Dust and Diamonds

By Cordelia Whyte

When Terry Hill and his family move to Zagreb, communism is history.
Croatia is independent and hoping for better days.
All might have gone well, had General Pantolic and other members of
the new aristocracy not plundered the nations wealth. Soon, Croatias
promising, democratic future looks as disheartening as the past. Applying
for EU membership simply makes matters worse.
Luka Tadic copes by exploiting the system. His brother seeks revenge. The
British ex-pats fight culture shock and Jana Filipovic succumbs to threats.
Loosely based on fact, Dust and Diamonds gives Croatian transition a truly
human face.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Aug 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465303387

Cordelia Whyte

Born and educated in England , Cordelia Whyte has lived outside the UK for the last 35 years. She is a qualified teacher married to a British research scientist. In 1998, together with her husband and the two youngest boys, Cordelia moved to the amazingly beautiful, ex-communist country of Croatia where she and her husband still live.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Cordelia Whyte.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011912412

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-0340-0

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-0339-4

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-0338-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction loosely based on both real and fictional characters, companies and events. Names have been changed to protect their identity.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

[e-mail]

302304

Contents

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

PART II

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

PART III

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Dedication

To the people of Croatia.

Let justice flow like a river! (Amos 5;24)

Thank you

Special thanks to Janet and Tomislav Tuškan for their open home and shared lives.

To Phil without whose constructive criticism this book would have been finished years ago—but no one would have read it!

And, of course Mike for his encouragement to write and continual proding to take the plunge and get the book published.

Last of all my Dad, who had nothing to do with the book but whose faith in God and cheerfulness has helped me face the challenges of life.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

Cocooned in cigar smoke and the strains of Bruch’s violin concerto, Gen. Tomislav Pantolić watched the perfectly formed barrage of smoke rings hit the glass screen between him and the silhouetted head and shoulders of the chauffeur in front of him. Boyishly pleased with his salvo he stretched towards the ashtray in the armrest between the seats. Renata, his wife, jerked her hand away and turned towards the window. It was dark outside; black rain clouds hung heavily in the sky, discharging a seemingly endless supply of liquid misery on an already-sodden city. Renata shivered and clamped together the collar of her chinchilla coat. As she moved, the huge diamond on her finger caught the headlights of an approaching car and sent a rainbow dancing across the car’s roof. The ring was a present. Renata had found it on her dresser that morning. Like all Tomislav’s lavish gifts, it would never really be hers.

Renata stared sullenly out of the window as Ivica, the chauffeur, overtook another tram. It was the last of a long string of vehicles, all standing dead in their tracks. Tonight’s downpour was too much for the city’s drains; nearly all the tramlines were under water. Some passengers were sitting tight, unwilling to take a public shower; others had disembarked and were running for shelter in the shops. Ivica, glad to be warm and dry, took a sharp left off Zagreb’s main shopping street into Britanski trg (British Square). Across the cobbled market square, a steep, winding road, reduced to less than half its width by the tightly parked cars lining both pavements, took them up the hill and out of town. Drenched, plastic-caped policemen held back the oncoming traffic to make way for the official convoy.

Once the gradient slackened, the road widened and the cavalcade moved on past several highly guarded embassies. Renata didn’t recognise the flags. It didn’t surprise her. She had no interest in foreign affairs and Zagreb had only recently become a capital city. Perhaps the diplomatic presence would lead to some renovation; the council could begin by resurfacing the road. Last winter’s frost had enlarged all the potholes; even with Ivica’s careful driving, this was not a comfortable ride. A few kilometres further, the residential area ended and the road surface improved. On her left, the densely wooded hillside gave way to the familiar road leading directly into the president’s estate.

Renata watched the car in front pass the security control and make its way through the cage-like metal gate. Ivica followed. The residence, built years ago for Marshall Tito, soon became visible as they wound their way down the tree-lined drive. Imposing, yet pleasantly modern, Renata knew the building well and also everyone likely to be there tonight. It was a big celebration. An opportunity for the country’s newly appointed aristocracy to wine, dine, and watch their president cut his seventy-sixth birthday cake. Not long ago, he had sliced and shared Croatia’s wealth amongst the same, avaricious circle of friends.

‘What’s going on?’ Tomislav shouted as Ivica suddenly jolted to an undignified—though, by no means dangerous-halt.

‘Don’t know, sir,’ the handsome young man replied, reducing the volume of violins as he turned to face the General. He did not share his employer’s taste in music. Through the windscreen, Renata saw several drivers scurrying off under black umbrellas, no doubt sent to investigate the cause of the delay. Drilled for real or potential emergency, Tomislav’s response was completely different.

‘Stay in the car,’ he bellowed to Ivica before flinging open the rear door. Tomislav sprinted athletically towards the residence, demanding, as he passed, that the other drivers return to their cars. Cold and wet, they were more than happy to oblige but equally loath to disobey their employers. By way of compromise, they went neither forward nor back. Cursing his slippery dancing shoes, Tomislav ran on. He reached the villa and mounted the short flight of wet marble stairs, wondering which idiot was responsible for tonight’s security. First thing tomorrow, he would file a short but very scathing complaint.

‘What happened?’ he barked, pushing his way through a huddle of disconcerted guests. Moments earlier, the president had been cheerfully welcoming the stream of birthday well-wishers. Now, out of the spotlight, the first lady knelt on the cold stairway, anxiously stroking her unconscious husband’s head.

‘Passed out. The doctor’s on his way.’ Anton Lukić informed Tomislav briefly. Tall, stiff, and recently retired from the army, General Lukić already had the situation under control. ‘The chopper’s preparing for take off,’ he continued. ‘We need to get Franjo to hospital. And fast.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic!’ a strained voice at their feet demanded. Weak but determined, their president had regained consciousness and was trying to raise himself from the ground. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he insisted, before once again writhing in pain. ‘The usual problem. Find my pills and get me inside.’

Several hundred metres down the drive, Renata heard the powerful engine of the private helicopter. She hated the sound. The noisy, rotating blades churned up deeply buried memories and splattered bloody television images across the windows of her mind. Renata dug her nails into the car’s armrest. It did no good. She could not resist the chilling hand of fear. Paralysed, she did not see Tomislav and three other silhouetted figures carrying the president across the lawn to his Russian Mi-17. Her only concern was that the terrifying noise must stop. Carefully, Tomislav and the doctor laid the head of state across the seat of the old machine before signalling to the pilot to take off. The pulsating beat of the blades intensified as the heavy Mi-17 ascended, then swung east across the city, hurtling its way through the low-lying storm clouds swirling overhead.

Renata’s frantic heartbeat lessened, her muscles slowly relaxed as the noise of the helicopter disappeared. She had totally recovered by the time Tomislav re-emerged at the side of the car, his immaculate dinner jacket saturated, his wet hair plastered tightly to his high, sun-tanned brow. Pouring rain shot on to her face and fur coat as Renata pressed the remote control and wound down the window.

‘The party’s off,’ Tomislav informed his wife. ‘Go home. I’m needed here.’ Having fired his orders, he turned smartly on his heels and headed back to the villa. Renata swivelled the icy diamond on her finger and watched him go. As Ivica moved the car away, she breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. Her green cat-eyes caught the chauffeur’s in the rear-view mirror, there would be no violins on the return trip. They both preferred the local pop radio.

On the southern edge of the city, Branko Tadić raised his hand a second time. He still could not bring himself to knock on the unfamiliar front door. He had gone through this scenario many times: the first few words, the awkward introductions. He thought he was ready. He was wrong. Branko picked up his half empty suitcase and limped back towards the tram stop, unsure of what to do next.

The wind was picking up, and it was beginning to rain as Branko passed the group of taxi drivers he had seen at the side of the road half an hour earlier. Business was slow, the demand for luxury services waning. Playing cards helped keep the drivers’ minds off financial deficits and reduce their surplus of time. As Branko watched the men ponder their matchstick bids, the intensity of the rain increased. Grabbing their winnings, thermos flasks, and half-eaten sandwiches, they scrambled back into the line of empty cars. Rain didn’t bother them. On the contrary, bad weather was lucrative, or so they hoped.

‘The taxi rank must be connected with the hotel over the road,’ Branko thought, struggling to put up his umbrella. The five-storey building was an incongruous sight. To the left of the main entrance, rows of windows, hulled in plush curtains, emitted subdued and welcoming rays of light. The global businessman’s sumptuous, home from home. To the right, in between TV aerials and satellite dishes, there was no comfort, no privacy. Single or double, it made no difference; all the rooms were filled to overflowing. Here, underwear and odd socks decorated weather-beaten sills and defective Venetian blinds let in the uninvited night.

‘Need a ride?’ a voice inquired. Next to the curb a taxi driver was winding down his window. Branko bent and looked into the car. A balding, middle-aged driver was leaning across the passenger seat, his flabby belly engulfing both the handbrake and gear lever.

Branko declined the offer but seized the opportunity. ‘That place, any good?’ he asked, indicating the hotel.

‘Depends,’ the driver responded. ‘Paying guest?’ he asked, eyeing Branko’s suitcase and concluding he did not fall into this category. ‘It’s not bad, or so they say, if you are here at the government’s expense.’

Branko grunted. The man wound up his window and wedged his substantial girth back under the steering wheel. Sitting back, he watched the stranger battle across the road in front of him. A sudden gust of wind turned Branko’s cheap umbrella inside out as he hobbled up to the steep flight of concrete steps that led to the hotel’s main entrance. Over the years, Branko had grown accustomed to pain. He hardly noticed the discomfort in his knee when the weather was good. Today, of all days, he would have appreciated some relief. He winced. How he hated rain! A draught blew through the lobby as he pushed open the heavy hotel door, but at least, it was dry inside the grey-tiled entrance hall.

At the far end of the otherwise empty hallway, a young woman was seated behind a reception desk. Begrudging the intrusion, she glanced up before wearily wetting her thumb and index finger and turning to the next page of a magazine. Branko trundled towards her. Half a metre in front of the desk, he cleared his throat.

‘I’m from Vukovar,’ he said, heaving his small suitcase on to the counter. The old and battered brown case was empty apart from a pair of striped pyjamas and reams of official documents. Branko took the latter out then, methodically stacked his papers before finally placing his tattered identity card on the top of the pile next to the flawless smile of the magazine’s cover-page model. He got no further. The stony peace was shattered by a child’s frenzied scream. A harassed young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, was fighting unsuccessfully with the hotel door. A toddler in a buggy and a bulky suitcase greatly impeded her progress while a little boy at her side stamped a tattoo of protest before letting out another ear-piercing shriek. ‘Deal with them first,’ Branko suggested to the receptionist once the family had successfully manoeuvred its way into the cold and cavernous lobby. It was not a selfless gesture. Children, particularly hysterical ones, were incompatible with Branko’s ragged nerves. Carefully, he gathered his unread pile of papers and stepped aside.

There were no chairs. Branko moved as far away as possible from the pandemonium at the desk and stared out of the window. Sheets of torrential rain were flinging themselves against the huge pane of glass as though determined to follow each guest in. Above all the noise, Branko heard a low-flying helicopter heading east across the city. He knew about aircraft. This was not a police or first-aid chopper; it sounded like the Russian machine belonging to the president. Branko swore under his breath. He was not a fan of Franjo Tudjman.

While Branko waited, a group of youth emerged from the lift at the left side of the hallway. The tallest boy, no older than fourteen, was on crutches, his movements swift and agile, considering he’d lost half of his right leg. Branko sighed; he’d seen far too many young lives ruined in the last few years. Bored, the gang hung around in the far corner of the foyer, rolling cheap cigarettes and poking fun at each other until an inflammatory, throw-away comment suddenly sparked an emotional inferno. A fight broke out. The young mother screamed and protectively grabbed her children while the receptionist, used to high voltage stress, calmly rang for her boss. Once the commotion was over, the fraught mother was handed her key and directed to a first-floor room. Now, the receptionist could turn her attention to the old man. Where was he? She was sure he’d been standing by the window when her manager broke up the fight.

Branko was outside. Rain dripping on to his shoulders from the rim of his damaged umbrella, the decision had been made. He could not live in this hotel. As he contemplated his next move, the nervous knot in Branko’s stomach tightened. He hardly knew the man he was about to ask for help. Luka had been a child, Branko already married and settled when thirty years ago, their parents had moved from Vukovar to look for work in Zagreb. Branko had never intended to follow. Never!

For the third time that evening, he trudged past the taxi rank. None of the cars had moved. He had almost reached his brother’s front gate when the side door of the house opened and a portly female figure hurried out. She had three plastic bags. One was tied round her head to keep her hair dry, the other two bulged with household rubbish. They bashed rhythmically against each legs as she swung her arms and strode swiftly but awkwardly through the rain. Having propped the carrier bags against a street lamp at the edge of the pavement, ready for collection later that night, the woman was about to straighten up when she caught sight of Branko. Martina Tadić had never actually met her brother-in-law, but she had seen family photographs. Half expecting his visit, she recognised the stranger immediately. Her welcome was as effusive and spontaneous as the hotel’s had been sparing, though, in his present mood Branko wasn’t sure which he preferred. No more procrastination. He was trapped.

‘Those eyes,’ Martina insisted, as she led him through the puddles in the courtyard to the side door of the house, ‘anyone can see you and Luka are brothers.’

No one else was home. As he entered, the warmth of the room caressed Branko’s cold hands and face. It felt good. Martina took his wet coat, shook it, and hung it next to the door, while her visitor slowly looked around. In homemaking and personal appearance, Martina was clearly a no-frills woman. The sagging couch in the corner had seen better days, the cast-iron wood stove was big and ugly but, Branko noted appreciatively, everything was clean and tidy. He shared Martina’s passion for order and his sister-in-law seemed genuinely friendly. A broad, doorless archway led from the lounge into the kitchen. Martina invited him through for coffee. On the back wall, above the sink, one of the cupboards was slightly askew. Martina followed his gaze.

‘Luka’s got two left hands,’ she commented drily as, right on cue, the maligned handyman opened the side door. Oblivious of his brother’s presence, the clean floor, or the work that had gone into it, Luka dripped his way towards the kitchen. ‘Look who’s here,’ his wife announced cheerfully as Branko stepped out into the centre of the archway.

The two men now facing each other, could not have been more different. To Martina, Branko’s worn but well-coordinated jacket, baggy trousers, and lace-up shoes had an air of sophistication compared with her husband’s would-be-Nike tracksuit and expensive but incongruous brown leather loafers. Luka’s bulk, if shared with his emaciated sibling, could provide both with an enviable physique. Her husband’s pendulous beer belly had always repulsed Martina. Fortunately, her endless mental list of complaints soon had to be put on hold.

‘Sorry to hear about Nela,’ Luka blurted out as a puddle of muddy rainwater collected at his well-shod feet. Unable to think of any further condolences, he bent to give the small, dapper stranger in front of him a loose and unconvincing hug.

‘Thanks,’ Branko replied, distractedly patting his brother on