Ivica Kovac's friend Drazan had once, very pleased with himself, told his companions that life was like a shit sandwich; the more bread you have the less shit you have to eat. Whilst Srjdan and Rade had rolled their eyes and told him that that one was so old it had whiskers, Ivica had given in to the very unappealing impulse to rebut the accuracy of the assertion.

"That's not true."

"Of course it is, if you have money – "

"I know what it means, but it's just not true. You eat the same amount of shit, you just don't taste it as much." They'd stared at him for a couple of moments and then Srjdan sniffed and ordered more drinks.

Now, as he lay in bed considering his surroundings, his granddaughter asleep in the room next to his, Maggie asleep in the one across the hall, and the voices of his son and daughter in law a barely audible murmur below him, he basked in the warmth of his absolute rightness. The room, the whole house, was quietly affluent, unostentatious but comfortable in every small regard. Its regular occupants he knew to have been served their share of shit – more than their fair share – but he couldn't help but think that coming home to comforts like these every night would make such shit as they might be dished these days a deal more palatable.

The house in which he'd grown up was, he calculated, bigger than this one, yet he had no abiding memory of spaciousness, housing as it did not only his parents and himself with his five siblings but also two grandparents, the man who helped on the farm and a succession of large and inconvenient dogs. The very notion that Rosa should have her own room seemed to him absurd. His own mother had used the bottom drawer of an old chest for her youngest child as the next youngest still occupied the crib. Ivica had not had a bed to himself until he was 16 when his oldest brother had left for the army and even then he'd had to share again when he came home with a wife.

Now look at this. He had his own bathroom; Maggie was asleep in a double bed which stood empty for most of the time, and he knew that there was yet another bedroom which remained for the time being unfurnished. He was warm in the middle of January and he knew that tomorrow there would be an ocean of hot water for them all to take unnecessarily long showers.

It had been a busy few days and although Ivica was exhausted he knew that sleep was an impossibility. His journey here had been little short of torture. He didn't much like leaving Europe anyway, and the journey hadn't improved since the last time he'd visited when at least he'd had Damir and Tatijana to talk to.

He hated the press of people, hated the regimentation. Go here, do that, queue here, wait, move. He loathed with a passion the plastic furnishings, the synthetic carpets of the airports, the overpriced, barely edible stuff that passed for food. He hated the appraising gaze of the little man in the ill fitting uniform as he checked him over, as he glanced from his face to his passport and back again even as he fought to stop himself sticking out his tongue at him; disliked the feigned pleasantries and over made up faces of the cabin crew, hated the meal they served him, hated the movies, hated his own long legs, hated that he couldn't smoke, even when he got off the plane, hated collecting his disgraceful old suitcase, hated that he needed a shave, hated that the area around airports is always so bloody miserable.

And for just a brief, nicotine deprived instant, he'd hated Luka for neither allowing him to smoke in the car nor pulling over for him to light up in the unbelievably fucking cold outdoors of Chicago which seemed colder and greyer than Dubrovnik even though he knew it probably wasn't.

Impossibly, his irritation increased as his son gave him his instructions, told him to behave himself when he finally met the crazy woman that was Abby's mother. He wasn't sure how he felt about her. He remembered Dusan when Emilia had gone off the rails, had sat and drunk with him, listened to him and recognised his laughter as the grief it really was, and he'd felt an awful resentment toward the woman for what it all did to his friend. It had been easy for him to take the moral high ground with Abby about it when he didn't have to deal with the object of her anguish face to face but now he was worried. He wanted a cigarette and badly, and wondered how Luka could be so cruel as to deprive him like this.

Ivica didn't argue but stared gloomily out of the window, watching the scenery slither past, not really taking it in. The boy was getting too big for his boots. He turned his head, studied his son; he looked well, he looked at ease, he looked himself. And God, that was good to see, and he should say so.

"You're looking pale".

"It's winter in Chicago, I should have a tan?"

"You should get out in the fresh air more."

"I have a one year old daughter, a busy job and a wife who is as exhausted as I am. Bracing walks by the lake lose their appeal when it's this cold and there's a good fire burning at home."

"Fire's still burning, huh?" That got a laugh at least. "First lesson of a happy marriage – don't let it go out, you'll never light it again."

"You're speaking from experience of course."

"Observation."

"Uh-huh."

"Look, can we pull over? I really need a cigarette."

"I shouldn't."

"Yes you should, I'm your father, you should do as I say."

"But not as you do."

"Ah, naturally not that. But come on, boy, stop the car."

"When we're off the freeway."

"How long is that?"

"Not long."

Ten minutes later and Ivica was standing, collar pulled up under his ears, bouncing a little on his toes, blowing smoke rings. Luka refused to get out of the car and glanced at his watch pointedly a couple of times whilst Ivica just as pointedly ignored him. Eventually Luka leaned over and opened the door.

"Get in, Abby will be wondering where we are." Ivica raised his eyebrows. "And if your next sentence includes the words henpecked or pussy whipped or any other disgusting variation on the theme I will leave you here to freeze."

Much restored, Ivica settled himself into his seat before suddenly pressing icy hands to either side of Luka's neck , raising a yelp of protest. "Shut up and drive, I want to see my granddaughter."

Ivica's ebullience held up the rest of the way home. He amused himself by playing with the SUV's stereo system and the iPod, whistling softly through his teeth at its slender elegance. "Anna has one of these. She wears it like jewellery, never parted from it."

"Probably afraid that Josip will put it in the toaster."

When, tired of gadgetry, Ivica started to rifle through the glove compartment Luka couldn't stand it any more and leaned over, snapping it shut.

"What, you don't want me to see what you have in there?"

"I don't have anything in there."

"No incriminating silk underwear?"

"Well apart from that, obviously."

"You been wearing it or collecting souvenirs?"

"Yes, of course, I spend all the spare time I don't have seducing women I don't meet in here and then I keep their panties as trophies."

"Difficult times after a baby comes, I understand. Women, well, they have other things on their minds. Don't worry, I won't tell your wife."

Luka shook his head and smiled. "Did you … ?"

"What? Good God, man, no, what kind of a shit do you take your father for? Anyway if your grandmother had found out she'd have had my balls on a plate. I was horny not stupid."

"There's a difference?"

Ivica grinned. "It's a nice car. Can I drive?"

"No."

"Just for – "

"No."

oOo

The baby stroller and coats littering the hallway notwithstanding, the house had the well scrubbed and slightly smug air which Ivica associated with a particular brand of American affluence, an impression formed by long acquaintance with movies and TV shows. Even the things which were out of place seemed to be in their place. Really, it was so disappointing; he didn't know where Luka got his tidy streak.

Abby looked well, softer somehow and he told her so as he hugged her, told her she was as beautiful as ever.

"And you are still full of shit" she whispered in his ear. Coming from her it was, in its easy familiarity and trust, as good as a declaration of devotion. She may have looked well but she was clearly not at ease and, steeling himself, Ivica turned to greet the source of that unease. Petite, trim, pretty, dark hair, big eyes; he took Maggie in with an artist's keen eye for detail, noted the tension in her frame, the anxiety in her eyes, thought she looked just about ready to make a run for it.

On with the show. The little gallantries came easily to him and she seemed to lap it up. She talked fast so that he caught only a fraction of what she was saying but out of the jumble of words he latched onto her assertion that she was an artist too. Well, here was something. He took her arm and steered her away from their offspring into the lounge. He listened patiently to her gushing praise of his work. She still spoke too fast but he realised that she did in fact know something about the subject. He observed quietly and eventually she faltered and then stopped.

"I'm sorry, I talk too much, I know I do, I always have."

"What is too much?"

"I mean I just keep right on going, I never know when to stop."

"But you have stopped."

"I know, I know, but . . . and really I'm not usually this bad, but when I'm nervous . . " She ground to a halt again. Ivica didn't step in with the question about why she might be nervous. He knew damned well why she was nervous and wondered what the hell Luka and Abby had told her about him. Abruptly she looked up at him, looked him straight in the eye. "Would you say she looks happy?"

"She … "

"Abby. Would you say she's happy?"

What the fuck? "You would know better than me."

"You'd think so."

"But?"

"I don't know, she's good at hiding things, you haven't seen her for more than a year, you'd see the changes, you know, things I wouldn't pick up on, little things, things that – " oh for Christ's sake, shut up.

"I think she's happy, yes. "

"Oh, you really do? Really?"

"Really I do. Luka too."

"They're good for one another, I honestly think that, so good for one another." Ivica watched this exchange as though from a distance, wanting so badly to cut the crap. He wondered what Abby's father had been like and he wondered too what the hell this woman was like off her meds. He became aware that she'd stopped talking and was looking closely at him. Had she asked him something?

"I'm sorry, what . . . "

"Abby's afraid."

"Afraid?"

"That I'll embarrass her, that I'll do something stupid. Or maybe she's just afraid for me."

Ivica examined his shoes, which were almost as disgraceful as his suitcase. He noted in a detached sort of way that one of his laces was frayed almost right through. "I have been told to behave myself."

"I see. I have my instructions too. I'm to be myself."

"And I am to be not myself. Too frightening, too rude, too . . . " He sighed impatiently and closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to ask her what their lives had been like, what she felt as the mother she had been seeing the mother Abby now was; he wanted to tell her that the idea of seeing Rosa in the flesh was the most wonderful and most terrible thing imaginable for him , that he dreaded looking at the child he'd only seen in photographs and feeling something inside him break, of seeing Jasna or Danijela or Marko looking back at him; he wanted to say that they should drop this bullshit. He got as far as opening his mouth but at that moment the object of his fears arrived, carried in her father's arms and the moment was upon him.

Dark hair, eyes like Luka's but set in an infant version of Abby's face, sturdy, strong. Rosa didn't protest when she was handed over to Ivica, bore his scrutiny uncomplainingly, watched his face as he spoke to her in a language she would probably never speak herself, grabbed at the pocket watch which had been his grandfather's. Ivica saw her smile and in and instant his heart broke and was as instantly mended.

"She's beautiful". Strange how one was allowed to state the obvious at times like this and no-one said "Of course she is"; strange too how one was allowed to tell outright lies and still everyone would concur. Still, on this occasion he was telling the truth. He held the watch to Rosa's ear and her eyes widened and then became dreamy and distant, mesmerised, and he felt the weight of her head as she leaned into the watch.

And then, damn it, Maggie was talking again, dinner, dinner, dinner, and did they all like Italian. As he watched her scurry into the kitchen Ivica wondered whether she had seen his heart break and re-form, whole. He thought perhaps she had.

oOo

He wanted a cigarette, was irked by how long it had been since he'd had one.

He'd barely tasted his food although he'd been careful to make all the right appreciative remarks and to eat everything on his plate. In truth he'd wanted just to watch Rosa and her fierce concentration as she spread pasta sauce and remnants of bread around her plate and on herself, remembering Luka and Damir, and then Jasna and Marko . . . Rosa had chosen that moment to become fractious and had been carried away to her bed by her father who Ivica noted with approval hadn't seemed to care if half his daughter's food was now smeared on his own clothes. Eh, a little mess for much beauty; all was as it should be.

He tapped his fingers on the table, fidgeted in his seat until eventually Abby told him to get his coat and go outside for a smoke. He didn't need telling twice and was half way out the back door before he realised that Maggie was following. They sat in silence whilst he smoked his cigarette down, immediately lighting another. It was damned cold but that felt good; the sky had cleared and he could see the stars which after all looked much the same whether they hung in the sky over Chicago or Vodice or Dubrovnik. He thought of Damir and Tatijana and the children and the Christmas he had spent with them and was suddenly homesick. He heard Maggie cough lightly and supposed he should at least try to make conversation.

"How am I doing?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Horrible old foreign guy who can't keep his mouth shut so his son tells him to be good – how am I doing?"

"You aren't quite what I was expecting. Abby said you were a force of nature."

"A what?"

"Like the sky she said."

"She's crazy." Damn.

"Runs in the family" He laughed at that. "You've . . . you've been very charming."

"I am not charming."

"Oh, but you are."

"Horrible, foreign, big mouth, bad habits, Luka knows me, this is why he tells me to be good. I say we stop. What is the point of talking to each other if I am to be not myself and you are to be not yourself. I prefer the truth." Maggie nodded. "Yes? Yes!" He took her hand and kissed it and settled back into silence as he looked at the stars. Maggie giggled softly.

"We let them tell us what to do."

"Big mistake. We don't do that any more."

"You know I really don't smoke but – "

"Oh, yes, of course, please." He lit the cigarette for her, admiring again her prettiness. Yes, if Abby aged as well as this Luka could have no cause for complaint.

"You know Abby could have married a very rich man."

"What?"

"A millionaire." Ivica's scepticism must have been evident because she continued, "Really, her boyfriend before Luka, he was worth an absolute mint."

"Mint?" What the hell was she talking about?

"You know, where they make the money." He shook his head. "Where they print the bank notes and stamp out the coins."

"That's a mint?"

"Yes. Anyway, he was worth a fortune."

"Why didn't she marry him?"

"I don't know, not really, not the details. I know he was going to ask her, he even showed me the ring." Her face became dreamy. "Such a beautiful ring."

Ivica snorted. "Luka didn't give her engagement ring", and Maggie came to her senses, embarrassed, alarmed.

"Oh, I didn't mean – "

Ivica shrugged; "Doesn't matter."

"I wasn't comparing them."

"So you tell me this why?"

"I don't know. It's just . . . it's funny the choices we make. He was the sort of guy you dream of when you're 16, you know, good looking, a doctor, rich, sweet natured."

"Maybe not all he's cracked up to be, huh?"

"Oh no, he's very sweet, very nice. But people either fit or they don't."

"They didn't."

"They could have maybe. Wrong time. And anyway look how much better things turned out."

"Abby better not hope my paintings make Luka millionaire when I die."

"I don't think she's banking on it, no."

"That is very good thing, because I plan to leave everything to my mistress."

"You have a mistress?"

"Not yet." He raised his eyebrows at her and she choked on her cigarette so that he had to slap her on the back and offer her his handkerchief to wipe her streaming eyes.

So it was, when Luka and Abby came outside, they found them huddled together against the cold, still laughing. The looks on their childrens faces spoke volumes, and Ivica fought to suppress a smirk before telling them that they were in fact grandparents, not morons. He was gratified to see that they had the grace to look a little shame faced.

oOo

Ivica watched over the rim of his coffee cup as Rosa, supervised by Maggie, tottered around in the garden, unrecognisable in her quilted suit which was soon soggy at the knees as she stumbled and fell into the snow. His movements swift, he reached into his pocket and splashed a measure of the contents of his hip flask into the cup. Better. He turned as he heard Abby return to the room with her own coffee.

"Good legs."

"What?"

"Your mother", he nodded in Maggie's direction, "she is very pretty and she has good legs. She's well these days?"

"She's always well until she . . . isn't."

"Cynical Abby?"

"Realistic."

"Cynics always say this."

"What can I tell you, too many years of expecting the worst."

"You were going to stop doing that."

"Can't do it all overnight. I didn't get a personality transplant."

"Good. She's happy for you. She loves you."

"I know. She always did."

"But . . . "

"Love isn't always enough is it?"

"No. I think never." Ivica was surprised to realise that this was something he'd always known. "She told me last night something about you. She tells me you could have married millionaire."

"Not really."

"No?"

"He never asked." He looked hard for signs of regret; found none, was satisfied.

"You would say yes though?"

"Maybe. I don't know. It didn't happen, it doesn't matter."

"All that money," he sighs, "could keep horrible old foreign guy in paints and cigarettes in his old age."

"If I'd married him I would never have met you so that point is moot."

"Moot?" Why did they all insist on using words he could have no chance of understanding? It irritated the shit out of him to have to ask, to make himself look ignorant.

"Not relevant."

"Oh. Still, he's coming here today, yes?"

"Ivica . . . "

"Maybe he adopt me?" Ivica was prevented by Luka's arrival from embarking on an extended fantasy about the spectacular largesse of a man he'd never met but had already decided he didn't like.

"At last, what time of day is this to be getting up?"

"It's 9.30, Tata, you have a watch."

Ivica stood by the piano, running a hand over it; it looked different here, smaller; not so dusty, he thought, a little ashamed. He had a sudden, intense yearning to hear it, to reassure himself that it sounded the same. Suddenly, vividly, he remembered Elena at the keyboard, laughing as he bent over her to nuzzle her neck, allowing his fingers to tease the buttons of her shirt open, allowing his exploring hands to pursue their downward path, protesting at the bum notes she played as a result, even as paint stained fingers moved over her breasts, even as she leaned back into his embrace, throat arched to receive his kiss; she never protested for long. He could almost hear the sound of the curtains shifting in the breeze, the sound of the traffic coming up from the Zagreb streets, of a baby in the downstairs apartment crying, and then the soft discord as his wife's hands fell helpless onto the keys before he turned her around and knelt between her knees, his face buried in her open shirt, her breath catching as his hands pushed her skirt higher and higher.

He shook himself a little, swallowed the tears that threatened and opened the lid of the piano, rested his fingers on the keys, did not depress them. What if they sounded different? He believed he might die if they sounded different. "You play?" He didn't take his eyes from the keys.

"I – tinker on it" Luka told him, a strange timbre to his voice which Ivica couldn't quite place.

"Tinker for me now."

"I don't think I'm ready for a public . . . performance."

He turned now to look at Luka. "What's public? I'm your father!" Ivica's look of confusion turned to one of speculation as he caught the blush on Abby's face and the grin on Luka's.

"How about some more coffee?" As she hurried out Ivica saw her catch Luka's eye, saw him wink; Luka looked at him, trying to keep his face in order and found his father regarding him levelly; the grey eyebrows rose.

"Mind your own business, old man, mind your own business."

oOo

Rosa's determined if inelegant efforts at getting around under her own steam were being applauded by Maggie when Ivica strolled into the garden. He took out his cigarettes but at the look on Maggies' face sighed gracelessly and returned them to his pocket. Jesus, the kid was a year old, he didn't think she'd be taking much notice of what he was doing.

"Have you seen the trees?"

"Just trees" he shrugged uncooperatively.

"No, the little ones right at the bottom of the garden. Luka planted them for … for his children. Go and take a look", and she mimed raising a cigarette to her lips.

"Oh, yes, I should see them, yes."

It had been one of the multitude of adjustments he'd had to make when they moved to the city. Not having open space to call his own had been hard. He'd grown up used to his family's fields, the little orchard, his mother's vegetable patch and flower garden. Zagreb had other charms but at first he'd felt hemmed in and claustrophobic. Over time he'd learned to make do with drinking in the landscape as the train had moved through it, but he'd still missed the growing things. Now, in Vodice he confined himself to a few pots of geraniums, but he had the sea in front of him and the hills and fields behind and it was enough for him; the little terrace and courtyard boasted by Damir's house in Dubrovnik was enough. He wondered when he'd changed.

The little trees were leafless and he couldn't tell what species they were. Some scraps of tinsel clung to the slender branches which made him smile. Two of them had the edge on the third and it was clear to him that here he was looking at Jasna, Marko and Rosa.

"Mind if I smoke?" he asked them. It was quiet here, although Rosa's occasional squeal and Maggie's cries of "Clever girl!" reached him. He was glad to see this, to see that Luka's children had more than the headstone in Vukovar as their memorial. He noticed too that there was no tree for Danijela, and for a moment he felt indignant for her, but he thought of the new wife who now filled the empty half of his son's bed and had to concede that that was an altogether more awkward proposition, one perhaps best left unaddressed, in this garden at any rate. He ground out his cigarette amongst the fallen leaves and made his way back to Maggie. Rosa was scraping melting grey snow together with a view to filling the little tin bucket decorated with improbably hued ducks and geese which Ivica had painted for her and sent over for Christmas. Her aim was as yet inexpert.

"Miss Rosa likes her bucket, huh? Yes?" Going down on one knee and biting back a curse as he felt the cold meltwater soak through his trouser leg, he took the bucket in his hands and tried to anticipate the trajectory of the snow as Rosa tipped it from her spade. "See! You're the best, a champion!" She mimicked his applause, raised her arms over her head, threw herself off balance and sat down in the slush. Maggie swooped down and set her back on her feet, and Rosa went back to her task. "Me too" Ivica said and Maggie helped him to his feet, his joints protesting, and they settled themselves onto the seat. "Nice trees."

"It's a beautiful idea, isn't it?"

"Luka has his moments, you know, when I can see he's mine."

"Praise indeed."

He shrugged. "I look at Damir – Luka's brother, you know? – and I don't see me in him. Good thing probably, one of me is enough."

"What about our wife?"

"Elena? No, none of her either. Except . . . "

"Except?"

"He doesn't take my bullshit. Maybe that's Elena."

"She died young."

"Too young." Another shrug and he nodded toward the little trees. "But down there, that's too young, you know? She had a life, she had her music, she had her boys."

"And she had you."

"She had me. Had to die to get away from me." He saw at once that Maggie was taken aback. "It's joke, Maggie, just a joke."

She nodded. "You miss her."

"Do I? I don't know. It's harder to remember her. I miss … just now, in the house, I was looking at piano, remembering … I miss the sweetness of her. I miss that she loved me. Selfish."

"Grief is selfish."

"Grief is greedy, it will eat you up if you let it. Life," and here he nodded toward Rosa, "goes on. And what about Maggie?"

"Me?"

"Who is sweet for you?"

"Oh, no-one at the moment, I'm good on my own."

"Don't wait too long. Keep your eyes open for … possibilities." Maggie wondered that the word could sound as lascivious as it did coming from him and she leaned against him and laughed at the precise moment that Luka and Abby came out to call them to lunch. That frown was back on Abby's face and stayed there as she followed her mother into the house. Jesus Christ, what now?

"You're a lucky man if Abby holds up that well . . . . .pretty woman."

"Don't even think about it."

"What?'

"I'll have your hide hanging on my wall if you even think of touching Maggie."

"Luka . . . what would give you that idea?"

"I don't know, the leer on your face maybe. Abby would freak. Don't do it. More trouble than any of us need . . . or want . . . or deserve. And I'll kill you."

"Calm down. Maggie and me . . . we understand each other . . . artists . . . she's nice woman when she's not crazy. But don't worry . . . "

"Sorry." He sounded as though he meant it.

"No, it's okay, you saw your wife worried . . .you were worried . . .it's okay. Maggie and I we're friends . . .we're grandparents . . . .no more . . .no less. Unless she takes her clothes off at the party than we're . . . .less."

"Tata"

"It's a joke son, just a joke." How often would he have to say that today? He didn't add that he was pretty sure that if he decided to ignore his son's threats and turn on the charm he could have Maggie eating out of his hand, but he took some satisfaction in thinking it. They went indoors, ate lunch and he remembered the photographs Tatijana had sent over along with Rosa's birthday presents. Maggie said he should sit next to her and look at the pictures.

"What for? I see those people all the time." He was tired, the women had the party to set up, he would take himself out of the way, take a nap like the old man he was.

He didn't sleep. Lying on his bed, hands folded at his chest, he studied the ceiling, heard the voices from downstairs, Maggie's prominent amongst them, heard someone, Luka he thought, bring Rosa upstairs for a nap; the very young, the old – napping in the middle of the day. He realized that he hadn't taken off his shoes and raised one leg as far into the air as his hip would allow. The shoes really were awful. Every part of them had been mended or replaced until none of the originals remained and still he knew them to be the most comfortable shoes in the world. Nonetheless he knew he would take them off and instead wear the pair he had in his case, the pair Damir had gone with him to buy. God. He let his leg drop and huffed out an exasperated sigh. He wasn't sure why he felt so out of sorts but he most assuredly did. He wondered about the man Carter who Maggie had talked about. Why had she brought that up? Was she telling him that the desire of a wealthy man was a testament to Abby's worth? That Abby's decision to marry Luka was a testament to his worth? He was at once curious and anxious to meet the man, unaccountably resentful of him, and it was with this thought in his mind that he shook himself and fished out his new shoes.

Ivica had read somewhere that wealthy people didn't look at your clothes but at your shoes and he wondered what Carter would make of his plain tan lace ups. They were probably the most expensive shoes he'd ever owned and he'd objected to spending nearly 500 kuna but Damir had said he'd pay for one shoe if Ivica paid for the other and he was glad now that he'd agreed. This Carter fellow probably had his shoes hand made in England, modeled on his own last and shipped over by the dozen pairs. He rubbed at the toes with his sleeve and then sniffed and dropped the shoes on the floor, before settling himself back down and closing his eyes.

Two hours later and Ivica stared into the mirror, his shock of grey hair combed, his face washed and his feet smartly shod. He brushed imaginary specks of fluff from his shoulders and nodded, satisfied. Guests had started to arrive, he'd heard the front door opening and closing, cries of greeting, laughter, the sound of a child, a girl he thought, in a state of high excitement. That had all started about an hour ago. He knew that if he didn't make a move soon Luka would come and get him like a naughty child. It was now or never.

These were uniformly good looking people with the exception perhaps of the two elderly people who smelt a little odd even to Ivica. There are times when being a stranger in a strange land is an immeasurable advantage. His apparent, and entirely specious, lack of understanding of social morés was not only tolerated but indulged, people answering his slightly too personal questions readily.

He knew Carter without being told who he was. Well turned out, clean shaven, good looking, at ease. As the professors Backhaus moved away he slid into their place and held out his hand, back straight.

"Oh, er … hi", Carter said. "You must be – "

"Ivica Kovac." He tightened his hold on Carter's hand and watched as he tried not to wince. He toyed with and rejected the idea of clicking his heels.

"John Carter. I - "

"I know."

"You do?"

"I know a lot about . . . a lot."

Carter blinked. "Okay."

"You work with Luka."

"Yes."

"And Abby."

"Yes. We've, er, known each other for, oh well, for a long time."

"Known each other."

"Yes."

"Like in Bible."

"What?"

"And Joseph took his wife but he knew her not. King James version. My father got it from a German soldier who got it from an English soldier who . . . well, never mind. I learned Christmas Story by heart. No idea what it meant until later. " He laughed shortly. "Knew her not."

"Oh, yes, I see, you mean . . . well, yes, for a while, we dated for … a while." Ivica's gaze had drifted over his shoulder; Carter turned and followed his gaze to where Jing-Mei was talking to Luka. "My fiancée. I could introduce – "

"This is the fiancée you chose."

"Yes."

Carter felt suddenly uncomfortable. Ivica was looking at him right in the eye now, eyes narrowed very slightly. "Good decision" he said quietly. "Excellent decision". He glanced down at Carter's feet, raised his eyebrows at the none too clean trainers and shook his head. So much for that theory – or perhaps it was the carelessness of wealth. "Pleasure to talk to you Dr. Carter." He began to walk away but then turned back; Carter raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Nice shoes" Ivica said and left him.

oOo

"He looks like he has a stick up his ass." Ivica gave Luka no preamble.

"No, he's alright, comes from money."

"Hmmm rich. . . fiancée's pretty though."

"Yes she is, but he's a good guy"

"She rich too?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?"

"He and Abby . . . " he waved a hand non comittedly in the air.

"Why do you ask?"

"Something Maggie said."

"What did Maggie say?"

"That Abby could have married a millionaire. He's a millionaire and he told me they . . . dated. Unless she knows any other millionaires of course. Maybe she could spare one for Anna." Luka didn't reply. "I can't see it. What was she doing with him?"

"You'd have to ask her."

"Fine."

"Don't."

"Why not? Abby and I don't have any secrets."

"You think she's going to discuss her old boyfriends with you?"

"Sure. You'd be surprised what she discusses with me. We're like this." Ivica crossed his fingers by way of demonstration. "Besides, I'll trade her information."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. It depends what she wants to know."

"About you or me?"

"Whatever it takes." Ivica had to admit that his own past might provide more fertile ground for traded secrets than Luka's. Although, he thought, there was always the glove compartment . . .

"You missed your calling."

"What's that?"

"Double agent."

Ivica rocked on his heels a little, looked from Carter to Abby to Jing-Mei.

"She's better off."

"She knows."

"Well she's a wise woman." The smile that Luka gave him vanished as Ivica's palm landed hard between his shoulder blades. "A wise woman." Luka moved before his father could deliver any more congratulatory slaps.

oOo

Ivica was aware that he'd have to be careful about how much he drank. He was bemused by the abstemiousness of the other guests and a little contemptuous of how they picked at the mountain of food spread before them. When did these people just give in to the sheer pleasure of over indulgence he wondered, and he thought of parties at home, real parties.

He watched from a safe distance as Rosa nestled against her mother whilst the guests sang "Happy Birthday" badly, and then attacked the cake placed in front of her with wondering eyes and eager fingers. It was pleasant to see the to and fro between Luka and Abby as cake and frosting was smeared over their faces, but he couldn't help but remember the simple cakes made by his mother and by Elena for Damir and Luka, unsophisticated and crude in comparison to the marvel of smooth icing and symmetry now being demolished. He knew which he preferred.

Earlier he'd wandered outside for a cigarette and had seen the child sized car left there, a huge red bow tied to the front and an outsized card identifying it as being a gift from the millionaire. Excess like this they could handle apparently, but a few drinks gave them the jitters. Strange people.

He consented to have his photograph taken with Rosa who was insufficiently at ease with him to attempt assault with a deadly cake but he was happy to give up his place to Maggie who was altogether more at home with this. He wished they'd all go away now, he wanted to have a sensible conversation with Luka or Abby or even Maggie. He'd never been good at small talk and he'd had enough of behaving himself. As though in answer to the prayer he hadn't uttered Rosa began to whine and the guests took this as their cue to take their leave. Ivica dropped heavily onto the sofa next to Abby in whose lap Rosa was now asleep, and eased his shoes off. He took Abby's hand and kissed it as Luka returned from seeing the elderly couple from next door, laden with left overs, off the premises. Ivica watched as his son gently disentangled the sleeping child from Abby's arms and carried her away to her bed. Maggie was long gone, flushed and looking as dangerously close to meltdown as her granddaughter. It seemed she'd be leaving early in the morning, a long bus ride ahead of her.

From nowhere it came.

"You scared Carter."

"Carter?" He almost hated the name and couldn't have said why if his life depended on it.

"You don't fool me old man."

"He's rich man, huh? So that stick he has up his ass is made of gold." He knew he was challenging her, didn't know why.

"Hey, I don't insult your friends."

"You don't know my friends."

"He's a good guy."

"That's what Luka said."

"And if he can say it . . . "

"Eh, he wouldn't have been right for you."

"I think we both figured that one out." Indeed. And what if they hadn't?

"No regrets? You could be rich woman now."

"I am a rich woman now." He could have kissed her for that.

"Hah, yes, you have the truth there. I'm glad you didn't marry Mr Gold Stick, very glad."

"Stop with the stick thing, OK?"

"OK, I stop. Funny though, eh?" Oh, yes, funny. And done with. " Shame your mother had to go to bed so early."

"She has a very long bus ride ahead of her tomorrow."

"I like her."

"I noticed. I think it's mutual." He struggled with the word and with the edge in her voice., and then the explanation came. "She likes you too."

Jesus, when would they stop with this? Did these people never flirt with one another? Were they not adults? Adults were allowed to get drunk, to smoke, to swear, to flirt, it was the seasoning to life, and he was suddenly indignant, his amour propre offended. "Luka warned me to behave myself, like I'm 17 and she's little virgin."

"I was worried, he saw that."

"Why worried?"

She hesitated, seemed unsure. "Sometimes what would be OK with most people looks like the start of something else with her. It wouldn't be the first time she'd made a fool of herself with a man."

"And now you too! You think I would let her do that? You think I would take . . . " he faltered, tried a word in Croatian.

"Advantage?"

There it was. "Yes, you think that? I don't do that, I never have." He reconsidered. " Well, maybe once. Twice. But with your mother? I'm old but I'm not crazy, I don't shit on my own doorstep."

"Hey, take it easy, it's not – "

But he was into his stride now, his resentment in full force. "And her, what does she do for rest of her life, stay home and watch TV, bake cakes? She has right to her life, to a man in her bed if she needs one." He wanted to tell her about his memories as he'd stood over the piano, wanted to tell her that he missed that, still missed it, still wanted it and that the Mrs Gavrilic's of the world were a pale imitation of it but Jesus, better than nothing, that inside he was still the strong, joyful and ardent young man who had swept Elena off her feet by the sheer force of his passion for her. He was neither a child nor a shrivelled relic and nor was her mother and if the thought of them doing what it seemed you now had to be young and thin and certainly not anyone's parents – and oh, look at the irony of that, the pair of you - to do upset them, well, she and Luka could take their tight arsed, prudish control freakery and shove it where the sun –

"I overreacted, OK? I told her I'm sorry, she's OK with it."

She looked worried and his resentment ebbed a little. He remembered a time when Emilia had gone missing for a week before being returned to Dushan's door by a pork butcher from Sisak for whom she had conceived a passion after he'd given her a lift in his van. The man had seemed terrified, trying with more gentleness than might be expected to prise Emilia's arms from around his neck. She herself screamed that he had lied to her, that he'd said they were coming to get her things. Ivica helped to get her away from him and she hit out before turning to face the wall and sobbing and emptying her bladder at the same time. The man had looked shame faced and apologised to Dushan rather than to Emilia, who was beyond hearing him, saying he was sorry for the trickery but he had to do something, there was a Mrs Pork Butcher at home in Sisak and she was a patient woman but had had enough and the children were starting to get scared, and it was the only way to get Emilia to come to Zagreb at all as he really hadn't wanted to involve the authorities. Behind Dushan the pupil he'd been with stood at the top of the stairs and goggled. Ivica had been in the kitchen, smoking and drinking coffee, waiting for the last pupil of the day to leave so that he could go through the nightly ritual of reassuring Dushan that his wife would be back. And now she was.

Ivica wanted to ask Abby about the times her mother had made a fool of herself with a man, wondered how the scalding humiliation he knew Dushan had felt had been for the child she was then, but she was speaking, and he wondered if she'd seen the questions in his mind.

"You know I think you're just pissed because you didn't get anywhere with her."

"How do you know?"

"What?"

"How far I got?"

"Stop right there old man." She was smiling but she undoubtedly meant it. Well, her house her rules.

"You know this is terrible party, we have no dancing."

"We have no guests."

"So?"Ivica's search through the CD collection led him to a collection of standards and he was thankful that Magdalena had shown him how to use the player at the house in Dubrovnik. He had one himself in Vodice; it was still in the box. Taking Abby's hand he pulled her into his arms and steered her around the room.

"Hey, you're good at this!"

"You're surprised. Thank you so much."

"I just never thought – "

"Elena and I used to dance. Two babies in the house, no money but we had her father's old records and so we danced. She was better than me, of course she was, she had music in her feet as well as her hands". He was quiet for a moment, remembering Duke Ellington, Bobby Darin singing "Beyond The Sea", Edith Piaf. He'd never liked Edith Piaf.

"I wish I could have met her."

He nodded and they danced in silence. He'd thanked God more than once that Elena hadn't been there when Danijela and the children were killed, hadn't been there to see the grief and rage which had convulsed Luka, hadn't been there to see him leave or to wait futilely for him to come back. And if that hadn't happened he would not be here now with Abby as Luka settled Rosa upstairs. It was, as Abby had said before, moot. The song ended and he took her face between his hands and kissed her soundly.

"Can I cut in?"

Neither of them had seen Luka watching. Ivica handed her over to her husband implying that Luka wouldn't have had such an easy time of it if he'd been twenty years younger and not ready for his bed. At the door he turned and watched them dance and smiled as he heard them laugh. He felt a little pain stab at him as he remembered Luka and Danijela like this andfor a terrible moment he resented Abby's happiness before shaking himself. "You stupid old arse" he muttered to himself just loud enough to have Luka look over at him, puzzled. He shook his head and managed a smile. He didn't think either of them noticed when he turned and made his way upstairs.

oOo

Ivica listened intently for a long time, assuring himself that Luka and Abby, if not asleep, were at least engaged in activities which didn't require conversation. He slipped out of bed and pulled on the dressing gown which Tatijana had bought him especially for this trip, because she thought that that the ancient robe he refused to throw out wasn't fit to be seen in polite company. The new one was thick and felt stiff and unwieldy and he missed the soft familiarity of his old one. The sensation of thick carpet under his feet was foreign to him; he was used to old, wobbly floorboards, to rough tiles and to faded rugs. He'd slipped on those rugs more times than he could count and well remembered the sound of dog's claws skittering over the floor and the tangle of legs and ears and tails as they lost their footing. Luka and Damir had listened wide eyed as he told them solemnly that the rug in the farmhouse parlour was magic and that if they weren't good boys it would whisk them away to a place where there was neither cake nor ice cream nor their grandmother's bottled cherries.

Rosa's door stood open half way, the glow of a night light spilling across the landing. He stood in the doorway for a moment before moving to look down at the child. She lay on her back, arms thrown above her head, fingers curled into loose fists, utterly peaceful. There was a chair by the window and he moved it gingerly so that he could sit at her side, his arms resting on the rail of the crib.

Reaching down to her he ran his fingers lightly over her hair. "Rosa" he breathed, "I have five days to get to know you. I won't be here to watch you grow up so you have to tell your parents to bring you to see me. I want you to see the water at home, so clear, the sky . . . I'll paint you in the sunshine by the sea and we'll go and visit your Uncle Damir and Aunt Tatijana and your cousins. We'll stroll down the Stradun and you can throw money into the Onofrio Fountain, only it should be your father's money and not too much because money is money, you know? I don't know about the city walls, the climb doesn't suit my knees any more, but your dad could take you and maybe I can meet you afterwards for a beer. Then maybe next time we could go to Zagreb and you can meet Rade and Drazen and Srjdan. Lazy drunken sots all three of them but good men, good hearts. Well Srjdan not so much maybe and he has a foul mouth on him, but no need to worry about that, I can cover up your ears." His voice never rising above a whisper he told her about his country, her father's country once, the farmhouse, the orchards, about the grandmother she would never meet and finally about the brother and sister whose shadows would always cling to her. "But only to keep you warm, you know? Only to keep you warm."

When Luka went into Rosa's room the next morning, surprised not to have heard her, he found his father still at her bedside, slumped very awkwardly in the chair, chin on his chest. One hand was extended between the bars of the crib, and his forefinger was held securely in the little girl's hand. They were both sound asleep.

Luka left them that way.

END