‘What’s the matter?’ Milena asked, in a tone that implied why don’t you calm down first?
‘The minister called!’ His hands waved frantically as he spoke, and Milena automatically reached for the folder in anticipation. A call from that far up the hierarchy was without question something special, but for Boris Grubač it was evidently something disconcerting too. ‘The minister’s furious,’ he screamed, ‘because we’re behind schedule. And why are we behind schedule? Because you’re not getting on with it!’
‘We’ve already discussed this at length.’ Milena leafed through the notes. ‘Here. Paragraph seven.’
Grubač pressed his lips together.
‘After Bologna we have to define three areas: humanitarian international law, international jurisdiction…’
‘Enough! I know the paper by heart.’
‘Then you’ll also know that we have to fulfil all the criteria, point by point, to attain the EU status of an academic institution of equal ranking.’ Milena closed the folder.
‘Three full-time lecturers with a PhD – Ms Lukin, please! Have you got any other pipe dreams you’d like to share?’
‘I didn’t make these rules. But you’ll recall that I drafted an advertisement for these posts. It’s been on your desk since last week and ought to be posted as soon as possible.’
‘Let’s not kid ourselves: your esteemed colleagues in Copenhagen, The Hague, Bruges and wherever won’t exactly be queuing up to apply for the post of lecturer in Belgrade.’
‘Why not? I’ll try and twist a few arms behind the scenes.’
‘That won’t do any good.’ Exhausted, Grubač pushed a wayward strand of hair, which his exertions had shaken loose from his bald patch, back into place. ‘We’re wasting time. It’s in your own interest to crack on. We have to keep to the schedule and get our snouts in the EU aid trough.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Did you think of the obvious solution – some homegrown candidates, your own students? What about that guy doing his PhD who you’ve been supervising for ages – you know, the long-haired dachshund?’
‘Milan Miljkovic?’ Milena shook her head. ‘He’s not ready yet.’
‘Ms Lukin, you’re stonewalling. What’s wrong with you? You know I’m relying on your co-operation. Don’t let me down now. Be a little creative for a change!’
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘Before you think too long, a word to the wise: bend the rules a bit for once. You know the saying: paper’s more patient than man.’ He placed his hand on her backrest, bent over her and stared at the screen. His breath smelt of peppermint.
‘OK,’ Milena said, ‘I’ll bend the rules a bit. Anything else?’
‘Now I get it,’ he muttered. ‘So that’s what’s on your mind. Those old people.’ He stroked his tie in consternation. ‘Bad news. The minister of education said the same.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Surprised, Milena looked up at him. ‘Do you know anything more concrete?’
‘Two shots to the back of the head from the pistols of Albanian nationalists – how much more do you want to know?’
‘The background,’ said Milena. ‘What led up to the killings. Everybody’s outraged, but there are no facts.’
‘Ms Lukin, we are talking about Kosovo. What facts do you need? Kosovo is a state founded by criminals, a criminal state. We Serbs are fair game down there. Those retired folk should have never been allowed to set foot there.’
Milena replaced the file on the shelf. ‘May I remind you that the Serbian government and the EU support Kosovan Serbs’ right of return?’
‘What’s the use of the right to return, however finely drafted, if no one enforces it? Our police aren’t even allowed to investigate in Kosovo!’
‘That’s why our allies are going to do everything to get this murder case solved as soon as possible.’
‘What allies?’
‘The EU.’
‘Your allies – if you pardon the expression – couldn’t give a shit about two dead Serbs in Kosovo.’
Milena pushed her chair back. Of course Grubač was right. Kosovan Serbs had no lobby and were a nuisance to everybody – unwanted in Serbia, hated by the Albanians and a problem for Europe which couldn’t be resolved, no matter how many conference agendas you put it on.
‘What’s up, Ms Lukin? Am I right, or am I right?’ He watched as she closed the tabs and clicked on the shutdown icon.
‘Where are you off to?’ he enquired.
‘Home.’
‘And Bologna? What am I going to say to the minister?’
She took off her glasses. ‘I’ll think of something.’
‘I’m afraid that’s a bit too vague for the minister.’
She snapped her glasses case shut. ‘The State Chancellery for the Affairs of Kosovo and the Ministry of Education – aren’t they both located in the same building?’
‘Why? Are you planning on intervening personally now?’
Milena swung her bag over her shoulder and picked up her keys from the table. ‘Not a bad idea, Mr Grubač.’
✴
It was unusually quiet when she got home. The television wasn’t on, and instead of Adam lounging in the easy chair, the cat was there. Surprised, Milena hung up her coat. ‘It’s me!’ she called.
She eased her feet into her slippers. There was an aroma of braised onions, roasting food and something else she couldn’t quite identify. The door to Adam’s room was closed.
‘Have you eaten yet?’ Milena went to the bathroom. As she washed her hands, she looked into the mirror and saw two red rabbit eyes gazing back at her. No matter. One day they’d return to normal. She was really worried about the deep-set wrinkles between her mouth and cheeks, though. She opened the bathroom cabinet and took out a small tub of face cream. Last weekend she had splashed out on it – it had cost a fortune. The heavy lid of black glass was beautiful, and the cream itself was still untouched beneath its protective layer of silver foil.
She screwed the lid back on and carefully placed the precious tub back in the cabinet, on the very top shelf, pushing it right to the back.
There was a plate on the kitchen table and next to it a wine glass, cutlery and a napkin. Vera was sitting there with her glasses on her nose, doing the crossword.
‘Where’s Adam?’ Milena lifted the lid of a saucepan. The light in the oven was on. ‘Is he in bed already?’
‘You might have bothered to call at some point.’ With raised eyebrows, Vera kept her eyes fixed on the little crossword grid, filling it with letters as she spoke. ‘Or didn’t you go and visit Uncle Miodrag? We were worried.’
‘Uncle Miodrag’s doing fine.’
‘And what about his rheumatism?’
‘Much improved.’ Milena picked up the oven gloves, opened the stove door and lifted the lid from the casserole. Little parcels wrapped in kale were braising in a broth of olive oil, parsley and finely chopped shallots. Milena suddenly realised how hungry she was. She spooned three little parcels onto her plate and ladled onto them a spoonful of sour cream from a bowl.
‘There’s white wine in the fridge. Please help yourself.’
Milena did as she was bid, jammed the cork back into the bottle and sat down. She carefully pushed her fork into the kale and cut the little rolls in half. The steaming filling of rice and minced beef had been augmented with raisins and chopped almonds, and was complemented perfectly by the cool sour cream made from strong sheep’s milk.
‘Mama,’ Milena said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, ‘these little rolls are a dream.’
‘Not too much nutmeg?’
‘They’re delicious.’
‘There’s plenty more there.’
Either the little note by her plate hadn’t been there a moment before, or Milena hadn’t noticed it. She sipped her white wine. The numbers on the torn piece of paper were somehow familiar.
‘Zoran’s mum,’ said Vera, without looking up. ‘She asked y
ou to call her back.’
Zoran was Adam’s best friend and his buddy from basketball club. ‘Are they in trouble?’
Without uttering a sound, Vera moved her lips, mouthing a word to herself and counting out squares on the puzzle. Finally she replied, ‘Some sort of quarrel. But leave the boy be. He’s tired. He’s had an exhausting day.’
Adam was in bed, leafing through his children’s magazine. In a defiantly casual gesture he had tucked his left arm up under his head.
Milena sat down on the edge of the bed and handed him a glass of herbal tea, to which Vera had added a large dollop of honey. ‘Here, drink some of this.’
He did as he was asked.
She took the glass back. ‘And now, tell me, what’s this I hear about a quarrel with Zoran?’
The cause had been Adam’s bike, a present from his father in Germany. Milena had known right from the start that it would cause problems. Precision German engineering, seven gears, feather light, wide tyres, perfect for running rings round the old people, dogs and baby buggies in Tašmajdan Park. Zoran, Milena learned, had picked up this bicycle, the best bicycle that ever existed, and hurled it at his friend Adam’s feet.
‘Why on Earth did he do that?’ Milena asked, startled.
Adam ran his finger along the pinstripes of his duvet cover. ‘I told him to take care, especially with the gears, and treat the bike well. But he did the opposite. So I told him to get off it.’
‘And then what?’ She handed him the glass again.
Adam drank and leant back. ‘And then I added that he’s a Serbian peasant and that Serbian peasants can only ride donkeys.’
Milena sighed. ‘Why say such things?’
‘Zoran shouldn’t have smashed my bike on the floor. And then he started crying and ran away. Just typical. Typically Serbian.’
‘Zoran felt humiliated, because he doesn’t have as nice a bike as you and because you insulted the Serbs – even though you’re half Serbian yourself.’
‘So, did I start bawling when he smashed up my bike?’ ‘Because you know that as a last resort Papa will buy you a new one. And, if not him, then probably Oma Bückeburg.’ She stroked his soft hair. ‘Don’t forget, your great uncle is a Serbian peasant as well. And he asked after you.’
‘I know.’
‘You can go and visit him with Grandma tomorrow.’ She kissed him. ‘Will you say sorry to Zoran?’
‘I’ll think about it. Yes, maybe.’
‘Now go to sleep. Sweet dreams.’
Vera was sitting in the kitchen, her curly grey head bent over a little notebook, murmuring, ‘Carrots, beetroot…’
Milena washed the dishes and put the glasses and the plate in the rack to dry.
‘Shall I make pancakes with cheese for Uncle Miodrag tomorrow?’ Vera asked. ‘Or maybe cheese croissants with yogurt would be better?’
Milena dried the cutlery. ‘How about French toast and kajmak?’
‘Kajmak?’ Vera looked up in surprise. ‘You should have brought some from the market. Did you?’
Milena pushed the boxes and tubs together in the fridge to make room for the bowl of sour cream. ‘Make him pancakes with cheese.’ She hung the oven mitts on the hook. She would have loved some cold coffee, but there was none left.
‘What’s up?’ Vera put down her pen. ‘You’re holding something back. Has Miodrag developed any complications? Does he need the sticking plasters?’
Milena sat down. ‘Do you remember Ljubinka Valetić?’
‘Ljubinka Valetić?’ Vera looked blankly at Milena. The
name clearly meant nothing to her.
‘Back then she was called…’
‘You mean Višekruna? Yes, I know her. I mean, back then I knew her, but I haven’t seen her for donkey’s years. Why, what’s happened to her?’
‘She died.’
Vera closed the notebook.
‘We saw it in today’s newspaper.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that – really.’ Vera took off her glasses. ‘But Ljubinka was no spring chicken any more.’
‘She was shot.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Milena recounted what she had read from the newspapers and the internet: that Ljubinka and her husband, after living in Priština, had fled to Belgrade and then returned to Kosovo as part of the programme financed by the EU, only to be killed there by shots to the back of the head.
Stony faced, Vera listened. Then she got up and left the room. Milena heard her open the door of the cupboard in the living room.
Shortly afterwards, Vera reappeared and placed a bottle and two small glasses on the kitchen table. Without uttering a word, she poured. The clear schnapps smelt of the plums from Uncle Miodrag’s garden. They drank, staring down at the tablecloth and enjoying the sensation of alcohol-induced warmth spreading through their bodies. Then Milena asked, ‘What went on between Uncle Miodrag and Ljubinka?’
Vera leant back. Fiona the cat jumped onto her lap. ‘She was a beautiful woman. She turned his head.’ She stroked Fiona’s thick fur. ‘I assume it wasn’t just her beautiful eyes your uncle fell for. Miodrag would have done anything for her. There was talk of Munich, and starting a new life there. But just think what it was like back then for us: Papa – long dead. Srećko had died in a concentration camp near Osnabrück. Radoslav was away studying in Belgrade, and all of a sudden Miodrag, the last man left at home, wants to up and leave with this woman and go to Munich. No, that wasn’t on. Believe me, your grandmother was overjoyed when this other fellow showed up, this…’
‘Miloš Valetić.’
Vera swept a few crumbs off the table. ‘And they were really shot?’ She looked alarmed as she pushed the clasp back over the neck of the bottle. ‘I know why I don’t trust any Albanian and why we have three locks on our door here.’
‘Remember Bekim, who carried the coals for Grandma Velika?’
‘Bekim was the exception.’
‘He was also an Albanian.’
‘He was a fine and reliable man.’ Vera nudged Fiona. ‘In future we’ll have to keep this kind of news from Miodrag. Excitement like this is dangerous in his current state.’
After turning out the lights in the kitchen and hallway, Milena retired to her room. She turned down the bed, took off her earrings and began brushing her hair. Her thoughts flitted around all manner of topics: kajmak and cheese croissants, German bicycles and Serbian peasants, Bologna criteria, jelly bananas and the question of what had happened in Talinovac. Two old people – why such an eruption of violence?
She found she couldn’t sleep; after a while spent tossing and turning, she got up again, sat down at her desk and opened her email.
The mobile phone statement had arrived and wasn’t quite as bad as expected. And Philip, Adam’s father, had sent her a message. No subject.
She let in Fiona, who was miaowing outside in the hallway, took a box of cigarillos from the shelf and tilted the window open a crack. She blew the smoke out into the air, opened Philip’s email and read.
Milena, how’s it going, is everything ok with you all? I hear you got your contract extension. Congratulations.
‘All right,’ Milena said under her breath, ‘what do you want?’
He got to the point straight away. The reason why I’m writing is this: We ( Jutta and I) have a new flat, a good location, not too far from Altona station and big enough to finally give Adam his own room. But all that comes at a price. You know how expensive it is renting an apartment in Hamburg. Count yourself lucky that you have your own space and that the cost of living in Belgrade is so low. As for us, things are a bit tight at the moment. So that’s why I’m asking you now if you’d agree to me reducing the maintenance payments for Adam slightly? Only temporarily, of course. That’d give us a bit of breathing space. I’m counting on you and thank you in advance for taking the time to consider this request. Philip.
Milena leant back and inhaled the smoke from her cigarillo. Philip and his endless demands.
Always small and inconsequential at first. He had never been short of ideas on how to make his pleasant life even more pleasant. Back when he was a student from Bückeburg with curly fair hair, she’d have moved heaven and earth to do what he wanted. But a lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then. She was no longer responsible for him and especially not for that busty, athletic Jutta and their nice flat in Altona. Were there no contracts for architects in Hamburg? But Philip had never been one to pursue work vigorously. He far preferred dreaming his life away on his sailing boat and eyeing up bits of skirt. Jobs came along sooner or later, when nice little projects dropped into his lap, but even then he’d only take one if it appealed to him aesthetically. She was sick and tired of his attitude. And she had a bad conscience, as she had just bought herself some new face cream at a cost that would give Vera palpitations. And why? Because her salary was only that of a mid-ranking local official. Maybe she should spell that out to him in clear and simple terms and remind him that Adam was only able to go to his basketball club because her friend Tanja dutifully stumped up for his subscription.
She put out the cigarillo and clicked on the link to reply. ‘My dear Philip,’ she hammered into the keyboard. Fiona was sitting under the desk lamp, with her fur all fluffed up, and her eyes closed sleepily.
Milena got up and shut the window. She hated the part she had to play. She was always the nasty ex, with whom you couldn’t have a sensible conversation. She looked at her phone, which was turned to silent but which had lit up with an incoming call. She didn’t recognise the number. Looking at her watch, she was shocked to see it was almost half past midnight.
Alarmed, she picked up. ‘Hello?’
‘Ms Lukin? It’s Boško. I’m a roommate of your uncle. Please excuse this late call.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Miodrag wants to speak to you. I’ll hand you over.’
There was some shuffling, followed by silence, and then came her uncle’s voice. ‘Milena, were you already asleep?’
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