Disclaimer: Have I mentioned it before?
A.N. Well, here's the last chapter. I hope you all enjoyed the story. Please, let me know if you did. Let me know if you didn't. Let me know if it was indifferent to you. Feedback is greatly appreciated. It will help me to get an overview of the whole thing!
A special thanks to Amanda, who very kindly accepted to read the story, make enlightening and supporting comments, and correct everything up till the very last chapter.
* * * * * * *
Susan looked at Luka with concern as he slowly made his way to the speaker's podium. He had got the frame off his leg a week ago and, though he wasn't the one to admit it, it was clear he was still sore. Jack had started a new PT routine that would allow for Luka's complete recovery, but in the meantime Luka had been advised to use the crutches while his left leg got stronger.
The silence in the room got heavy with expectation as he reached the podium, and Susan winced inwardly. She could almost sense Luka's embarrassment soar as he became the centre of attention of the whole auditorium. Good heavens, these kids could stare! There was nothing as piercing as the morbid curiosity of college students. Well, maybe the curiosity of younger kids was more intense, but then children were children, weren't they? These were young adults and were supposed to have learnt some kind of manners by now. . .
For the hundredth time she wondered why on earth had Luka acquiesced to give this speech. What was in Professor Perkins, what kind of sympathy had he arisen in Luka that he had managed, not only to spend several afternoons with the shy doctor talking about books, but had also succeeded in hauling him out of his apartment to, of all things, give a public speech? Were the old man's powers of conviction so huge? What had he told Luka that he had persuaded him to talk about illness in literature to his students when Luka wouldn't even join the book club? When Luka had invited her to his speech she hadn't believed him. It had taken him over an hour and a threat to call Professor Perkins to convince her that he would deliver a speech on how illness was described in his favourite novels to a bunch of college students.
He'd said he would speak in front of about thirty people, but when they had made it to the auditorium they had found out that it was packed. There were even people sitting on the stairs.
Professor Perkins had met them at the entrance and made his excuses, which were even more energetic when he noticed Luka's discomfort. Professor Perkins had said that word had spread around the college and that he hadn't been able to turn the extra people down. At the panicked look that Luka had cast over the concurrence, Susan had thought he'd turn around and walk away as fast as he could, but after a brief silence and swallowing hard, Luka had assured a very embarrassed professor that it was O.K., that it would be interesting to have such a large audience. He had even managed to smile to the elder man. Susan hadn't been able to believe her own eyes. She had, for the hundredth time, wondered at the kind of empathy that had sprung between the two men while they made their way into the auditorium and to the first row, where Professor Perkins had reserved a couple of seats for them. Susan and Luka had sat down and listened to the brief presentation Professor Perkins made of Luka. Then Luka had stood up, cast a look that betrayed all his panic at Susan, gripped his crutches and made it to the podium.
He had taken a few cards out of his pocket and, after clearing his throat, had started speaking with a faltering voice, stating that he was neither an expert in literature nor a writer, so that he would talk about the things he knew best: illnesses and injuries, the way they had been depicted in some of his favourite novels and the way they were treated in the present. After a couple of coughs he had started talking about the scene in which Prince Andre (or at least that was the name Susan thought she heard) was injured in "War and Peace". Slowly, his voice gained reassurance as he vividly described the scene for them, and then he went on talking about how field hospitals were laid during the Napoleonic wars. Susan found herself turning from deep concern for Luka to a vivid interest for what he was saying, so she really didn't notice how gradually his manner eased, how his voice became more and more firm, and how he started to use his hands to support the emotion that he was trying to convey to his audience. After about fifteen minutes of speaking, Luka came to an abrupt halt. A heavy silence spread across the room and Susan felt a slight void inside her as he cleared his throat again and looked shyly at the concurrence. What had happened? He had been doing so good this far. . .
"I'm sorry," Luka said, starting to blush. "I'm afraid I. . ." He stopped and glanced at the huge table by the podium. There was a glass and a pitcher with water on it, and it seemed to give him an idea. "I need a drink of water."
He put the cards in his pocket, grabbed the crutches and crossed the space towards the table, but instead of taking the pitcher and pouring a glass of water he went round the table and carefully sat on its edge. He left the crutches by his side and leant a bit backwards to reach the pitcher and the glass. After filling the glass, he drank half of the water and then set it on the table.
"Now, where was I?" He asked as if to himself while he drew his hand into his pocket and retrieved his notes again. He glanced at them. "Ah, yes. . . Tolstoy describes. . ."
Susan couldn't help but marvelling at the slyness with which he had driven the attention of the public from his need to sit down to a more innocuous matter as having a drink of water. His ease at restarting his speech had also startled her. Luka certainly had more inner resources than he normally let other people see. Talking to a large crowd seemed to be one of them. Or, maybe, this one hadn't been so hidden, thought Susan when she remembered the determination with which Luka had faced most of County's medical staff when he had talked about his leukaemia patient in the Morbidity and Mortality session. Well, at that time Luka's courageous outburst of sincerity had seemed more a reckless and desperate move than anything else, but hell, he hadn't hesitated to face the judgement of the people he worked with.
Susan chided herself when she noticed her mind had wandered off, and she tried to concentrate again on Luka's talk. Now he had stopped talking about injuries and had moved on to illnesses. What was he talking about now? TB? It had to be. . . he was talking about "The Magic Mountain". Susan hadn't read the book, of course. She hadn't even seen the movie, but she had a rough idea of what the novel was about. She wondered whether Luka would talk about "Doctor Zhivago". She had never really understood what Zhivago had died of at the end of the movie. . .
The audience clapped long after Luka finished, and Susan joined them enthusiastically. She noticed the slight blush that tinted Luka's cheeks and his faltering smile as he awkwardly bowed his head and held his palms up in a vain attempt to stop the clapping. Professor Perkins stood by him and, when the applause receded, thanked him for his speech. He asked the public whether they had any questions, and several hands rose.
Luka pointed to the first to the right, and Susan shook her head, making a mental note to tease him later for having picked the prettiest girl in the room. He answered the girl's question (one about TB in late nineteenth century European literature) gracefully, saying that he, of course, was not an expert on the subject, but listing the few novels he could think of that treated the subject.
The next question was posed by a middle aged woman, obviously a college teacher, and it caught Susan off guard.
"Dr. Kovac, I would like to thank you for your very enlightening speech. . ." She began.
Luka ducked his head in another slight bow, silently thanking her for her compliment. However, what at first had seemed to be a praise, soon turned into its opposite.
"Your pick on literature was very enlightening, indeed. I would like to note that among the authors you chose there wasn't a single woman, or a member of any minority. Why do you think that might be?"
"Uh. . ." Luka faltered, and took a hand to the back of his head. "I don't know."
He smiled.
"Must be coincidental," he continued. "I just picked up the books I liked the most. I'm not an expert, just someone who likes reading."
"And, since your pick excluded women and other identities. . . Wouldn't you say that your vision on literature is a little biased?"
The cool manner in which the woman uttered the words made Susan want to strangle her. Luka's forehead creased.
"Biased?" he repeated, confused.
"Like. . . In mirroring a definite set of social principles?" Despite the intonation, she was not posing a question but making a statement.
Luka's expression changed from bafflement to slight irritation.
"And what would that set of principles be?" he asked.
"Well, those sustained by our Western, white, male and heterosexually dominated society. Novels written by women and members of minorities challenge those values and therefore illness is depicted somewhat differently in them."
Luka stared at the woman for a little while, and Professor Perkins cleared his throat, evidently wanting to intercede in the discussion.
"Professor Davidson, thank you for your intervention, but I think that debate is not relevant for the present talk. Dr. Kovac is presenting a personal view upon. . ."
"And why would it be irrelevant?" The woman interrupted him. "Dr. Kovac is not an academic, and thus presents his points of view as if they were not prejudiced, but in the truth his personal view is based upon a set of dominant values that should be challenged."
"Excuse me," Luka interrupted raising one hand, his forehead knit together. "You mean that I sustain values that go against minorities and women?"
"I wouldn't put it that way," said Professor Davidson. "I just said. . ."
"But you implied it," Luka retorted, an undertone of irritation straining his voice. "And I honestly don't know which grounds you might have to sustain that, when you don't know me. I might be a man and white, but I also belong to a minority. One that was almost wiped out during the Serbo- Croatian war, for that matter."
Luka's eyes were now burning with a deep menace. Susan could almost touch the tension in the room, so deep was the silence that spread across it, and the intensity in Luka's eyes. Then Luka closed them and wiped his forehead with a hand. He sighed, lifted his sight and smiled wearily.
"Any more questions?" he asked, glancing around the room.
A young man raised his hand, and Luka gestured towards him. Susan hoped the question wouldn't be about Luka's origin or his experiences during the war. His sudden outburst had been successful in cutting short the distressing argument and bringing this annoying woman's bragging down, but it surely had drawn the attention of the audience to a subject Luka was not eager to discuss. Luckily, the young man's question had something to do with treatment of injuries during the nineteenth century, and after that nobody made any more questions. The atmosphere in the room was still tense, though Professor Perkins's renewed thanks to his guest and a brief applause did a lot to ease it down.
Susan regretted that Luka's talk had ended with that note. It was the first time she knew he had agreed upon talking about something that interested him on a personal level to a group of people he didn't know, the first time he had made the effort to share a bit of himself that went beyond his professional skills, and it had turned out this way. With a sigh, Susan stood up and carried Luka's coat to him, and just got in time to hear Professor Perkins apologising again for his colleague's rash behaviour and Luka insisting that he shouldn't worry about it. Susan noted that, despite his efforts to be affable, Luka's smile didn't reach his eyes. There was something troubled in them. They slowly made their way out of the auditorium, and Luka and Susan said goodbye to Professor Perkins at the entrance.
They had crossed the hallway and had almost got out of the building when a voice called from behind them.
"Dr. Kovac!"
They turned around to face Professor Davidson. Susan restrained the impulse to roll her eyes. Geez. Didn't this woman know when to keep at bay? She was advancing towards them, a hand extended, an air of irritating confidence about her.
"Let me introduce myself. I'm Professor Sarah Davidson. I hope the little discussion we had back there didn't annoy you too much. Academic life, you know, is full of debate."
Susan couldn't believe it. This woman wasn't even apologising about her rudeness. . . Luka shook the woman's hand and then coolly introduced Susan.
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Lewis." After shaking Susan's hand briefly, Professor Davidson's attention turned towards Luka again. She was all business. "You're from former Yugoslavia, Dr. Kovac?"
Luka nodded, a guarded look in his eyes.
"I'm currently teaching a seminar on Civilisation and Barbarism, and we're commenting on civil wars. I was wondering whether you'd like to come to one of our sessions."
"What for?" Luka asked, curtly.
Susan couldn't blame him for his animosity. How could this woman have the guts to ask him to talk in her seminar when she had tried to harass him in front of a large audience?
"To share your experiences during the Serbo-Croatian war," she replied, as bluntly.
"There's nothing to tell."
"Sure there is. And a course seminar is the place to consider and rationalize."
Susan felt her own cheeks burn. She couldn't believe this woman was daring to be patronising. She glanced over at Luka. Now his expression was hard.
"I'm not interested."
Professor Davidson was not taken aback by Luka's harshness. She took a card out of her wallet and gave it to Luka.
"Well, here's my card, in case you change your mind. You might probably want to join the seminary before talking yourself. . ."
Susan marvelled again at her lack of tact and hard skin. It was as if she believed she had the right to prod into Luka's past, as if she thought of herself as holding the key to some kind of ultimate truth which Luka was unable to find for himself.
Luka, always the gentleman, took the card and nodded, shook the woman's hand and briefly said good bye, but as soon as they were out of the building, Susan saw, out of the corner of her eye, how he drew his hand into his pocket, took the card out, squeezed it and discarded it. His face was closed now; brows closely knit together, eyes darkened by something she couldn't spell out. She noticed he had grown paler, and he swallowed hard as if he was feeling sick.
"What a cheek."
"Huh?"
"This professor. What was her name?"
Luka shrugged. Susan noticed that her words were of some help.
"I don't know. Davis?"
"Whatever. What a bitch."
Luka sighed.
"I hadn't expected to come across this in a university. . ." He commented, wearily.
Susan stopped.
"Had you had this kind of conversation before?"
Luka stared at her, seemingly surprised by Susan's astonishment.
"Why, of course. . ."
"With whom?"
"Journalists, mainly. Psychiatrists. . ." He trailed off.
He was too tactful to name prying acquaintances eager to know all the awful details of what he had gone through, Susan thought. She felt embarrassed. She had, herself, also wondered at what he had experienced during the war, wanting to understand what had made him the man he now was. However, she had felt that her honest interest on him was sometimes difficult to disentangle from a morbid curiosity and had therefore never dared to ask, wondering, instead, if her silence was being read as a lack of concern, on her part, to an important part of his past. Whichever option she chose, it seemed, it would always be the wrong one. She smiled awkwardly. But her embarrassment was overrun by her indignation at imagining how many times had Luka been subjected to this kind of harassment.
"Seems that vultures fly all over the place," she commented.
Luka looked over at her, an eyebrow raised, a quizzical expression on his face.
"Geez, Susan, what kind of words are those?"
"Which words?"
"Bitch. . . vultures. . ."
Now he was smiling. Part of the tension had eased from his eyes. She smiled back.
"Oh, come on. Have you turned into some kind of saint now? I've heard much worse from you."
"No, you haven't."
"Of course I have!" Susan protested as punched him lightly in the arm and quickly moved away, to avoid him punching back.
"Ouch! Take care! I'm a poor invalid, you know. . ." Luka whimpered.
"Invalid, my grandma," Susan replied, and she heard his quiet chuckle as she rummaged in her purse in search for her car keys.
What she didn't calculate was how fast had Luka become on his crutches, so she wasn't able to avoid the clean swat on her head a second later.
* * * * * * *
Luka went ahead of Carter and Susan and pushed the door open. He nodded towards them to urge them to enter the small local. Carter, always gentlemanly, pushed Susan gently by the elbow and elicited a mischievous smile from her.
"Are you two on some kind of competence?"
They both smiled, and Carter made the attempt to step back to let Luka in first, but Luka pushed his back with the hand that was holding the cane while he supported himself on the door handle. HE was the host tonight and he'd make sure his guests got the best attention.
They were here to celebrate he had finally gotten off the crutches. The day before, Carter and Susan had officially presented Luka with a very beautiful wooden cane to replace the aluminium and plastic one he'd got from the hospital two days before.
Luka had accepted it with a shy smile and with a high measure of embarrassment. He liked the cane much better than the other one: he liked the elegant line and the polished dark wood. It was also the perfect measure for him to lay part of his weight on it without straining too much. It must have been custom made. Carter and Susan had put a whole lot of effort in picking it up, as he had found out of their bantering about how much fun they had had in the shop.
Luka was honoured, so he had decided to give into Susan's suggestion they finally had some Croatian food and he had invited them to the best Croatian restaurant he knew in town. Sure, the appearance of the small local didn't give out how good was the food they served and he hadn't been there for years, but Tata had all but sung the praise and glory of the place when he'd taken Gillian there for dinner.
Gillian. Luka felt a sharp pain, as the sting of a needle, at the thought of her. He had called her mother's on Christmas day, after having spent the whole morning trying to convince himself that it was just normal for an old acquaintance to try to locate her at her mother's during the holiday season to wish her a merry Christmas. Besides, he'd told himself, she would definitely be there, wouldn't she?
The warmth he still felt inside him after his long talk with Tata on Christmas Eve and the Christmas breakfast with Susan had been the reason why he had been completely caught off guard by the icy tone of the woman who had answered him. She had hurried to make him clear that she hadn't heard from her daughter in some time and didn't expect to hear from her in the near future. Luka hadn't even dared to ask whether she would tell her he had called. He had hung up the phone feeling numb, all the previous warmth inside of him dissipated. He berated himself. He had definitely let himself get carried away with the season's spirit. How could he have ever imagined she would care for him after the way he had treated her? How could he have doubted that her giving her mother's phone number had been but a discreet way of definitely parting from him? Well, he repeated to himself for the hundredth time while shaking his head and coming into the restaurant, he now had finally found out where he stood on relation to Gillian. She had obviously not been interested in hearing from him again in her life and he could just stop playing the fool and move on.
He shrugged off his coat while he tried to ignore the blank disappointment hidden behind his thoughts, and signaled to the waiter. The man came over to them and Luka asked him about his reservation. As soon as he heard Luka's last name, he switched to Croatian. He only asked the customary questions: where did Luka came from in Croatia, how long had he been living in the States, did he like it? But the dialogue extended over the time where he showed them to their table and gave them their menus, and though the man was kind enough to both Carter and Susan, Luka was chagrined. He considered as a lack of politeness to leave people out in the dark by speaking a language they didn't master. He'd been too many times in the same situation so he knew exactly how uncomfortable it was to try to keep a smile on your face while people around you chatted away. He smiled sheepishly to Carter and Susan when the guy finally left.
"Sorry about that," he said.
"Never mind," was Susan's answer. "It must be nice to get to speak your mother tongue from time to time."
She had followed attentively the brief interchange between Luka and the waiter and had marveled again at how easy it was for Luka to express himself in his own language. Whenever he spoke English there was a strain in his voice, as if he always had to think twice to come across the right words. Whenever he switched back to his mother tongue, Luka's voice seemed to gain an emotional tint that lacked when he spoke English. She distinctly remembered the time they had learnt about Mark's death, when they had gathered in the Hawaiian bar. Luka had toasted to Mark in Croatian. Back then, there had been a kind of warmth in the unknown words that had somehow soothed Susan, though she had never found out what they meant.
"Is there anything you'd recommend?" asked Carter, studying the menu with a frown, and Luka smiled.
Though Carter was a cosmopolitan through and through, Croatian food was all too specialized for him.
"Well, let me see... Would you prefer beef of fish?"
"Beef!" Susan and Carter chorused at the same time, and Luka couldn't avoid chuckling.
"Well then, there's. . ." Luka proceeded to explain the menu to them. After he was done with the main courses he attacked the part of the appetizers, and when he finally lifted his gaze he found Carter and Susan staring blankly at their menus.
"Oh, come on," he protested. "It's not that complicated."
They both looked back at him, then at each other. Susan shrugged and sighed, and put her menu down.
"I'll just let you choose for me, Luka," she said.
"Same here," Carter agreed.
Luka lifted his eyebrows, mocking disbelief.
"Really?"
"Yeah, but you'll have to cover for us if you get us intoxicated," Susan warned.
"Are you ready to order?" asked the waiter.
A moment later Luka was done with ordering a banquet and was refusing valiantly Susan's and Carter's menaces to make him confess what would they eat. Luckily, the waiter was rapidly back with a bottle of wine and three glasses and that served as a distraction.
"So. . ." Susan started. "Did Abby get stuck in the OR again?"
Carter grimaced in disgust. Abby's OR rotation was falling tough on her. This guy Edson was worse than Romano, it seemed. Not only was he happy harassing and humiliating medical students, especially if they were women, but he had also an oversized good opinion of himself. And he didn't even have Romano's excuse: he wasn't the stunningly superb surgeon the little tyrant had been.
"She had to monitor one of her earlier patients. She'll be up all night," Carter answered.
"Ah, nothing like being a med student to wreck your schedule. . ." Susan commented.
"Or an ER doctor. . ." Luka intervened.
"Oh, don't complain. You've still got it the easy way out," Susan scolded him.
Luka grinned guiltily at her under half risen eyebrows. Susan was right. He had just begun working full time, and Romano hadn't given him any graveyard shifts yet. Not that Luka minded working during the night, he had never slept much anyway, but during these past weeks the regular schedule had been having a calming effect on him. He had started sleeping four or five hours in a row, instead of his usual two.
"Not for long, though," Carter said. "Romano noticed your last scheme pal."
"What scheme?" Susan asked, and Luka sipped his wine faking innocence while Carter took up the cue and told Susan the story.
"Remember the appendicitis case Edson ruled out yesterday without even looking at the guy?"
Susan nodded.
"Luka asked Romano for a SECOND opinion without telling him Edson had been down to the ER. Romano took the matters in his hands, called Corday, took the guy upstairs, and bumped into Edson, Corday AND Anspaugh in the OR. Hell ensued. Edson got a formal reprimand for not fulfilling his duties as the surgeon on guard."
"Really? That was great, Luka! I always knew we could trust you!"
Luka nodded, pleased to see Susan's wicked grin. The three of them had been quite annoyed at the treatment Abby was getting from Edson and had spent more than a coffee break devising strategies to humiliate him and avenge Abby. They hadn't had many chances up till then.
"But Romano got a formal reprimand as well for judging an OR case."
"Ouch," Susan grimaced. That was, probably, Romano's weakest spot, not being allowed to judge on any OR case anymore, when he had spent most of his medical career as a surgeon.
"So my enhanced powers of premonition tell me that we won't be working any graveyard shifts next week, Susan. Zhivago will take over."
"Ha, ha," Luka said, without much enthusiasm.
He still hadn't been able to make Carter stop calling him Zhivago. Luckily, Carter kept his nickname strictly out of the boundaries of the ER. Luka didn't want to imagine what would Romano's perverse mind do with it if he ever found out.
"Want more wine?" he asked, taking the bottle.
"Yeah," Susan answered, standing up. "I'll take a trip to the ladies room."
Luka poured some wine in Carter's glass while she walked away. They lifted their glasses and toasted silently. Then the door of the restaurant opened and Carter looked up. Two other customers, a couple in their mid thirties, were coming in. They greeted the waiter loudly in Croatian while they unbuttoned their coats. The waiter smiled to them, and then opened the door to the kitchen and called inside. A couple of minutes later, an elderly woman came out of the kitchen wiping her hands in her apron, went round the counter and hugged the couple. She took their coats and waved them to a nearby table, talking animatedly. Carter looked back at Luka and was stunned. Luka was staring fixedly at the tablecloth, gripping his glass with one hand. His knuckles where white and his face was almost contorted in pain.
"Luka. . ." Carter called out to him.
He got no answer. He reached over the table and leaned a hand over Luka's forearm.
"Hey, Luka."
After a second, Luka looked at him. He seemed to make an effort to focus.
"Huh?"
"Is there something wrong?"
Luka shook his head. He swallowed and managed a weak smile.
"No. . . It's just. . ." He seemed unable to continue. He closed his eyes and ducked his head, as if he was trying to avoid the rest of the people in the restaurant looking at him.
"Something about that couple?"
Luka wet his lips, but he couldn't speak. He nodded weakly.
"Something about the war?"
Luka nodded again, grabbing the chance Carter had unwittingly opened to divert the conversation from the real source of his shock. Carter was silent. It was his way of showing concern and sympathy for whatever Luka had gone through during the war, and Luka was thankful for the brief respite. He didn't trust himself to articulate anything coherent just then, much less to answer any questions. Oh, God. Had he heard right? Weren't his senses deceiving him? No, he had definitely heard the whole conversation between the owner of the restaurant and these two new customers. Part of it was still replaying in his head:
"And tell me, Marija, how's your Canadian been?" the man asked.
"She's not MY Canadian, Matej."
"Yeah, well, sure. You've done everything but adopted her already. Has she learnt a lot of Croatian lately?"
"Of course she has. She's a bright girl."
"No chance of bumping into her tonight?"
"Ah, that's something you'd love, wouldn't you?" asked the man's wife poking him with her elbow.
"Unfortunately not, Matej. She's working nightshifts this week."
Luka felt as if he was falling into emptiness. His stomach turned over, and he was suddenly icy cold. A sticky sweat covered his forehead and the palms of his hands. A Canadian? A Canadian that spoke Croatian and worked nightshifts in Chicago? Was he going insane? Oh God. This was nothing he'd experienced before; no nightmares, no reliving of past experiences, but had all the uncanny quality of a bout of Post Traumatic Stress. He suddenly realised he had stopped breathing, and as if from far away, he heard Susan's concerned voice.
"Luka? Would you like us to leave?"
He lifted his gaze, and met Carter's and Susan's concerned faces. Their eyes were wide. How long had he been in shock? He hadn't noticed Susan coming back from the ladies room. He was freaking them out. He had to get a grip on himself, and soon. He took a deep breath, and swallowed back the lump in his throat. He shook his head.
"No, no. . ." He protested, weakly. "I think. . . I'll go wash my hands."
He stood up and stumbled blindly to the restroom. He would gain a couple of minutes there, hopefully enough to get back his composure. He washed his face in cold water, and gripped the sink hard, as he attempted to breathe regularly, finding a weak reassurance in the smooth, solid surface. Then he wiped his face and looked at his own reflection in the mirror. The man that stared back had a sickly tint on his face. No wonder Susan and Carter were alarmed. Come on, Kovac. Get yourself together, he chided himself. With a not so sure hand, he took the handle of the door and went back into the restaurant.
When he got back to the table, the starters were already there. He welcomed the food as a source of distraction. After explaining to Carter and Susan what they had on their plates, he attacked his own with a faked appetite. A couple of mouthfuls and a couple of sips of wine later, he was actually feeling better, and he even succeeded in starting a new line of conversation, one about a Sushi restaurant Carter had recently discovered. He casually remarked they should take Susan there, knowing fully well she hated raw fish. She grimaced and pouted, and Luka smiled, having attained the intended effect. He sighed inwardly. Good. That would convince them he was doing fine. They would get on with their celebration. He would deal with his private demons later âand alone.
However, his hopes of avoiding an explanation about his distress were let down at the end of the meal. When they were having coffee and sharing an extremely sweet dessert, Susan suddenly attacked the matter.
"What happened before with this couple, Luka? What were they talking about?"
Luka stared at her, trying not to let his dessert spoon fall. She had never been so straightforward about anything connected to his past. He then let his gaze fall on the table and slowly, deliberately, spooned a bite of dessert, desperately seeking for a suitable answer. He didn't find one, so he stuck the spoon in his mouth. He chewed slowly, still with his sight fixed on the dish in front of him. Finally, he gulped.
"Look, Susan. . . I don't want to talk about it. . ."
He looked up, met their stares, and stopped short. What he saw in Carter's and Susan's eyes shocked him still. There wasn't any pity, any morbid fascination. What he saw was care, and a kind of concern he had only seen in Tata's eyes before. They really wanted to understand.
"It's all right. . ." Susan whispered, immediately ashamed of her question, and Luka felt how the ice barrier which he had often felt separated him from everybody in America, and which had momentarily melted under Carter's and Susan's gazes, started to build up again. Did he really want to keep them at an arm's length? Suddenly, he made his decision.
"No. . . It's all right," he protested. "I mean, thanks for asking. . ."
The barrier was getting thicker, and Luka struggled against his lack of ability to express himself.
"I mean. . . uh. . ." He stopped short again, not knowing what to say that wouldn't sound like polite pleasantries.
"It didn't have anything to do with the war," he suddenly confessed.
Then he blushed. Carter and Susan were now gaping at him.
"But uh. . . I'd rather not talk about it right now. I'll. . . I'll tell you later, O.K.? When I've figured it out."
Now his cheeks were burning. He asked himself if he sounded as a madman. He stared at the crumbs on the tablecloth once again and waited, not daring to look up. He heard Susan chuckle uncomfortably.
"Guess I screwed it up royally. . . Neither of you guys is going to say anything and save a damsel in distress?"
Luka cast an oblique glance at them, at a lack for words. Carter cleared his throat.
"How about a game of darts? 'The bull and the dragon' is not far away. . . I have to set my scores with you, Luka."
Luka smiled, relieved. A week before Chuck and him had beaten Carter and Susan in a game of darts.
"I knew you'd come up with something!" Susan exclaimed, patting Carter's forearm.
"I'll get the check," Luka said, as he rose from the table, a smile on his face.
* * * * * * *
Luka sipped at the last remains of his cold coffee and cast another look at the door of the restaurant. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He had sat there for over four hours and had had five cups of coffee. He rubbed his eyes with a hand, closed the book he had been pretending he was reading and stood up. After having paid the check, he went out of the coffee shop and, casting one last look at the door of the little restaurant, he started to make his way to the EL. His shift started in half an hour.
He had been going to that same coffee shop for three days now. He arrived at five or five thirty, sat on the same spot, facing the door of the restaurant across the street, asked for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie and took a book out of his pocket. Usually the pie remained almost untouched on the table; the book stayed open in the same page for hours. His eyes kept on wandering at the door of the restaurant, his mind meandering back to the damned bit of conversation he had overhead over a week ago. He knew this was stupid, stalking the restaurant to see if she showed up, but he didn't know what else to do.
He had tried to dismiss the mad idea that the person these people were referring to was Gillian. If she had decided to stay in Chicago she would have told him. She would at least have told Carter, wouldn't she? Besides, she had no grounds whatsoever for wanting to move. She had a job and a life in Montreal, didn't she? One didn't just change country as one changed clothes; Luka knew that only too well. One had to have powerful reasons for emigrating. And what would Gillian's be? She had no acquaintances in Chicago besides Carter and him. Nursing jobs were not better paid in the States than in Canada. She wasn't running from anything. Or was she? What could she be running from? And why was she running just now? And why would she choose Chicago to run to, of all places?
After a couple of days driving himself crazy with all those questions, he had decided to forget the whole business and get back to his own life. He worked hard at County, worked hard on his PT, started going out in long walks. He went out to the movies every time he had the chance, went out with Carter and Abby and Susan, invited Professor Perkins over for coffee, bought a couple of new novels. He tried to go to bed physically and mentally exhausted, but no matter what he did, he couldn't concentrate and couldn't sleep. His books remained unread on the nightstand; he often couldn't follow the thread of the movies he saw, and his mind often wandered off during his conversations. Luckily, he still managed to focus on his job, mostly out of sheer terror or making mistakes, but his lack of concentration had reached such a high peak that everybody around him had noticed. He had got wary and tactful questions from Carter, brusque and straightforward ones from Susan, discreet hints from Abby. He had got concerned stares from Professor Perkins. Hell, even Romano had once asked him how he was doing. That had been the day he decided to forget about forgetting and try to make out who these people in the restaurant had been talking about.
He had thus started watching the restaurant, in hope that she might appear some day. Soon he had admitted to himself that his way of finding out if the person these people alluded to was Gillian was utterly foolish. He felt terribly self-conscious in the coffee shop. The waitresses watched him with a wary eye. Time passed by with the speed of grass growing. But he honestly didn't know what else to do. He had thought of crossing the street and asking the old lady about her conversation last week, but had soon admitted to himself it was an absurd request. And he really could do without any more awkward conversations like the ones he had had on the phone, when trying to locate Gillian. So he had decided to stay and do his daily vigils. Every five minutes he prayed the owner wouldn't come out, cross the street and threaten to beat the crap out of him if he continued keeping the door of his restaurant under surveillance.
Luka got into the EL, sat down and took a deep breath. He had a long shift in front of him and he was exhausted. He hadn't been this tired before going to work since the days he had relied on vodka and one night stands to try to fill up the empty stretch of days and nights, before travelling to the Congo.
In the past few weeks, thanks to his readings but, most of all, thanks to the budding friendship he'd started with Carter and Susan, he had thought he had come over the worthlessness of his life, but now it was as if he'd plunged back into the void. He felt as if he was back in square one, too tired and too disheartened to continue with the game.
He wondered whether he should try something else. Talk to somebody. Talk to Carter, maybe talk to Susan. But, what would he tell them? That he obsessed about a weird conversation he'd just happened to overhear a week ago and that it had thrown him back into depression? That he couldn't get rid of those words and, at the same time, he was too scared to find out whether it related to a woman he barely had come to know? That was absurd.
He buried his face in his hands for a moment. When he lifted his head again, the train was coming to his stop. He stood up, leaning on his cane and grabbing the railing above his head for support and stood in front of the door. Whatever he did with himself, he'd have to push the thoughts away for the moment. He had work to do, he reminded himself as he descended the steps to the street.
* * * * * * *
"Here he comes, Evelyn," Maggie said, coming to the counter.
Evelyn looked up and through the wide windows of the local. The tall dark haired guy from the previous evenings was coming down the street heading for the door of their coffee shop. She glared at him openly, and she thought she could see him blush slightly as he cast an oblique glance at her. Nevertheless, he came in, paused for an instant and hobbled his way towards the table he'd made his usual spot during the past few days. Evelyn looked back at Maggie, an unspoken question in her eyes.
"It's your turn," Maggie said, handing her the coffee pot.
Evelyn took the pot and turned around to get a mug from the shelf, grimacing in disgust. They didn't like this guy, not a single bit. He'd been coming every evening for the last week and just sat there, ogling at the door of the restaurant across the street.
Despite his nice looks and elegant clothing (his hair was neatly cut and he was always clean shaven; he always wore a suit and a tie, his shoes were immaculately shiny) there was something suspicious about him, about the way he pretended to be reading but instead cast sideways glances at the street, about his hesitant gestures, pale skin and dark shadows under his eyes. It was as if he was trying to hide something. And his strong accent didn't help dispel the shady impression he made.
Maggie and Evelyn had considered asking him to leave, but they were a bit afraid to do so. What if he went into a fit of rage? He was much taller than them and seemed a bit dangerous. And they couldn't just call the police. However suspicious his attitude was, he kept to himself and didn't bother any of the other customers. They had also considered alerting the owner of the restaurant across the street, but they thought it was, after all, none of their business. What if this foreign guy was part of some kind of mafia and wanted to settle some account with the foreigners on the other side of the street? What if he found out they had alerted the owner and decided to get some kind of retaliation? They didn't want to get into trouble, there was no need for that. So they had just tried to make it clear for him they didn't like him and would rather not have him in their shop. They hadn't had any success, however. Although he seemed to get uncomfortable enough under their stares, he had kept coming every day and stayed on his self designated spot for long hours, drinking endless cups of coffee.
Evelyn took the mug to the man's table and put it on the hard surface, with a little bit more force than necessary. The man jumped at the loud thud and looked at her, startled.
"Coffee, as usual?" Evelyn asked.
"Yes, thank you," he whispered.
"All right," she replied, as she served him. "Anything to go with it?"
"A slice of apple pie, please."
"We don't have apple pie."
He sighed.
"Okay. . . a slice of pecan pie, then."
She shook her head ruthlessly, but with a bit of wariness. Would he get angry? Or would he take the hint and leave instead? He did neither. Patiently, he drew his breath and with impeccable manners, he asked:
"Do you have any pie?"
"I think there's some cheesecake left."
"All right, I'll have cheesecake."
She nodded and left, annoyed that he hadn't taken the hint. This guy had, apparently, a very thick skin and wouldn't be budged by subtle allusions.
A moment later, she came back and let the dish with the piece of cheesecake drop hard on the table. She noticed how he winced at the noise, but he didn't take his eyes from the book in front of him. She turned around airily and went to the counter.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye from time to time while she served the other customers. As usual, he spend most of his time looking at the front of the restaurant, only catching casual glances to the page in front of him. He didn't seem to notice it took her long to refill his cup, longer than it took her to serve the other clients.
She was refilling his cup for the fourth time when she suddenly noticed him tense. She looked at him. His face had grown paler, if possible, and he was staring fixedly at the other side of the street. She followed his gaze, but could only see the door of the restaurant slowly closing. Somebody must have entered the local. She heard him clear his throat. She looked at the pot. The coffee was about to spill over. With a quick movement, she righted the pot and, not even condescending to have another look at him, went back to the counter. Once there, however, she glanced back.
"Did you see that?" she asked Maggie.
"See what?"
"Him," answered Evelyn with a nod.
Maggie looked at him. The man was still glaring across the street, white as a sheet. He wasn't even trying to conceal his interest on the restaurant anymore.
"What did he see?"
Evelyn shrugged.
"I don't know. . . Should we call 911?"
"And what would we tell them? That we have this foreign guy staring across the street?"
"Well, no. . . but. . ."
"Let's just wait and see, Eve. . . Wait and see. . ." Maggie repeated, trying to sound confident.
About an hour later, their wait became fruitful. The guy suddenly stood up, put some bills on the table, put his coat on and gathered his book as fast as he could. He hurried out of the coffee shop without a word. Maggie and Evelyn looked across the street and saw a petite woman heading down the street. In a brief moment, the man had crossed the street and reached her, which was amazing taking into account how pronounced his limp was. He called out to her, and she turned around. A look of dread crossed her face and her eyes widened.
"That's it," said Maggie taking the phone. "I'm calling the police."
Luka's heart had missed a beat when he saw her going into the restaurant. Oh God. It was her. It WAS her. He couldn't possibly be so delusional. . .
What now? What was he going to do? He swallowed hard, trying to think. Focus, Kovac. Should he follow her? No, he decided a minute later. She was obviously a friend of the owners. Whatever happened between them, Luka didn't want to have any witnesses of their first conversation. He was accurately aware of his clumsiness with words to have to worry about other people overhearing them.
He thought briefly of writing her a note and have somebody deliver it to her across the street, before laughing at himself for having that thought. Who would deliver it? Certainly not one of the two waitresses, who obviously didn't think very well of him. And what would he write? Hello, I was just having coffee across the street when I happened to see you coming in? Ridiculous. No, he'd rather wait until she came out, then he could walk with her to the EL. But what was he going to tell her? Jesus. He sighed. All right, one step at a time. First, gather courage enough to go to her. Then figure out what to say. She would have supper in the restaurant, anyway. He would have plenty of time to think about something.
An hour later, he was wondering whether she would make it out of the restaurant before he had to head back to County for his shift, when he saw her appear at the door. Impulsively, he stood up and headed out. He crossed the street without looking either way, damning his limp and wishing he could walk faster. Desperate, afraid she would disappear around the corner, he called out her name and, as if in slow motion, he saw her jump and turn around to face him. A minute later, he was standing beside her, so close their bodies almost touched. Luka stared, hardly daring to believe that she was in front of him. He looked at her, desperately trying not to blink, fearing she would disappear the second he closed his eyes.
"Uh. . ." he stammered. "Hi, Gillian. . ." He sounded like a complete idiot. Hadn't an hour been time enough to rehearse? He berated himself.
"Jesus Luka! You scared me!" Gillian exclaimed, and then she smiled, and covered her mouth with her hand.
She blushed, and Luka couldn't help but noticing how beautiful she was. He stared at her openly, but as soon as he noticed how her cheeks gradually turned a deep shade of red, he lowered his gaze.
"I. . . uh. . ." He had completely forgotten the careful speech he had prepared in the coffee shop and was facing a big blank in his mind. Concentrate, Kovac, concentrate. Tell her.
"I'm very. . . very happy to see you again," he said in one go, staring at his feet.
He then gathered enough courage to cast a sideways glance at her face. She seemed shocked. Oh God. He was screwing it up.
"Really?" Asked Gillian, and mentally slapped her forehead. How idiotic could she come to sound?
Luka stared straight into her eyes and smiled. His smile was wide, and lit his whole face.
"Yes. I'm happy I found you."
Gillian couldn't stand his direct gaze any longer. She looked down and clasped her hands together.
"Oh, Luka I'm sorry, I. . ."
And then she figured out what he'd just said. Her forehead creased.
"You were looking for me?"
He cleared his throat and looked away.
"Well. . . yeah, sort of. . . I tried calling your apartment." He wiped his eyes with his hand, in a nervous gesture. "I tried calling your mother too."
"Oh God," Gillian took a hand to her mouth. "You called Christmas Day!"
He nodded.
"Oh, Luka. I'm so sorry. She's been pissed off with me because I moved out of Montreal. . . She said somebody had called me, but she was still too angry to tell me who it was. She wasn't rude with you, was she?"
Luka grinned nervously.
"Well, no. . . Not exactly." He looked at her, and looked away once again.
"How are you doing?" Come on, Kovac, he thought. Could you have found a more commonplace sentence?
"I'm fine. . ." She hesitated.
She was feeling more and more embarrassed by the moment. How was she supposed to explain to him that she'd been living in Chicago for several months and had never tried to contact him? How to convince him it wasn't because she wasn't interested in seeing him, talking to him? There was no easy way to explain it.
"Listen, why don't we. . ."
Suddenly, a patrol car stopped by them with a loud screech of tires. A policeman jumped from it.
"Freeze!" he screamed, drawing out his weapon and pointing it at Luka.
Luka's eyes widened in shock. Out of a reflex, he immediately dropped his cane and lifted his hands behind his head. Without asking anything, the policeman grabbed him from the collar of his coat, and jostled him against the patrol.
"Spread your legs! Hands where I can see them!"
The other officer had stepped from the patrol and was also pointing his gun at Luka. Then Gillian reacted.
"What the hell are you doing? Leave him alone!" she screamed.
"What?" asked the officer, and Gillian felt like slapping his face.
"He's my friend! Leave him alone!"
The officer turned around and stared at her.
"We got a call about an assault on this street. Is he molesting you in any way miss?"
"No, of course not!"
Gillian grabbed the officer by the arm and shoved him away in the middle of her rage. She got to Luka, who was standing by the police car, leaning heavily against it and shaking madly. Jesus. She didn't want to think what kind of experiences he must be reliving, being held at gunpoint.
"Luka. . ." she called softly to him. "Luka, are you O.K.?"
Slowly, Luka opened his eyes and looked up. The police officer in front of him had lowered his weapon and was looking warily at him. He noticed Gillian's hand on his forearm and looked at her. He managed a tentative smile and tried to breathe normally. He was terrified.
"Yeah," he muttered.
Gillian's hand gently made him turn around and helped him support himself on the car. The officer who had first pointed at him was holding his cane. Luka took it and stood up on shaky legs.
"I'm really sorry, sir. We got a call and you matched the description."
"It's all right," Luka answered. He wanted to get past this as fast as possible.
"No, it's not all right," Gillian protested. "You should have checked before! You can't just go around pointing at people with your guns!"
"I'm sorry, miss," the officer apologised. "But sometimes if we don't act rapidly. . ."
"That's just no excuse!" Gillian yelled.
There was a small crowd gathering around them, and Luka was suddenly very self-conscious.
"It's okay, Gillian. Let's leave it like that."
"No, Luka, we can't. . ." Suddenly his hand was on top of her forearm, and she noticed he was still trembling.
"Please," he whispered.
She couldn't understand why he wanted to drop the matter. They should file a formal complaint against these two barbarians, so they learnt that they couldn't go around threatening the citizens they should be protecting, but somehow Luka's pleading look made her give up.
"Okay," she said.
"We're really sorry, sir. Miss," said the officer, climbing back into his car.
The little crowd that had gathered around them slowly started to melt away, and Luka attempted a few steps. He had to lean heavily on his cane. Gillian took her arm around his waist and supported him as they walked.
"Geez, what a raid," she commented.
Luka chuckled half-heartedly.
She looked up at his face. He was still deadly pale, but somehow he didn't seem as ill as before. At least, he didn't look as if he was about to faint.
"Listen, Luka, I was about to invite you to a cup of coffee. . . Are you still up to it?"
He looked down at her, and beamed a full blown smile. Gillian's heart was hit by a warm wave. She hadn't seen him smile that way since. . . Since they had danced together in the Congo.
"Willingly," he answered, and slowly, hesitatingly, praying she wouldn't step away, he draped his free arm across her shoulders.
Together, they made their way down the street and disappeared around the corner.
A.N. Well, here's the last chapter. I hope you all enjoyed the story. Please, let me know if you did. Let me know if you didn't. Let me know if it was indifferent to you. Feedback is greatly appreciated. It will help me to get an overview of the whole thing!
A special thanks to Amanda, who very kindly accepted to read the story, make enlightening and supporting comments, and correct everything up till the very last chapter.
* * * * * * *
Susan looked at Luka with concern as he slowly made his way to the speaker's podium. He had got the frame off his leg a week ago and, though he wasn't the one to admit it, it was clear he was still sore. Jack had started a new PT routine that would allow for Luka's complete recovery, but in the meantime Luka had been advised to use the crutches while his left leg got stronger.
The silence in the room got heavy with expectation as he reached the podium, and Susan winced inwardly. She could almost sense Luka's embarrassment soar as he became the centre of attention of the whole auditorium. Good heavens, these kids could stare! There was nothing as piercing as the morbid curiosity of college students. Well, maybe the curiosity of younger kids was more intense, but then children were children, weren't they? These were young adults and were supposed to have learnt some kind of manners by now. . .
For the hundredth time she wondered why on earth had Luka acquiesced to give this speech. What was in Professor Perkins, what kind of sympathy had he arisen in Luka that he had managed, not only to spend several afternoons with the shy doctor talking about books, but had also succeeded in hauling him out of his apartment to, of all things, give a public speech? Were the old man's powers of conviction so huge? What had he told Luka that he had persuaded him to talk about illness in literature to his students when Luka wouldn't even join the book club? When Luka had invited her to his speech she hadn't believed him. It had taken him over an hour and a threat to call Professor Perkins to convince her that he would deliver a speech on how illness was described in his favourite novels to a bunch of college students.
He'd said he would speak in front of about thirty people, but when they had made it to the auditorium they had found out that it was packed. There were even people sitting on the stairs.
Professor Perkins had met them at the entrance and made his excuses, which were even more energetic when he noticed Luka's discomfort. Professor Perkins had said that word had spread around the college and that he hadn't been able to turn the extra people down. At the panicked look that Luka had cast over the concurrence, Susan had thought he'd turn around and walk away as fast as he could, but after a brief silence and swallowing hard, Luka had assured a very embarrassed professor that it was O.K., that it would be interesting to have such a large audience. He had even managed to smile to the elder man. Susan hadn't been able to believe her own eyes. She had, for the hundredth time, wondered at the kind of empathy that had sprung between the two men while they made their way into the auditorium and to the first row, where Professor Perkins had reserved a couple of seats for them. Susan and Luka had sat down and listened to the brief presentation Professor Perkins made of Luka. Then Luka had stood up, cast a look that betrayed all his panic at Susan, gripped his crutches and made it to the podium.
He had taken a few cards out of his pocket and, after clearing his throat, had started speaking with a faltering voice, stating that he was neither an expert in literature nor a writer, so that he would talk about the things he knew best: illnesses and injuries, the way they had been depicted in some of his favourite novels and the way they were treated in the present. After a couple of coughs he had started talking about the scene in which Prince Andre (or at least that was the name Susan thought she heard) was injured in "War and Peace". Slowly, his voice gained reassurance as he vividly described the scene for them, and then he went on talking about how field hospitals were laid during the Napoleonic wars. Susan found herself turning from deep concern for Luka to a vivid interest for what he was saying, so she really didn't notice how gradually his manner eased, how his voice became more and more firm, and how he started to use his hands to support the emotion that he was trying to convey to his audience. After about fifteen minutes of speaking, Luka came to an abrupt halt. A heavy silence spread across the room and Susan felt a slight void inside her as he cleared his throat again and looked shyly at the concurrence. What had happened? He had been doing so good this far. . .
"I'm sorry," Luka said, starting to blush. "I'm afraid I. . ." He stopped and glanced at the huge table by the podium. There was a glass and a pitcher with water on it, and it seemed to give him an idea. "I need a drink of water."
He put the cards in his pocket, grabbed the crutches and crossed the space towards the table, but instead of taking the pitcher and pouring a glass of water he went round the table and carefully sat on its edge. He left the crutches by his side and leant a bit backwards to reach the pitcher and the glass. After filling the glass, he drank half of the water and then set it on the table.
"Now, where was I?" He asked as if to himself while he drew his hand into his pocket and retrieved his notes again. He glanced at them. "Ah, yes. . . Tolstoy describes. . ."
Susan couldn't help but marvelling at the slyness with which he had driven the attention of the public from his need to sit down to a more innocuous matter as having a drink of water. His ease at restarting his speech had also startled her. Luka certainly had more inner resources than he normally let other people see. Talking to a large crowd seemed to be one of them. Or, maybe, this one hadn't been so hidden, thought Susan when she remembered the determination with which Luka had faced most of County's medical staff when he had talked about his leukaemia patient in the Morbidity and Mortality session. Well, at that time Luka's courageous outburst of sincerity had seemed more a reckless and desperate move than anything else, but hell, he hadn't hesitated to face the judgement of the people he worked with.
Susan chided herself when she noticed her mind had wandered off, and she tried to concentrate again on Luka's talk. Now he had stopped talking about injuries and had moved on to illnesses. What was he talking about now? TB? It had to be. . . he was talking about "The Magic Mountain". Susan hadn't read the book, of course. She hadn't even seen the movie, but she had a rough idea of what the novel was about. She wondered whether Luka would talk about "Doctor Zhivago". She had never really understood what Zhivago had died of at the end of the movie. . .
The audience clapped long after Luka finished, and Susan joined them enthusiastically. She noticed the slight blush that tinted Luka's cheeks and his faltering smile as he awkwardly bowed his head and held his palms up in a vain attempt to stop the clapping. Professor Perkins stood by him and, when the applause receded, thanked him for his speech. He asked the public whether they had any questions, and several hands rose.
Luka pointed to the first to the right, and Susan shook her head, making a mental note to tease him later for having picked the prettiest girl in the room. He answered the girl's question (one about TB in late nineteenth century European literature) gracefully, saying that he, of course, was not an expert on the subject, but listing the few novels he could think of that treated the subject.
The next question was posed by a middle aged woman, obviously a college teacher, and it caught Susan off guard.
"Dr. Kovac, I would like to thank you for your very enlightening speech. . ." She began.
Luka ducked his head in another slight bow, silently thanking her for her compliment. However, what at first had seemed to be a praise, soon turned into its opposite.
"Your pick on literature was very enlightening, indeed. I would like to note that among the authors you chose there wasn't a single woman, or a member of any minority. Why do you think that might be?"
"Uh. . ." Luka faltered, and took a hand to the back of his head. "I don't know."
He smiled.
"Must be coincidental," he continued. "I just picked up the books I liked the most. I'm not an expert, just someone who likes reading."
"And, since your pick excluded women and other identities. . . Wouldn't you say that your vision on literature is a little biased?"
The cool manner in which the woman uttered the words made Susan want to strangle her. Luka's forehead creased.
"Biased?" he repeated, confused.
"Like. . . In mirroring a definite set of social principles?" Despite the intonation, she was not posing a question but making a statement.
Luka's expression changed from bafflement to slight irritation.
"And what would that set of principles be?" he asked.
"Well, those sustained by our Western, white, male and heterosexually dominated society. Novels written by women and members of minorities challenge those values and therefore illness is depicted somewhat differently in them."
Luka stared at the woman for a little while, and Professor Perkins cleared his throat, evidently wanting to intercede in the discussion.
"Professor Davidson, thank you for your intervention, but I think that debate is not relevant for the present talk. Dr. Kovac is presenting a personal view upon. . ."
"And why would it be irrelevant?" The woman interrupted him. "Dr. Kovac is not an academic, and thus presents his points of view as if they were not prejudiced, but in the truth his personal view is based upon a set of dominant values that should be challenged."
"Excuse me," Luka interrupted raising one hand, his forehead knit together. "You mean that I sustain values that go against minorities and women?"
"I wouldn't put it that way," said Professor Davidson. "I just said. . ."
"But you implied it," Luka retorted, an undertone of irritation straining his voice. "And I honestly don't know which grounds you might have to sustain that, when you don't know me. I might be a man and white, but I also belong to a minority. One that was almost wiped out during the Serbo- Croatian war, for that matter."
Luka's eyes were now burning with a deep menace. Susan could almost touch the tension in the room, so deep was the silence that spread across it, and the intensity in Luka's eyes. Then Luka closed them and wiped his forehead with a hand. He sighed, lifted his sight and smiled wearily.
"Any more questions?" he asked, glancing around the room.
A young man raised his hand, and Luka gestured towards him. Susan hoped the question wouldn't be about Luka's origin or his experiences during the war. His sudden outburst had been successful in cutting short the distressing argument and bringing this annoying woman's bragging down, but it surely had drawn the attention of the audience to a subject Luka was not eager to discuss. Luckily, the young man's question had something to do with treatment of injuries during the nineteenth century, and after that nobody made any more questions. The atmosphere in the room was still tense, though Professor Perkins's renewed thanks to his guest and a brief applause did a lot to ease it down.
Susan regretted that Luka's talk had ended with that note. It was the first time she knew he had agreed upon talking about something that interested him on a personal level to a group of people he didn't know, the first time he had made the effort to share a bit of himself that went beyond his professional skills, and it had turned out this way. With a sigh, Susan stood up and carried Luka's coat to him, and just got in time to hear Professor Perkins apologising again for his colleague's rash behaviour and Luka insisting that he shouldn't worry about it. Susan noted that, despite his efforts to be affable, Luka's smile didn't reach his eyes. There was something troubled in them. They slowly made their way out of the auditorium, and Luka and Susan said goodbye to Professor Perkins at the entrance.
They had crossed the hallway and had almost got out of the building when a voice called from behind them.
"Dr. Kovac!"
They turned around to face Professor Davidson. Susan restrained the impulse to roll her eyes. Geez. Didn't this woman know when to keep at bay? She was advancing towards them, a hand extended, an air of irritating confidence about her.
"Let me introduce myself. I'm Professor Sarah Davidson. I hope the little discussion we had back there didn't annoy you too much. Academic life, you know, is full of debate."
Susan couldn't believe it. This woman wasn't even apologising about her rudeness. . . Luka shook the woman's hand and then coolly introduced Susan.
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Lewis." After shaking Susan's hand briefly, Professor Davidson's attention turned towards Luka again. She was all business. "You're from former Yugoslavia, Dr. Kovac?"
Luka nodded, a guarded look in his eyes.
"I'm currently teaching a seminar on Civilisation and Barbarism, and we're commenting on civil wars. I was wondering whether you'd like to come to one of our sessions."
"What for?" Luka asked, curtly.
Susan couldn't blame him for his animosity. How could this woman have the guts to ask him to talk in her seminar when she had tried to harass him in front of a large audience?
"To share your experiences during the Serbo-Croatian war," she replied, as bluntly.
"There's nothing to tell."
"Sure there is. And a course seminar is the place to consider and rationalize."
Susan felt her own cheeks burn. She couldn't believe this woman was daring to be patronising. She glanced over at Luka. Now his expression was hard.
"I'm not interested."
Professor Davidson was not taken aback by Luka's harshness. She took a card out of her wallet and gave it to Luka.
"Well, here's my card, in case you change your mind. You might probably want to join the seminary before talking yourself. . ."
Susan marvelled again at her lack of tact and hard skin. It was as if she believed she had the right to prod into Luka's past, as if she thought of herself as holding the key to some kind of ultimate truth which Luka was unable to find for himself.
Luka, always the gentleman, took the card and nodded, shook the woman's hand and briefly said good bye, but as soon as they were out of the building, Susan saw, out of the corner of her eye, how he drew his hand into his pocket, took the card out, squeezed it and discarded it. His face was closed now; brows closely knit together, eyes darkened by something she couldn't spell out. She noticed he had grown paler, and he swallowed hard as if he was feeling sick.
"What a cheek."
"Huh?"
"This professor. What was her name?"
Luka shrugged. Susan noticed that her words were of some help.
"I don't know. Davis?"
"Whatever. What a bitch."
Luka sighed.
"I hadn't expected to come across this in a university. . ." He commented, wearily.
Susan stopped.
"Had you had this kind of conversation before?"
Luka stared at her, seemingly surprised by Susan's astonishment.
"Why, of course. . ."
"With whom?"
"Journalists, mainly. Psychiatrists. . ." He trailed off.
He was too tactful to name prying acquaintances eager to know all the awful details of what he had gone through, Susan thought. She felt embarrassed. She had, herself, also wondered at what he had experienced during the war, wanting to understand what had made him the man he now was. However, she had felt that her honest interest on him was sometimes difficult to disentangle from a morbid curiosity and had therefore never dared to ask, wondering, instead, if her silence was being read as a lack of concern, on her part, to an important part of his past. Whichever option she chose, it seemed, it would always be the wrong one. She smiled awkwardly. But her embarrassment was overrun by her indignation at imagining how many times had Luka been subjected to this kind of harassment.
"Seems that vultures fly all over the place," she commented.
Luka looked over at her, an eyebrow raised, a quizzical expression on his face.
"Geez, Susan, what kind of words are those?"
"Which words?"
"Bitch. . . vultures. . ."
Now he was smiling. Part of the tension had eased from his eyes. She smiled back.
"Oh, come on. Have you turned into some kind of saint now? I've heard much worse from you."
"No, you haven't."
"Of course I have!" Susan protested as punched him lightly in the arm and quickly moved away, to avoid him punching back.
"Ouch! Take care! I'm a poor invalid, you know. . ." Luka whimpered.
"Invalid, my grandma," Susan replied, and she heard his quiet chuckle as she rummaged in her purse in search for her car keys.
What she didn't calculate was how fast had Luka become on his crutches, so she wasn't able to avoid the clean swat on her head a second later.
* * * * * * *
Luka went ahead of Carter and Susan and pushed the door open. He nodded towards them to urge them to enter the small local. Carter, always gentlemanly, pushed Susan gently by the elbow and elicited a mischievous smile from her.
"Are you two on some kind of competence?"
They both smiled, and Carter made the attempt to step back to let Luka in first, but Luka pushed his back with the hand that was holding the cane while he supported himself on the door handle. HE was the host tonight and he'd make sure his guests got the best attention.
They were here to celebrate he had finally gotten off the crutches. The day before, Carter and Susan had officially presented Luka with a very beautiful wooden cane to replace the aluminium and plastic one he'd got from the hospital two days before.
Luka had accepted it with a shy smile and with a high measure of embarrassment. He liked the cane much better than the other one: he liked the elegant line and the polished dark wood. It was also the perfect measure for him to lay part of his weight on it without straining too much. It must have been custom made. Carter and Susan had put a whole lot of effort in picking it up, as he had found out of their bantering about how much fun they had had in the shop.
Luka was honoured, so he had decided to give into Susan's suggestion they finally had some Croatian food and he had invited them to the best Croatian restaurant he knew in town. Sure, the appearance of the small local didn't give out how good was the food they served and he hadn't been there for years, but Tata had all but sung the praise and glory of the place when he'd taken Gillian there for dinner.
Gillian. Luka felt a sharp pain, as the sting of a needle, at the thought of her. He had called her mother's on Christmas day, after having spent the whole morning trying to convince himself that it was just normal for an old acquaintance to try to locate her at her mother's during the holiday season to wish her a merry Christmas. Besides, he'd told himself, she would definitely be there, wouldn't she?
The warmth he still felt inside him after his long talk with Tata on Christmas Eve and the Christmas breakfast with Susan had been the reason why he had been completely caught off guard by the icy tone of the woman who had answered him. She had hurried to make him clear that she hadn't heard from her daughter in some time and didn't expect to hear from her in the near future. Luka hadn't even dared to ask whether she would tell her he had called. He had hung up the phone feeling numb, all the previous warmth inside of him dissipated. He berated himself. He had definitely let himself get carried away with the season's spirit. How could he have ever imagined she would care for him after the way he had treated her? How could he have doubted that her giving her mother's phone number had been but a discreet way of definitely parting from him? Well, he repeated to himself for the hundredth time while shaking his head and coming into the restaurant, he now had finally found out where he stood on relation to Gillian. She had obviously not been interested in hearing from him again in her life and he could just stop playing the fool and move on.
He shrugged off his coat while he tried to ignore the blank disappointment hidden behind his thoughts, and signaled to the waiter. The man came over to them and Luka asked him about his reservation. As soon as he heard Luka's last name, he switched to Croatian. He only asked the customary questions: where did Luka came from in Croatia, how long had he been living in the States, did he like it? But the dialogue extended over the time where he showed them to their table and gave them their menus, and though the man was kind enough to both Carter and Susan, Luka was chagrined. He considered as a lack of politeness to leave people out in the dark by speaking a language they didn't master. He'd been too many times in the same situation so he knew exactly how uncomfortable it was to try to keep a smile on your face while people around you chatted away. He smiled sheepishly to Carter and Susan when the guy finally left.
"Sorry about that," he said.
"Never mind," was Susan's answer. "It must be nice to get to speak your mother tongue from time to time."
She had followed attentively the brief interchange between Luka and the waiter and had marveled again at how easy it was for Luka to express himself in his own language. Whenever he spoke English there was a strain in his voice, as if he always had to think twice to come across the right words. Whenever he switched back to his mother tongue, Luka's voice seemed to gain an emotional tint that lacked when he spoke English. She distinctly remembered the time they had learnt about Mark's death, when they had gathered in the Hawaiian bar. Luka had toasted to Mark in Croatian. Back then, there had been a kind of warmth in the unknown words that had somehow soothed Susan, though she had never found out what they meant.
"Is there anything you'd recommend?" asked Carter, studying the menu with a frown, and Luka smiled.
Though Carter was a cosmopolitan through and through, Croatian food was all too specialized for him.
"Well, let me see... Would you prefer beef of fish?"
"Beef!" Susan and Carter chorused at the same time, and Luka couldn't avoid chuckling.
"Well then, there's. . ." Luka proceeded to explain the menu to them. After he was done with the main courses he attacked the part of the appetizers, and when he finally lifted his gaze he found Carter and Susan staring blankly at their menus.
"Oh, come on," he protested. "It's not that complicated."
They both looked back at him, then at each other. Susan shrugged and sighed, and put her menu down.
"I'll just let you choose for me, Luka," she said.
"Same here," Carter agreed.
Luka lifted his eyebrows, mocking disbelief.
"Really?"
"Yeah, but you'll have to cover for us if you get us intoxicated," Susan warned.
"Are you ready to order?" asked the waiter.
A moment later Luka was done with ordering a banquet and was refusing valiantly Susan's and Carter's menaces to make him confess what would they eat. Luckily, the waiter was rapidly back with a bottle of wine and three glasses and that served as a distraction.
"So. . ." Susan started. "Did Abby get stuck in the OR again?"
Carter grimaced in disgust. Abby's OR rotation was falling tough on her. This guy Edson was worse than Romano, it seemed. Not only was he happy harassing and humiliating medical students, especially if they were women, but he had also an oversized good opinion of himself. And he didn't even have Romano's excuse: he wasn't the stunningly superb surgeon the little tyrant had been.
"She had to monitor one of her earlier patients. She'll be up all night," Carter answered.
"Ah, nothing like being a med student to wreck your schedule. . ." Susan commented.
"Or an ER doctor. . ." Luka intervened.
"Oh, don't complain. You've still got it the easy way out," Susan scolded him.
Luka grinned guiltily at her under half risen eyebrows. Susan was right. He had just begun working full time, and Romano hadn't given him any graveyard shifts yet. Not that Luka minded working during the night, he had never slept much anyway, but during these past weeks the regular schedule had been having a calming effect on him. He had started sleeping four or five hours in a row, instead of his usual two.
"Not for long, though," Carter said. "Romano noticed your last scheme pal."
"What scheme?" Susan asked, and Luka sipped his wine faking innocence while Carter took up the cue and told Susan the story.
"Remember the appendicitis case Edson ruled out yesterday without even looking at the guy?"
Susan nodded.
"Luka asked Romano for a SECOND opinion without telling him Edson had been down to the ER. Romano took the matters in his hands, called Corday, took the guy upstairs, and bumped into Edson, Corday AND Anspaugh in the OR. Hell ensued. Edson got a formal reprimand for not fulfilling his duties as the surgeon on guard."
"Really? That was great, Luka! I always knew we could trust you!"
Luka nodded, pleased to see Susan's wicked grin. The three of them had been quite annoyed at the treatment Abby was getting from Edson and had spent more than a coffee break devising strategies to humiliate him and avenge Abby. They hadn't had many chances up till then.
"But Romano got a formal reprimand as well for judging an OR case."
"Ouch," Susan grimaced. That was, probably, Romano's weakest spot, not being allowed to judge on any OR case anymore, when he had spent most of his medical career as a surgeon.
"So my enhanced powers of premonition tell me that we won't be working any graveyard shifts next week, Susan. Zhivago will take over."
"Ha, ha," Luka said, without much enthusiasm.
He still hadn't been able to make Carter stop calling him Zhivago. Luckily, Carter kept his nickname strictly out of the boundaries of the ER. Luka didn't want to imagine what would Romano's perverse mind do with it if he ever found out.
"Want more wine?" he asked, taking the bottle.
"Yeah," Susan answered, standing up. "I'll take a trip to the ladies room."
Luka poured some wine in Carter's glass while she walked away. They lifted their glasses and toasted silently. Then the door of the restaurant opened and Carter looked up. Two other customers, a couple in their mid thirties, were coming in. They greeted the waiter loudly in Croatian while they unbuttoned their coats. The waiter smiled to them, and then opened the door to the kitchen and called inside. A couple of minutes later, an elderly woman came out of the kitchen wiping her hands in her apron, went round the counter and hugged the couple. She took their coats and waved them to a nearby table, talking animatedly. Carter looked back at Luka and was stunned. Luka was staring fixedly at the tablecloth, gripping his glass with one hand. His knuckles where white and his face was almost contorted in pain.
"Luka. . ." Carter called out to him.
He got no answer. He reached over the table and leaned a hand over Luka's forearm.
"Hey, Luka."
After a second, Luka looked at him. He seemed to make an effort to focus.
"Huh?"
"Is there something wrong?"
Luka shook his head. He swallowed and managed a weak smile.
"No. . . It's just. . ." He seemed unable to continue. He closed his eyes and ducked his head, as if he was trying to avoid the rest of the people in the restaurant looking at him.
"Something about that couple?"
Luka wet his lips, but he couldn't speak. He nodded weakly.
"Something about the war?"
Luka nodded again, grabbing the chance Carter had unwittingly opened to divert the conversation from the real source of his shock. Carter was silent. It was his way of showing concern and sympathy for whatever Luka had gone through during the war, and Luka was thankful for the brief respite. He didn't trust himself to articulate anything coherent just then, much less to answer any questions. Oh, God. Had he heard right? Weren't his senses deceiving him? No, he had definitely heard the whole conversation between the owner of the restaurant and these two new customers. Part of it was still replaying in his head:
"And tell me, Marija, how's your Canadian been?" the man asked.
"She's not MY Canadian, Matej."
"Yeah, well, sure. You've done everything but adopted her already. Has she learnt a lot of Croatian lately?"
"Of course she has. She's a bright girl."
"No chance of bumping into her tonight?"
"Ah, that's something you'd love, wouldn't you?" asked the man's wife poking him with her elbow.
"Unfortunately not, Matej. She's working nightshifts this week."
Luka felt as if he was falling into emptiness. His stomach turned over, and he was suddenly icy cold. A sticky sweat covered his forehead and the palms of his hands. A Canadian? A Canadian that spoke Croatian and worked nightshifts in Chicago? Was he going insane? Oh God. This was nothing he'd experienced before; no nightmares, no reliving of past experiences, but had all the uncanny quality of a bout of Post Traumatic Stress. He suddenly realised he had stopped breathing, and as if from far away, he heard Susan's concerned voice.
"Luka? Would you like us to leave?"
He lifted his gaze, and met Carter's and Susan's concerned faces. Their eyes were wide. How long had he been in shock? He hadn't noticed Susan coming back from the ladies room. He was freaking them out. He had to get a grip on himself, and soon. He took a deep breath, and swallowed back the lump in his throat. He shook his head.
"No, no. . ." He protested, weakly. "I think. . . I'll go wash my hands."
He stood up and stumbled blindly to the restroom. He would gain a couple of minutes there, hopefully enough to get back his composure. He washed his face in cold water, and gripped the sink hard, as he attempted to breathe regularly, finding a weak reassurance in the smooth, solid surface. Then he wiped his face and looked at his own reflection in the mirror. The man that stared back had a sickly tint on his face. No wonder Susan and Carter were alarmed. Come on, Kovac. Get yourself together, he chided himself. With a not so sure hand, he took the handle of the door and went back into the restaurant.
When he got back to the table, the starters were already there. He welcomed the food as a source of distraction. After explaining to Carter and Susan what they had on their plates, he attacked his own with a faked appetite. A couple of mouthfuls and a couple of sips of wine later, he was actually feeling better, and he even succeeded in starting a new line of conversation, one about a Sushi restaurant Carter had recently discovered. He casually remarked they should take Susan there, knowing fully well she hated raw fish. She grimaced and pouted, and Luka smiled, having attained the intended effect. He sighed inwardly. Good. That would convince them he was doing fine. They would get on with their celebration. He would deal with his private demons later âand alone.
However, his hopes of avoiding an explanation about his distress were let down at the end of the meal. When they were having coffee and sharing an extremely sweet dessert, Susan suddenly attacked the matter.
"What happened before with this couple, Luka? What were they talking about?"
Luka stared at her, trying not to let his dessert spoon fall. She had never been so straightforward about anything connected to his past. He then let his gaze fall on the table and slowly, deliberately, spooned a bite of dessert, desperately seeking for a suitable answer. He didn't find one, so he stuck the spoon in his mouth. He chewed slowly, still with his sight fixed on the dish in front of him. Finally, he gulped.
"Look, Susan. . . I don't want to talk about it. . ."
He looked up, met their stares, and stopped short. What he saw in Carter's and Susan's eyes shocked him still. There wasn't any pity, any morbid fascination. What he saw was care, and a kind of concern he had only seen in Tata's eyes before. They really wanted to understand.
"It's all right. . ." Susan whispered, immediately ashamed of her question, and Luka felt how the ice barrier which he had often felt separated him from everybody in America, and which had momentarily melted under Carter's and Susan's gazes, started to build up again. Did he really want to keep them at an arm's length? Suddenly, he made his decision.
"No. . . It's all right," he protested. "I mean, thanks for asking. . ."
The barrier was getting thicker, and Luka struggled against his lack of ability to express himself.
"I mean. . . uh. . ." He stopped short again, not knowing what to say that wouldn't sound like polite pleasantries.
"It didn't have anything to do with the war," he suddenly confessed.
Then he blushed. Carter and Susan were now gaping at him.
"But uh. . . I'd rather not talk about it right now. I'll. . . I'll tell you later, O.K.? When I've figured it out."
Now his cheeks were burning. He asked himself if he sounded as a madman. He stared at the crumbs on the tablecloth once again and waited, not daring to look up. He heard Susan chuckle uncomfortably.
"Guess I screwed it up royally. . . Neither of you guys is going to say anything and save a damsel in distress?"
Luka cast an oblique glance at them, at a lack for words. Carter cleared his throat.
"How about a game of darts? 'The bull and the dragon' is not far away. . . I have to set my scores with you, Luka."
Luka smiled, relieved. A week before Chuck and him had beaten Carter and Susan in a game of darts.
"I knew you'd come up with something!" Susan exclaimed, patting Carter's forearm.
"I'll get the check," Luka said, as he rose from the table, a smile on his face.
* * * * * * *
Luka sipped at the last remains of his cold coffee and cast another look at the door of the restaurant. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He had sat there for over four hours and had had five cups of coffee. He rubbed his eyes with a hand, closed the book he had been pretending he was reading and stood up. After having paid the check, he went out of the coffee shop and, casting one last look at the door of the little restaurant, he started to make his way to the EL. His shift started in half an hour.
He had been going to that same coffee shop for three days now. He arrived at five or five thirty, sat on the same spot, facing the door of the restaurant across the street, asked for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie and took a book out of his pocket. Usually the pie remained almost untouched on the table; the book stayed open in the same page for hours. His eyes kept on wandering at the door of the restaurant, his mind meandering back to the damned bit of conversation he had overhead over a week ago. He knew this was stupid, stalking the restaurant to see if she showed up, but he didn't know what else to do.
He had tried to dismiss the mad idea that the person these people were referring to was Gillian. If she had decided to stay in Chicago she would have told him. She would at least have told Carter, wouldn't she? Besides, she had no grounds whatsoever for wanting to move. She had a job and a life in Montreal, didn't she? One didn't just change country as one changed clothes; Luka knew that only too well. One had to have powerful reasons for emigrating. And what would Gillian's be? She had no acquaintances in Chicago besides Carter and him. Nursing jobs were not better paid in the States than in Canada. She wasn't running from anything. Or was she? What could she be running from? And why was she running just now? And why would she choose Chicago to run to, of all places?
After a couple of days driving himself crazy with all those questions, he had decided to forget the whole business and get back to his own life. He worked hard at County, worked hard on his PT, started going out in long walks. He went out to the movies every time he had the chance, went out with Carter and Abby and Susan, invited Professor Perkins over for coffee, bought a couple of new novels. He tried to go to bed physically and mentally exhausted, but no matter what he did, he couldn't concentrate and couldn't sleep. His books remained unread on the nightstand; he often couldn't follow the thread of the movies he saw, and his mind often wandered off during his conversations. Luckily, he still managed to focus on his job, mostly out of sheer terror or making mistakes, but his lack of concentration had reached such a high peak that everybody around him had noticed. He had got wary and tactful questions from Carter, brusque and straightforward ones from Susan, discreet hints from Abby. He had got concerned stares from Professor Perkins. Hell, even Romano had once asked him how he was doing. That had been the day he decided to forget about forgetting and try to make out who these people in the restaurant had been talking about.
He had thus started watching the restaurant, in hope that she might appear some day. Soon he had admitted to himself that his way of finding out if the person these people alluded to was Gillian was utterly foolish. He felt terribly self-conscious in the coffee shop. The waitresses watched him with a wary eye. Time passed by with the speed of grass growing. But he honestly didn't know what else to do. He had thought of crossing the street and asking the old lady about her conversation last week, but had soon admitted to himself it was an absurd request. And he really could do without any more awkward conversations like the ones he had had on the phone, when trying to locate Gillian. So he had decided to stay and do his daily vigils. Every five minutes he prayed the owner wouldn't come out, cross the street and threaten to beat the crap out of him if he continued keeping the door of his restaurant under surveillance.
Luka got into the EL, sat down and took a deep breath. He had a long shift in front of him and he was exhausted. He hadn't been this tired before going to work since the days he had relied on vodka and one night stands to try to fill up the empty stretch of days and nights, before travelling to the Congo.
In the past few weeks, thanks to his readings but, most of all, thanks to the budding friendship he'd started with Carter and Susan, he had thought he had come over the worthlessness of his life, but now it was as if he'd plunged back into the void. He felt as if he was back in square one, too tired and too disheartened to continue with the game.
He wondered whether he should try something else. Talk to somebody. Talk to Carter, maybe talk to Susan. But, what would he tell them? That he obsessed about a weird conversation he'd just happened to overhear a week ago and that it had thrown him back into depression? That he couldn't get rid of those words and, at the same time, he was too scared to find out whether it related to a woman he barely had come to know? That was absurd.
He buried his face in his hands for a moment. When he lifted his head again, the train was coming to his stop. He stood up, leaning on his cane and grabbing the railing above his head for support and stood in front of the door. Whatever he did with himself, he'd have to push the thoughts away for the moment. He had work to do, he reminded himself as he descended the steps to the street.
* * * * * * *
"Here he comes, Evelyn," Maggie said, coming to the counter.
Evelyn looked up and through the wide windows of the local. The tall dark haired guy from the previous evenings was coming down the street heading for the door of their coffee shop. She glared at him openly, and she thought she could see him blush slightly as he cast an oblique glance at her. Nevertheless, he came in, paused for an instant and hobbled his way towards the table he'd made his usual spot during the past few days. Evelyn looked back at Maggie, an unspoken question in her eyes.
"It's your turn," Maggie said, handing her the coffee pot.
Evelyn took the pot and turned around to get a mug from the shelf, grimacing in disgust. They didn't like this guy, not a single bit. He'd been coming every evening for the last week and just sat there, ogling at the door of the restaurant across the street.
Despite his nice looks and elegant clothing (his hair was neatly cut and he was always clean shaven; he always wore a suit and a tie, his shoes were immaculately shiny) there was something suspicious about him, about the way he pretended to be reading but instead cast sideways glances at the street, about his hesitant gestures, pale skin and dark shadows under his eyes. It was as if he was trying to hide something. And his strong accent didn't help dispel the shady impression he made.
Maggie and Evelyn had considered asking him to leave, but they were a bit afraid to do so. What if he went into a fit of rage? He was much taller than them and seemed a bit dangerous. And they couldn't just call the police. However suspicious his attitude was, he kept to himself and didn't bother any of the other customers. They had also considered alerting the owner of the restaurant across the street, but they thought it was, after all, none of their business. What if this foreign guy was part of some kind of mafia and wanted to settle some account with the foreigners on the other side of the street? What if he found out they had alerted the owner and decided to get some kind of retaliation? They didn't want to get into trouble, there was no need for that. So they had just tried to make it clear for him they didn't like him and would rather not have him in their shop. They hadn't had any success, however. Although he seemed to get uncomfortable enough under their stares, he had kept coming every day and stayed on his self designated spot for long hours, drinking endless cups of coffee.
Evelyn took the mug to the man's table and put it on the hard surface, with a little bit more force than necessary. The man jumped at the loud thud and looked at her, startled.
"Coffee, as usual?" Evelyn asked.
"Yes, thank you," he whispered.
"All right," she replied, as she served him. "Anything to go with it?"
"A slice of apple pie, please."
"We don't have apple pie."
He sighed.
"Okay. . . a slice of pecan pie, then."
She shook her head ruthlessly, but with a bit of wariness. Would he get angry? Or would he take the hint and leave instead? He did neither. Patiently, he drew his breath and with impeccable manners, he asked:
"Do you have any pie?"
"I think there's some cheesecake left."
"All right, I'll have cheesecake."
She nodded and left, annoyed that he hadn't taken the hint. This guy had, apparently, a very thick skin and wouldn't be budged by subtle allusions.
A moment later, she came back and let the dish with the piece of cheesecake drop hard on the table. She noticed how he winced at the noise, but he didn't take his eyes from the book in front of him. She turned around airily and went to the counter.
She watched him out of the corner of her eye from time to time while she served the other customers. As usual, he spend most of his time looking at the front of the restaurant, only catching casual glances to the page in front of him. He didn't seem to notice it took her long to refill his cup, longer than it took her to serve the other clients.
She was refilling his cup for the fourth time when she suddenly noticed him tense. She looked at him. His face had grown paler, if possible, and he was staring fixedly at the other side of the street. She followed his gaze, but could only see the door of the restaurant slowly closing. Somebody must have entered the local. She heard him clear his throat. She looked at the pot. The coffee was about to spill over. With a quick movement, she righted the pot and, not even condescending to have another look at him, went back to the counter. Once there, however, she glanced back.
"Did you see that?" she asked Maggie.
"See what?"
"Him," answered Evelyn with a nod.
Maggie looked at him. The man was still glaring across the street, white as a sheet. He wasn't even trying to conceal his interest on the restaurant anymore.
"What did he see?"
Evelyn shrugged.
"I don't know. . . Should we call 911?"
"And what would we tell them? That we have this foreign guy staring across the street?"
"Well, no. . . but. . ."
"Let's just wait and see, Eve. . . Wait and see. . ." Maggie repeated, trying to sound confident.
About an hour later, their wait became fruitful. The guy suddenly stood up, put some bills on the table, put his coat on and gathered his book as fast as he could. He hurried out of the coffee shop without a word. Maggie and Evelyn looked across the street and saw a petite woman heading down the street. In a brief moment, the man had crossed the street and reached her, which was amazing taking into account how pronounced his limp was. He called out to her, and she turned around. A look of dread crossed her face and her eyes widened.
"That's it," said Maggie taking the phone. "I'm calling the police."
Luka's heart had missed a beat when he saw her going into the restaurant. Oh God. It was her. It WAS her. He couldn't possibly be so delusional. . .
What now? What was he going to do? He swallowed hard, trying to think. Focus, Kovac. Should he follow her? No, he decided a minute later. She was obviously a friend of the owners. Whatever happened between them, Luka didn't want to have any witnesses of their first conversation. He was accurately aware of his clumsiness with words to have to worry about other people overhearing them.
He thought briefly of writing her a note and have somebody deliver it to her across the street, before laughing at himself for having that thought. Who would deliver it? Certainly not one of the two waitresses, who obviously didn't think very well of him. And what would he write? Hello, I was just having coffee across the street when I happened to see you coming in? Ridiculous. No, he'd rather wait until she came out, then he could walk with her to the EL. But what was he going to tell her? Jesus. He sighed. All right, one step at a time. First, gather courage enough to go to her. Then figure out what to say. She would have supper in the restaurant, anyway. He would have plenty of time to think about something.
An hour later, he was wondering whether she would make it out of the restaurant before he had to head back to County for his shift, when he saw her appear at the door. Impulsively, he stood up and headed out. He crossed the street without looking either way, damning his limp and wishing he could walk faster. Desperate, afraid she would disappear around the corner, he called out her name and, as if in slow motion, he saw her jump and turn around to face him. A minute later, he was standing beside her, so close their bodies almost touched. Luka stared, hardly daring to believe that she was in front of him. He looked at her, desperately trying not to blink, fearing she would disappear the second he closed his eyes.
"Uh. . ." he stammered. "Hi, Gillian. . ." He sounded like a complete idiot. Hadn't an hour been time enough to rehearse? He berated himself.
"Jesus Luka! You scared me!" Gillian exclaimed, and then she smiled, and covered her mouth with her hand.
She blushed, and Luka couldn't help but noticing how beautiful she was. He stared at her openly, but as soon as he noticed how her cheeks gradually turned a deep shade of red, he lowered his gaze.
"I. . . uh. . ." He had completely forgotten the careful speech he had prepared in the coffee shop and was facing a big blank in his mind. Concentrate, Kovac, concentrate. Tell her.
"I'm very. . . very happy to see you again," he said in one go, staring at his feet.
He then gathered enough courage to cast a sideways glance at her face. She seemed shocked. Oh God. He was screwing it up.
"Really?" Asked Gillian, and mentally slapped her forehead. How idiotic could she come to sound?
Luka stared straight into her eyes and smiled. His smile was wide, and lit his whole face.
"Yes. I'm happy I found you."
Gillian couldn't stand his direct gaze any longer. She looked down and clasped her hands together.
"Oh, Luka I'm sorry, I. . ."
And then she figured out what he'd just said. Her forehead creased.
"You were looking for me?"
He cleared his throat and looked away.
"Well. . . yeah, sort of. . . I tried calling your apartment." He wiped his eyes with his hand, in a nervous gesture. "I tried calling your mother too."
"Oh God," Gillian took a hand to her mouth. "You called Christmas Day!"
He nodded.
"Oh, Luka. I'm so sorry. She's been pissed off with me because I moved out of Montreal. . . She said somebody had called me, but she was still too angry to tell me who it was. She wasn't rude with you, was she?"
Luka grinned nervously.
"Well, no. . . Not exactly." He looked at her, and looked away once again.
"How are you doing?" Come on, Kovac, he thought. Could you have found a more commonplace sentence?
"I'm fine. . ." She hesitated.
She was feeling more and more embarrassed by the moment. How was she supposed to explain to him that she'd been living in Chicago for several months and had never tried to contact him? How to convince him it wasn't because she wasn't interested in seeing him, talking to him? There was no easy way to explain it.
"Listen, why don't we. . ."
Suddenly, a patrol car stopped by them with a loud screech of tires. A policeman jumped from it.
"Freeze!" he screamed, drawing out his weapon and pointing it at Luka.
Luka's eyes widened in shock. Out of a reflex, he immediately dropped his cane and lifted his hands behind his head. Without asking anything, the policeman grabbed him from the collar of his coat, and jostled him against the patrol.
"Spread your legs! Hands where I can see them!"
The other officer had stepped from the patrol and was also pointing his gun at Luka. Then Gillian reacted.
"What the hell are you doing? Leave him alone!" she screamed.
"What?" asked the officer, and Gillian felt like slapping his face.
"He's my friend! Leave him alone!"
The officer turned around and stared at her.
"We got a call about an assault on this street. Is he molesting you in any way miss?"
"No, of course not!"
Gillian grabbed the officer by the arm and shoved him away in the middle of her rage. She got to Luka, who was standing by the police car, leaning heavily against it and shaking madly. Jesus. She didn't want to think what kind of experiences he must be reliving, being held at gunpoint.
"Luka. . ." she called softly to him. "Luka, are you O.K.?"
Slowly, Luka opened his eyes and looked up. The police officer in front of him had lowered his weapon and was looking warily at him. He noticed Gillian's hand on his forearm and looked at her. He managed a tentative smile and tried to breathe normally. He was terrified.
"Yeah," he muttered.
Gillian's hand gently made him turn around and helped him support himself on the car. The officer who had first pointed at him was holding his cane. Luka took it and stood up on shaky legs.
"I'm really sorry, sir. We got a call and you matched the description."
"It's all right," Luka answered. He wanted to get past this as fast as possible.
"No, it's not all right," Gillian protested. "You should have checked before! You can't just go around pointing at people with your guns!"
"I'm sorry, miss," the officer apologised. "But sometimes if we don't act rapidly. . ."
"That's just no excuse!" Gillian yelled.
There was a small crowd gathering around them, and Luka was suddenly very self-conscious.
"It's okay, Gillian. Let's leave it like that."
"No, Luka, we can't. . ." Suddenly his hand was on top of her forearm, and she noticed he was still trembling.
"Please," he whispered.
She couldn't understand why he wanted to drop the matter. They should file a formal complaint against these two barbarians, so they learnt that they couldn't go around threatening the citizens they should be protecting, but somehow Luka's pleading look made her give up.
"Okay," she said.
"We're really sorry, sir. Miss," said the officer, climbing back into his car.
The little crowd that had gathered around them slowly started to melt away, and Luka attempted a few steps. He had to lean heavily on his cane. Gillian took her arm around his waist and supported him as they walked.
"Geez, what a raid," she commented.
Luka chuckled half-heartedly.
She looked up at his face. He was still deadly pale, but somehow he didn't seem as ill as before. At least, he didn't look as if he was about to faint.
"Listen, Luka, I was about to invite you to a cup of coffee. . . Are you still up to it?"
He looked down at her, and beamed a full blown smile. Gillian's heart was hit by a warm wave. She hadn't seen him smile that way since. . . Since they had danced together in the Congo.
"Willingly," he answered, and slowly, hesitatingly, praying she wouldn't step away, he draped his free arm across her shoulders.
Together, they made their way down the street and disappeared around the corner.
