“Quit defending Avdi, Afrim.”
“Will you cheer up, Drago? Not only is the Maršal of Yugoslavia real, she showed up at our guild’s container today.”
“I’m aware. I was there.”
“So then, why do you seem sullen even for you?”
“Because she’s nothing; she’s practically a feral person.”
Afrim looks over at me. “Nothing? She’s destined for greatness.”
“Couldn’t she and her parents have been ‘destined for greatness’ two decades ago? Then we might not be in this situation. She may look young but she’s a dinosaur who doesn’t realize it.”
“I’m not so sure about that. What do you think of her as girlfriend material?”
“Seriously?” I stare back out the window, over at her sheltered, perfect little world on the other side of the canal. A world that is about to be shattered if she tries to fulfill her so-called mission. A wave of bitterness—dread—washes over me. “Bad idea. It’s not like she can do anything to help herself, let alone us,” I tell him. “She’s part of a useless elite. Even if she were interested in lowlifes like us, I’d turn her down.”
It’s just the latest sacrifice I have to make on the journey of everything that has happened since I became an orphan. The hope she offered me when she showed up there today is false. Even though she doesn’t realize it, it has to be. I don’t want to watch yet another person in my life get hurt.
Elena
I walk back up the stairs. The cargo containers are lined up next to the parking lot and the lawn. Afrim is there, drinking beer, even though it’s lunchtime.
“Hey, Maršal Elena, it’s great to see you back.”
“It’s good to be back. I have a couple of things I was hoping to ask you. Hristijan is threatening to send me back to Macedonia if I don’t shape up, academic-wise. He’s hoping that a more practical approach would ‘stimulate greater enthusiasm for my studies,’ as he put it. The German chancellor is in town and she summoned Hristijan tomorrow, to talk about a Kosovo migration wave or something. He is going to bring me along with him.”
“Wow. The German chancellor, like Angela Merkel the German chancellor?”
I shrug, not sure who he means. “I guess. I think that what I really need is someone to help explain what I need to know, simply. I was hoping you’d be willing to help.”
“Sure. Like I said, I could show you a few things. Come on inside.”
I follow him in. Drago is in front of a laptop computer on a collapsible table.
He bristles. “Great,” he mumbles at me. “You’re back again.”
“And you’re a jag-off again,” I retort.
“Like I said yesterday, don’t mind him,” Afrim says. “I don’t think that he ever got completely over what happened to our parents, or…”
Drago shoots him a glare.
“…something else,” Afrim finishes.
“What did happen, just generally, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A Kosovo Liberation Army unit leader killed both of our parents when Drago was twelve and I was ten, right at the outbreak of the Kosovo war. As much as Drago doesn’t like to admit it, it was an accident. He took us in and, long story short, Drago had to do work for them until they moved us here.”
“That…sucks?” I manage, a bit flummoxed. I had to study all this history in the compound. This is the first time I’ve met someone who was actually affected by the nineties’ wars, other than my family and their friends.
“Not that you speak from experience,” Drago whispers as if reading my mind, but way more critical.
I flinch and move on. “So how did you end up here?”
“When I was about twelve,” Afrim explains, “we had to flee to Brussels, to avoid getting marked in an Albanian blood feud. The guy who took us in fought for a Mujahedeen group that arranged for us to come here. Drago refused to have anything to do with them afterwards and we’ve lived on the streets since then.”
I advance on Drago. “No wonder you’re a jerk. You worked for an Islamic terrorist organization? Are you a terrorist or a war criminal?”
“Will you get off your high horse already?” Drago snaps up at me, from where he’s hunched over his computer. “It wasn’t like I had much of a choice. We were kids and we were dependent on them. I did what I had to, to keep me and my little brother alive.”
Afrim cuts in. “Besides, the guy who raised us wasn’t all bad and all that business is over now. It has been for years.” Afrim steps in front of where Drago is sitting. “Instead of continuing to be dependent on them, we’re living in a room in an abandoned factory complex that we fixed up.” Afrim holds up the beer in his hands. “You can see how devout I am, left to my own devices.”
I hunch my shoulders. “Sorry about your parents. I almost lost mine in Kosovo, too.”
“Yeah, you don’t have to tell us about it.” Drago flinches.
I wonder what he means, but doubt that I am going to get an answer out of him at this point, so I narrow my eyes on Drago and speak to Afrim. “Geez, what does it take to get on this guy’s good side?”
Drago looks away. Afrim looks me in the eyes. “Honestly, sometimes I’m not sure my brother likes much of anything after everything that happened.” He goes on, his tone more lighthearted. “So, now that we have that over and done with, what was the other thing you wanted to ask me?”
“Your guild, now that I’m going to be spending more time here, I was thinking of joining. I’ve got to do something other than stay cooped up in the residence.”
Drago looks like he’s about to protest, but Afrim is quicker.
“Great. Your timing is almost perfect. We still have half of the party circuit to go. You’ll love it. All you have to do is pay the membership fee.”
I hunch my shoulders. “Membership fee? That could be a problem. Other than the lunch money that Hristijan gives me for the canteen, I’ve pretty much got nothing.”
Drago glances over at me. “I wouldn’t call the complete support system you’ve had protecting you all of your life nothing.” I expect him to give me more crap but he just stays silent.
“Great,” Afrim says. “I’ll let the other members know. We’ll have an impromptu get-together tonight.”
“Why?” I ask, completely unsuspecting.
Afrim drives a fist into his hand and smiles almost mischievously. “Because, to become a member, there are a few more important things you have to go through, other than paying the fee. Now, in the meantime, what questions about the EU do you have for me?”
I shrug. “Well, I have this quiz on the 2009 Treaty of Lisbon coming up.”
Afrim snorts. “Actually, considering your meeting tomorrow, I’m going to suggest that we start with another, more basic question.”
“Oh really? And what would that be?” I ask.
“‘Who is Angela Merkel?’”
***
I stumble out of the elevator into the entry hall toward the living room. Hristijan hobbles toward me, using a crutch, his prosthetic leg off.
“Where have you been? It is the middle of the night. I have been worried sick. Why didn’t you pick up your phone when I called you? You should be in bed. We have the meeting with Chancellor Merkel tomorrow morning at ten.”
I step into the kitchen table light. His face goes white.
“What is all this?” He points to the already tarnished smock that has all of the other names of the guild members signed on it and the long-visored hat attached to the smock with a chain that’s apparently there so you won’t lose it if you get too emboozened.
“Why is your hair blue?” he blurts at me.
“Some chemical, from the veterinary faculty. Apparently, it’s kind of non-optional,” I mumble.
“What? Are you drunk?”
Rather than admit that I’m utterly smashed, I reach into my postman’s bag and take out a paper. “I passed the quiz on the larger executive role of the European Council in the 2009 Treaty
of Lisbon this afternoon.”
“Great, what changed?”
“A member of the Social and Political Sciences Guild helped me.”
I dimly expect him to hit the ceiling. Instead he says. “I guess if it works, go with it. Just don’t spend too much time around those people.”
“Yeah, that might be kind of a problem.”
Hristijan’s eyes practically roll back into his head. “Pray tell. Why?”
“Because, I kind of joined the Social and Political Sciences Guild today.”
Hristijan brings his head to his palm. I stumble toward my bedroom. I hear him behind me muttering to himself.
“Wonderful. How am I going to explain to Chancellor Merkel that Maršal Tito’s legacy is a student guild girl with neon blue hair?”
Five:
Your Presence Is Kindly Requested…
Elena
Apparently the German chancellor is a really big deal or something. Afrim says she’s one of the most powerful people in Europe. It seemed to impress him that I was going to meet her. Drago didn’t seem to care. It’s like I personally did something to him even though I haven’t and I only met him a few days ago. Hristijan and I get ushered into a perfectly boring-looking meeting room somewhere in that big amoeba-looking building where I saw the British protesters on the day I got here. This stocky woman with thick jowls and short light brown hair is sitting in front of a German flag and a Croatian flag with the EU one in the middle.
“Chancellor Merkel,” Hristijan says, extending his hand, which she takes politely. “Sorry we’re late. It is good to see you again. Meet Maršal Elena Marković, Maršal Tito’s granddaughter and informally the Maršal of Yugoslavia, despite what the Americans would like everyone to believe. She will be staying in Brussels while I show her the ropes. I hope you do not mind that I have allowed her to tag along.”
Chancellor Merkel arches an eyebrow and shakes my hand.
“A pleasure, Madam Chancellor.” I say what Hristijan told me to say, trying to ignore my upset stomach and imagining what she must think of the clash between my blue hair and the austere black pantsuit I’m wearing. Letting them dye my hair like this seemed like a good idea yesterday, while I was drunk. Afrim knew I was going to have this meeting. It must have been a kind of joke on his part.
We sit. The chancellor looks directly at Hristijan, like I’m not even there.
“I will come right to the point. Germany has been experiencing an unexpected spike in irregular economic migration from Kosovo. Apparently, some migrant smugglers there are spreading a rumor that Kosovoans can get refugee status and benefits if they simply come. The source of the rumor isn’t known. The reality is that most of them will be deported, and be left with nothing upon arrival back in Kosovo. I am here to ask that security on the border between Croatia and Bosnia be increased, and that the signing of Kosovo’s Stabilization and Association Agreement be delayed as a result.”
I kind of recall that the thing she’s talking about is the agreement that will make Kosovo a candidate for EU membership. I don’t care if she’s the most powerful woman in Europe. I know what my duty is. I stand up and yell at her. “No. You can’t do that. That will only delay Kosovo’s entry into the EU. It’s my mission to bring all member states of the former Yugoslavia into the Union.”
The German chancellor turns to me. She arches an eyebrow again. “Let me tell you something, young woman. If you want to look at the real culprit for why the Balkan states are not already in the EU, I suggest you look at how most of them have failed to reform since independence, in the absence of you and your parents. It is not our fault that the EU, Germany included, cannot accept them. Most of them still do not meet the Copenhagen Criteria.”
I have no idea what those are, though I probably should.
“Oh come on, there was a war. I have friends whose parents were killed in it. You seriously think it’s Kosovo’s fault that they’re not ready? You need to let them in so you can help them reform.”
She responds evenly, “We tried that strategy with the 2007 expansion. It did not work out very well.”
I have no idea what she is talking about there, either. I look for something else to say to try to convince her that this is a bad idea. Nothing comes to mind.
Hristijan puts a hand on my arm and shoots a glance at me. “Calm down, Elena. Chancellor Merkel is right, at least about the border security. This is the best thing that can be done, given the circumstances. The less illegal migration there is from the Balkan states, the more chance the other former Yugoslav countries will have of being accepted in a timely manner.” He looks back at the chancellor. “You have my assurances that I will raise the border security issue with my colleagues back in Zagreb and discuss the matter of the Stabilization and Association Agreement on the Committee of Permanent Representatives, though I am afraid that personally I cannot give my support to the proposed delay.”
“I understand. Thank you for your time.” Merkel gets up and leaves, giving an odd glance back at me.
I expect Hristijan to yell at my outburst. Instead, he smirks in slight disbelief. “You just told off one of the most powerful people in Europe, without even batting an eyelash. Do you know what that tells me?”
“What?”
“That once you know what you are talking about, you are going to make one hell of a Maršal.”
It’s the first time I can remember Hristijan paying me a compliment. Finally I think I can see a bit of the kid in him who enjoys at least trying to speak truth to power. Now I am on a mission: to make sure the signature of that Kosovo Agreement thing will go ahead as planned. I just wonder how I am going to fit that in, along with the guild’s party schedule.
Drago
I walk from the S building, the really big black high-rise where the enrollment department is, and through the parking lot toward the guild’s cargo container.
Something literally hits me; I go flying. Rubber screeches on the gray pavers. I land on them, scraping my cheek.
I look up to see that I’m staring down the front bumper of a Porsche Cayenne S SUV. It’s worth more money than I’ve ever seen in my life. The next thing I notice is that the numbers on the license plate aren’t red and that there’s an S under the EU flag on the left side, instead of a B. Whoever almost ran me down is from Sweden.
The driver rushes out of the car. She’s in her late teens or early twenties, a few years younger than me.
“Oh my God. I can’t believe I hit you. I was digging around in my computer bag on the passenger seat and I didn’t realize where I was going. Are you hurt?”
My cheek smarts, but looking at her unruly brown hair and slight build, I say, “I’ve been through worse, believe me.”
She extends a hand and helps me up, the spitting image of a girl I used to know, except different.
“Emilija.”
“Drago. Don’t take this the wrong way, but your name doesn’t sound very Swedish.”
“Your name doesn’t sound very Belgian; I was born in Bosnia. My dad and I fled to Sweden after we got kicked out of our village during the war. I’m here in Belgium on an Erasmus program.”
“Yeah, I was born in Kosovo. Both my parents died in the war there.”
She shrugs like it’s a gesture of empathy. “Small world. Sorry I hit you. Let me make it up to you. There’s this place near the university I’ve been meaning to try, La Bécasse. How about we have dinner there?”
“You mean the place on the roundabout by the cemetery? Since you’re on an exchange I should probably let you know that nobody goes there who’s under seventy or doesn’t have more money than God.”
She heads back to her Porsche. “Don’t worry. I have my dad’s expense account. It will be my treat. See you at seven tonight. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to park this boat and get to class.”
I head for the container, almost forgetting that there is blood dripping down my cheek. I can’t let her down. I definitely intend to meet Emili
ja at seven.
Elena
I’m back in the residence. Hristijan’s wife calls that dinner is ready. I walk into the kitchen and sit down at the table, Rada on my heels. I wonder why Drago is still being a jerk to me, even though Afrim has been going out of his way to help me with my studies, for whatever reason. It’s been less than a week, but it’s already paying off in terms of my marks. It’s not like how Drago is acting should bother me. I know plenty of other people at the ULB now, too. I shove Drago’s issues out of my mind.
I tell Rada to sit and then wait for Lucija and Erika to come out of their rooms. Lucija looks like sitting down to dinner is a waste-of-time chore just as much as everything else. Hristijan comes out of his office. He sits. I’m about to dig in to the truffle fuži his wife made when the building’s intercom rings.
Hristijan gets up and answers it. “Yes? For God’s sake, Jonathan, I am about to sit down to dinner with my family. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
There is a pause. Hristijan listens to the response. “All right, very well. I’ll buzz you up.”
After a few minutes a graying, middle-aged man with glasses walks into the living room.
Hristijan speaks to him immediately. “What is so important that you have to come bother me at home?”
“I am not here to see you. I am here to see her,” our visitor responds smoothly in a polished British accent. He points at me. Then he walks up and extends his hand. Unsure, my eyes wandering around the room, I take it.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Jonathan Watson, Mr. Bektashi’s counterpart from the United Kingdom on the Committee of Permanent Representatives to the EU Council. I am talking to you because, looking at the current security situation in the EU’s neighborhood and within Brussels itself, I have come to the conclusion that the United Kingdom and all of Europe will require the informal influence you wield. I am here to ask you to lend your public support to allow the UK’s Border Force to perform more rigorous security checks on EU citizens entering the UK, as I attempt to have such an opt-out placed on the agenda for debate in the Council of the EU.”
Battling Brexit Page 5