Searching for Stolen Love

by Kenneth Szulczyk

  Chapter 11

  I looked both ways before stepping out of the front door of the Bosnian University of Management. I didn’t want anyone I knew to see me.

  I killed two people today, and my hands and arms trembled in fear, while the Smith and Wesson, tucked inside my dress pants, felt like an ice pack against my skin.

  Although the sun was shining, a freezing wind howled as I began walking down the street. It was around noon and many pedestrians walked along the sidewalks. I tried to blend in, so no one would recognize me.

  I exhaled plumes of mist, as my breath froze in midair. I walked to the center of town by the water fountain, now covered by a thick tarp.

  Sadness tugged at my heart as I looked at the bench where Yelena and I first kissed. At this moment, three teenage boys sat at our spot, playing and jostling each other.

  I felt the rage boiling in my veins at Yelena's kidnapping. Rage melted and faded away my fear. I will go to Montenegro and find my girlfriend.

  As I made my along the street, I saw the Serbian church where Yelena and I attended every Sunday afternoon. Memories of Yelena and me attending church for the first time flooded my mind…

  After I had made love for the first time with Yelena, we bonded together, becoming inseparable. Yelena called me one Sunday morning and asked me to meet her at the Serbian church. I happily complied.

  That Sunday was a typical fall day. Green leaves were transforming to bright reds, yellows, and browns. That day was not too chilly, and I only donned on a brown leather coat.

  As I approached the church, the bells began chiming. The last of the parishioners entered the church, closing the large, thick wooden doors. Then I saw Yelena standing to the door’s side.

  Yelena's smile broadened as I approached her. She wore a purple blouse with splashes of bright colors, and a pair of blue jeans. She pulled her dark hair backed into a braided ponytail. Her black high heels let her stand a little taller.

  I looked at the church in awe. The front of the church had a soaring narrow tower that jutted five stories tall with an onion dome on top. On both sides of the tower were smaller towers that were only three stories tall with onion domes. On top of the domes were long skinny crosses that reached for the heavens.

  I quickened my pace to a jog and grabbed Yelena in a sweeping, loving embrace. I hugged her firmly and whispered, “Hi, beautiful. I’m glad to see you.” Then I kissed her on the cheek.

  Yelena whispered, “Hi Keith,” and pulled away from my embrace. Her face reddened from embarrassment. She said, “Not here, Keith.”

  Yelena pointed her index finger towards the sky and added, “Not in front of God's house. You must wait until after church.”

  Yelena didn’t wear a jacket, and she felt a little cold, so I removed my jacket, wrapped it snuggly around her, and took her hand. I gestured for Yelena to walk in first as I held the door open.

  The chorus of the congregation filled the cavernous hall inside the church. There were no pews, and all the parishioners stood during the service. Yelena grabbed my hand and led me to the far left side.

  I stared at the beautiful church with its frescoes of Biblical scenes painted along the walls. The trim around the windows and the crown molding were painted gold, while the walls were painted a pastel blue. Where the three towers stood, I gazed at the open space that reached the onion domes. Under every onion dome were frescoes of angels in the clouds.

  The front altar was very elaborate. The priest stood in front of a long table filled with religious objects, many of them golden in color. He also lit numerous candles on gold candlesticks on the table.

  I looked above the altar and saw a large statue of Jesus Christ nailed to the cross that jutted from the wall. He was gazing up at the heavens, asking God to forgive us.

  Then the chorus became quiet, and the priest started his sermon in Serbian or Bosnian or Croatian, depending on which ethnic group one claimed to belong. The three ethnic groups spoke the same language but their pride demanded that they call their particular dialect their own.

  The priest began chanting and held a tall shaft that contained a small bowl with a burning incense. As the priest chanted, he bobbed the shaft up and down, causing the incense smoke to weave convoluted patterns in the air.

  I glanced over at Yelena. She smiled at me, squeezing my hand tighter. Then she mouthed the words, “I love you.” I blushed a little; then I repeated the same words to Yelena, “I love you, too.”

  Once the priest ended his sermon, the congregation began to hum the chorus again. Yelena tugged at my hand and led me to the back of the church to a small altar.

  A large portrait of the Virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus hung on the wall over the small altar. In front of the portrait was a large stand that held a tray of white sand. People pushed tall, skinny candles into the sand and lit them while saying a prayer to Jesus. I counted 50 flickering candles.

  I saw what Yelena wanted. I deposited a one-euro coin into a wooden box near the altar and grabbed two new, unlit candles. Then I handed one to Yelena, and I kept the other one for myself.

  Yelena lit that candle using one of the flickering candles and pushed it into the sand. She closed her eyes, and her lips mumbled in prayer. Then she completed her prayer by making the sign of the cross over her heart using her right hand.

  I followed suit and placed my candle next to hers, but didn’t say a prayer or make a wish. This religion thing was new to me. Then we both exited the church quietly.

  Yelena and I walked towards the center of town. When we walked at least a block away from church, I pulled her softly under an oak tree, embracing and kissing her, while leaves floated and swirled to the ground around us, with a fall breeze that tried to cool our moment of hot passion…

  I returned to reality as I walked past that tree and continued to the church. I opened the heavy wooden door and entered. The priest had switched off all the lights, leaving it dark inside, empty, devoid of people.

  My footsteps echoed loudly. An old woman kneeled in front of the main altar, in heavy prayer.

  I approached the small altar in the back, where the painting of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus hung on the wall. Today, only 10-lit candles flicked at the altar.

  I instinctively grabbed two unused candles, lighting them, and pushed them into the white sand. I made the sign of the cross over my heart as I mumbled a prayer. Please God, let me find Yelena. That is the only thing I want in this world. Amen.

  I turned to leave but stopped. I forgot my donation to the church. I reached inside my coat pocket and retrieved a ten-euro note, slipping it into the donation box.

  I walked towards the hospital where I parked the car. My stomach started growling, but I ignored it. I kept walking imperviously to the cold wind that blew in my face.

  The skies darkened as the clouds hid the warm sun, and the snow pelted the ground again. Walking past the Bosnian University of Management, I didn’t stop to read the marquee as I passed by.

  I started feeling weak, like I was ready to pass out. Although I did not want to eat, I knew I must eat, or I would end up at a hospital.

  Then I walked to the hip and modern Zaffe Café, located next to a high school, right around the corner from the university. Perhaps it was not a good choice. Students from the university could be there, but I had to get something to eat. I knew the café served an assortment of drinks and a variety of national dishes, especially my favorite – Bosnian pizza.

  As I walked through the door, I smelled pizzas baking in a brick oven heated by hickory wood. The wood imbued the pizza with complex sweet bacon flavors.

  I walked by the showcases in the front filled with bureks. They reminded me of cinnamon rolls, but I knew they were not rolled in cinnamon and sugar. The rolls were stuffed with potatoes, beef, or cheese, or any combination of those ingredients.

  I sat down at my usual table near the front door. The waiter immediately smiled at me when he saw me. He quickly approached my table an
d politely asked, “Sir, what would you like?”

  I paused for a moment. Then I stated nonchalantly, “I’ll take a cappuccino, a pizza with ketchup, and a beef burek, please.”

  “Okay, sir,” the waiter replied, and he quickly turned to get my order. After several minutes, the waiter placed the food on the table.

  I sat in deep thought as today’s intense events flashed in my mind like lightning strikes in a storm cloud. Although my stomach continued to growl ferociously, I ate slowly, mechanically. I would cut a slice of pizza and use my fork to push the slice around in the ketchup, taking my time. Then I would slowly chew that piece.

  I had to chew and swallow slowly, trying not to remember Jasmin’s face melting away, or the awful taste in the back of my throat after puking.

  A young woman with a high pitch voice shrieked, “Dr. Swanson.”

  I turned and saw three of my students standing next to my table. I should have known better. I picked the worst spot to have lunch.

  Although I had taught thousands of students, I always recognized my good ones bad from the sea of faces. These three were my excellent students.

  “Hello,” I responded in utter surprise.

  “May we join you?” Elmira asked politely.

  “Please sit down,” I replied in a pretend jovial mood, but not sure if I pulled it off. I had one hell of a day, and I still had at least another nine hours before tomorrow officially started.

  Then before I knew it, my three students, Emir, Elmira, and Alma were sitting around the table, occupying the vacant chairs. I taught them international finance last semester.

  Emir, the male student, started first, “Thank you, sir, for the course. We learned a lot. Will you be teaching us next semester?”

  I looked down at my food. I sliced a piece of the burek, stabbed it with a fork, dipped it in ketchup, and started to chew it slowly in my mouth. I politely held my index finger in the air to give me a chance to chew my food.

  After an awkward silence, Alma reiterated the same question with a concerned voice, “Sir, will you be teaching us next semester,” as her eyes became watery and filled with sadness.

  I sipped my cappuccino to wash down the burek. Then I cleared my throat and said, “I’m so sorry. The university president and I have a communication problem, so I’m no longer employed at the university.”

  The students shrilled in unison “WHHHAAATTT?”

  “I’m not sure why, but my services have been terminated. Damir was quite adamant. He doesn’t want me at the university.”

  “If it is not so rude, may we ask what happened?”

  I stretched back in my chair. I glanced at each student's face, letting out a long sigh. Then I added sadly, “To be honest, I’m not sure what happened. I know my services are no longer required at the university. Damir will find my replacement.”

  “What did Damir do to you? He didn’t threaten you, or beat you up did he,” Emir asked politely.

  “Damir and I don’t see eye to eye, so one of us had to go. It’s his university, so I’m the one who must go. Unfortunately, Damir and I cannot work out our differences. We are two different people with opposing strong personalities,” I said slowly without emotion, looking down at the table when I said it.

  Elmira, the shy one, spoke up, “You’re not the first to have a problem with Damir. I remembered last year when I spoke to an English professor during office hours. We were going over the problems I missed on the exam. Then Damir came in angrily and fired her, yelling at the top of his lungs. Afterwards, Damir returned a couple of minutes later to apologize, because he realized no other professor could teach her courses. Unfortunately, Damir acts before he thinks. We’ve lost many good professors because of him.”

  Everyone sighed at the table, feeling horrible. Even Damir’s foolish stupidity didn’t raise our spirits – his firing and re-hiring a professor after he discovered no one else could teach her courses.

  I began again, “I know you're good students. I’m truly sorry, but I can’t return to the university. I don’t have a problem with you guys, but I must move on. Trust me, if it were not for Damir, I definitely would teach you guys again next semester, but Damir has made it impossible for me to stay.”

  I sipped my coffee again and added ominously, “Besides, I wouldn’t worry about Damir. He has some serious problems at this moment. I’m sure I’m the least of his worries.”

  Students stood up and each one grinned sadly. Then they shook my hand one by one. Then they left the café quietly.

  I shoveled a couple more slices of burek into my mouth, and then gulped down the rest of my coffee. I slapped a five-euro note onto the table and headed for Jasmin's car.

  I drove and drove until I found my way to Montenegro. I kept seeing memories of Yelena flash in my mind on the long desolate drive. I didn’t know it, but I drove along the same road that Adnan had taken 12 hours earlier.

  I reached the Montenegrin border at 8 o'clock in the evening.

  On the Bosnian side of the border, the Bosnian officials didn’t care. The officials stayed in their red metal container, playing cards and drinking coffee.

  One officer glanced at me through the window and waived me through. Only the next Bosnian War would force him out of the safety of the storage container.

  On the Montenegro side, the customs officials were much tougher.

  As I pulled up to the booth, a customs official barked, “May I see your documents and license?” She stood next to the booth, holding a clipboard. Her demeanor was strict and direct, meaning all business.

  I didn’t understand because she asked in Serbian. Giving her a quizzical look, I replied in English, “I don’t understand.”

  “May I see your documents and license?” the female officer repeated in English with a thick accent.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  I pulled my license and passport out of my wallet and then grabbed the papers from the glove box. I didn’t know whether the car was legal. My hand trembled slightly as I handed her the papers. I closed my eyes and prayed they wouldn’t search the car.

  “Is this your car?” she demanded.

  “No, it’s my boss' car,” I mumbled.

  “For whom do you work?”

  “I’m a professor at the Bosnian University of Management. I must pick up a delivery in Bodva.”

  I opened my wallet and retrieved my business card. Then I handed the officer the business card with my name and university logo on it.

  The officer checked the documents and matched the name to the driver's license, passport, and then to the car documents.

  She raised her eyebrows and asked, “Whose car are you driving?”

  “It’s the university’s car. The main driver, Jasmin, is dead tired, so the president asked me to get the supplies.”

  She continued, “Did you mean Budva?”

  “Sorry, but yes.”

  “You are the second person today to go to Budva from your university.”

  “Oh,” I replied in surprise.

  “Sir, may I ask you to exit your vehicle and leave the keys in the ignition.”

  I slowly climbed out of the car and moved three feet away from it. My mind raced a thousand miles per hour because I had almost forgotten the drugs in the trunk. I looked around to see where I could run to, but damn, it was barren up there.

  Then beads of perspiration formed on my forehead as I felt the gun’s weight, tucked in my pants. Although my heavy winter coat hid the bulge, I shivered from the gun’s metal like an icicle melting in my crotch.

  I begin shivering in fear as the full extent of my crimes struck my consciousness.

  The female officer placed the documents and clipboard down on the hood of the car and began searching the driver's side of the car.

  A male officer on the other side turned on his flashlight, searching the backseats of the car. Then the female officer pushed a button in the glove box, and the trunk clicked opened.

  Both officers appro
ached the trunk and peered inside. The male officer used his free hand to pick up the carpeted cover to the spare tire.

  My heart skip a beat, and I almost fainted. Then the officer dropped the cover back into its place and slammed the trunk lid. Male officer exclaimed officially, “The car is clean.”

  The female officer studied me. I turned pale white while my fingers twitched nervously. I rubbed my sweaty hands on my trousers, regaining my composure.

  “Sir, are you okay?” the female officer examined me, squinting her eyes.

  “Well, no. I haven't been feeling well. I think I’m coming down with the flu. In all honesty, I also came down to get some rest in Montenegro and relax in a warmer climate. I figured it would help with my flu. Perhaps I’ll find a girl, too.”

  The male officer began smiling and repeated, “A girl, huh?” The female officer shot him a nasty, sour look. Then she returned my driver's license and documents. I climbed back into the car.

  “Oh, before you go. You must pay a road tax. Five euros for four weeks.”

  I absently handed the officer a five-euro note, and the officer placed a sticker on the inside windshield of the car.”

  The barricade rose upward, and I drove through and entered Montenegro. The male officer waved good-bye and said, “Have fun in Montenegro. Don't be too greedy. Just find yourself one girl and leave the other ones alone!”

  I drove and drove and arrived in downtown Budva around 10 o'clock. Driving past a large hotel, I pulled into the parking lot. I didn’t think clearly, because I parked the car in the front, so anyone driving through the downtown area could spot the car.

  I opened the trunk, pushed the spare tire out of the way and grabbed the drugs. Then I slipped them into my coat pocket next to the money. As I walked to a hotel, my pocket was ready to burst from the heavy weight.

  I started sweating in my warm winter coat as a soft tropical breeze blew off the coastal waters while evening temperature hovered above freezing.

  I made it to Montenegro. It was time to find my girl.