Before opening my eyes I had to search in the darkness behind them to decide where I was. A jazz band hammered so loud from the main building it nearly crumbled my eardrums. Evening was coming on while I washed, changed my jacket and tie, and went to the dining room. Soup, cutlets, chips and a bottle of wine had one half of me lively, while the other stayed as exhausted as if recovering from a mild stroke. The prefabricated ersatz of the place wouldn’t stand up to much argy-bargy if I complained too pointedly about the band. All I could do was soothe myself with regret that Sophie wasn’t with me, though it seemed so long since our encounter on the train I wasn’t sure we’d recognise each other passing on the street.
The place was full of glum holidaymakers waiting to phone home and say how much they were enjoying life, so I queued twenty minutes at the booth and, according to instructions, called Lord Moggerhanger.
“Michael?” he said.
“That’s me.”
“I’ve been waiting. Where are you?”
I told him. “Just inside Jugoslavia.”
“My finger’s running east from Milan, looking for it. Ah, here it is.” He laughed, neither a good nor a bad sign. I was too far away for him to bother me, anyway. “That’s top hole,” he said, as if I cared. “You’ve got a pin on my map all to yourself. Don’t you think that’s an honour?”
“I do. Thank you very much.”
“Keep on keeping on. Call a little earlier tomorrow.”
I hung up — though imagined he beat me to it — and went to bed, falling asleep when the jungle-band piped down at eleven.
After a good night under a warm ocean of unrememberable dreams, I paid two hundred dinars for my lodging, and stowed my briefcase in the car.
I was always inspired by unknown territory, its sights and smells and mysterious expectations, and the unfamiliar horizons to lure me on. I threaded the Alpine houses of Planina, then floated along a stretch of motorway, the land lush and hilly. A young bloke in a pay booth coo-ed over the car, and asked my destination in precise English.
“Sofia,” I said, having seen it on the Michelin map of Europe and liked the resonance.
I agreed when he remarked it was a long way. He wanted to practice his English by saying he was a numismatist, and asking if I had a fifty-pence piece to complete his collection of queen-headed coins. I remembered a Jubilee Crown in my waistcoat pocket, and gave him that. As if unable to believe his luck he shoved a pack of local currency into the car, and when I scooped it up and handed it back he pushed it through the window again, told me to be careful on the road, and waved me on. I didn’t want his money, but maybe it was a reward for spontaneously handing over my last Jubilee Crown, a gesture which might bring the luck I could yet need on my expedition.
With so much traffic on the winding road it was impossible to overtake without the prospect of getting mangled, and sitting on the wrong side of the car made it difficult in any case. Scared, but in control, I trundled along, and beyond the Zagreb bypass the road was even more crowded. A bend brought a driver around on the wrong side, two more cars following as if competing in the foolhardy stakes of the Jugoslav Grand Prix. They had Sarajevo number plates, so must have been mindful of that fatal shot which started the First World War, and they were now trying for a third even at the cost of their lives. But I was no archduke, so ran my motor along the verge to let another madman in a souped-up pram get by.
The possibility of never seeing Sophie again split each second into two, and kept me on absolute alert. It was Death Road, unremittingly perilous, with lay-bys so short that only three or four cars could park at the same time. Rubbish heaps reeking of oil and petrol made me afraid to light up. Bottles, rags, tins and plastic bags underfoot sent me gladly back on the road, happy only until I was on it. A cross with fading flowers decorated a field every few kilometres, or displayed a burnt-out saloon, all doors open and surrounded by scraps of charred luggage.
Service stations were crowded with lorries on the Turkey and Middle East run, and clapped out Mercedes full of Turks going home from Germany, so jammed inside that nobody driving could see behind, luggage racks piled with mattresses and washing machines. I saw a dozen people get out of one car.
Filling my waterbottle from a toilet tap, I hoped it hadn’t been through too many drivers guts. The coffee was like the boiled up Spanish root we chewed as kids — or some did — and I was even charged double for the rotten coffee.
Miraculously, I found an empty and fairly clean lay-by fifty miles on. Beyond a few trees in a rock-strewn field, and not far from a farmhouse, was a respectable sort of lean-to shaded by a few bushes. To one side children played ‘in and out the windscreen’ of a car with its front smashed in. My camping gas was soon flaming on a pile of old bricks, and I put the kettle on, to brew a mug of the best tea.
A man who came out of the lean-to seemed in a hurry to reach me. Instinct said get in the car and flee, but curiosity stopped me. He didn’t look like a beggar or appear threatening, yet wasn’t in the dress of a peasant either. He was a stocky man of about sixty — though he could have been forty in such a place — with plenty of grey beard fuzz around his features. His arms swung open the closer he got, highstepping between stones and furrows, a smile from one ear to the other as he came on.
If I hadn’t found the lay-by by chance I might have thought him one of Moggerhanger’s mainland squad checking up on me. His wave was a kind of signal while stepping over the low wall, and he grabbed the hand not holding my mug. It was no surprise when he said in English: “Have they sent for me, then?”
It was hard to talk, with juggernauts earthquaking both ways along the Ribbon of Death. “Sent for you? Who do you mean?”
“Somebody should have,” he cried. “It’s time they did. I’ve been here seven years.”
When he poked me in the ribs I was reminded of Jim Hawkins’ encounter with Ben Gunn in ‘Treasure Island’. “You don’t by chance have a jar of Marmite with you?”
I took a pace back on saying that I didn’t.
“Or a tin of Oxo?”
He frowned at my laugh, his face turning so miserable I had to give him something to live for: “If I come back this way I’ll bring you some.”
“But are you sure nobody sent you? I can’t believe they didn’t.”
I poured him the last of my tea. “I’m a bona fide traveller. Nobody sends me anywhere. I’m surprised you asked.”
He drank, gratefully. “You shouldn’t be. I thought you were from the British Embassy, or even the Foreign Office. The buggers promise now and again to send a car and get me out of here. They’re absolutely bloody heartless. Not that I’m sure I want to go. In fact I don’t think I do, not all that much, anyway. Sometimes I only think I want them to come and get me so that I can have the pleasure of telling them to piss off.” His blue eyes fixed me: “This is a rare mug of tea. I haven’t had such a good brew in a long time.”
I rummaged around the boot and brought out an unopened packet. “Make yourself a few more when I’ve gone.”
“Gone?” He looked distraught, even suspicious. “Are you sure you aren’t from the embassy? You wouldn’t deny me the thrill of telling you to leave me alone and get lost would you?”
“You flatter me.” Assuming he was clearly off his head I nevertheless opened a packet of Huntley and Palmers, which he also found welcome, as who wouldn’t? I was so intrigued by the lunatic I would have given him everything except the car. “Do you live in that shack over there?”
“Shack? You’ve got a cheek. It’s my abode. Neat and clean inside. I’ve lived there ever since it happened.” Tears fell down his face. “Things don’t get any easier to bear. But why should I expect ’em to, eh, you tell me that, go on, tell me.”