Venetian Masks (19 page)

Consulting the map again, Jeff made his way to Tkalčićeva Street. As Jelena had promised, it was a pedestrian-only zone, rising up a moderate slope and lined with restaurants and boutiques. Unlike the buildings near the time-share and the main square, which had probably been built in the late nineteenth century, these smaller structures looked medieval. They were mostly in very good shape, though, and sort of charming. There was even a section of ancient-looking stone wall that must have protected the city hundreds of years earlier. Tkalčićeva was as busy as the main square. Lots of college-aged people lounged on chairs alongside the walkway, drinking and chatting happily. Again, none of them were Cleve.

By the time Jeff reached the top of the hill, where the street opened up for cars, he felt overwhelmed with despair. Yes, he had just arrived in town and he probably ought to be more patient, but the prospect of finding Cleve seemed slim, even knowing where he had slept the previous night. And even if Jeff did find him, what was he going to do? Demand answers Cleve probably wouldn’t give? Swoop in and miraculously save him from scary mobsters? Fall down on his knees and declare his love?

Slowly, Jeff descended the hill. At some point he turned off Tkalčićeva and found himself among more medieval buildings, most of these at least café-free. This part of town seemed to house museums and government offices. There was also a large white church with a colorful tile roof that sparkled in the sunshine. People were posing for pictures in front of the church, while a pair of bored-looking policemen leaned up against a building nearby.

Slightly downhill from the church, a sign caught Jeff’s eye, in part because it was in English. Museum of Broken Relationships, it read. Fortunately, the sidewalk was nearly deserted, because Jeff stood stock-still, trying to puzzle out the meaning of the sign. Maybe it meant something different in Croatian, although that would be weird. Maybe it was a restaurant with an avant-garde name. Overcome with curiosity, he went inside.

It turned out that the place truly was a museum of broken relationships. He paid twenty-five kuna to the smiling young woman near the entrance—who spoke flawless English—and wandered around. Apparently, people had donated items that represented their failed loves. He was pleased to discover that the explanatory signs were in English as well as Croatian, and each told a detailed story. There was a wedding dress and an assortment of sex toys; there were teddy bears and garden gnomes; there were postcards and books and dolls. Not all of the relationships were romantic, such as the doomed political partnership symbolized by a stolen painting. Some relationships had ended with divorce or death, and some just plain ended.

The exhibits were funny and sad and touching, and Jeff left the museum with a smile on his face, wondering what he’d contribute from his years with Kyle. A Crock-Pot, perhaps. Or maybe his overmortgaged house.

The top of the funicular was very close to the museum, but it turned out you could walk down a long promenade instead, enjoying an overview of the lower part of the city. He descended some steps shaded by tall overhanging trees, made his way down a very narrow curved street that reminded him a little of Venice—only with more graffiti—and stepped out onto a busy street he recognized as Ilica.

He was only a couple blocks from the Empire, so he detoured in that direction, but of course there were no signs of Cleve. It was midafternoon already and he was exhausted. He decided maybe a nap was in order after all.

But when he returned to his room, he checked his e-mail first, finding a message from his mother:

Jeffy,

Zagreb? That’s a change of plans. Sounds to me like your trip has been good for you. You’ve broadened your horizons. What kinds of souvenirs do they have in Zagreb?

I showed your house to that couple yesterday, honey, and I’m fairly certain they’re going to make an offer. I’ll keep you posted.

Dad sends his love. He wants you to know that somebody named Something Petrovic was from Croatia. I think he played a sport.

Love,

Mom

He sat there for several minutes, staring at the screen, trying to gather his thoughts. He knew he couldn’t afford the house by himself, so he was going to lose it eventually anyway. That’s why he was trying to sell it. He’d signed all the paperwork before he left, giving his mother permission to accept offers on his behalf in case the place sold while he was gone. So he’d been aware all along that pretty soon the house would no longer be his—but now the emotional reality of it hit him like a sucker punch. He felt like a failure. He felt as if he were treading water far at sea, no dry land in sight. He felt bereft, maybe even more so than when Kyle had left him.

And speaking of Kyle, there was a message from him too. Jeff almost deleted it but couldn’t restrain his curiosity.

J,

Wow! Who’s the hunk? Is he Italian? I’m glad you’re having a good time, J, I really am. You guys look really happy together. Looks like more than a fling. You’re not planning to move to Venice, are you?

Take care,

K

Jeff reread the e-mail several times, wondering what Kyle had seen in those photos that suggested there was something real between Jeff and Cleve. Probably another great performance by Max Palmer. Jeff, however, had not been acting.

He sighed, kicked off his shoes, and lay down on the blue comforter.

H
E
AWOKE
with that strange feeling of disorientation, and it took him a moment or two to remember where he was. At least he didn’t remember any nightmares. He glanced at the clock and learned it was a little past six. Time to find some dinner, he supposed.

The weather remained balmy, and the cafés were even more packed than before. Jeff bought something called a
burek
from one of the bakeries. It was good: a flaky sort of phyllo dough baked around some kind of meat-and-onion filling. He ate as he strolled back to the main square. He’d finished the food by the time he got there, so he chose a café at random, picked a seat with a good view of the trams and the passersby, and ordered a beer—
pivo
in Croatian. It was dark and pretty tasty.

Maybe he should have brought his Kindle, but the activity around him was pretty diverting. A lot of people stood around a tall clock near one side of the square, waiting to meet others, while another rendezvous point seemed to be in front of the statue. He amused himself for a while by guessing who was waiting for whom. He also liked watching the way people darted across the tram tracks, many of them coming within inches of getting run over. There were pigeons too, looking exactly like pigeons everywhere. They gathered around the fountain and perched on the statue’s sword.

Darkness fell but the square remained brightly lit. Jeff was just debating whether to flag down the waiter and order another
pivo
when a movement halfway across the square caught his eye. Two men walking side by side, their backs to Jeff, just like a couple hundred other people who were strolling nearby. But something about the way the taller man moved was familiar—that and the man’s thick dark hair, which was tinged slightly red in the overhead lights.

Jeff leapt to his feet, threw a fifty-kuna note onto the table—far more than his beer cost, but he didn’t have time to find smaller change—and vaulted the low cement wall that divided the sidewalk café from the rest of the square.

Chapter 13

J
EFF
raced across Trg bana Jelačića as fast as his long legs would go—nearly bowling over several innocent bystanders—and clapped his hand hard onto a broad shoulder.

Cleve jumped and spun around. The look of utter shock on his face would have been almost comical under other circumstances. “Jeff!” he yelped.

Jeff was slightly calmer. “Dobar dan, Cleve,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster, despite breathing hard.

“It’s evening. You’re supposed to say
Dobra večer
.”
Cleve’s eyes were wide and a little dazed-looking.

“I guess I’m still stuck on Italian.” Jeff narrowed his eyes at Cleve’s companion, an attractive man in his early forties. The man looked wary, as if uncertain whether Jeff might be murderous. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Jeff asked Cleve calmly.

“Oh, for—” Cleve closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and turned to the man. He said something in German. The man scowled at Jeff but nodded curtly. He whirled around and walked away.

“You speak German too,” Jeff said. “You’re a man of many talents.” He tried not to sound snotty, he really did.

Cleve’s jaw worked. “Look. I’m sorry about the money, man. I needed—”

“I don’t care about the fucking money!” Jeff’s response was loud enough to make several people nearby turn and stare.

In a much quieter voice, barely more than a whisper, Cleve said, “You didn’t cancel the credit card. Least not as of yesterday. Why not?” He stared intently at Jeff’s face as if he was looking for something specific but didn’t quite expect to find it.

“I…,” Jeff began and then ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t have an answer.

“Let’s go somewhere and talk, okay, Jeff?”

“So you can give me more lies?”

Cleve’s smile was full of sorrow. “I left the lies in Italy. You get full-on truth in Croatia.” He glanced in the direction of Ilica, toward his hotel. “You got a place to stay? Your credit card’s already paid for another night at the Empire, but I’m not positive it’s safe.”

“Safe from what?”

“That’s one of the things we gotta talk about, Just Jeff.”

It was foolish, but hearing the stupid nickname from Cleve’s lips again made Jeff’s heart flutter a little. “I have a time-share.”

They were both silent for a block or two as they walked down a dimly lit street. Jeff was the first to speak. “Aren’t you going to narrate for me? I figure you owe me a bunch of days of tour guiding.”

“I don’t know Zagreb as well. Don’t come here often. The coast, the islands, been there plenty of times, but not Zagreb.”

“You were going to play guide for that German guy.”

“Austrian. And I wasn’t gonna show him around. That was… something else.” When Jeff didn’t answer, Cleve deliberately bumped his shoulder against Jeff’s. “I can tell you about the influence of the Venetians, the Turks, and the Austro-Hungarian Empire on the region, if you want.”

“I’ll skip the history lesson, thanks. Besides, didn’t you tell me you never went to college?”

“Never even graduated high school. But I can read.” He laughed softly. “I like to, you know. Read about the places I go to. It’s like… getting to know a lover. Finding out what his background is, what he likes to do, that kind of thing. You know: he’s got parents who love him and bad fucking dreams, and he’s kind of a geek in a totally hot way.”

Jeff attempted to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“But you do. Funny thing—you probably know me better than anyone else does.”

If that statement was true, Jeff thought, it was possibly the saddest thing he’d ever heard.

Jelena had been replaced at the front desk by a young man who hardly glanced up at Jeff and Cleve when they entered. The two of them together barely fit into the elevator, and being so damn close to Cleve was almost more than Jeff could stand. He felt his treacherous face go scarlet—more from barely repressed lust than embarrassment—but Cleve didn’t say anything.

Inside the room, Jeff stood nervously while Cleve took a quick prowl around. “Your apartment in Venice was better,” he concluded.

“I booked that one almost a year in advance.”

“You probably had a great place ready for you in Vienna.”

“It’s in a fifteenth-century former monastery, a couple blocks from Stephansdom. Supposed to be one of our nicer urban properties.”

Cleve pulled out one of the plastic chairs and sat down. After a brief hesitation, Jeff did the same. He wished he’d thought to stop at a store and buy more
pivo
—or maybe something stronger. Cleve toyed with a tiny glass saltshaker. “You came a long way out of your way after a few hundred euros. And I don’t have the cash to pay you back.”

“I didn’t come for the money.”

Putting the salt down, Cleve ran a hand over his slightly stubbled jaw. “I thought you’d cancel that credit card right away. Kept expecting the hotel to reject it. But you didn’t.”

“I still haven’t.”

“Why not?” Cleve asked, not meeting Jeff’s eyes.