by James Lyon
They sat and talked: of life in Yugoslavia; friends; the trip across the Atlantic; where she was staying; what her study plans were. It all flooded out in what seemed brief moments, but lasted an hour. Suddenly he glanced at his watch and interrupted her abruptly.
‘Katarina, I must apologize, but right now I am very busy, it being the first day of classes. I would very much like to continue this conversation at a later time. Perhaps I could have the pleasure of your company later this evening.’ She looked at him and hesitated. ‘I shall be taking a group of medieval history graduate students to dinner, and I would quite like to have you join us. We shall meet for drinks and dinner at 7:00 PM at the Fire Pit Restaurant at 17th Street in Del Mar. It is on the beach, so you may dress casually.’
‘Thank you.’
He removed his business card from the top drawer of his desk, wrote something on the back and handed it to her. ‘This is my home telephone number. If there is anything I can do to help the daughter of my dearest friend, please feel free to call me anytime, day or night. After all, I am your Kum,’ he smiled generously and sincerely as he stood. ‘And if either you or your mother experience financial difficulty, do not hesitate to let me know.’
‘Sure,’ she smiled.
‘Until this evening then.’
After she had left, Slatina closed the door, jiggled the knob to make certain it was locked and sat down. He took a dagger from his desk and broke the wax seal on the envelope, sniffed the contents, gently removed a large black and white photograph and placed it on the desk. In the photograph two men stood on top of a hill next to a Baroque clock tower. Between them stood a woman with thick blonde hair, her arms wrapped around both men. All three were smiling. The caption read Petrovaradin, 5.viii.1960.
A yellowing newspaper article fell out, printed in the Cyrillic alphabet. He picked it up and saw it was from a Novi Sad newspaper in northern Serbia, and that the story was about a night watchman from the Petrovaradin fortress whose body had been found after it had been savaged by a pack of feral dogs and left horribly disfigured. As he read the story Slatina learned how the dogs had completely gnawed the entire left side of the watchman’s body from head to ankles. The article was dated 15 January 1983, two days after the Serbian New Year.
There was also a letter, handwritten in the Cyrillic alphabet on lined paper torn out of a bound notebook. It was written with a beautiful flowing hand, one in which the author had obviously taken pride, and was dated 6 May 1991. Slatina picked it up and began to read.
My dear Marko,
Happy St. George’s Day. I hope this letter finds you well. Unfortunately my health is failing and I know in my heart that I will not live to see the next snowfall. It comes from too many cigarettes and bottles of Vermouth. As you well know, old habits are difficult to break, and unfortunately I developed these vices prior to meeting Mariana and confronting my own mortality. She always tried to get me to stop, but what could I do? By now you have met my Katarina. She is all that Mariana and I have, and I would ask that you take care of her as though she is your own child. After all, you are her Godfather. Please watch over her and see that she learns to treasure truth and light. I have entrusted this letter to her, knowing it will take longer to reach you, but also knowing that this way it will avoid prying eyes.
Since 1987 I have watched events unfold with fear and trepidation, but mostly with disbelief, as people sacrificed their reason at the altar of Slobodan Milosevic. I have had difficulty believing that one man can lead a people so quickly into darkness. What I have found even more difficult to believe is that this people would follow him so blindly, and so willingly assist in their own destruction, all the while blaming it on others. And they are doing it all in the name of Serbia, a horribly distorted Serbia built on old myths and new lies. I do not recognize this Serbia as the country that we once knew. Something noble has become horribly polluted by those with the greatest duty to protect it. The Church and the Communist Party have played key roles, and both have deprived man of his ability to think clearly, proving they are identical in behavior and ideology.
The people labored and were heavy laden. And when Slobo said ‘come unto me’ they did so, blindly. The yoke they have taken upon themselves is neither light, nor easy to bear, and they have shouldered it just when others wished to cast it off. At first I thought Milosevic to be merely a demagogue and tyrant, but now I fear he may be much worse. The smell of blood is in the air, I sense it even now. People thirst for it; the entire country is mad with desire for it. And now we are going to war with our brothers because they look like us, and because we can smell our blood coursing through their veins. It is madness. I know not what will come of it.
I have tried to carry out my duties as charged. Unfortunately my health no longer permits me to do so. I sometimes wonder whether the seals have been broken. I have not checked them these last several years, but when I last went there the entrance was flooded and inaccessible. I know of no effort to pump out the water, and as my friends have told me, the water level has only risen with time. I have enclosed an article about the death of the watchman, which puzzles me. Please do what you must. Katarina knows everything, so you need keep nothing from her.
I send you my most heartfelt greetings, as well as love from Mariana. Her health is also poor, and although she is too proud to seek help, she would benefit greatly if you would send her medications. Katarina can tell you what is needed.
My dearest friend, I recall with fondness the warm summer days of long ago, you and Mariana and I basking in the warmth of the sun on the grassy banks by the Danube under the Cottonwood, Linden and weeping willow trees, watching ducks and geese paddle lazily, while sipping from a bottle of Smotrina Kapljica wine. Yet now I grow ever colder, the sun can no longer warm me, and the Tambouritsas sound strangely out of tune. Perhaps we shall see each other once again, hopefully then face to face, and then shall we know even as also we are known, for we know now in part.
As the song says, ‘Here is dawn, here is dawn, I will pray to God, it is St. George’s Day…’ I still remember that St. George’s Day when I decided to give up everything for Mariana. It is true that I have sacrificed much and have since experienced great pain, but I gained far more in return. And I felt true joy for the first time in my life when Katarina was born. Joy far greater than any that you – my dear friend – will ever know, unless you choose to one day follow in my footsteps. I pray to God every day that you will do so. But you have chosen a different path that has taken you far away. I had hoped to celebrate one more St. George’s Day together with you and Mariana, but it is not to be. I fear we shall not see each other again in this life.
O quam misericors est Deus, Justus et Pius.
Your loyal and eternal friend,
Rade
Slatina looked at the back of the letter, held it up to the light, and then returned it to the envelope. Mortality…, he thought, suddenly feeling old. At least he leaves behind something for the future, a legacy of hope. He looked at the photo once more. I have chosen a different path, and I feel increasingly damned for it.
From the bottom drawer of his desk he pulled a bottle of red wine and a wine glass, removed the cork and poured himself a glass. He placed a cassette in a tape deck and pressed the play button, flooding the small office with the sounds of Tambouritsas, accompanied by the melancholic tones of a group of men singing:
Bring me some red wine,
I yearn to recall the tales,
Right on this lovely spot,
Where I saw her eyes.
The three people in the photograph blurred as tears flooded his eyes. He sniffed the air above the glass lightly. ‘Rade, I drink to you and our love for each other.’ He lifted the glass high and drank nearly half. He continued looking at the photograph, and began to sing along with the tape:
Halt the Danube,
And the old clock hands,
That is my song,
And the song of my beloved…
&nb
sp; Let me always be followed,
With songs of red wine.
By eight Tambouritsa players,
From Petrovaradin.
He looked out the window at the groves of flaking Eucalyptus trees, whose falling oil had killed the vegetation underneath, making the surroundings barren so that their roots could drink in all the rainfall, a survival mechanism for a desert tree. He longed for the Cottonwoods and Linden trees lining the Danube and the grassy river banks. I am exiled in a desert paradise, he thought to himself. And there is so much I must now do. He picked up the newspaper article and looked at it once more. My dear Rade, you couldn’t have died at a worse moment. Madness is descending, and there is so little I can do from here. He began pacing the room, looking at the books, pondering, as outside the window a hang-glider circled.
* * *
The music had stopped long ago, the bottle of open wine sat next to the half-finished glass, and Slatina sat hunched over the desk, his face buried in his hands, moist with tears.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He opened it to find his Teaching Assistant, Steven Roberts, a young man in his mid-twenties, with auburn hair and a troubled expression. He stood only slightly shorter than the professor, but was broader across the shoulders and chest.
‘Ah, Steven, how good to see you. Please come in and take a seat.’ Slatina closed the door behind them, regaining his composure. ‘What may I do for you?’
‘Professor, I’ve got a serious problem.’ Steven fiddled with his backpack, clearly agitated.
‘Ah, can it wait for a glass of wine?’ Slatina smiled as he removed a second glass from his desk and handed it to Steven. ‘Did you know that in 1777 the German traveler Friedrich Wilhelm von Taube visited the Vojvodina city of Sremski Karlovci, where he described their excellent Vermouth? Well, actually he called it Tropf-Wermuthwein. The merchants of Karlovci made a great deal of money selling it to the Imperial Austrian court, and to the nearby fortress of Petrovaradin. Today they call it Bermet. Perhaps I could interest you in a glass of 1934 Marinkov Bermet?’ Slatina filled the glass nearly to the brim and handed it to Roberts.
Steven hesitated momentarily, then took the glass. ‘Thanks, Professor.’
‘So, young Steven, shall we toast the beginning of a new school year?’ They clinked their glasses together and sipped. ‘Now, tell me the nature of your problem.’
‘Professor, I’m supposed to choose a dissertation topic this year, but with the war in Yugoslavia…’ He studied the industrial carpet, his sentence unfinished, then continued. ‘All research grants and scholarships are frozen, so work in Yugoslav archives is out. Without archival research, there’s no way I can write a dissertation, and without a dissertation I can’t get a Ph.D. So it seems I’ve basically wasted two years of my life. I don’t want to sound like a quitter, but I’m starting to wonder what the hell I’m…’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Slatina cut him off with a wave of the hand. ‘You are correct. This is a bad moment to study Balkan history. Yugoslavia is falling apart, and it is difficult to get permission from the Croatian and Serbian governments to work in their archives. They are very protective of their newly falsified nationalist histories, so they will be reluctant to have someone poking around trying to find out what really happened. And I am uncertain how much longer Bosnia will be safe. And we face the problem of funding your dissertation research, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’ He grinned at Steven. ‘Am I boring you?’
‘No, no,’ Roberts nodded. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, I may have an answer to your difficulties,’ the Professor said, suddenly serious as he looked Steven directly in the eyes. Steven felt uncomfortable, as though the Professor were rummaging around inside his head, reading his thoughts, but he didn’t dare avert his eyes.
‘Ethnography!’ Slatina exclaimed suddenly, breaking his uncomfortable gaze. ‘The answer to your problems is ethnography. Everybody loves their folklore, and it is not as controversial as history.’
‘Ethnography?’ Steven spluttered, clearly perplexed. ‘Are you serious?’ he spluttered. ‘Do you want me to leave the History program? But I’ve spent two years…’
‘Now, now, young Steven,’ Slatina interrupted, lifting a hand. ‘You haven’t lost two years and you needn’t change majors. Ethnography and History have a great deal in common. You see, I know of a private foundation that funds ethnographic research inside Yugoslavia. It offers research scholarships. Do you like the wine?’
‘Yes, it is good.’ Steven perked up and smiled at the mention of a scholarship.
‘You should, it is Vojvodina’s best. Anyway, the foundation pays all expenses for one year, including air fare, housing, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It will give you access to archives in Bosnia, Croatia and Serbia and permit you to research without being subject to the usual suspicions.’
‘Of course I’d like that,’ Steven said enthusiastically, his gloom washed away by the new opportunity. ‘What are they looking for? I’ve never applied for an ethnography grant before.’
‘Do nothing. Leave it to me. I shall call and tell them that you are interested. Can you leave right after Christmas?’
Steven nodded affirmatively.
‘Of course I will have to find a new TA for winter semester,’ Slatina thought out loud. ‘It is settled then. Prepare to travel.’
‘Really? I mean, how? We don’t even know if I’ll get a grant,’ Steven muttered, skeptically.
‘Consider it done,’ Slatina said confidently. ‘I shall speak with them. As I recall, you studied Serbo-Croatian for four years, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have also studied German, Latin and Old Church Slavonic, No?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Slatina added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Young Roberts, do you believe in God?’ The professor looked directly in his eyes, his expression suddenly very serious, again with that piercing gaze.
‘Uh, yes,’ Steven was taken aback. What’s the professor getting at? he wondered to himself, thoroughly confused by what had just taken place.
‘Good. You must pray often. I will see you this evening at 7:00 at the Fire Pit. There is someone I would like you to meet.’
Slatina’s last question haunted Steven after he left the office: Do I pray often? Has the professor had too much wine?
* * *
Slatina sat at a table on the beach deck, surrounded by four graduate students, watching the sun set over the Pacific. All were male – for some reason medieval history attracted few women. The early evening shadows and pounding surf created a soothingly dull background as meat and fish cooking over a mesquite grill added flavor to the sea-side smells. Although the sinking sun lit the western sky with deep oranges, the conversation centered on the murky greys of medieval Europe’s kings, dynasties and wars.
As one graduate student droned pompously about Gnostics and Bogomils, Slatina sat and nodded, a slight smile on his face, enjoying the anachronistic nature of the conversation. Here they sat watching the last few die-hard surfers catch the last wave of the day, all the while discussing topics from which they were separated by nine time zones, an entire continent, one ocean, and five hundred years. Slatina sniffed the salt air with pleasure, noting the subtle smell of decaying seaweed and dead fish mixed with salt.
‘You know,’ Slatina interrupted, ‘in my student days we spent our spare time enjoying life. Forget medieval Europe for one short evening and think about other more pleasant pastimes. After all, our lives are tragically short. Enjoy this sunset! Enjoy this beach! Enjoy this moment! And enjoy this company. But also, try not to bore each other too much. Otherwise you will never successfully charm a woman and get married. Remember that we historians are very boring by nature…what is it you say – nerds? So we must work very hard to attract the opposite sex. Do not take your studies too seriously or you will end up a lonely old man like me. You surely don’t think that medieval ru
lers secured the continuation of their dynasties by discussing history? No, they wooed as many women as possible to ensure there would be no shortage of heirs. I would be remiss in my duties as a mentor if I permitted any of your dynasties to die out.’ The students chuckled politely.
‘Permit me to draw your attention to the young lady who has entered the restaurant.’ All heads turned to see a beautiful girl with long dark hair standing at the door, talking to a waitress. She was tall and slender, yet full-figured, with high cheekbones, a strong nose, and wore an olive green silk blouse. ‘Because we are historians, we shall never have much chance of wooing a woman as lovely as her. We are simply too boring, and it is unlikely that any of you will ever interest her by speaking about Bogomils. However, I shall see if I can coax her to join our boring group.’ He arose and walked towards the entrance. The graduate students stared, unable to believe their professor had invited them to dinner in order to give them lessons in chasing women. Some exchanged glances with each other, rolling their eyes at the professor’s old-world male chauvinism.
Slatina approached the girl and said something to her. She flashed a warm smile in response, said something back and offered him her hand. He took it in his and kissed it gallantly, causing a bright red blush to rise to her cheeks. He spoke with her for a few moments, then motioned towards the group, said something, and she once again smiled and nodded. He offered her his arm, which she took, and he then proceeded to escort her towards the patio. The students stared in amazement, stunned by their professor’s behavior. As she approached, they all stared at her. She was even more beautiful up close and her translucent green eyes matched the silk of her blouse.
‘Gentlemen,’ Slatina said formally. ‘It is customary to stand when a lady enters the room.’ The students jumped awkwardly to their feet, causing the girl to smile once more. ‘Ah, that is better. Gentlemen, I have the great pleasure and privilege of introducing to you the loveliest woman in the world. May I present my god-daughter, Katarina Lazarevic.’ Katarina smiled shyly and nodded hello. Some of the students sighed, relieved that the professor’s chauvinism had only been in jest. Slatina then went around the group and made introductions.