A few introductory words:
When I heard that Kristin Vuković was publishing a novel about a family of cheesemakers, and that the story had an international backdrop connected to her Croatian heritage, I felt compelled to reach out and ask her if she wanted to share her work with Panorama.
Happily, she agreed, and here we are, with a sample from her wonderful novel.
A few words about the excerpt… The protagonist, Marina, is in London to represent her family enterprise in a cheese competition. Despite a number of complications in her life, she’s looking ahead to a bright future. But the past is not far behind. Her family’s rivals are at the competition, making a difficult situation more intricate. Emotions are involved, and they’re conflicted, much like Marina’s notions of what’s right. As the day unfolds the past comes alive, little by little, peeling back layers of an eventful childhood. The memories are intense and the sense of place is strong, with Croatia in the spotlight, while the ever-cosmopolitan London provides a sumptuous setting for what follows: a meeting of estranged souls who share more than a few memories, and whose lives have a whiff of destiny about them.
Nicolas D. Sampson
THE CHEESEMAKER’S DAUGHTER
Kristin Vuković
Excerpt from Chapter Four
London’s skies were filled with clouds that hung over the city like wet wool. Marina had never seen so much rain. This city, steeped in grays and browns like the teas she consumed for warmth, possessed another kind of chill. Black umbrellas bobbed in sharp waves as people brushed by in a hurry. They walked like people in New York, briskly and with purpose. On Pag, people stopped to greet each other or at least exchange a quick “Bok.” Marina clutched her umbrella tighter. The November cold penetrated deep into her bones, settling in the marrow and turning her body icy.
Her father had refused to come. “I can’t be in the same room with that man,” he said, knowing his rival Josip Janković would be there representing his cheese, boasting about how his was the best. “You should go alone. I’m an old man and you have a young, bright face.” Marina begged him to reconsider, but her father’s decision was final.
She took the Tube to the behemoth conference center in the Docklands, an endless series of buildings that was a city unto itself. People poured out of the station and moved in an ant-like procession onto the escalators and ramps. She looked at her watch—late as usual, the Croatian part of her that never changed. Picking up her pace, she followed signs with the World Cheese Awards logo, a globe punctured by a gavel, and entered a great hall with ceilings twice as high as Sirana’s production room and fluorescent lighting that hurt her eyes.
“Which country?” a man asked. His badge read: Harry, Cheesemonger Herder.
“Croatia,” Marina said.
“Happy to help,” Harry said. His accent sounded funny to her half-American ears.
He led her through the maze of tables with white tablecloths, each covered with wedges and wheels of different colors and sizes, thick rinds of burnt orange, canary yellow, and deep burgundy, pieces of a dairy sunset. They passed Spain and France, countries that occupied dozens of tables with different cheeses displayed neatly on each.
“Here we are,” Harry said.
Croatia shared a single table with two of its former Yugoslav neighbors, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Serbia. Marina thought how they could never escape their geography, South Slavs forever grouped together. When Marina was growing up, Nikola had tried to explain their country’s history to her but she had trouble following it.
The fall Marina turned twelve, after that year’s olive harvest, war was all people could talk about. News stations reported that President Tuđman was planning Croatia’s secession from Yugoslavia. She didn’t understand why Serbian friends were suddenly no longer invited for dinner.
Nikola wanted Marina to understand her place in the world. “Yugoslavia is surrounded with BRIGAMA,” Nikola said, explaining how their neighbors—Bulgaria, Romania, Italy, Greece, Austria, Mađarska (how Croatians called Hungary), and Albania—brought about worries and concerns. Given their history, there was always reason for suspicion.
Every few months he made her draw a map of Yugoslavia and its republics from memory. In pencil, so that she could erase if she made a mistake, she sketched borders between the republics: Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia, Montenegro, and Macedonia. Then, with a thick marker, she retraced the irregular lines that delineated each area of land. Croatia, crowned by Slovenia, hugged Bosnia and Herzegovina like a boomerang; Croatia’s right shoulder nudged Serbia, its left reclining in the Adriatic Sea. She colored the whole of Yugoslavia with blue crayon.
Marina’s map was often revised over the years. The summer before she turned fourteen, Slovenia and Croatia declared their independence from Yugoslavia. At the time, she didn’t know what that meant, but it made her father and all the other adults nervous.
Slovenia and Croatia were shaded in purple crayon to indicate their independence. Macedonia followed. Then Bosnia and Herzegovina declared independence. Marina decided that Serbia and Montenegro, the federation that controlled Yugoslavia after its breakup, should be colored crimson, isolated in angry red to indicate the turbulence and violence of war. And Serbia and Montenegro eventually split as well.
At the cheese competition, the Serbian representative was explaining to a judge how Kashkaval was traditionally dried by attaching two gourd-shaped balls of the cheese with a single rope hung from a wooden pole. “As if placed on a horse’s back,” the Serb said, “Because ‘Kashkaval’ comes from the Latin caseus, cheese, and caballus, horse.” Each cheese contained a story.
When Marina glanced away, she saw him. There was Luka, carefully arranging Janković Pag cheese, with its red heart logo. He glanced up, his intense blue eyes catching hers. He smiled and the past rushed in: playing together as children in Sirana, when they were innocent and their country was whole. She felt something inside her stir, but quickly tamped it down.
“Welcome to our little corner of Croatia,” Luka said, grandly gesturing to their sliver of table.
“Hello to you, too,” said Marina, eyeing the table, noticing that he had taken up more than his fair share of space. Typical Janković. Marina busied herself with arranging her pamphlets on the table. Sirana’s airy blue-and-white brochures contrasted with Janković’s red heart, set against a black background. Both had gold lettering, and she was relieved her father had sprung for the metallic gold ink.
“Is your father coming?” Luka said.
“No. Yours?”
“No. And my daughter had a fever so Zara stayed home with her.”
“Sorry to hear,” Marina said.
The judge finished writing his notes on the Serbian Kashkaval and moved to Slovenia.
“Do you want gum? It helps with nerves,” Luka said.
“Thanks,” Marina said, shaking her head.
No gum could help her forget what she felt when she looked at him.
“How about some cheese, then?” he said, spearing a piece for her to try.
Marina met his eyes, narrowing hers as she accepted the toothpick and bit off the slice of cheese. It was the kind of cheese she’d grown up with, the kind Sirana used to produce. It emanated their land. She inhaled their island’s aromatic herbs and savored the salt melting on her tongue, releasing the complex flavors of history.
“With sage this strong, this cheese was made in spring,” Marina said, closing her eyes.
“You’ve always had an exceptional palate,” Luka said, smiling.
“Immortelle didn’t have a good season up north, though.”
“I can’t believe you can taste that in the cheese,” he said, shaking his head.
“Croatia?” The judge’s tag read, Martin: Chief Cheesemonger, British Cheese Society.
“Yes,” Marina and Luka said simultaneously.
She watched the judge’s eyes scan their materials and spear a slice of Sirana’s cheese with a toothpick. He chewed and scribbled some notes. Marina studied his face, watching for any change in expression. He speared a slice of Janković cheese.
“The same sheep’s cheese?” the judge said.
“It’s from the same island,” Marina said quickly.
“Hmmm,” the judge murmured.
Marina watched his pen move across the page. She couldn’t make out his chicken scratches, but noted an exclamation point. In an effort to cut costs, her father had instructed the workers to rub Sirana’s wheels with sunflower oil instead of olive oil as the cheese aged. She knew Janković still used olive oil. What else made their cheese different? Why was the judge so impressed?
“Do you have any questions for us?” Luka asked.
Us. There is no us. Not anymore.
“Just one,” Martin said. “Do you both use the same milk?”
“The secret is in the milk, which contains the essence of our island,” Luka said. “Our milk is from the northern part, so our sheep might graze on some different herbs. The southern part is barren in places because of the bura.”
The man looked confused. “The bura?”
“Our strong northern wind that can reach hurricane speeds,” Luka said.
Marina cut in, “We also have potent herbs in the south, where Sirana’s cheese is made.”
“There are probably more herbs in the north, though,” Luka said.
“The entire island has patches of salt-coated herbs that contribute to making the flavor so unique,” Marina said, forcing a smile. “And Sirana has been making cheese on Pag since the end of WWII.” She sounded exactly like their marketing materials. But she wanted the judge to know that their history mattered.
“Interesting,” Martin said, scribbling. “Thank you.”
Luka and Marina watched as he moved on to the cheeses of France.
“How could you say there are more herbs in the north?” Marina said, turning to face Luka.
“It’s true,” Luka said.
“You make it sound like we don’t have anything in the south!” Marina fumed. She felt her cheeks warming.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said.
“Of course you did,” she snapped.
“I don’t want to fight like our fathers. Let’s start over,” he said, extending his hand.
“Is that possible?” Marina wondered aloud. She had been wondering if it was possible to start over ever since she’d moved back to Pag. How do you begin again when the past threatens to drown you; how do you resist the pull to the soft floor of the sea?
As their palms met, she felt a strong current overtake her, an undeniable rush, the same sensation she’d felt when they kissed and groped as teenagers in the olive grove. They held each other’s hands for longer than necessary until Marina was forced to look away.
*****
Marina spent the rest of the day answering questions about Pag cheese and Sirana’s philosophy and cheesemaking techniques. Luka’s voice was confident and smooth, just like his father’s, which she remembered so well, hearing it for years in Sirana’s production room when Josip and her father had worked together—when they were friends, not rivals.
She tried to focus, reciting phrases and information she had prepared, digging into her brain for more information. With the overbearing lights and stream of people asking questions, she began to feel overwhelmed, her head heavy with memories.
“Our family has made cheese for generations,” Luka told a London purveyor. “My father started making cheese out of his garage in 1997, and we opened a brand new state-of-the-art factory just a year ago, with European Union funds.”
Marina bristled. That was only half the truth: Luka’s family had made cheese for generations, but not alone.
“Right. And you’re the only producer of this particular cheese?” the man asked.
“Sirana is the oldest producer of Pag cheese on the island,” Marina said before Luka could respond, handing the man a brochure.
Marina read the man’s name tag: John: Dissa, Borough Market, London.
“Where is Dissa?” she said.
“We’re opening next year near London Bridge,” John said. “I’m looking to import some cheeses from your region so I’ll keep you both in mind. I should say, one of you in mind. Since it’s the same type of cheese, we can only have one.”
Luka glanced at Marina.
“We’ll look forward to hearing from you,” Luka said, shaking John’s hand like they were old friends.
“Yes, looking forward,” Marina said, shaking John’s hand. She wouldn’t let a Janković get the last word.
The last of the judges and buyers trickled out. As Marina packed up, she noticed Luka didn’t have many leftover pamphlets and wondered if he’d brought less or if people had taken more. Either way it made her stomach turn. Had people preferred Janković’s cheese? She couldn’t stand the thought.
For years, her father had insisted that Sirana’s cheese was better than Josip’s. “Janković is just a showman with no substance,” Nikola said. Even before she’d moved back to Pag, Marina had pressed her father about spending more money on marketing. He’d just said with a deep belly guffaw, “You want us to be stupid like Josip, spending all his money on ads and fancy new labels that eat up profits?”
But Nikola couldn’t deny it: Josip’s cheese was selling. Only when he heard that Josip was entering his cheese in the World Cheese Awards did he approve new ads and packaging. Her father told her Sirana’s success was already in its flavor, in their decades of experience, but if they needed new labels and brochures to catch the flighty eyes of judges and buyers, “So be it,” Nikola had said, slamming his fist on his desk.
“Want to grab a drink?” Luka said, packing up the last of his materials.
“Actually, I’m meeting a friend for dinner, but thanks,” Marina lied.
“Come on, just a quick one.”
Looking up at him, she felt exposed under the fluorescent lighting, as if he could sense her lie. “I need to get these back to the hotel,” she said, awkwardly scooping the rest of her pamphlets into a box.
“That’s a lot to carry,” Luka said. “I’ll help you. Where are you staying?”
“Chelsea.”
“I’m in Kensington. It’s not far from there. Come on.” Luka picked up the heavy box with ease. She couldn’t help but notice his fine build, how his biceps flexed under his black T-shirt.
Marina walked alongside him, trying not to stare at his profile. He was always tall, now a full head taller than her, a giant like his father. In his presence she felt diminished. She was so preoccupied she barely noticed they’d missed the Tube station.
“Ej, where are we going?” Marina said.
“It’s easier if we grab a taxi,” Luka said. “Too many transfers on the Tube, and it’s going to rain.”
“That will cost a fortune!”
“Nema problema, it’s on Janković.”
Marina stopped walking. “I can’t,” she said. She felt guilty even being near him.
“What?”
“I can’t accept favors from you or your family.”
“Don’t be crazy.”
“If my father found out he’d never forgive me. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Luka brought his index finger to his lips, smiling.
Marina hesitated, then nodded. She felt like a rebellious teenager again.
Luka hailed a taxi. A fine mist enveloped them, dusting tiny droplets on their faces and coats.
“Where to?” the driver said through the intercom.
“Builders Arms in Chelsea,” Luka said, with an authority of someone who’d been there.
“So we are getting that drink,” she said, flashing him a smile. She’d forgotten what it felt like to flirt.
Marina watched as the droplets gathered on the windows, magnifying a darkening sky. She felt a heady mix of excitement and adrenaline. In this foreign city she felt like a different version of herself, more powerful, bold. No one knew her here; she was anonymous. She could be anyone.
They passed a park where children were playing hide-and-seek, shrieking in the rain.
“Do you remember playing hide-and-seek in Sirana’s cheese castle?” Luka said.
“Of course,” she said, her cheeks flushing. She did remember: running through the cheese castle’s dairy lanes filled with rows of stacked wheels, sitting together in the worker’s lunchroom eating slices of Sirana’s cheese with crusty white bread. Their furtive teenage meetups during the war, Luka in the northern olive groves, pressing her against gnarled trunks, his soft lips on her skin, his hands memorizing her body.
“I remember those days, before everything happened,” Luka said.
“Everything worked out for you,” she said.
Luka looked down. “Most things.”
For a moment, Marina thought about getting out of the taxi, standing with her box of pamphlets in the drizzle without an umbrella. We can’t go back. After Luka’s father had betrayed them and left Sirana to start Janković, her father had said, The past is the past. Let’s leave it there. When Marina looked at Luka, the past didn’t feel so far away.
Inside the Builders Arms pub, crystal chandeliers hung over mismatched couches and chairs. The worn hardwood floors looked at least a century old. It was cozy and familiar, the kind of place you couldn’t help but feel welcome. An illuminated sign above a wine barrel table read, “Beer today gone tomorrow.”
Luka ordered for both of them. “Two pints of Guinness,” he said.
The bartender poured velvety beer with thick white foam into two pint glasses. Luka reached for his wallet.
“It’s on me,” Marina said.
“No chance,” he said.
Luka paid before she could protest any further and handed her a glass, grinning. Her father wasn’t far from her thoughts; he would be furious. So would Marko. He was always the jealous type. Did she care what Marko thought or did anymore? They were separated now. The terms of their separation were murky, but to appease their parents, they had agreed to give it until next summer before filing for divorce.
“Remember how you used to think my father was Klek the Giant?” Luka said, interrupting her thoughts.
“I can’t believe I ever told you that!”
“You told me a lot of things,” Luka said.
“I remember the day you snuck a fistful of curds from the vat,” Marina said.
“My father gave me a slap across the face.”
“Curds went flying across the floor!”
They laughed. The heady mix of beer and memories made Marina feel lightheaded, or maybe just lighter. They drained pint after pint, so many she lost count. Loud laughter echoed in her ears. She never drank this much. Talking with Luka was so easy. Marina recognized his boyhood mischievousness in the way he looked at her, playfulness gleaming in his eyes.
“So, your husband is in America?” Luka said.
“You must have heard the rumors. I left him.” The words felt bitter in her mouth. She took a large sip from her glass.
“I’m sorry,” Luka said, putting his hand on hers.
“Don’t be.” His warm palm felt safe.
They nursed their beers in silence.
“Any children?” Luka said.
Marina felt her body tense. Luka didn’t know, how could he? How could anyone.
“No,” she said. “And I heard you have a daughter?”
“She makes everything worth it,” Luka said, taking out his phone and showing her his screensaver.
Marina stared at the screen. She shivered. The girl from the olive groves. Marina remembered her wild, bright eyes.
“She has a strong spirit,” Marina said, struggling to keep her voice even.
“Not unlike someone I used to know, before she left our little island for America,” Luka said, winking.
“She got her mother’s good looks,” Marina jested, studying Kata’s features. “And your eyes.”
Luka rotated the pint glass on the bar and took a sip.
“Yes,” he said quietly. He paused and studied the glass. “You know we are good friends with Zara’s family. My father arranged the marriage. After Branko died, I would have done anything for my father.”
Marina took a sip of beer. Her mother had called her in New York—a rare thing with the cost of long-distance calls—weeping, after Nikola and Franko had left to fight in Operation Storm. Josip, Luka, and Branko had joined the fight for Croatia, too. Men and boys became soldiers, something to which most were ill-suited.
“I’m sorry about Branko,” Marina said in a low voice.
“That bullet was meant for me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Branko jumped in front of me, knocked me to the ground. He protected me, made sure his little brother didn’t get shot.”
Marina didn’t know what to say. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“My father shot that Serb dead, so he couldn’t kill anyone else,” Luka said. “You don’t understand until someone close to you dies.”
Marina took a breath. “I had a miscarriage. Second trimester. I know.”
“I’m sorry. That’s terrible,” Luka said.
“It was. It is. Of course, it’s not the same as losing a brother.”
“You lost a life,” Luka said.
They drank in silence. Marina felt like collapsing on Luka’s shoulder. The beer made her feel heavy and slow. Being with him felt like old times. But they were both in different places in their lives now.
“I should go,” she said, rising from the stool. “Big day tomorrow, and we should get some rest.”
“I’ll help you,” Luka said, picking up the box.
“I’m fine, really. A taxi shouldn’t be too expensive from here.”
“Do you think I’m going to let you go alone in the rain at this hour?”
Marina looked at her watch. How was it nearly midnight already?
The drizzle had turned heavier. Luka opened his large umbrella and they huddled under it. Marina was too exhausted to argue. He hailed a taxi.
“Chelsea House Hotel, please,” she said.
Marina couldn’t wait to get back to her room. The alcohol made her feel disoriented. So did Luka.
He held the door for her. They entered the lobby and stood under a bright brass chandelier. He tapped the umbrella and set it in the stand.
“I can get that,” she said, opening her arms to receive the box.
Luka smiled and shook his head, ascending the carpeted stairwell.
Marina followed. She wanted to tell him not to come up, that she could carry the box herself, but the words stuck in her throat. The stairs creaked under their weight. The Victorian house had been opulent once, but it had fallen from grace. Now a budget hotel, it was a skeleton of its former self. Would this be Sirana’s fate? She could not let their beloved cheese factory become a relic. She wouldn’t let a Janković into their lives again. She chided herself for being so open with Luka.
“Which floor?” Luka said.
“The top,” Marina said. Her mouth felt dry from the alcohol.
When she turned around Luka was staring at her. She felt blood rush to her cheeks. He took a step toward her, reached down, and cupped her face in his large hands. Before she knew what was happening, he leaned down to kiss her. Swept up by the past, she turned her face and let his lips brush the edge of her mouth.
Marina felt her whole body tremble. He had been her first lover. His hands knew the curve of her clavicle, the shape of her breasts. She had buried the memories under shame and guilt. I’m a good Catholic girl, I’m a good Catholic girl, Marina remembered repeating to herself when they were younger. She felt transported back to that moment on the beach when they were teenagers, cloaked by a hot summer night, only their breath and bodies guiding them.
“We can’t,” Marina said, pulling away.
“Seeing you,” Luka said, his voice hushed. “Seeing you again…I didn’t know I still felt this way. That I could still feel this way.”
He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture he did when he was nervous. He looked distressed.
She was distressed, too. Something inside her, long dormant, had awakened. Trancelike, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, couldn’t break his gaze.
“I didn’t either,” Marina said finally. She heard herself saying the words, but couldn’t believe she was saying them, the truth of what she felt. She’d thought of him many times over the years. Those sleepless nights in Astoria, she’d wondered what her life would have been like if she’d stayed.
She wanted to let herself go, but she knew what would happen if she did. It was a line she couldn’t cross again.
“It’s been a long night,” Marina said. “Let’s both get some sleep.”
She tried to tamp down the beast that had unleashed itself inside her. It took every imaginable restraint not to fall into him.
“Don’t you ever wonder?” The way he looked at her made her feel as if he could see through her.
“What?” she said. But she knew.
“If you hadn’t left—”
“But I did.”
“I never connected with anyone like I did with you,” he said. “I miss our conversations. I miss—”
“Luka, don’t.”
She closed her eyes. The anguish returned, as fresh as when she’d left, knowing she would have a different life than the one they’d imagined together—a life in America. A life without him, far away from the war and the rivalry between their families. Far away from the raw intimacy they’d shared. Leaving him had almost broken her.
“You should go,” Marina said, pushing the door open.
“I want to stay right here,” he said.
His eyes. Those bright, beautiful eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at him any longer.
“Go,” she whispered, shutting the door softly behind her.
Later, alone in her room, when Marina crawled into bed and turned off the light, all she could see was Luka’s gaze, his warm hands cupping her face. She thought of all the secrets contained inside her body, how they moved like hungry shadows, quickening the beating of her heart.
That night, she dreamed she was on a plane back to America. In her mind’s eye she saw herself opening the red emergency exit, watched as her body was sucked through the door, disappearing into a thick pillow of clouds. She fell through the fog, engulfed in white mist. Luka’s hands were on her skin, moving her hips in a gentle rhythm, her legs splayed wide. Every muscle alert with vibration, followed by an ache that simultaneously ripped her apart and filled her up inside.
