‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ Milena said. ‘I must have lost my way. The young man out there said –’
A woman with a headscarf got up from her chair. ‘Can somebody help me with the laundry?’ Without even looking at Milena, she walked past her out of the door. Two women followed her, and then a third.
‘Please,’ Milena said, ‘I didn’t mean to drive you away.’
A blonde woman in a jean jacket switched off the radio and began noisily piling up the dishes. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘I’m here in a private capacity. The matter is –’
‘Let me guess.’ The blonde threw the potatoes into the pot one by one. ‘It’s to do with the Valetićs, isn’t it?’
‘Many years ago Ljubinka Valetić was my uncle’s girlfriend, in fact his childhood sweetheart.’
‘How fascinating. And you now want to rekindle his memories?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Nice story. We haven’t heard that one before.’ She folded up the newspaper. ‘Now it’s my turn to tell you one.’ She started wiping the table vigorously. ‘The main thing about old Mrs Valetić was that she was a stuck-up old bat, really snooty and not very talkative. What I’ll always remember about her are her embroidered handkerchiefs and the dainty little portions of food she put on her plate.’
Milena smiled awkwardly. ‘And where can I find the daughter?’
‘Slavujka?’ She hung the dishcloth over the tap. ‘She works in the market.’
‘Then she’s the opposite of her mother, is she?’
‘Oh no, don’t imagine for a moment that she ever thought to bring any produce here for us – salad, vegetables, you know, stuff that doesn’t get sold at the market. No chance of that.’ She pushed the chairs under the table. ‘But, sad as it is, that chapter’s now closed.’
Milena helped her with the chairs. ‘What about the man who was here and tried to persuade you to return to Kosovo?’
‘I didn’t listen to that claptrap. Now, you must excuse me.’ She closed the window and took down a key from a hook.
‘And what about the son – Goran?’ Milena asked.
But the woman was already gone.
Milena went over to the window. The sun was already setting. Outside, two men with spades and wheelbarrows set about filling the potholes on the path with stones. Children were jumping around a dog that stood taller than the smallest ones among them. An official had come here to offer the hope of a new life to these people, and an elderly couple had taken the word of officialdom as gospel and actually set off back to their old homeland. Their trusting nature had cost them their lives. The people of Avala were in shock.
Milena took a glass from the shelf and held it under the tap. As she did so she had the strange feeling that she was being watched. She turned off the tap and swung round.
An old woman clad all in black, with a black shawl, sat huddled in a dark corner like she’d been put there some while ago and then forgotten. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t notice you,’ said Milena.
‘The girl you are looking for…’ the old woman croaked.
Milena approached her and crouched down. ‘Was Slavujka here?’ she asked. ‘Do you know her?’
The eyes of the old woman were milky, and her bony chin trembled. ‘She’s a good girl.’ Tentatively she stretched out her hand towards Milena. ‘But you need to remember something.’
‘What?’ Milena asked.
The old lady touched her cheek. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything people tell you.’
4
Slobodan Božović stood behind the large picture window with his legs apart and stared out into the garden. In the gathering dusk he could make out the bushes, shrubs and herbaceous perennials, and among them the statue of Venus, which he fondly imagined was proof of his good taste.
Conifers were lined up like soldiers at the boundary of his property, obscuring the wire-mesh fence, and whenever these tall evergreens moved – well, it must be the wind catching the branches. This was the third time that evening he’d gone to the window to check the situation outside. He’d also alerted the security firm, even though it was obvious what had happened: Oli had seen a ghost, most probably one of those fantastic creatures straight out of his computer games. Slobodan hitched his trousers up over his beer gut and sank back into the couch.
His beloved wife, Božena, his little turtle dove, petite and pretty, was sitting in her snow-white tracksuit at the glass desk; occasionally, the little ponytail she always wore when working at the computer would bob up and down. Most of the time she surfed the internet and ordered all sort of things – diet aids and pills, or bits and pieces to decorate the room with, like the little glass figurines of every conceivable shape and form that filled the shelves and twinkled in the subtle concealed lighting. His little turtle dove and his home grew ever more beautiful as Oli himself increased in girth. Their son was lounging on the sofa like a fat beached seal. How swiftly and nimbly his fingers manipulated the little keys of his games console, and how utterly focused he was! By contrast, Slobodan’s concentration did not even last long enough to follow an entire CNN news bulletin. The daily dose of English that Božena had prescribed for him went completely in one ear and out the other today.
Of course, there were always some crazy people bothering him; that was to be expected for a person in his position. And those who wrote letters were just the harmless ones. As a minister of state he was constantly in the public eye putting forward strong views, and, despite the fact that he did a great deal of good, it was inevitable that he would cross swords with someone now and again.
He put his feet up and placed the ashtray on his belly. The skyline of Manhattan appeared on the giant flat-screen TV: the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Rockefeller Center, Times Square, yellow cabs, red brake lights and gridded streets. Next came a shot of the United Nations building. Flags flapped in the wind, and politicians in dark suits assembled for a group photo. One day he would stand there as well, and shake the hand of the US secretary of state. If only there weren’t that problem with his damned English. He hadn’t made any progress, and that was mainly the fault of the teacher Božena had foisted on him. A real killjoy, and dry as dust to boot.
‘Darling?’
He turned the volume down. ‘Yes, my sweet?’
‘This guy last week – should I put him on the list?’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘I mean, he’s not bad looking, and he’s from abroad, isn’t he?’
‘Are you talking of Jonathan Spajić?’
‘What?’
He zapped past a game show and reached for his cigarettes. Women in colourful national dress swayed their hips and formed a semi-circle around men in brightly embroidered shirts, with jaunty hats on their heads. Those guys could still dance, that was for sure. Like the old days, at home in Gnjilane on high days and holidays, like when lambs were slaughtered.
‘Oliver!’ He blew smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘Look – isn’t that amazing? Your grandfather could still do that. Exactly like that.’
Come to think of it, it was a real shame. Slobodan’s father had never jiggled his grandson on his knees, never seen what a fine young man he had become, the spitting image of his father. On the other hand, his son would never have to walk behind a plough or pick up potatoes or spend his evenings in the workshop hunched over a punch press. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his background, or that that kind of work was in any way demeaning, but when Slobodan looked down and saw his huge hands he became aware of how different they looked to those of people like Jonathan Spajić. The guy even wore gloves when he rode a bike! He couldn’t make up his mind which was funnier: the bicycle or the gloves.
‘We’ll send out the invitations on Monday.’ Božena sounded content, almost jolly. ‘One hundred and twenty people,’ she chirped, ‘including the plus-guests.’ She pulled the band off of her ponytail, shook out her beautiful hair and checked her re
flection in the dark windowpane.
What would he do without her? She cultivated his friendships for him, carefully planned each of his career moves and watched his back the whole time. If his father had still been alive, he would surely have made his peace with her by now. Back then, when Slobodan brought her home for the first time – a Muslim woman from Sarajevo, whose name was Fahreta, on top of everything else – his father had understandably not been overjoyed. But Slobodan had fallen in love with that woman, especially with her rosy-red cheeks and the funny, careful way she washed her white plastic sandals in milk every night. All that was far in the past now, and the rosy cheeks had given way to wonderfully high cheekbones. In the clingy little jacket she wore she was a picture, boobs and ass in perfect shape – and so dainty that he felt like putting her on her a pedestal, like the Venus statue out in the garden, and just gazing at her the whole time. Oliver was the fruit of their love, the tie, so to speak, that bound them closely together.
‘Hey, champ!’ He gave Oli a playful dig in the ribs. ‘Go and say goodnight to your mum, and then off to bed with you.’
His eyes followed the boy as he waddled out of the room, still bent over his console, unable to take his eyes off the screen. If only he weren’t so narrow shouldered. He ought to have a word with the trainer. The boy needed to toughen up.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ he called after Oliver. ‘D’you hear? Half past seven on the tennis court. Then you can show me your backhand.’ He put out his cigarette and downed the last few sips of beer straight from the bottle, even though he knew that Božena hated it. She’d surely be on his case in an instant.
Instead, she whispered, ‘Slobo!’
He put down the bottle. She was sitting bolt upright at the table in alarm and staring out of the window. He turned the television to mute and put down the remote.
‘There’s someone out there again,’ she whispered.
He went and stood next to her, bending down to get the same viewpoint as her: the Venus, the conifers and some dark shapes, which on closer inspection turned out to be rhododendron bushes – what else could they have possibly been? He laid his hands on her trembling shoulders and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’
Božena disappeared upstairs. He stayed behind in the living room, his heart pounding, feeling like he was on show to the world, exposed and under observation. Here he was, standing around with no shoes on, an old guy, just about to turn fifty and unable to control his nerves. He quickly switched off the lights.
He put on his woollen jacket and slippers and stepped through the kitchen door out onto the terrace. He made a great play of breathing in the cool evening air – a display of nonchalance, but for whose benefit? It was strange, he noticed, that the motion sensor on the corner of the terrace hadn’t registered his presence and activated the light.
A job for the electrician. Yet another thing to sort out on Monday. As so often, he conjured up an image of a great expanse of open land behind the house, meadows and fields that he could run across with the wind in his face, making him catch his breath. Of course, the reality was very different. The evergreens on his boundary actually belonged to his neighbour, and he had no scope to fulfil either his dream of building a swimming pool on this plot or Božena’s desire for a sweeping driveway. He needed to talk to Jonathan Spajić again about this property, this little palace, which he had spoken of with such enthusiasm.
He unlocked the door to the workshop, a small annexe behind the garage, turned on the light and the radiator and bolted the door behind him. Somewhere he could still pick up a familiar aroma, which he knew from his childhood. A mixture of glue and European beech wood for battens that had been steamed, seasoned and air-dried. These materials lay together with the leather in his trunk, but he doubted that he’d ever get them out again and revive his own little private cobbler’s workshop. The machines were mothballed and everything had been shifted to one side to make room for the projector and to allow a clear view of the wall, which he had painted white.
He poured himself a drink and put on his glasses. The aroma of the whisky reminded him of the smell of helichrysums, of summer and his youth. He hadn’t a care in the world back then, when his pockets were full of cash and he spent his time painting the town red with his Albanian mate Režep. The route to Albania had been theirs for the taking. The stuff they’d smuggled! They would load up the car in Prizren with chocolate, tights, body lotion or whatever and then make a dash across the border. Sometimes they didn’t even get as far as Tirana, as the people in the villages en route bit their hands off to get hold of the contraband. What a great time they’d had – he had been his own boss and had a girl in every other village. There’d been no talk of having a family and settling down back then, nor of civil servants, lobbyists and the whole apparatus of the Minister-President’s Office, which he was now saddled with, which he had to know how to spin and control every minute of every day so as to ensure that the blowhards and toadies didn’t go ruining his carefully laid plans with their intrigues.
With no great enthusiasm he rummaged through his collection of DVDs. He had no particular preference today. He just wanted to wind down and turn his mind to other things. He loaded the disc into the player, pushed the ‘play’ button and settled down to watch. Two girls at a pool, presently joined by a third – in other words, the usual, no surprises, exactly what he liked. Before long he was getting into the mood, really into it, and the rhythm of the music filled the room. Perhaps that was the reason why it took so long for him to hear the noise. There was a knock, somebody rattling the doorknob. He pulled up his trousers in a panic, and swore volubly.
A contorted face appeared at the small barred window, a strangely beaten-up mug, which he recognised from somewhere.
5
‘The Ministry for Kosovo?’ The porter put down his sandwich and picked up Milena’s ID. ‘No such thing exists here.’
Milena put her handbag on the counter. ‘Are you having me on?’
He chewed, shook his head, put on his spectacles and inspected her photo ID. ‘The ministry you’re talking about has been redesignated as a Minister-President’s Office. He ran his finger across his appointment schedule. ‘But I can’t see anywhere that you have an appointment. Who did you speak to there?’
‘Nobody. That’s the problem.’ She hadn’t even managed to get the office’s press spokesman on the line.
‘No appointment, no pass. But I can see on the screen, next to Ms Njego of the Ministry of Education, Lukin – ten a.m. That’s you, isn’t it?’ He looked up at her. ‘Do you want to go and see her now?’
Soon after, Milena was striding through the lobby with her pass, past a seating area that had probably been there since the 1960s, when the building was inaugurated. Milena could recall old photographs of the brigades of the socialist workers’ youth movement, who had been sent here after the war from all across Yugoslavia to construct the Palace of the Yugoslavian Federation on the bank of the River Sava. The vast, sprawling building – with four wings, a central glass cupola and a marble façade which had at one time been white – had literally been built on sand, and had experienced some turbulent times. In this building, General Tito had opened the first conference of the Non-Aligned Movement in 1961, received heads of governments, crowned and uncrowned heads of state from all over the world, and hosted lavish banquets. After the end of socialism and the dissolution of the Executive Council of the Federation in 1992, the successor regime – the federal government – had moved in. When Yugoslavia disintegrated in 2003, the government of Serbia and Montenegro followed. Since Montenegro had gained independence, only the Serbian government was left in this building, which was now called the Palace of Serbia.
Milena got out of the lift on the fifth floor and walked over marble flooring that had dulled over the years, past decommissioned tables and chairs which had been piled up like heaps of garbage. Files had been left in the corridors; it seemed as though no archivist would ever t
ake an interest in them, nor would a historian ever study their content in years to come. Here and there, doors stood open, affording views of empty offices and meeting rooms panelled with cedar and jacaranda wood. Milena saw motes of dust dancing in shafts of light, and could sense the rarefied atmosphere in which politicians and civil servants had conferred when they had still believed in the idea of Yugoslavia, the multiethnic state, when they had sought reconciliation between nationalities and federal states and had always found new compromises. The fragile construct had been wilfully destroyed and soiled by blood, and the chance of creating a common southern Slavic state had been squandered. The emptiness of this huge building embodied the state of the country, the dearth of ideas, the absence of imagination and ideals. Now it was only sensible and pragmatic to sublet the surplus space in this government building to private-sector companies. These strangely named companies had exploited the opportunity to give their services and import-export activities a gloss of respectability through this pretence of proximity to the government.
The Ministry of Education, the secretariat where Lydia Njego worked, was situated in the north wing, right next to the marble washrooms. This was where the extensive Bologna documentation – for which Lydia was responsible, as she was the assistant to the chair of the accreditation commission – was stored. Lydia was in her early fifties, in other words slightly older than Milena, and still wore the same large, colourful scarves she had worn at university, where she had run for president of the student union but lost narrowly to her opponent, a well-coiffed swot and talented orator, who many years later became minister of defence.
Milena apologised for her lateness – she had underestimated the traffic on Branko’s Bridge – and handed over the application. Lydia confirmed receipt with a date stamp and signature. In response to Milena’s query as to whether or not the Bologna criteria had been met in full at this stage, Lydia made a gesture of throwing something over her shoulder.
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