Nicole and her pals –
for it was nearly summer, so she had pals again -- climbed a set of three
stairs – remnants of a long-gone stone building and now simply part of the path
– and arrived in the center of Punta
Corrente a few minutes later. On another remnant of a long-gone stone
building, this time a floor, a temporary stage was set up, partially shielded
by a copse of pine. However, they could hear that the band had already started.
As they drew nearer, Nicole started looking around as casually as she could,
trying to spot Zlatko.
Nicole had met Zlatko Adamić the day before.
"Oprosti, gospodice."
Nicole 's head snapped up, so that she was looking up
into eyes bluer than hers, blue like a turquoise ring, poet-blue. She pulled a
professional smile onto her face. "Dobar
dan," she greeted. "Izvolite?"
Belatedly she thought to stand up, so she wasn't looking up at the guest
through a veil of hair.
With a small smile playing around his lips, the man asked
in Croatian about a booking under the name Zlatko Adamić, four rooms. Nicole
looked into his poet eyes again for a moment before checking the register and
confirming the rooms were ready. She was about to ring for the receptionist to
process the guests when the man stopped her by asking, still in Croatian,
"You're not a Croat?"
In English she answered, "No, I'm not. I'm
American." She ducked her head, in case he was one of those who would
lambaste her because of politics.
He wasn't. His eyes appraised her, never leaving her
face. "Interesting."
He stopped back by later and told her she should check
out his band the next day. She made sure to note the time.
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The band was halfway through their first song, a pounding
Euro-rock tune with a Croatian touch – think drinking song. People stood or sat
around, enjoying sun, music, and company. Children chased each other around
with water bottles, dousing each other whenever possible. A triad of young
toughs – with Coldly Handsome at the center and Dejan in attendance – sat on
lawn chairs in the shade. Nicole smiled at Dejan, since they were mildly
acquainted. He did not smile back. Typical
unreliable Rovinjian. Coldy Handsome, on the other hand, nodded a greeting.
Several families sat on blankets, picnicking. Groups of teenagers stood around
trying to look cool, and occasionally managing. An enormous grill stood off to
one side with sizzling čevapčiči
sending their fragrance on the air. Nicole wasn't even tempted; she'd caught
sight of Zlatko.
He stood near the stage in the company of people who
looked involved in the show; in fact, Nicole recognized the entertainment
coordinator as he had thrown a party at the hotel the previous night. Yet Zlatko
was the only one who looked comfortable in his own skin: casual jeans with a
black band tee tucked in, Ray-bans shielding his poet-blue eyes, crisp curls in
an artless disarray. He seemed to effortlessly radiate the cool the teenagers
were attempting to effect. A thrill ran through Nicole's chest.
"I'll be back in a few," she said, not noticing
if any in her group was even listening. As she walked towards the stage, she
noted the way company seemed grouped around him. The overdressed entertainment
coordinator was facing him and telling him an anecdote it seemed. A woman in
zebra-striped pants leaned in, as if to listen to the anecdote, but with face
turned towards Zlatko; three other women in similarly rocker outfits also
listened in. Zlatko chuckled at the anecdote, a shadow-beard framing his full
mouth. Nicole heard Zebra Pants titter.
As she neared the group, she considered several different
opening gambits. Once she was close enough that he had almost certainly caught
sight of her, though, she settled on a simple, "Ciao."
Zlatko grinned lazily. "Bok," he returned, the Croatian equivalent of ciao. He didn't say anything else right
away; rather, he pushed his Ray-bans up onto his forehead and looked her over,
this time taking in all of her. He dropped the sunglasses back in place.
"Ok."
It felt like a
compliment to Nicole. Her sub-conscious led her to tuck a strand of hair behind
her ear as she searched for something else to say. "So... the band sounds
great."
Zlatko glanced in their direction and nodded approvingly.
"Their sound is still young, but they are coming along." A smile
played around his lips, and he could tell by the tilt of his head that he was
addressing the next comment to Zebra Pants. "Maybe they could be the next Prljavo
Kazlište."
Zebra Pants took the bait. While Nicole tried to remember
where she had heard the name before, Zebra Pants declared, "Prljavo
Kazlište are like heroes in Croatia. You can never replace their position in
Croatian pop culture. They were with us from the time of Yugoslavia, and they
sang of the war while it was really happening-"
Zlatko smirked and cut her off. "No one is talking
of replacing our national icons. I would not dream of trying." The smile
disappeared. "But even national heroes need heirs."
Zebra Pants opened her mouth, clearly ready to enter the
fray again; however Zlatko interrupted with, "Pardon me," aimed at Nicole.
"This is Nina, our M.C. today. Nina, this is Nicole. She runs the Hotel
Adria."
Clearly still miffed, and now skeptical as well, Nina
looked Nicole up and down in a far less flattering way than Zlatko. "Nice
to meet you," she equivocated. Then, more truthfully, "You run the
Hotel Adria?"
Nicole squirmed. "Not exactly..."
Zlatko said, "The hotel certainly seems to run more
smoothly thanks to your attention."
Nicole, predictably, was charmed.
An assistant came and dragged the coordinator away to
attend to some details. Zlatko initiated a conversation between Nina and one of
the other rocker girls, apparently a local d.j. He then unobtrusively pulled Nicole
to the side, away from the crowd. He
pushed his sunglasses up again, this time on top of his head. He looked into
her eyes. "Tell me. How is my English?"
"Perfect," she breathed. She wondered if she
should blink, but didn't want to lose sight of his eyes even for that
nanosecond.
"But I speak with an accent, no?"
"Oh, yes."
The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled. He
suggested, "Možemo na hrvatski."
We can (speak) in Croatian.
Nicole said nothing; she'd understood him, but the
Croatian language had otherwise fled her mind.
Zlatko made an amused sound in the back of his throat.
"Dobro. In English then."
He made another perusal of her body and nodded to himself.
"Interesting."
Nicole frowned. "Interesting?" It sounded less
a compliment even than "ok."
"In English – yes, interesting." He motioned
with his head. "Hajde. We should
watch the band from closer to the front."
Nicole spent the afternoon in his company. So many people
vied for his attention, clearly drawn to him, yet he always made a point of
including Nicole. After eight months of feeling like an outsider, Nicole felt
part of the in-crowd. The heady rush of his subtle attention made her feel
wanted – and made her want. Zlatko didn't touch her, didn't flatter her, but he
seduced her just the same.
When Nicole noticed the day's light had reached a
late-afternoon hue, she looked at the time and regretfully announced, "I
have to get back to work."
Zlatko moved his lips to just millimeters away from her
ear. "I will see you there, then." His fingers alighted gently on her
arm for the briefest of moments. It was the first time he had touched her, and
it set her blood aflame.
As she started back across the Punta Corrente in the direction of the hotel, she caught sight of
her friends – finally caught sight of
her friends; she had been keeping an eye out for them all afternoon so she
could introduce Zlatko to them. She waved; Martina waved back, but Matija was
facing the other way, apparently focused on his plate of čevapčiči. She didn't have time to go over to them.
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