The man with the shaven head ...

From time to time, the icy glare of violence has caught me unawares - I can remember how the father of one student suddenly turned up at school - he left the pitbull in the BMW - there he was, squaring up to me, his thick neck pulsing, his spittle wetting my face - the school was picking on his son - 

I stood my ground - the bull necked dad left without being able to sort out the teacher who had given his son a detention - the next day, during the morning briefing, I was presented with a certificate attesting to my bravery - 

I can recall, too, the scowling man in Herceg Novi who offered to buy guileless Tessa a drink - the waitress said - no, do not take a drink from him - he is a bad man - she was a beautiful young woman, with delicate olive skin - when she smiled, you could see one of her front teeth was missing - 

The town was broiling with the sullen implacable heat of a Balkan August - our driver, Goran, told us that Montenegro was the stolen car capital of Europe - you will see your car outside my father's house - 

In Split, one evening, we were listening to an American choir singing in the Peristil - the clean cut boys were singing The Auctioneer's Song - they swung their arms splendidly - 

Sitting below me was a man with a shaven head - you could see, very clearly, the marks of a war wound - a bullet, or shrapnel, had left a deep groove in his skull - his daughter handed him icy beers - she soothed him when he started snarling at the American boys - 

 

But when one of the girls sang Ave Maria, he listened in rapt concentration, his lips moving - when she'd finished, he whistled and roared his approval - 

I wondered what part he'd played in the Homeland Wars - what things had he seen, what things had he done?