by James Lyon
‘Thank you,’ Steven said, sincerely. He vowed to buy Gordana a box of chocolates and flowers.
On Wednesday morning he flew up the smoke-filled stairs and arrived in the reading room completely out of breath and full of expectation, only to find a librarian he had never seen before whose build and dumpy brown outfit made her the embodiment of a bulldog.
‘Where’s Gordana?’
‘She’s taken sick leave and won’t be back for some time.’
‘But she seemed healthy yesterday. What happened?’
‘She had a bad night and became suddenly ill.’
So Steven asked for the Djordjevic book. After a few minutes in the stacks she returned and said: ‘It’s not here,’ spittle dribbling from bluish lips.
‘But it was here yesterday,’ Steven protested.
‘Perhaps a professor has taken it. Is there anything else I can get for you?’ Her bloated, jaundiced face seemed less than eager to help.
‘Do you know when it’ll be returned?’
‘No, I do not,’ she barked abruptly, turned up her pug nose and disappeared into the darkness of the stacks.
Steven waited with growing frustration for the librarian to return. She finally did so ten minutes later, and shot Steven a look of disgust that said ‘are you still here?’
‘Perhaps Gordana put it somewhere.’
‘It’s not here and Gordana won’t be back for some time,’ the librarian huffed with annoyance. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
‘No. But say hello to Gordana from me,’ he said, no longer in the mood to study. He trudged down the smoky stairs and bumped into Professor Ljubovic on his way out.
‘Steven, how good to see you. How are you?’
‘Well, I’m kind of bummed out. An important book has disappeared and nobody knows where it is. Gordana the librarian set it aside for me, but she’s out sick.’
‘I’m certain it’ll turn up soon. Be patient. Sometimes these things happen. Come with me for a walk. It’s a beautiful day and we shouldn’t waste it inside.’
Outside all of Serbia was enjoying the blustery spring weather. They walked silently to the Kalemegdan fortress, where they looked out at the confluence of the Danube and Sava below the ramparts. Steven gazed at the two great rivers, swollen with spring runoff, that nearly submerged the forested hulk of the Great War Island under their greenish-brown waters. He followed a hawk as it circled above the lower plain of the Kalemegdan and out over the river towards the concrete-grey forest of New Belgrade’s mass-produced communist apartment blocks.
‘Do you know much about the Kalemegdan fortress?’ Ljubovic asked.
‘Some, not much,’ admitted Steven.
‘You know that Belgrade’s a combination of two Slavic words: beo meaning ‘white,’ and grad meaning ‘city,’ due to the white limestone used to build the fortress,’ Ljubovic said, pointing at the stone walls. ‘In Roman times the city was called Singidunum and the Roman Flavian IV Legion built a castrum on this spot. For them the Danube was the line between barbarians and civilization. To the north were the Barbarians.
‘But beginning with the Austrians, things flip-flopped and civilization and Europe were to the north in Vojvodina, while here to the south of the Danube and Sava Rivers lay the barbarians. Today we Serbs are deeply divided, and our rivers are a symbol of that. Do you see that tower on that hill across the river?’
‘That one over there?’
‘Yes. It’s in Zemun. Until 1918 Zemun was a Habsburg border town…Semlin. If you’d been here in 1801 everything would have been different. Zemun looks like many other towns throughout Habsburg Europe, from Salzburg to Transylvania, from Zagreb to Prague, and the Serbs in Zemun looked like and were educated as Europeans. Come with me down to the river,’ he said, leading Steven through an old gate, down a steep rock-paved path.
‘Back then, Belgrade was a dirty cattle town, a decaying Turkish backwater border outpost that had more in common with Istanbul than Zemun. The last Turkish soldiers didn’t leave Belgrade until 1867.’
‘In Zemun they ate schnitzel, paprikash and Sachertorte: in Belgrade, pljeskavica, djuvec and baklava. In Zemun Mozart and Beethoven were all the rage: in Belgrade, the one-stringed gusle and shepherd’s bagpipes. In Zemun people sat on sofas: in Belgrade, on divans. In Zemun wives slept in the same bed as their husbands: in Belgrade they slept in the harem. Women of Zemun wore the latest fashions from Vienna: in Belgrade, ornamented vests and harem pants. In Zemun men wore polished leather shoes and the latest European suits and hats: in Belgrade baggy Turkish pants, curly-toed leather opanci and the fez. Zemun had Catholic and Orthodox churches, nuns and monks: Belgrade had mosques and dervishes.’
Steven listened raptly to Ljubovic’s interpretation.
‘The only things both cities shared were strong Turkish coffee, the Serbo-Croatian language and Gypsies. In the truest sense, Belgrade was where East met West, where two radically different cultural spheres collided. Even today our country has trouble choosing which way to look, which is why we have a two-headed eagle on our coat of arms, with the heads looking in different directions.’
‘The Habsburg Empire kept the barbarian Balkans at bay and European culture prevailed, gradually taming the evils that the primitive villagers brought with them from the mountain darkness. After the fall of the Habsburg Empire in 1918, Serbia’s kings maintained this civilizing influence and taught the people right from wrong, good from evil, and showed them the path to enlightenment and the modern world. But Serbia hasn’t had a king since 1941, and the communists unleashed the primitive instincts that had been kept at bay for centuries. But at least the communists tried to impose order, no matter how faulty or amoral. Today we have neither a king nor communists, but only Milosevic, a man who values neither morality nor culture.’
‘What about the Church?’ Steven interrupted.
‘The Church? Hah!’ Ljubovic spat with disdain. ‘It’s a collection of primitive, half-educated peasants living in a world of myths and half-truths based on poetic memories of a battle lost 600 years ago in Kosovo. They’re part of the problem. They teach superstition instead of faith, lies instead of truth, myth instead of history, and state instead of God. And Milosevic has let the Church set the values of the new generation, values steeped in ignorance and based on vengeance, hate, blood lust and superstition. They have unleashed a great evil.’
Steven was surprised at Ljubovic’s vehemence. The professor stopped talking as they crossed a road.
‘Why does everyone constantly speak of evil as if it’s a real force or presence?’ Steven asked suddenly. ‘The concepts of good and evil were banished from western scholarly discourse long ago. Everything is supposed to be examined within its specific cultural context without making judgments based on our own society’s values. Scholars argue that good and evil are relative concepts and that objectively they do not exist. They claim that they are purely artificial constructs based on subjective judgments that emerge from our cultural context. In America, if I were to talk about evil as being real they would laugh me out of the university. Yet everybody I speak with here talks of evil as if it exists and is a palpable presence.’
Ljubovic led Steven along the concrete-lined riverfront embankment. ‘It’s easy for scholars sitting far across the ocean in the civilized comfort of their universities to speak theoretically of good and evil and deny its existence,’ Ljubovic said. ‘But I guarantee you that if they lived here for one year, they’d change their minds. The Apostle Paul described these scholars well when he warned his dear friend Timothy of men who are “ever learning, and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth.” My advice to you is to ignore scholarly theory, particularly in the Balkans, where you will find that such theory bears little relation to reality.’
‘So do you believe in evil as a real concept, as something tangible?’ Steven pressed.
‘Do you believe in God?’ Ljubovic responded with a question.
‘Yes, I do,’
Steven replied.
‘But do you believe God exists? That he’s real and tangible and not just some greater cosmic force?’ Ljubovic became increasingly serious.
‘Yes.’
‘What about the Devil? Do you believe the Devil exists? Satan, the Prince of Darkness, Lucifer, Perdition, Beelzebub, the Father of All Lies, the Old Serpent, the Great Dragon?’ Ljubovic pressed him further.
‘What did you call him?’ Steven’s interest was suddenly piqued. ‘What were the last names you used?’
‘The Old Serpent and the Great Dragon,’ Ljubovic responded.
‘Where did those names come from?’
‘From the Revelation of St. John,’ Ljubovic looked intensely at Steven. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. Do you believe that the Devil exists?’
‘Oh, sorry. Well yes, but I’ve never really thought about it except abstractly.’
‘Well if God exists, then the Devil must also exist: all of God’s holy prophets and apostles testify to this.’
‘How do you know so much about religion? Didn’t you grow up under communism?’
‘Oh yes, and the communists forbade the study of religion. When I was young I was a rebel, and when I saw how morally bankrupt and corrupt the communists were I assumed that anything forbidden was good. As an ethnography professor, I study world myths and religions, so I’ve read the holy scriptures of all the world’s religions. But I find those of Christianity especially compelling. Perhaps it’s my cultural background, but the Holy Bible offers me great comfort and wisdom, and I now know why the communists didn’t want it to be read. It contradicts everything they teach. It teaches us that we have free agency, that we’re children of God, that man has a higher purpose, and that we’re not just animals. It contradicts the materialism inherent in communism and replaces it with a spirituality that transcends this world. It also teaches the difference between right and wrong and good and evil.
‘But we’ve digressed. Evil exists. It’s tangible and real and here in the Balkans it’s all around us. Don’t let yourself be fooled by the vain philosophizing of learned men. You must take care that it doesn’t seduce you, that you don’t unconsciously become part of it. Now, are you prepared for the lecture tonight?’ Ljubovic asked Steven.
‘Yes. This time there’s much more material and I probably won’t do it justice.’
‘You do what you did last time and you’ll do just fine. Come to my office before we start. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
‘Oh? Who?’
Ljubovic stopped and stared at debris floating downstream on the spring flood waters. ‘A friend of mine from the University of Novi Sad, a professor of ethnography. I think you’ll find that he’s not only interested in what you’re doing, but that he may also be able to help you in your research. I’ve invited him here especially to hear you this evening. And Steven, if you still have trouble getting the book you need, let me know next week and I’ll intervene with the library.’ Ljubovic smiled.
‘Thanks,’ Steven said, tossing a pebble into a pile of debris that had wedged against a tree at the edge of the embankment. ‘The spring run-off has sure carried a lot of logs downstream,’ he commented as his pebble landed amid a pile of water-borne plastic bags and bottles.
Ljubovic shaded his eyes and squinted at the river. ‘Those aren’t logs,’ he answered grimly. ‘That’s from Bosnia.’
* * *
By the time Steven climbed to Ljubovic’s office that evening it was already starting to get dark, and the weak neon lighting inside the Philosophy Faculty cast a jaundiced yellow light on everything. On the fifth floor the lights were dark, the empty corridor lit only by the yellowish light that shone through the transom above Ljubovic’s office door. From inside came the sound of voices. Steven hesitated before knocking.
The voices stopped talking and Steven heard Ljubovic call out ‘Come in.’ He entered to find Ljubovic next to a large man in his mid-forties with thick, unkempt hair and a hermit’s beard, fiddling with a long white scarf around his neck. The stranger had a slight hunch in his neck and shoulders. ‘Stojadinovic, Ljubodrag,’ he announced loudly in a deep bass voice, extending a large paw, crushing Steven’s hand.
‘I’ve been telling Vlada about your presentation last week. He knew Marko Slatina when he lived in Novi Sad.’
‘Marko and I are old friends,’ Stojadinovic’s smile felt contagious and full of energy. ‘It’s good to see he’s still taking new students. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ his deep voice filled the small office.
‘Professor Ljubovic has told me about you too. He said I must meet you when I come to Novi Sad. I didn’t know you’d be here this evening,’ Steven said enthusiastically.
‘No problem. Miroslav has been telling me of your research. It sounds as though you’re quite the vampire hunter, the academic Van Helsing of the younger generation,’ Stojadinovic’s grin was infectious. ‘And how is Marko? I haven’t seen him for years, although we do write the occasional letter. He didn’t mention you were coming.’
‘He’s doing well.’ Steven grinned back. For some reason the presence of Stojadinovic made it feel normal to be researching vampires. ‘Yes, yes, and I’ll soon start carrying a wooden stake and cross with me wherever I go,’ he joked.
Stojadinovic wrapped a large arm around Steven’s shoulders in comradely fashion. ‘You shall have fun when you come to Novi Sad. The Matica Srpska archives will offer you rich materials.’
‘Gentlemen, we’ll be late for the lecture,’ Ljubovic stood up and reached for his briefcase. ‘Let’s go.’
A large group of students stood smoking in the hall outside the class room, engaged in anxious conversation. As the three approached, the students took long last drags, extinguished their cigarettes and followed them into the room.
Steven was surprised at the turnout. Whereas there had been only eight at Professor Ljubovic’s apartment, there were now almost twenty people, including Tamara, Vesna and Bear, crowded together around tables arranged in a large rectangle. Ljubovic and Steven sat at the head table and Ljubovic rapped his knuckles on the wood to call the meeting to order.
‘As you know we like to hold these round table discussions to permit our graduate students the opportunity to share their research with their colleagues in an informal setting where we discuss and share ideas freely. We have with us this evening my colleague Professor Ljubodrag Stojadinovic from the Ethnography Department of the University of Novi Sad,’ Ljubovic gestured at Stojadinovic.
‘Our speaker tonight is Steven Roberts, who is visiting from America. For those of you who were not at his first lecture, he discussed manifestations of vampires in the lands of Yugoslavia. Tonight I’ve asked Steven to share with us more of his research on vampires. Steven?’
Steven cleared his throat, looked around the table and noticed Vesna smiling at him.
‘Be nice,’ she mouthed at him. He grinned mischievously.
‘Tonight I’ll discuss the characteristics of vampires. The reason I’ve chosen to do so is that after examining the collected accounts of Balkan folklore from the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries, as well as examining historical documents, I’ve come to the conclusion that real vampires bear little resemblance to what we see in films or read in Bram Stoker’s book Dracula. In fact, pretty much the only thing that Stoker accurately portrayed is that vampires dislike garlic and drink blood.’
‘Let’s start with the word vampir.’ He picked up a thick pad of paper covered with notes. ‘As you all know this is a Slavic word that has entered many western languages. However, in the lands of the former Yugoslavia…is it okay to use the term ‘former Yugoslavia’?’ He looked around for approval and Professor Ljubovic nodded his head in agreement as did many of those present.
‘In the lands of the former Yugoslavia there are many words for a vampire. They are regional and include vampir, vampirin in Djevdjelija, vaper in Krusevac, voper in Ohrid, vopir, lipir, lampir and lampijer in othe
r places. To make matters even more interesting, according to folk traditions and beliefs there’s no difference between a vampire and a werewolf: they’re one and the same creature, an undead shape-shifter that was once human, returns from the grave, feeds on the blood of living creatures and can live forever unless killed. So, in addition to the terms for vampire, we must also include the terms for a werewolf, particularly in Dalmatia and parts of Herzegovina, which include vukodlak, volkodlak, ukodlak, kodlak, kudljak, vukozlak, and vukozlacina. There are also other regional terms that describe the same creature. These include strigun, grobnik, gromnik, tenac, medovina, prikosac, kosac, upir, upirina and lapir. Regardless of the name, the folk tales all refer to a creature with the same characteristics, no matter the era or geographic location.’
‘Now, how do we identify a vampire? What does one look like? Any thoughts?’ Steven looked at the students.
Tamara raised her hand: ‘they’re tall, dark and handsome, have fangs, wear tuxedos with black capes and speak with a delicious sexy accent.’ Everybody laughed.
When they stopped, Steven continued: ‘Vampires are difficult to tell apart from humans. First and foremost, because they’re shape-shifters. Although they can transform their bodies, they typically remain in human form. Other popular forms include a large wolf or a horse, donkey or ox. Evidently shifting shape takes energy and they prefer human form unless necessary. Because vampires are shape-shifters, it’s useless to bar a room against a vampire, as he’ll simply revert to the shape of a mouse or cockroach and enter that way. Other than shape shifting, the folk tales don’t portray vampires as having any other special powers, nor are they superhumanly strong or fast.
‘Unlike Hollywood movies, vampires don’t usually turn into bats. Rather, they favor butterflies. In folklore if a butterfly or moth enters a home in the evening it means that someone will die from a vampire.’