together through the whole thing while Luka. . .
She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She had resolved she wouldn't think about Luka after their last conversation at the hospital. He'd been so. . . distant, so closed within himself it had been impossible to fool herself any more. Whatever she'd come to feel for him while she and Carter had brought him over from the Congo was but her own crazy, sick kind of love. She had given him her and her mother's phone number so he could get in touch with her if he wanted, but he'd thanked her in such a polite way it had made clear that he hardly expected to hear from her in his life. So she had decided, there and then, to leave him alone. She had said good-bye, allowed herself to hold his hand one last time and to give him a kiss on the cheek, and had turned around and walked out of his life. Well, at least that's what she'd told herself that day. . .
Marija burst out of the kitchen with a plate of food in her hand and set it in front of Gillian. She looked harshly at the cigarette and said something about how smoking ruined the taste of good food, or at least that's what Gillian thought she said.
"Marija, I've already finished. . ." Gillian started protesting.
"You have to eat, child."
And with that decree, she disappeared again into the kitchen. Gillian sighed resignedly, took a deep drag of her cigarette and then slowly put it out. She took the fork and started eating, feeling herself strangely at home.
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Shelly had noticed the tall, good-looking man lingering in front of the window, pretending he was deeply interested in the books displayed behind it, long before he made up his mind and entered the bookshop. She had, however, plenty of time to feign she was busy checking some bills before he made it to the door and inside, for he was on crutches. When she heard the bell clinging she lifted her gaze just slowly enough to allow him to come in without feeling he was being observed.
"May I help you?" She asked with her kindest tone of voice. It had taken him more than ten minutes to decide to come in, and his shyness had touched her.
He cringed a bit, and then he answered.
"Uh, eh. . . Yes, ah. . . well. I was. . ."
Although he hadn't said a complete sentence yet, Shelly already spotted he had an accent. Eastern European, perhaps?
"I was wondering. . . This book was sold here, wasn't it?"
He took a book out of the pocket of his long, black winter overcoat and held it out for her. Shelly took it. "Ignorance", a novel by Kundera. She opened it and glanced at the mark impressed on the first page, where the name and address of the bookstore stood.
"Yes, it was sold here," she handed him the book back.
"I'd like. . . I'd like to know if you knew who bought it. I got it as a present, but I guess the sender forgot to put the card in the envelope. . ." The further he went, the more unsure of himself he seemed.
Shelly shook her head.
"I'm sorry. We don't keep record of our customers."
He bit his lip and looked down. His shoulders slouched in defeat. But then he seemed to get another idea, and he looked into her eyes again. His gaze was intense, bidding.
"Do you perhaps remember who did you sell it to? It must have been a couple of weeks ago. . . You see," he continued hastily as he noticed her hesitation. "I'd really like to thank the person that sent it to me. . . I enjoyed reading it."
Shelly doubted for a second, but then she decided against describing the petite chestnut-haired woman for him. She had to protect the privacy of her clients.
"I'm afraid I can't. There's a lot of people coming through the shop, you know. . ."
For a second, she feared he wouldn't take in her lame excuse. The bookshop was little, and it was evident Shelly would remember most of her clients. But he didn't say anything for a while. He looked down again and seemed so dismayed Shelly was about to gainsay herself and tell him. . .
"No, of course you wouldn't," he whispered without the slightest trace of irony in his voice.
He put the book back into the pocket of his coat with great care.
"Thank you, anyway," he said quietly.
And not daring to look at her, he turned around and went out of the shop.
Author's notes: A special thanks to Mrs. Eyre, Brandywine and Carby Luva for betaing and comments. You've been of great help scaring my writer's paranoia away!
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Luka fidgeted with the small slip of paper between his fingers, while he read the same sentence for the tenth time. He stopped halfway through it when he realised he wasn't understanding a word he read. He stared blankly at the page for some minutes and then he put the book face down on the bed. He'd been trying to read for over an hour and hadn't been able to get past a few pages.
He flung his head backwards and looked at the ceiling. It had been just over two weeks since she had left for Montreal, over a week since he had been discharged from the hospital. He hadn't heard a word from her. Well, what did he expect, anyway? He had treated her with an unbearable aloofness the last time they'd been together. He'd thanked her for taking care of him and for keeping his father company. He'd wished her a pleasant journey and a good life, had said they could maybe get together some time in the future. If he had been her, he would have told himself he should shove his thanks and good wishes up his. . . He had in fact cursed himself more than once for those words, but only after she left. While he spoke to her, while he watched the hurt and sadness surface in her eyes, he'd been telling to himself it was better for them this way. It was better for HER this way. As for him. . .
He had a look at the slip of paper he was holding in his hand. It was doubled over. He unfolded it and stared at the two telephone numbers scribbled down in a hasty handwriting. He brushed the numbers with his forefinger lightly. He had already learnt them by heart. He then cast a quick glance at the cordless phone. He lifted it and cradled it in his hand for a while. He turned it on, then turned it off.
What would he say to her? That he wanted to have a friendly chat? He scoffed under his breath. After all his standoffishness? She'd never believe he called because he cared, because he honestly wanted to know how she was doing. She'd think he was only calling because he felt indebted to her. He wouldn't be able to convince her of the opposite. He knew himself. He'd never been good with words. Their conversation would turn out to be an empty exchange of polite formulae.
With a sigh, he let the phone down. He doubled the slip of paper, lifted the book and put the slip between its pages as a bookmark. He glanced at the watch. Eleven thirty. Jesus. He had a whole day ahead of him. A whole, long, empty day. He sat up, trying not to grimace, and reached for the crutches. He stood up and slowly made his way out of the room. He lowered himself onto the couch, got the remote control and flickered through the channels. After a while, he turned the TV off and stared at the blank screen for a while.
He cast a glance at the phone on the little table by the couch. It was the middle of the day; she would be working. He could leave a message on her answering machine. Nothing too impersonal, just a few words to let her know. . . To let her know what? Well, to let her know he'd call later, and then their conversation wouldn't be that awkward because he wouldn't catch her by surprise. Or he could ask her to return his call, so he wouldn't spend hours on end gathering the courage to dial her number again. Yeah, that was a good idea. Before he changed his mind, he picked up the receiver and dialled the number. The feeling of nervous anticipation grew as he heard it ring. He fought the urge to hang up. After the fourth ring, a female voice answered.
"Allo?"
Luka was stunned.
"Allo?" repeated the voice.
"Eh. . . huh. . . Gillian?" he stammered, and cursed himself inwardly. He sounded like an idiot.
There was a short silence.
"Pardon?"
That wasn't Gillian's voice.
"Uh. . . I'd like to talk to Gillian, please," he slurred in French.
"Sorry?"
Luka hesitated. Had he dialled the wrong number?
"Gillian Ronin?" He asked.
"Oh. . . No, I'm sorry, she doesn't live here anymore."
It was as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Luka ran a hand through his hair, and tried to focus.
"Eh. . . How long ago?" he blurted out when he managed to find his voice.
"I'm sorry, to whom am I speaking?" Asked the woman, cautiously.
"Luka Kovac. I'm. . . I'm a friend of Gillian's. . ." he faltered. "Uh. . . Did she. . . Did she leave a phone number?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"Could I. . . Could I leave a message with you in case she calls?"
"Well. . . I don't think that would be a very good idea. I don't think she'll call."
Of course not.
"Oh, well. . . Thank you, anyway. . ."
"You're welcome."
And with that, she hung up the phone. Luka heard the familiar click and cradled the receiver in his hand for a while before he managed to hang up himself.
She had moved shortly after she'd given him her phone number. Had she known that she was going to move when she gave it to him? She had given him her mother's phone number, too. She had said that her mother would know where to contact her. . . So, why had she given him a phone number she knew wouldn't be of any use? Was this some kind of subtle message? And if she didn't want him to get in touch with her, why had she given him her mother's phone number? Luka shook his head. It didn't make any sense.
After a moment's consideration, he dropped the thought of calling Gillian's mother. He didn't want to have another awkward conversation like the one he had just held. He had always found it faintly disgusting that his accent when he spoke English or French would only add to people's instinctive mistrust. He didn't want to start explaining who he was, or why he was calling Gillian. Maybe she had put that slight barrier so he would get discouraged, and she had given him her mother's number only to keep up the appearance that she was being kind.
He turned the TV on and wandered through the channels. He settled down on a football game between Manchester United and Milan. Hmm. Normally, he'd have followed the game with interest, but today he couldn't bring himself to concentrate on anything. Hell, he had to admit he hadn't been able to focus ever since. . . Ever since when? Practically since coming back from the Congo. It hadn't been that bad when Tata had been there. Tata's presence had forced him to make an effort to get a grip on himself the first few days he spent in the apartment. It had been nice to have him around.
Luka had borne Tata's critiques about his furniture and decoration (or rather, like Tata had put it, his stylish LACK of decoration), and his teasing about his car and fish tank. He'd agreed both on the idea of putting some more of himself in the apartment and on selling his car (he desperately needed the money anyway). He'd been touched when Tata had unwrapped the paintings he had brought, and had insisted on having them hung up straightaway. He'd also listened carefully to Tata's endless descriptions of the paintings he'd seen in the museums and grudgingly accepted Tata's help in the most basic chores. He had even liked the long silences they had shared over the meals Tata had made, or over the games they had watched together. He now even missed the way they snapped at each other. Jesus. He missed Tata so much he was on the verge of admitting he even missed their huge quarrel the day before Tata left.
It had been about those cursed tapes. Luka still couldn't accept Gillian had taped his ramblings, despite the vehement defence Tata had made of her motives. It sounded too much like the sick curiosity everybody tried hard to conceal when they learned about what he'd gone through during the war. And the fact he'd agreed to translate some of it to her, and the fact he'd told her about Vukovar and Danijella, and the children. . . Tata had really overstepped the limits. That was part of Luka's life. And she didn't have any right. . . Luka bit his lip. She didn't have any right, but it was also true he'd mused over the possibility he'd someday be able to tell her about it. Luka had been struck, like Tata had, by Gillian's apparently endless capacity to understand, to grasp, as if through a sixth sense, the power and nature of his demons. How had she guessed, back in Brussels, that he had been overwhelmed by the memories of Vukovar?
Luka shook his head in disgust as he remembered the argument with his father. The worst had been that Tata had thrown away the tapes before he got the chance to listen to them. . . Tata had said he'd done it because there was no need for Luka to listen to his own incoherent babble. By God! Tata had never been so patronising. But then, Luka wasn't proud of his own attitude and arguments. There was a bitter aftertaste in his mouth whenever he thought about that discussion. True, they had made up the next day, but Luka was afraid he had opened a rift between them and he was terrified by the prospect. If there was somebody he didn't want to drive away then it was Tata, despite all his stubbornness and irritating overprotection.
The key turning in the lock startled him out of his musings. A tall, sandy- haired man stood on the threshold, loaded with shopping bags.
"Gee, Luka, you got out of bed!"
Luka smiled sheepishly at his personal orderly and physiotherapist, Jack Tanner. Carter had hired Jack without telling Luka anything about it, and that had led him to a dispute worse than the one about psychiatrists. However, this time, no matter what Luka had said, Carter hadn't lost his temper, nor he had given in a single bit. Luka could shout and curse as much as he wanted, Carter had stated, Carter would make sure he got home help. If Luka was rude towards Jack and got him fed up with the job, Carter would hire someone else, and someone else, and someone else, until Luka gave up and accepted it. Hell, he would hire somebody to hire somebody if it was necessary. At that last argument, Luka had given up. There had been a flash of a steady resolution in Carter's eyes that made Luka yield grudgingly, despite his annoyance.
He still hadn't fully come to terms with the fact that there was somebody taking care of him the whole day. He still felt himself a little. . . How to describe it? Watched? Scrutinized? He now had fully come to understand how lab rats felt. Luckily Jack's mild sense of humour had made things much less awkward and embarrassing than Luka had thought they would be. And Luka had to admit he wouldn't have been able to manage on his own. He was still weak and had too much trouble moving around.
Most of the common things in his life had become very complicated now. Just having a shower or making himself a cup of coffee had turned out to be huge challenges; let alone doing the laundry or going shopping. So Jack's expertise had proven itself priceless. Not only had he taught Luka how to correctly stand up, sit down, avoid slamming the contraption attached to his leg against thresholds and furniture and manoeuvre with the crutches. He also knew a lot of small tricks that had made Luka's life much easier. He'd got a spill proof cup for him so he could take his coffee wherever he wanted; had bought cargo pants with a lot of pockets where he could store the things he would usually carry in his hands and had replaced the seam on the left leg with Velcro, so the annoying contraption attached to his leg didn't get in the way; he had wrapped the handles of the crutches in tennis racquet grip so Luka's hands were not beaten about. And he was doing his laundry, going shopping, getting his mail. . . At this point Luka was in fact wondering how would he have done without Jack's help.
"Who's playing?" Asked Jack while he put the bags on the kitchen counter.
"Milan vs. Manchester."
"Any good?"
Luka cast Jack a look of reproach. Like most Americans, Jack didn't know a thing about soccer and didn't mind broadcasting his ignorance.
"They're two of the best teams in the world. It's supposed to be good."
"Oh. . ." Jack wasn't, of course, too impressed with Luka's mock scorn. "And what's the score?"
"Huh?"
"The score? You know, Luka, whenever a team gets the ball in the net of the opposite team?"
"Ha, ha," replied Luka unenthusiastically. But then he realised he hadn't got the slightest idea. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"Hey, look: it's only a couple of minutes since I turned the TV on."
Luka's voice was maybe a bit too harsh, but then he didn't want to get those kinds of stares from Jack. He needed Jack's help, but he couldn't stand his concern. That's when he felt like a trapped hamster. Besides, he was keenly aware of the fact Jack reported to Carter every few days, and he didn't feel comfortable knowing he must have been telling him about his. . . Well, it was better to call it by its name: his depression. It took him about an hour to get out of bed every morning, if he got out of bed at all. It took him a superhuman effort of will to grasp the meaning of a paragraph, and he had to convince himself to chew and gulp down every bite of food, for he had completely lost his appetite. He knew what that meant. That kind of listlessness and him were old acquaintances. But he didn't want to get any medication, and he didn't want to talk to a shrink.
He knew antidepressants would make him feel better, but was convinced, on the other hand, that they wouldn't help if he didn't manage to get himself together. And he knew he could only do it by himself. Alone. He'd done it before, and he'd do it once again. The only thing was that he couldn't figure out how. Not this time. In the past, back home, he'd had Tata and Stjepan around. When it had happened in America he'd always packed his few things and moved on. It had been his way of starting anew. But after some years, he'd come to realise he lost more of himself every time he moved, so he'd decided to stay in one place. He had focused on his work, and for a short time, he had been able to turn his mind off everything and just go through the motions of life. As long as he had filled his mind with the countless small things that had to be taken care of every day, he had managedt to keep at bay the feelings of desperation. It hadn't helped, all the same. And then, in the last few months before travelling to the Congo. . . Luka stopped the course of his thoughts. He turned off the TV, turned around in the couch and forced himself to formulate a question for Jack. Any question. Talking would do him better than staring blankly at the screen.
"What did you buy?"
"Everything you told me. But I also got vegetables to make you some decent meals."
"Vegetables?"
"Yeah. The kind of leafy green things that are stacked beside the fruit? Well, some of them are round and red. They're called. . ."
"Oh, come on. What vegetables?"
"Tomatoes, bell peppers, squash, spinach. . . Have you tried spinach and ricotta quiche?"
Luka shook his head.
"It's great."
Luka forced out a faint smile.
"Gee, I almost forgot. You've got mail."
"More bills?"
"No. A package. It looks like a book."
"From Croatia?"
"No, I don't think so. . . :
Luka cocked an eyebrow. Now Jack had got his full attention. He watched as Jack picked up a package from the counter and tossed it to him. There was no name or address of the sender. He examined the stamps. They were American. He looked closely at the postmark. There was a blurred "Chicago" right above one of the stamps. Chicago?
"Hey."
Luka looked up. Jack was offering him a pair of scissors. He took them, opened the bubble envelope and retrieved its contents. He weighed the package in his hand, astonished. It was wrapped like a gift. There was no card attached to the gift paper.
"Hey, congrats. Is it your birthday?"
"No. . . not close to it."
Luka looked into the envelope, but there wasn't any card in there either. He opened the package. It was a book, a novel by Milan Kundera. He opened it, but there was no inscription on the first pages. No card, no nothing. Who could have sent it to him? Carter? No. He would have given him the book, not send it by mail. Abby? No. She didn't like reading. Weaver? Nonsense. . . He had another look at the cover, baffled. "Ignorance" was the title. Luka smiled wryly. It was strangely appropriate to the situation.
"So. . . Do you know who sent it?"
Luka shook his head.
"I haven't got the slightest idea."
Jack shrugged, took the scissors and then went back to the kitchen.
"Well, maybe if you read it you'll find out. Don't you think?"
"Yeah. Maybe."
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *
Gillian considered it for a second right before the EL got to the station. Then she stood up and went out, adjusting her scarf against the cold wind. She was hungry, tired, cold and in need of company. There was no point in going back to her empty and dark apartment, where there was scarcely the most essential furniture. She had brought her clothes and some personal things with her, but the rest of her things would come from Montreal in about a week, so the place still looked barren and inhospitable.
She went down the stairs and crossed the street, walked down two blocks and turned left. When her hand was on the handle of the door, she smiled to herself. She'd been there. . . five? No. Six? Yeah, six evenings since she'd started working, a couple of weeks ago. That meant she'd been there three times a week. But then, she felt as if the people in this place had adopted her already. She had barely crossed the threshold when she heard the hearty welcome.
"Gillian!" Roared Anto from the other side of the little restaurant, where he was waiting at one of the tables. "Welcome! Mama! Gillian's here!" He called in an even louder voice.
An ample form burst out of the kitchen door, wiping her hands in her apron. Two seconds later, Gillian found herself drowning in Marija's embrace and fighting for breath. Then a pair of kind hands held her cheeks while Marija examined her.
"Welcome, Gillian! Jesus, child! You're really cold. Take off your coat and sit down there. You need something warm. How about a nice plate of soup?"
As always, Gillian had to make an extra effort to follow her fast words. It didn't matter how many times Anto and his wife, Bojana, told Marija that she had to speak slowly so Gillian could understand her. She kept on rattling around at an astounding speed. She had been delighted to know that at least one American was willing to learn her mother tongue, so she had decided on improving Gillian's skills as fast as she could. Besides, that had made her fall for Gillian from the start. Well, not from the start, really.
Petar had taken Gillian to that restaurant the last evening she spent in Chicago before travelling to Montreal to pack up. They had had a quiet dinner together, Petar indicating her the best dishes on the menu, ordering the best wine of the house and keeping his voice low when they spoke together. He'd engaged in a short conversation with the owner of the restaurant, but had kept his distance, making that dinner as friendly and intimate as he could, trying to show his appreciation towards her. He'd been so kind, so gentle, that Gillian had felt as if she'd been invited to dinner by her father.
When she had returned to Chicago she had come back to the restaurant to commemorate that last evening, but hadn't dared to speak to the owner in Croatian. It had only been during her third visit that she'd ventured a faltering and probably incorrect sentence. That had triggered it. Immediately, Anton, Bojana and Marija had gathered around her, had started a friendly chat that lasted until closing time, had served her the speciality of the house, had served her a couple of glasses of rajika to celebrate and had toasted to her health. They had also bombarded her with questions, but as soon as they noticed the sadness in her voice and the vagueness of her answers, they had dropped asking for the reasons why she'd decided to learn Croatian. The next times she'd been there, Anton and Bojana had avoided the subject tactfully and had, instead, asked her about how was she settling down and whether she liked the city and her new job. Marija dropped some caustic comments on the stupidity of men which elicited some reproachful looks from her son and daughter-in-law, but soon even her comments, peppered with light-hearted teasing, had become part of the chat, which was one of the reasons that made Gillian come back to the restaurant almost every other evening. Now she always sat by the counter and even helped in small chores like folding napkins or organising glasses. She often wondered at the speed in which she'd been welcome in Anton's, Bojana's and Marija's small circle.
Bojana stuck her head out of the kitchen and gave her a wink.
"Hi, Gillian! I'll be there with you as soon as I finish here."
Gillian gave her a big smile, but didn't have time to figure out a reply before Marija landed a plate full of soup in front of her and ordered her to eat. Gillian took the spoon and attacked the scalding soup, knowing that if she hesitated a single second Marija would either start complaining Gillian didn't like her food or would start fidgeting around her, stating that she was too thin to be healthy. Soon afterwards, Anto came to the counter and greeted her properly, with a peck on the cheek. He served a glass of beer for her and set it on the counter. He served the drinks for the people at the table and stuck his head in the kitchen to make the order. He went away with the drinks, while Gillian took a little break with the soup. Marija and Bojana would be busy in the kitchen preparing the courses the next few minutes, so she could take it easy. Anto came back to the counter, and served himself another glass of beer.
"So, how is it going with your working permit?"
"Good. My working place sponsors it. They say I get it in short time."
Anto raised his eyebrows. All of his family had had great trouble getting a working visa and immigrating to the States. Just to get an audience at the American embassy back home had taken months. For him, it was almost unbelievable that a Canadian could get her working papers in order in a matter of weeks. Gillian had said that Canadian nurses were very appreciated in the States; they had a very good training. But still. . . Oh, well. He was glad at least somebody had no trouble dealing with immigration. And he was glad it was Gillian.
"Good for you. When do you have your appointment?"
"Sorry?"
"Your appointment. With immigration."
"In two days, I think."
"Let me know. I'll come with you."
Gillian looked at him disapprovingly.
"Anto, I can go alone."
"I know, but it's always so boring to stand on that line. . ."
Gillian smiled, and Anto was glad she'd caught his joke. Bojana called him from the kitchen and he went to get the dishes. Gillian attacked her soup again, and shuddered when the door opened and a gust of cold wind let itself in, together with some more customers. Anto went out of the kitchen and greeted them while he made his way to the other table, loaded with the entrees. They were Croatian, and apparently they knew Anto well. Bojana came out of the kitchen and winked at Gillian again. She went round the counter, greeted the new customers, and led them to a table at the back of the local among laughs and comments Gillian didn't understand. Gillian finished her soup and leant back, giving out a satisfied sigh. She had another sip of beer, while she calmly watched Bojana interact with her other customers. Both Anto and Bojana were very sociable, but they had somehow felt Gillian wasn't really eager to get to know a lot of people. They hadn't made any effort to introduce her to their many acquaintances, and the few times Marija had boasted Gillian's will to learn Croatian in front of other customers they had reservedly hushed her. Gillian was thankful for that. She craved their friendship, but she wasn't ready to enlarge her circle of acquaintances yet. Bojana came back and smiled at her, before giving her a peck in the cheek.
"Now I can finally greet you properly," she said.
"Sorry?"
"Now I can really say hello to you," she tried simpler words for Gillian.
"Ah. . . Yes."
"Would you like some more soup?"
Gillian put a hand to her stomach.
"No, thank you. I've already had enough," she said, and then she smiled when she realised she already knew every sentence related to food and food related states.
"Mama won't be of the same opinion."
Gillian laughed. Part of her improvement in food vocabulary was undoubtedly due to Marija's insistence on fattening her up. Bojana took Anto's glass from the counter and had a sip of beer.
"When do you have your appointment with immigration?"
"In two days."
"Do you want some company?"
"For the line?"
Bojana nodded, as she started serving the drinks for her customers.
"Anto say he comes with me."
"Anto SAID he WOULD COME with me," Bojana corrected, and Gillian repeated the sentence.
She was thankful Bojana would correct her. Anto and Marija often taught her new words, but they never corrected what she said. They insisted that Gillian first had to learn enough words and then she'd have to learn how to use them properly. Gillian wasn't too sure of the accuracy of their theory, since both of them spoke quite a broken English despite the years they had spent in the States.
"It's incredible how fast you're going to get your papers. . ." Bojana commented.
"I think it is for my boss sponsors my visa."
"Still. . ."
Anto came back to the counter only to be sent back to the table with the drinks. Bojana went to the kitchen while Gillian grabbed an ashtray from the other side of the counter, and lit a cigarette. She knew the entire conversation that evening would turn on the astounding speed at which she'd got her working visa in Canada, and how fast she was going to get the rest of her working papers in order. Anto, Bojana and Marija would tell her again about how difficult it had been for them to get the same documents, and they would start telling horror stories about endless lines and absurd requirements in official offices. She knew the stories were true. She wondered how Luka had managed to get through the whole process. It must have been hard. Maybe it was easier for a doctor to get a working visa, but still, Anto, Bojana and Marija had, at least, been together through the whole thing while Luka. . .
She shook her head, annoyed with herself. She had resolved she wouldn't think about Luka after their last conversation at the hospital. He'd been so. . . distant, so closed within himself it had been impossible to fool herself any more. Whatever she'd come to feel for him while she and Carter had brought him over from the Congo was but her own crazy, sick kind of love. She had given him her and her mother's phone number so he could get in touch with her if he wanted, but he'd thanked her in such a polite way it had made clear that he hardly expected to hear from her in his life. So she had decided, there and then, to leave him alone. She had said good-bye, allowed herself to hold his hand one last time and to give him a kiss on the cheek, and had turned around and walked out of his life. Well, at least that's what she'd told herself that day. . .
Marija burst out of the kitchen with a plate of food in her hand and set it in front of Gillian. She looked harshly at the cigarette and said something about how smoking ruined the taste of good food, or at least that's what Gillian thought she said.
"Marija, I've already finished. . ." Gillian started protesting.
"You have to eat, child."
And with that decree, she disappeared again into the kitchen. Gillian sighed resignedly, took a deep drag of her cigarette and then slowly put it out. She took the fork and started eating, feeling herself strangely at home.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * *
Shelly had noticed the tall, good-looking man lingering in front of the window, pretending he was deeply interested in the books displayed behind it, long before he made up his mind and entered the bookshop. She had, however, plenty of time to feign she was busy checking some bills before he made it to the door and inside, for he was on crutches. When she heard the bell clinging she lifted her gaze just slowly enough to allow him to come in without feeling he was being observed.
"May I help you?" She asked with her kindest tone of voice. It had taken him more than ten minutes to decide to come in, and his shyness had touched her.
He cringed a bit, and then he answered.
"Uh, eh. . . Yes, ah. . . well. I was. . ."
Although he hadn't said a complete sentence yet, Shelly already spotted he had an accent. Eastern European, perhaps?
"I was wondering. . . This book was sold here, wasn't it?"
He took a book out of the pocket of his long, black winter overcoat and held it out for her. Shelly took it. "Ignorance", a novel by Kundera. She opened it and glanced at the mark impressed on the first page, where the name and address of the bookstore stood.
"Yes, it was sold here," she handed him the book back.
"I'd like. . . I'd like to know if you knew who bought it. I got it as a present, but I guess the sender forgot to put the card in the envelope. . ." The further he went, the more unsure of himself he seemed.
Shelly shook her head.
"I'm sorry. We don't keep record of our customers."
He bit his lip and looked down. His shoulders slouched in defeat. But then he seemed to get another idea, and he looked into her eyes again. His gaze was intense, bidding.
"Do you perhaps remember who did you sell it to? It must have been a couple of weeks ago. . . You see," he continued hastily as he noticed her hesitation. "I'd really like to thank the person that sent it to me. . . I enjoyed reading it."
Shelly doubted for a second, but then she decided against describing the petite chestnut-haired woman for him. She had to protect the privacy of her clients.
"I'm afraid I can't. There's a lot of people coming through the shop, you know. . ."
For a second, she feared he wouldn't take in her lame excuse. The bookshop was little, and it was evident Shelly would remember most of her clients. But he didn't say anything for a while. He looked down again and seemed so dismayed Shelly was about to gainsay herself and tell him. . .
"No, of course you wouldn't," he whispered without the slightest trace of irony in his voice.
He put the book back into the pocket of his coat with great care.
"Thank you, anyway," he said quietly.
And not daring to look at her, he turned around and went out of the shop.
