If there was anything to object to, she said, a formal complaint procedure would be enacted, and this would automatically open a time window in which a lot of changes could be made. Milena admired the pragmatic and efficient way in which Lydia handled this job in the university administration. Whether her salary was sufficient to support her husband, an unemployed dental hygienist, and his children from his first marriage, was another matter.
Before Lydia had a chance to embark on her tea-making ritual and her litany of which institute was about to be closed down and which scientist was threatened with forced redeployment or the sack, Milena brought the conversation round to the subject that was preying on her mind above all else. ‘Do you have any idea,’ she asked after cutting short an incoming telephone call with two curt sentences, ‘who I could talk to upstairs among the Kosovo guys?’
‘Concerning what?’
‘The programme to return Serbian refugees.’
Lydia mulled this over. The problem was that there were so many new faces in the Kosovo department since it had been restructured. But there was one old acquaintance left there, and she had even risen to the position of special advisor in the recent round of promotions. Lydia grabbed her keys and said, ‘Come with me.’
The Minister-President’s Office for Kosovo and Metohija was on the next floor up. The redesignation from ministry to Minister-President’s Office had entailed a loss of status – a quite intentional consequence, of course. Through it, the Serbian government was signalling to the international community, especially the United States and the EU, that the conflict in Kosovo was no longer top priority and was being dealt with at a lower level. The anticipated quid pro quo for that was that Serbia’s application to join the EU would be fast-tracked.
‘The new minister of state,’ Lydia ventured, ‘might not be that stupid after all.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Lydia showed the security personnel her badge and propelled Milena ahead of her through the gate. ‘Did you hear about the initiative called “Small Pupils – Big Hearts”? Serbian children from Kosovo are supposed to come on an exchange to Belgrade. To establish contacts with their contemporaries, make new friends – all that kind of thing. And on top of everything else they get to see our beautiful capital. The Ministry of Education supports the project and wants to cooperate with the Minister-President for Kosovo’s Office.’
‘Yeah, that’s a good thing’, Milena agreed.
‘It’s supposedly the brainchild of minister of state Slobodan Božović.’
‘A man of action, then.’
‘Apparently.’
She opened the double glass door; Milena’s first impression was that they had somehow strayed into an advertising agency or other entity that was completely at variance with a dilapidated old pile like the Palace of Serbia. There were silvery grey carpets, chairs and sofas covered in black leather and potted plants arranged in small islands. People working at their computer screens were visible through narrow window units. All of them looked busy, as if they were electrified, which might have be the result of constantly ringing telephones. The huge picture on the wall was particularly striking, a photographic work showing an apparently abstract composition made up of different kinds of red, mainly magentas.
While Lydia went off in search of her acquaintance Milena took a closer look at the picture. Only then did she realise that this explosion of colour was composed of close-up images of peonies, the flower of the Kosovo region. Behind the flowers she could see a field – in all likelihood Kosovo Polje, whose name translates as ‘blackbird field’ – and wooded slopes typical of the region. Six hundred years ago the Serbs had fought and lost against the Ottoman Turks on the ‘blackbird field’ in the Battle of Kosovo, a defeat which was still commemorated in old folk songs. Ever since then, Kosovo had been the seat of the Serbian Orthodox Church as well as being the political centre. As a result, Kosovo was often referred to as the ‘Cradle of Serbian Culture’. The tragic thing was that it occupied just as central a position in the identity and culture of the Albanians, who saw themselves as the descendants of the Illyrians, the original native inhabitants of the region. This small tract of land was charged with a great deal of history and many legends, one of which maintained that peonies bloomed in such a vibrant red only in this location, because the ground here had been drenched in so much blood.
The young man who suddenly appeared from around the corner had his ear glued to his mobile phone. Milena tried to step aside, but that only resulted in an even more full-on collision. The pile of brochures he was carrying under his arm went all over the floor. Cursing loudly, the man bent down to pick them up.
‘I do apologise,’ Milena said, as she helped him gather them up, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Thedarkbluefolderswerelabelled‘Real-estatesurvey/report Kosovo xxiv-14/5.1’. Hastily he snatched back the brochure that she had picked up – meaning that they must be confidential internal documents – gathered up the rest in a hurry and disappeared into the adjacent conference room. Milena saw that he wore a little ponytail, and registered that one of the brochures had slipped underneath the sofa. She went after it.
‘They’re expecting a large group of important people to arrive here any minute now.’ Lydia’s voice was coming from behind her. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
Milena straightened up, emerging from beneath the sofa with the folder in her hand.
‘They told me you can address all your questions to the media spokesman,’ Lydia said. ‘Here’s his number.’
‘Thanks,’ said Milena, pocketing the business card. ‘Wait a moment. I’ll be back in a minute.’ She was planning to dash over and hand in the real-estate report at the conference room, but she found her way barred by a hulk of a man. With a wide stance and a headset on, he stood square in front of her and commanded, ‘Step back, please.’
The gold-framed doors of the Minister-President’s Office were pushed open into the lobby by a dark cloud of men in suits with grey sideburns and attaché cases, flanked by security personnel and women in business attire.
‘Come along.’ Lydia made a gesture with her head. They made to leave via another door, but one of the gorilla-like guards pushed them back behind the potted plants.
‘Frau Lukin?’ A slim, clean-shaven face peered through the leaves of the weeping fig – a face, Milena thought, which looked familiar: Count Alexander Kronburg, the German ambassador. ‘Don’t tell me you’re here as part of the Serbian delegation!’ he exclaimed.
‘Delegation?’ Milena straightened her jacket. ‘We were actually just trying to leave.’
‘Oh, I’m glad to hear it.’
‘What?’
He walked around the plant, smiling sheepishly and suddenly looking for all the world like a mischievous boy. ‘After all, I know what a tough negotiator you are at these kind of meetings. Are you keeping well?’
‘May I ask what important issues you’re going to discuss in there?’ Milena asked.
‘The Kosovo subsidies.’
‘For the Serbian refugees? I see.’ Milena nodded knowingly. ‘The support for the refugee return programme has presumably now been put on ice?’
‘Quite the contrary. It’s supposed to be increased. And it seems that we’ll have Thornton on our side in this decision.’
‘Thornton?’
‘The EU commissioner for refugees.’
‘So, even more money for the returnees?’ Milena was taken aback by his response. ‘Didn’t you hear what happened to the old Serbian couple in Talinovac?’
‘Dreadful story. That sort of thing ought never to have happened.’
‘They were executed, for all intents and purposes.’
‘That’s exactly why we have to double our efforts now. We mustn’t let ourselves be intimidated by these criminal elements. All refugees have the right of return and restitution of their property. That’s wha
t it says in the plan, which we’ve now got to implement step by step.’
‘The Martti Ahtisaari Plan, nothing but well-meaning words,’ Milena said. ‘The reality unfortunately looks very different. Multicultural politics aren’t going to work in Kosovo.’
‘The implementation will take time, undoubtedly.’
A woman with a clipboard came up to the ambassador and whispered something in his ear. He nodded to her and continued his conversation with Milena. ‘The atmosphere is still very tense and explosive. I have to agree with you on that. And as long as that continues I guess we have to expect such casualties.’
‘Casualties?’
‘But that shouldn’t deter us, don’t you agree?’ Smiling sweetly, the clipboard-carrying woman steered him towards the conference room. ‘I’ll be in Brussels tomorrow,’ he called out to Milena. ‘But maybe Wednesday next week would suit you? I urgently need to discuss something with you. My office will get in touch.’ Then he disappeared. The doors closed silently behind him.
‘Wow,’ Lydia exhaled.
‘What?’
‘Does that guy wear blue contact lenses?’
‘How should I know?’
‘I think he likes you.’
‘You know what, Lydia, somebody who calls the dead in Talinovac “casualties” can get stuffed as far as I’m concerned.’
And yet, when she returned to her car she had to admit to herself that her heart was pounding. Small wonder! She tried to imagine those diplomats and politicians sitting up there, deciding the fates of thousands of refugees in their pursuit of abstract targets. Those men were motivated by all manner of concerns, but never by the welfare of the people involved.
She walked past the line of black limousines with their chauffeurs in white shirts behind the wheels. Only then did she notice that she was still holding the real-estate brochure, an internal document not meant for public consumption.
She took her cigarettes out of her bag, lit one and opened the folder on the first page: a map of Kosovo. Cities, towns, thoroughfares. She turned the page. Once again the map, this time with symbols strewn all over the place, like houses on a Monopoly board, and a key. Further on, there were tables, columns of figures, pie charts, diagrams and calculations. A lot of money was up for grabs, sixand even seven-figure sums.
Milena leant against her car, snapped ash from her cigarette and studied the explanatory notes.
The Brussels money for the refugees and for the reconstruction didn’t go directly to Kosovo, but first came here, to Belgrade, to the Kosovo Minister-President’s Office. Maybe it was sensible that the money flow was controlled by Belgrade – after all, it was destined for Serbian refugees. On the other hand, the Ministry for Returnees in Priština was also headed by Serbians. From there the money was eventually distributed to the thirty-eight communities in Kosovo and then finally to the people.
Milena closed the file. All good and fine. She was going to study the figures in peace and quiet later, just out of interest. But these facts were probably not germane to discovering why two people had been murdered down there.
Maybe the whole story was simply too complex and distant: two deaths in a country with a reputation of being a place where ‘other laws’ applied, one of which stated that Serbs were hated there, and on the other side the settled political will to repatriate as many displaced Serbs as possible to Kosovo even if that cost millions. Where should she start? Without Lydia she wouldn’t have even managed to get into the Minister-President’s Office. Had she even thanked her?
She took out her telephone and saw that an unknown number had called and left a message. She accessed her voicemail.
‘This is Slavujka Valetić,’ the caller said. ‘You tried to reach me. Yes, we can meet. I’d suggest tomorrow, two-thirty p.m., Café Präsent.’
6
‘Is that you?’
Goran Valetić pressed the receiver to his ear. His hands were sweaty, his throat was dry and his sister’s voice was very distant. How was he supposed to explain to her what he had done? He had prepared the right words, but his tongue was tied, and he couldn’t utter a sound.
‘Talk to me, Goran!’ Her voice sounded cold and cutting and dreadfully familiar. ‘Just talk to me!’
He hung up. His thumbnail was bloody, the display went dark and the digital clock began to count the seconds. Goran turned on the engine, putting his foot on the clutch and his hands on the steering wheel.
He couldn’t stand the silence at home, or the hurly-burly of the bars and cafés. Driving calmed him down, and the music from the CD player turned the world out there into a movie, which only concerned him peripherally. He had been driving like this for days: across Branko’s Bridge to New Belgrade and back again to Dorćol, Skadarlija, along the Danube and across the bridge again. When the traffic got too heavy, he changed lane, turned right and drove round the corner. The main thing was to keep moving so the movie wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t bear to see old people by the roadside, at bus stops or, like those two, waiting at the traffic light to cross the street: a grandpa carrying the shopping and holding his wife’s hand. Then the film stopped and he pictured them lying there, two lifeless bodies. The questions began: had they shot his father or his mother first? Had she cried and screamed, or had she dutifully dogged his footsteps until the end? Had there been time for a last glance, a last touch? Had his father resisted, had he sworn at his attackers or had he tried to calm his weeping mother? Or had it all happened in total silence? He accelerated, sped along, always ending up in Košutnjak. He turned into Prague Street and, reducing his speed, now proceeded at a crawl.
The house of the minister of state lay in darkness, looking so neat behind its cast-iron gate, and so elegant, just like all the houses here. A green box-tree hedge. White gravel on the paths. On the top floor, in a loft room, a light shone warmly, as though Papa Božović was up there reading a bedtime story to his son. When the whole family was at home the garage was filled with a Mercedes, a convertible and a BMX bike. He had nothing against the guy, and crawling through bushes in the dark and knocking on strangers’ windows, as he had done last Sunday, was generally not his style. But he had been unable to stand it any longer. He’d had to do something: slam the money down on the table in front of the minister of state, the bounty for his parents, covered in their blood. Return it to the highest authority, at least a symbolic gesture, in hope of setting something in motion, of provoking a reaction, if only a word of regret.
He got nothing. Božović had only stared at him as if he were a ghost. The minister had taken seconds to react, and eventually offered him a whisky, but he had understood nothing. Projected onto the wall, a pornographic movie was playing, and against the backdrop of all that heavy breathing Božović had made him an offer: switch off for a while, get the hell out of here, clear your head. What kind of an idea was that? His parents were dead and he was supposed to take a break? Goran didn’t want anything more to do with this guy, with the whole lot of these people, and the fact that the feeling was now mutual was a bitter irony.
He drove back along Liberation Boulevard to the city centre. He hated the thought of turning off the engine, halting the movie. All of a sudden he found himself outside Diana’s front door.
He spoke his name into the intercom, waited and hoped that he would not have to sneak across the backyard and yap like a dog outside her door for hours. A few seconds passed, and then the buzzer sounded. Relieved, he pushed open the door. Inside, everything was familiar: the smell of the staircase, the broken window, the mould on the wall. Diana, who was wearing her washed-out T-shirt, gave him something to eat and drink and sat down across the table from him, with her chin resting on her hand. She didn’t speak, she didn’t ask any questions, she just took him into her arms and kept him in a firm embrace, as the pain overtook him and made his body shake with grief.
When the first glimmers of daylight shone through the curtains, he got up, buttoned up his trousers, slipped on his T-shirt and put
on his trainers. Diana rolled over, mumbled something and then breathed deeply. The fact that his picture had disappeared from her bedside table wasn’t a good sign. He still couldn’t believe that it was supposed to be over; when all this had passed, they should talk about it again. He had to work through things. He had to work it out systematically. He kept his eyes fixed on her as he picked up her trousers from the chair and rummaged through her pockets – first the back ones, and then the front.
He went into the kitchen and looked around. He pulled open the drawers, then searched the shelves, top and bottom, and all the tubs and boxes. He finally found what he was looking for in the coffee tin: seven tightly rolled banknotes. He hesitated, thought it over for a while. Then he left her one note and stuffed the rest into his pocket.
He checked his weapon, buckled up the belt and pulled his jacket on over it. Diana had once told him that he couldn’t always just leg it when things got tricky. He couldn’t always hold others responsible for his mess. She was right. He had to fix this now, in his own way.
7
The radishes shone in the sunlight like bright red boiled sweets andgavealoudsnapwhenyoubitintothem.Theywereperfect. Milena selected three bunches and a butterhead lettuce, the organically grown kind with firm light green leaves.
As the woman at the greengrocer’s stall was putting Milena’s purchases in a bag, she dispensed some advice. ‘Don’t add pumpkin seeds this time. Try brewer’s yeast for a change.’
Milena also bought some spring onions, new potatoes and fresh parsley. She glanced around at the other women on the market stalls. One of them had to be Slavujka Valetić. But she found it hard to imagine that the daughter of a teacher could possibly have such muscle-bound upper arms, be heaving around crates full of fruit and vegetables or be slicing up cuts of meat. The most likely scenario was that Slavujka was a cheese seller, with a white cap and apron. Indeed, one of the women selling cheese behind the glass cabinets now checked her watch, said something to her colleague and took off her apron. But the meeting in the Café Präsent was not for another half hour.
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