by Lena Bourne
“You are right,” he says. “Those two live in that building at the end of the street. Or at least they have been living there for the past two weeks or so.”
Well, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Thank God for nosy neighbors.
We’re with Europol.” I take my ID from my pocket and show it to him, guessing he can see the flashy gold badge even if his eyesight isn’t the best. At least it’s good for that. “Do you mind if we ask you a couple of questions?”
The man squints at my badge and then at Brina’s for a few moments.
“Sure, come on up,” he says. “I’ll buzz you in.”
He disappears into his apartment and I walk over to the front door to wait.
“Better than nothing, I guess,” she says. “I hope he actually knows something.”
“Second floor, the name’s Knez,” a voice says through the intercom, right before the buzzer sounds. “You’ll have to take the stairs.”
We enter the dark lobby and head up the grey and black marble stairs. He’s waiting for us on the second-floor landing and waves us to follow him into an apartment behind him. Going by the design, I’m guessing the furniture inside is from the 1970s and it’s all made from medium brown wood. Cozy and warm, though dated. A dark maroon carpet covers the floor. He leads us to the kitchen that’s at the end of the hall. All the furniture here is white, and plenty of light shines through the large window at one end. His wife is standing by the stove, a tight smile on her face. She’s wearing a loose house dress, white with large lilac flowers, and her grey hair looks like she just combed it.
I introduce myself and Brina, and Knez does the same for him and his wife. The room smells of potatoes and meat.
“Would you like some coffee,” the wife asks. She already has the copper pot and a packet of ground coffee ready to go on the counter.
“We’d love some,” I say and smile at her.
“Come, sit,” Knez says, pointing at the table. He takes a seat by the window, I sit opposite him and Brina to my right.
“So, what do you know about the residents of the apartment building at the end of the street?” I ask. “Or about the massage parlor that operates there?”
The man chuckles. “Operates? No, I don’t think so. It never operated. Not since the sign went up at least twenty years ago now.”
“Yes, it was about twenty years ago,” his wife says as she sets a two-story plate of cookies in the center of the table. “Remember, it was when I had those pains in my shoulder. We tried to get me an appointment for a massage, but no one ever answered the doorbell.”
"Yes, that’s right,” Knez says. “That sign has been in the window all this time, but it was never an actual business. Young girls come and go from that place all the time though. I think something very shady is going on there.”
“Do men come and go too?” Brina asks. “Perhaps during the night.”
The room fills with the thick aroma of freshly brewed coffee as Knez looks at both of us in turn, with a mischievous half-smile on his lips and his eyes twinkling.
“Not many,” he says conspiratorial tone. “We, old-timers in this neighborhood had our suspicions about that building for years. Most believe it’s a whore house—“
“Language,” his wife admonishes him with a sigh.
“Alright, a bordello then,” he corrects himself. “But I don’t think that’s it at all. It’s something else. And the mayor, the man who was shot yesterday—Leskovar—he was involved.”
“You saw him coming and going?” Brina asks in an awed voice.
The old man nods, his jowls shaking. “Him, the Derganec brothers, Leskovar’s first wife, and even his daughter,” he announced triumphantly. “The ex-wife owns that whole building. And I think they’re using it to hide young women from other countries in there. Strippers and prostitutes and such.”
The wrinkles on his face and the way his skin hangs tells me he’s well into his eighties, but he talks like a young man, and his eyes are clear. I’m hoping this means he truly remembers all this and isn’t just filling gaps in his memory by making things up. He nods knowingly at both of us, as his wife brings over two cups and the small copper pot of coffee, then returns to the counter for two more cups and the milk and sugar. She pours for each of us before taking a seat next to Brina.
“He’s telling the truth,” she says. “We have a good view of that building from our balcony where we like to sit in the evenings.”
Brina reaches into her pocket and pulls out her notebook with such fury it startles the old woman. She slips out a photo of Anita and shows it to them.
“Did you ever see this woman here?” she asks. “It would’ve been about eight years ago.”
The husband and wife take turns studying the photo, but they both shake their heads.
“I can’t be sure,” Knez says. “Maybe. A lot of girls came and went from that building over the years. And a lot of them look like this one. Blonde hair, brown eyes, pretty.”
Brina looks disappointed as she puts the photo away.
“I often wonder where they go when they leave here?” Mrs. Knez says in a faraway sort of voice.
“They come here via bad roads and they leave the same way,” the husband says impatiently, as though they’ve had this conversation before. “Nothing we can do.”
“Have you tried to do something?” I ask.
“Us neighbors, we talk. One time we even made an anonymous report to the police, but no one ever came to investigate,” Knez explains. “They’re not harming anyone by being here after all.”
“But you’re sure the building is owned by Leskovar’s ex-wife?” I say. “Or is this just based on neighborhood gossip?”
He cracks a lopsided grin and nods knowingly. “Oh, I’m sure. We’ve been living here for over forty years and we know who’s who. I remember when they bought it. They were in their twenties. Leskovar has always been a big shot around here. His father was the director of a big furniture company, which used to have its headquarters here. This was in Yugoslavia, of course. But his son did well for himself in this new country too. He’s something of a celebrity here, is what I’m trying to say. And his first wife came from a prominent family too. I don’t know much about his new wife, the one who allegedly shot him.”
I was just bringing my cup up to drink, but I set it back down.
“You doubt his wife shot him?” I ask.
Knez leans forward on the table and interlaces his fingers. “It doesn’t make sense, now does it? With all the other things the man was involved in, it doesn’t seem likely that he’d die at the hand of a jealous wife.”
His wife lays her hand gently on his forearm as though reining him in. “You don’t know anything about the man’s life.”
“I know I saw him the night before he was killed,” he says breathlessly. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was looking out my bedroom window like I usually do because it calms me, and I saw him. Another man was with him. A tall man, so tall he walked a little hunched over. Leskovar didn’t seem quite himself either. He wasn’t as composed as he usually is, his hair was messed up and his tie was crooked.”
“And you saw all this from which window?” I ask. The man might sound like he’s one-hundred percent sure of what he’s saying, but so do all people who are good at telling tales. He might be one of those.
“Come, I’ll show you,” he says and gets up.
He walks quite fast and straight for a man his age and girth, as he leads me back into the hall and through the first door on the right. Inside, there’s a twin, wood-frame bed against one wall, an old TV atop a dresser that looks to be even older than the furniture in the hallway, and a matching wardrobe. Heavy blackout curtains, drawn now, hang down the left side of the window. A plush, yellow armchair is tucked between the wardrobe and the window.
He stands next to it and leans on the wide windowsill. “This is how I stand when I look out. As you can see, this window offers an even better view of the buildi
ng than from the balcony. Nothing much happens on this street at night. But that night it did.”
I check and see that he’s telling the truth, this window was a perfect view of the apartment building with the massage parlor. I stand aside so Brina can look too.
“So Leskovar and the tall, hunched man went inside,” I say. “Did you see them come out too?”
“Yes, about a half an hour later,” he says. “I think they checked every apartment in the building. At least judging by the lights in those windows turning on sporadically.”
“And at what time was this?” I ask.
“They arrived a few minutes past three AM and left at exactly three thirty-nine. I checked my watch,” he says proudly. And I’m very glad he did.
“Did Leskovar look like he was in distress?” I ask.
The man nods. “He certainly looked like he didn’t want to be there. But the other man wasn’t using any kind of weapon or force to make Leskovar show him the apartments.”
“And would you recognize the tall man if you saw him again?” I ask.
Knez nods. “A bright floodlight comes on automatically over that front door. I got a good look at him. Do you have a picture to show me?”
Brina leafs through her notebook and takes out a few photos. One is of the Derganec brothers, which the old man recognizes, but dismisses. Then there’s a series of photos of young men, none of which Knez identifies.
“Then we’ll be back when we have more pictures to show you,” I tell him with a smile. “Would that be alright?”
“Absolutely,” he says.
We return to the kitchen to finish our coffee. At the wife’s urging, I even sample one of her homemade walnut cookies. They’re hard as rocks, but quite tasty once they soften.
They both walk us to the door, I give them my business card, and they assure us we can come back any time with more questions. I’m pretty sure I can feel their eyes on my back as we get in the car.
“Lucky we found the unofficial neighborhoods watch,” Brina says. “It’s more information than I got the last time I was asking questions around here.”
The car smells of our meat and potatoes leftovers and I roll down the window as I pull away from the curb.
“I’m guessing that’s because they all seem to have a sort of loyalty to the Leskovar family in this town,” I say. “And now that he’s dead, they all want to help.”
“That makes sense,” Brina muses.
“I suggest we go back to the office now and check up on all the information we’ve gotten so far,” I say. “Then we’ll come back and ask some more questions.”
The sun is setting a gorgeous golden color and I wish I was heading back home to spend the evening with Eva. No such luck tonight. But she’ll be arriving at her destination soon now, so at least I’ll get to talk to her on the phone.
11
Eva
The first two hours after we reached Renata’s house were spent chatting and eating. Her grandmother, Fata, is spunky and likes to talk. She’s a full head shorter than me and walks with a cane due to one of her legs being shorter than the other, which was the result of a childhood accident. She told me that entire sad tale of how she fell out of a tree and broke her leg in several places when she was seven years old. On top of it, they didn’t do a very good job of treating the breaks, since her parents took her to a local healer instead of the hospital and she’s had several operations since, but it still hurts to walk. She explained all this matter-of-factly in between offering me heaping platefuls of every type of burek imaginable—spinach, cheese, meat, and even one kind filled with lettuce. When I expressed my outrage over what had happened to her, she just dismissed it, saying those were different times back then and she did alright for herself.
While Renata is ostensibly living with her to be of help in her old age, Fata strongly hinted that it was actually the other way around, that she was helping Renata get her life back on track. I think she makes a good point.
We talked of all sorts of things, including Selima and the Fairytale Killer. But every time I thought I was getting somewhere with my questions about Anita and her sister Esma, the conversation quickly turned in another direction. Nothing like trying again and again though.
“It’s tragic how many young women leave Bosnia and never return,” I say, taking a different approach. “Do you know if anyone in town ever heard from Esma Rajić after she disappeared?”
I’m guessing Fata, at her age, and having lived in this town all her life should be a fountain of gossip.
She shrugs, her face twisting into a grimace like she smelled something foul. “In my day you persevered and kept going no matter how hard it got. You didn’t go with the first guy who promised you something that any child would know is too good to be true.”
“Is that what happened to Esma?” I ask. “She left with some man?”
“The way that no-good boyfriend of hers was carrying on after she left, I’d say no. Crying and whining like a woman.” She pauses and scoffs. “But I don’t know. Here have another cookie.”
She picks up a heaping plate covered by at least three different kinds of cookies. Walnut, chocolate, hard and soft. I already had more than I usually eat in a week.
I take one more, a thin chocolate-covered one which would be my favorite if it didn’t taste so strongly of egg.
“So—" I say but she braces herself on the table and stands up with a groan.
“Time for dinner,” she announces. “Goulash and dumplings.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t possibly eat another bite,” I say, wishing I could eat after seeing the slightly cross but mostly disappointed look on her face.
“And I should call Mark,” I add.
Renata gives me a knowing grin. I’d only sent him a quick text that I arrived safely when we reached the house. It’s full dark outside now, and I kind of really want to hear his voice. Not that I have much to report. Plus, I’ve been sitting in the sturdy wooden chair by the matching kitchen table for hours now, with only a thin pillow to take the edge off and I need to stand for a while.
“I think I’ll go for a short walk while I make the call,” I say and in a flash, both of them look like they’ve seen a ghost.
“What? Is it dangerous?” I say, chuckling faintly, looking from one to the other. “This looks like such a quiet, peaceful neighborhood.”
I’ve had a great view of it out the kitchen window while we were speaking. Children played outside past twilight, mothers pushed strollers along the sidewalk, boys rode bikes, laughter was the main sound I heard. So why this fear in their eyes?
“Of course it’s safe,” Fata says, waving her hand through the air dismissively. “I just don’t want you to get lost. Renata should go with you.”
“How is she going to call her boyfriend if I’m right there, Gran?” Renata asks sarcastically.
“I can call him later,” I say and stand up. “Come on, let’s go for a walk to work up an appetite for later.”
Since Fata’s the one who kept changing the subject away from the topic of Anita, I’m hoping Renata will give me the answers I need once we’re alone. She doesn’t look thrilled at the idea of a walk at all, but she gets up anyway, puts her white cardigan back on, and joins me by the door. Something definitely shifted when I said I’m going out alone. And I hope my journalistic skills aren’t too rusty to coax exactly what that is out of Renata.
I grab my coat off the peg by the door and follow Renata out of the house. The air smells of freshly growing greenery and newly flowering bushes and plants. Spring is definitely in the air here. But there’s a chill underneath the fragrant freshness and it eerily reminds me of the cold emanating from the Rajić house we visited earlier.
The street looks like it’s been newly paved just recently and we walk along the sidewalk heading slightly downhill towards the town center. The only light comes from the street lamps, which are spaced so far apart we have to walk through pockets of near-total darkness
between the soft orange pools of light they give off.
“Is the darkness the only reason your grandma didn’t want me to go outside alone?” I ask and as Renata gasps, I’m afraid I chose too direct a question to start my inquiries.
She says nothing, and I glance at her sideways to see why. She seems to be struggling with something, but finally, she smiles.
“It’s just that you don’t know your way around town, and you’re a foreigner, I think,” she says. “Fata doesn’t know you’ve lived all over Europe and walked alone at night in places much more dangerous than here. You can’t blame her, she’s hardly left this town.”
“So it is dangerous here?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Look, we don’t talk about it. But we have a fair share of not quite all-there men here. You know, guys damaged by the war. It’s not a good idea for women to be out past dark alone, especially if they don’t know their way around. And some don’t take too kindly to foreigners. Even Slovenian ones these days.”
“It’s that bad?” I ask. “I never imagined.”
She laughs nervously. “I really don’t want you to think badly of us. It’s not that serious. But the war…well, it brought back some traditional ideals too. About women walking around alone and things like that. It’s getting a lot better though now that people are starting to forget.”
Bosnia is still predominantly a Muslim country, I know that, but it’s never been super traditional, and I didn’t think that had changed. But clearly it had.
“The problem now is mostly poverty and so little hope that things will get better any time soon,” she adds. “But I don’t know, I haven’t lost hope yet.”
I’m so glad to hear her say that. Given how low she was the last time I saw her.
“So, do you think it could be that Esma disappeared because she tried to get away from here?” I ask. “Have you heard any gossip of this man that promised to take her away to a better life?”