by James Lyon
The room quieted. When it was completely silent he removed the iridescent blue sunglasses from atop his head and placed them on the podium, cleared his throat with a guttural rumbling that could be heard even at the back of the lecture hall, and removed from his coat pocket a tarnished silver pocket watch graven with ornate inscriptions. He glanced at it, and placed it on the podium. He looked at the folder as if double-checking something, then raised his head.
‘Good day, class. I am Professor Doctor Marko Slatina,’ he announced formally with a slight, yet indeterminate eastern European accent. ‘This is History 240, section 3, the Medieval Balkans. If you are in the wrong class, please leave now.’
He was met by silence.
He appeared relatively young for a professor – somewhere in his early thirties – and not at all scholarly. He was far too stylish, in an Italian GQ sort of way, from the hand-stitched shoes with leather tanned the color of burnished pine wood, up past the pressed jeans and red-striped white button-down shirt, to the iridescent teal two-button coat. He was quite tall, with short-cropped dark hair, strong features, olive complexion and a deep tan that looked Mediterranean. Already several of the female students were taking favorable notice of his taste in accessories.
‘I apologize for being tardy. As our German friends are fond of saying: fünf minuten nach der zeit, ist Balkanische punktlichkeit.’ He looked for a flicker of comprehension among the students, but they stared back at him blankly. ‘That means – five minutes after the appointed hour is Balkan punctuality.’ Although he smiled, nobody laughed. ‘I can assure you that in the future I shall be punctual, as I expect you to be.’
No one studies foreign languages anymore, he thought to himself.
Through the windows Slatina noticed a red and blue hang-glider as it circled lazily over the groves of Eucalyptus and Torrey Pine trees on the university campus. He looked at the assembled students, many of whom resembled extras from a surfing movie. Some had spent significant sums of money trying to appear casual, only to be betrayed by expensive haircuts, manicures and jewelry.
‘I thank you all for coming today. I am most flattered that you found my class more important than the beach. It is truly a lovely day outside, not at all conducive to indoor education.’ Although accented, his English was grammatically precise, delivered with an old-world charm and a slight inflection that hinted at a British education. Clearly he expected people to pay attention when he spoke.
The enrollment form in his folder told him that this semester would be similar to previous semesters – student athletes, history majors, the curious, and as usual, a large number of his students’ surnames indicated Albanian, Bosnian, Bulgarian, Croatian, Greek, Macedonian or Serbian backgrounds. He read the roll in alphabetical order:
‘Ahmeti.’ ‘Here.’
‘Albijanich.’ ‘Here.’
‘Anderson.’ ‘Here.’
‘Barber.’ ‘Here.’
‘Byelitsa.’ ‘Here.’
‘Christensen.’ ‘Here.’
‘Chorovich.’ ‘Here.’
‘Mr. Chorovich, is your family from the Sandzhak, Herzegovina or Zlatibor?’
‘Uh, I don’t know. They’re from Yugoslavia somewhere.’
He continued down the list, taking particular notice of the Balkan surnames: Brankovski… Georgevich… Hadjiahmetovich… Kayaoglu… Konstantinov…
‘Lazarevich.’
‘Here.’
He paused, looked up at the student and smiled gently. ‘Could you please come see me after class?’
She nodded and he continued: ‘Matkovich… Musliu… Nemarliya… Omerhodjich… Pappas…’
‘Pesek.’ ‘Here.’
He glanced up to see a tall chestnut-haired girl with large brown eyes and a radiant smile sitting on the third row. ‘Miss Pesek, is your family from the island of Hvar in Dalmatia?’
‘Yes, Professor Slatina, from Stari Grad.’
‘Are they Nanetovi or Girotovi?’
‘Both.’
After finishing the roll he asked: ‘May I please see by a show of hands, how many of you come from a Balkan background?’ As the students looked around at each other, nearly half the class raised its hands.
Slatina looked at them, children of the Diasporas, raised on the shores of the new world, yet poisoned by their parents with shadows and memories of the old. From experience he knew that their parents felt deep guilt for having left their mother countries; guilt for abandoning their families; guilt for enjoying the bounties of democracy, capitalism and enlightened government, while the mother countries still groaned under the stifling burdens of oppressive tradition and communism. To compensate, they had indoctrinated their children with the very evils and obsessions they themselves had fled.
He had seen how they spoon-fed their young from the cradle with tales of atrocities and injustice. How the Turks impaled a great-great great grandfather for leading a peasant uprising; how the Serbs took away all the men from the village, none of whom were ever seen alive again; how the Croats slaughtered one third of the village residents, drove off a third, and forcibly baptized the remaining third; how the Albanians burned down the village church and roasted the priest alive on a spit; how the Bosnian Muslims cut off the genitals of a great-uncle and stuffed them in his mouth; how the Greeks massacred an entire village on market day. There was suffering enough to go around, and even now, far removed in the United States the parents beat the drum of ancient grievances, each painting a picture of how their victim-hood and suffering was unique and entirely unjustified, as they prepared the next generation to avenge the family and national honor that earlier generations had long ago tarnished with the blood of innocents.
Now the children uncertainly carried the dark mantle of their parents’ sins and guilt, a legacy that lingered in the light of the modern world. And it was Slatina’s job to undo the lies, myths and propaganda.
He picked up the stack of papers and handed it to a tall auburn-haired young man, who began distributing it to the students. ‘Steven Roberts, my Teaching Assistant, is passing around the course syllabus. It contains a list of books and readings for each class session. I expect each of you to take and pass a mid-term essay exam, as well as a final essay exam. There are no multiple choice tests. I require a 15 page term paper from each of you. You must receive my approval for the topic.’ Unless he forced them to get his approval they would end up writing papers parroting their parents’ prejudices.
‘In this class we teach Balkan history. Not mythology. Not propaganda. Not legend. You will hear many things that will contradict what you learned at home from your parents. As you are all most certainly aware, a war has begun in Yugoslavia, and the country is tearing itself apart. There is no room for the war in this classroom. Nor is there room for a Greater Croatia, Greater Serbia, Greater Greece, Greater Bulgaria or Greater Albania, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Our work shall be based entirely on historical fact. In the course of our study we shall discover many things that undermine the claims made by the various national programs of the Balkans. Leave your prejudices behind, and please, do not attempt to use history to wage war in my classroom. I expect you to come to class with an open mind. Prepare to be challenged. If this disturbs you, please see me after class and I will sign your drop slip.’
He was met with silence.
‘Well, then. My office hours are from 12:00 until 13:45 Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Or you may make an appointment with me. Steven will also be available to help you. Any questions.’
A hand shot up: ‘Professor, will this class count towards fulfilling my requirement for an area studies minor?’
‘I do not know. You must consult your department secretary or your faculty advisor. Any other questions?’
From the back came the sound of giggling, a loud thump, and a muffled grunt of pain.
‘Yes? You in the back…do you have a question for me?’
Two students with the blonde hair and deep tans that come from s
pending long hours on surfboards sat on the back row, punching each other on the upper arms. ‘You ask him, dude,’ said the one in a Hansen’s Surfboards t-shirt. ‘Dude, stop hitting me, I’ll ask him,’ said the other, who wore a t-shirt advertising Mitch’s Surf Shop. His embarrassment was palpable. ‘Uh, Professor Slatina, will, uh, like we be, uh, like, learning…you know…about, uh, vampires?’ The entire class broke into peals of laughter and the student blushed.
Slatina stood silently and waited for the laughter to subside. He drew himself up to his full height and squinted, his eyes darkened slightly, while a grim expression flashed briefly across his face. A cloud drifted suddenly across the sun, darkening the room and sending a chill through the students. Outside the hang-glider circled closer. ‘You should be careful what you say,’ Slatina admonished gravely. ‘In the Balkans we have centuries of experience with vampires and we take them very seriously. Do not speak of them lightly.’ The students watched him with nervous expressions, unsure at this sudden change of demeanor.
Then he smiled. The hang-glider disappeared, replaced by a muted roar that chased a flight of US Navy F/A-18 aircraft streaking low overhead on their way from Miramar Naval Air Station to an aircraft carrier out at sea, somewhere over the western horizon. As the sun re-appeared from behind the cloud, his face relaxed and his eyes cleared. ‘You see? It is only a cloud. Of course, there are no such things as vampires. No vampires. None. They do not exist, at least, not anymore. So you have no need to fear.’
‘However,’ a mischievous expression appeared suddenly on his face, ‘since it is a well-established historical fact that vampires originated in the Balkans and that Dracula was a late-comer to the vampire scene, I will offer you an extra credit assignment. Whoever completes this assignment successfully, I will raise his or her grade an entire point. But to get the extra credit, you must answer the following questions.’ The students began scribbling notes hurriedly.
‘What shape and color are a vampire’s eyes? What are a vampire’s teeth made of? Where does a vampire’s power reside? What do vampires look like? What is the first recorded reference to vampirism in the Balkans? What side of the body do they feed from? What are they made of?’
A voice from the center called out: ‘Professor, could you please speak a little slower? I’m having trouble writing all this down.’
‘Of course, I apologize.’
He continued: ‘how does someone become a vampire? How do you kill one? Where do they sleep? Are they afraid of daylight, or can they solve their problems with sun block and Ray Bans?’ A few students laughed lightly. ‘What time of year are they most active? Where do they like to hang out? And no, the answer is not the blood bank.’ More students laughed. ‘How many people can attend a vampire party, and what do they eat? Where can you find vampires on Good Friday? What is the historical connection between the Vojvoda of Wallachia, Vlad III – also known as Dracula or Tsepeş, the Impaler – and the Balkans? What are the most common professions for vampires, bearing in mind that telemarketers, attorneys and IRS agents do not count.’ The entire class laughed at this last comment and Slatina smiled. ‘And because you have all been raised on MTV and are seething with the fiery, volcanic passions of youth, we must also have a question that is relevant to popular culture. Therefore, you must discover if vampires can have sex.’
‘They can, just ask my ex-girlfriend.’ The high-pitched squeaky male voice from the back of the room sent the classroom into spasms of laughter.
When the laughter died down, Slatina smiled sternly: ‘Young man, are you claiming to be a vampire?’ The students laughed once more. ‘Or are you imputing these characteristics to your ex-girlfriend? If so that is a most ungentlemanly thing to do, seeing as she is not here to defend herself.’ The student appeared somewhat embarrassed and a female student turned her head towards him and muttered: ‘What a jerk’ very loudly.
Slatina continued: ‘And finally, you must discover the relationship between a vampire and a butterfly.’ The students looked at Slatina with bewilderment. ‘Yes, a vampire and a butterfly. Next month the Monarch and Painted Lady butterflies will make their appearance in the Eucalyptus trees of our campus in the course of their annual southward migration. So, what is their relationship to vampires?’
‘Please remember that we are not talking about Hollywood vampires. Do not tell me that vampires sleep only in coffins, or that you become a vampire after being bitten by a vampire, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I do not wish to hear stories of Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee or Van Helsing: do not regurgitate Bram Stoker or Anne Rice. They described imaginary creatures with little basis in history. They appealed to bored middle class teenagers and housewives, longing to escape the drudgery of daily life and find forbidden pleasures and excitement that come from breaking social taboos. They played to the sexual neuroses of a bored bourgeoisie. I am interested in real vampires, Balkan vampires, and they existed long before Dracula. The answers to the questions I have posed bear no resemblance to popular imagination. To find your answers you must undertake solid, academic research. You must comb through Balkan folklore, history and ethnography. You must find what the people who actually experienced vampires have to say. Find out how peasants, priests and soldiers fought against these dreaded creatures and what they had to do to vanquish them.’
‘Are there any questions?’ The room was silent. ‘Do not worry. I doubt that any of you will find the answers,’ his smile was relaxed and he exuded old world charm. ‘And you should not wish to. After all, this is sunny California, life is a beach – I believe that is the expression – and you should not trouble yourselves with mistakes from a grey and distant past. For now we see through a glass, darkly, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’ He relished letting the ‘R’ of ‘et cetera’ roll from his tongue. ‘You should concentrate on the more pleasant pursuits of youth while you are still young.’
‘And now, we shall use what little time remains in today’s period and turn to a more important topic,’ he picked up the folder. ‘Let us discuss the Roman Emperor Diocletian, who is famous for dividing the Roman Empire into two parts, persecuting Christians, building himself a lovely and not very modest seaside retirement palace, and raising the world’s best cabbages. This will be on the first mid-term exam,’ he added with a twinkle in his eye, ‘especially the part about the cabbages…’
* * *
The university had invested enormous capital to give its faculty the newest facilities, and Slatina’s office was no exception: a freshly constructed building with everything painfully new and sterile – book shelves, industrial carpet, filing cabinets – even the air filtering through the vents.
It was near the end of office hours, which had been taken up with the usual first-day-of-class activities, students wanting him to sign add or drop slips or asking for advice. The office was now empty, the door open a crack, and Slatina had just leaned back in his new chair. Looking out the window as he finished adjusting his class roster with adds and drops, he saw the same hang-glider that had been circling during his morning class. A slight knock on the door interrupted him. ‘Come in,’ he called.
A tall girl with bright green eyes and a canvas military backpack entered.
‘How may I help you?’ he inquired politely, intrigued by eyes that seemed somehow familiar.
‘Professor Slatina?’ she asked shyly, tugging nervously at the sleeve of her cotton blouse.
And then it dawned on him. ‘Ah yes, Miss Lazarevic…Katarina. I thought it was you.’ His face lit up as he switched to a Dalmatian island dialect of Serbo-Croatian. He stood up, hugged and kissed her three times on the cheeks. ‘And how is my god-daughter? When did you get in? Please have a seat, won’t you? I haven’t seen you since you were three years old. I won’t embarrass you by telling you how grown up you have become. It is so good to see you again. Your parents have written so much about you.’
‘Professor Slatina,’ she was hesitant, ‘my father asked me to come by and give you his
greetings.’ She spoke Serbo-Croatian with a northern Serbian Vojvodina accent.
‘How nice of your father to remember me. And how is he?’
‘He died only two months ago, just before I left for school.’
Upon hearing this news, Slatina collapsed backwards into his chair, stunned. ‘But he was so young…’ He paused, visibly disturbed. ‘And no one told me…and…and…such a terrible pity. And how is your mother?’
‘Not well. She pretends to be okay, but I can tell it’s hard on her. She loved him very much.’ Her eyes moistened.
‘You are your father’s daughter…I can see it in your eyes. But you have your mother’s beauty. She is a good woman, in the truest sense of the word. She loved light and truth, and that is everything your father stood for. That is why she fell in love with him and married him. And I hope that their daughter is like them.’ He smiled generously. ‘What did he die of?’
‘The doctors aren’t certain. He always looked so much younger than his years, and he was always so healthy.’ She gulped back tears and fidgeted with her long, dark tresses. ‘But sometime during January he got sick. The doctors performed many tests, but couldn’t find anything. You know how our doctors are…and since Milosevic cut off trade with Slovenia there have been fewer medications, and then the economy and hospitals fell apart and hyperinflation and the war…well, Papa just got worse. When he finally died the doctors said it was from a broken heart.’ Tears began to run down her prominent cheekbones.
He handed her a tissue and motioned for her to continue.
‘He said that he sent you a letter sometime in February, but we never heard back from you and it probably didn’t arrive. He asked me to give you this.’ She handed Slatina a large manila envelope with a red wax seal. He picked it up, weighed it with his hand and placed it on the desk.