She wheezed, straining to bring her breathing and racing pulse under control. The strange woman she’d met had disappeared so fast; she’d just turned around and she was gone. Had she thanked her properly, she wondered?
After putting the cheese on the shelf she rummaged around to see what else was left there: spinach and carrots. Further down were some oats, rice and raisins. Her provisions weren’t as depleted as she’d feared. Only the milk might run out. She was about to lock up the larder and go back and fill the kettle with water for a cup of tea when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye that didn’t belong there.
The middle shelf was for cheese, or at least that had been the rule since she’d started using the larder in this house. That tin of peeled tomatoes was definitely not supposed to be there. Shaking her head she picked up the tin, when all of a sudden a shadow loomed up behind her.
The tin fell from her hands and crashed to the floor. Sheer presence of mind made her reach for the poker. The tin rolled away, hit something and came to a stop.
In the silence she glanced around. But all she could see was a sack of potatoes propped against the wall. She listened intently. The grandfather clock gave a lazy mechanical rattle, getting ready to strike the hour.
She didn’t have the strength to bend down and reach for the tin. She put the poker back on its hook and brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face. She could have sworn…
The kettle seemed extra heavy, even heavier than usual, and the distance to the sink, over to the tap, twice as long. She turned on the gas, and used both hands to lift the kettle onto the ring. Everything was fine. She must have just got out of bed on the wrong side today.
She arranged her cup and saucer on a tray and, as her pulse returned to normal, remembered that she hadn’t told Sophia anything about today’s adventure yet. That morning in the garden, near the rear wall: for the first time this year she had gone down to the stone bench to check that everything was in order. From back there it was clear how much the walnut tree had spread. The paths were getting narrower as well. Now, in spring, it was high time someone cut back the ivy, as well as the thistles and nettles. But she was getting off the point – the stone bench.
It was broken; heaven knew how that had happened. Maybe the frost? Probably. No question, the bench was tilting at a crazy angle. As it stood, there’d be no possibility of sitting there peacefully in the summer, watching dusk fall over the garden – no way. Nothing lasted for ever.
As she searched for the little silver spoon, she asked herself when Sophia had last sat back there, on the stone bench. Or if she’d actually ever done so. Her beloved cousin only liked to take a short walk. Wasn’t that the case? She took her tea to the window, pulled up a chair for herself and settled herself next to Sophia’s armchair.
It was strange that at that very moment she should recall the story with the count – Count Dietrich, with the high forehead and the blonde sideburns. Always travelling, always on his way to Vienna, Trieste or Dubrovnik. Belgrade was only a provincial backwater in the Balkans, but for Sophia – the daughter of the renowned furrier Lazarus Spajić – for her it was worth his while stopping off even there. She was quite a catch, and – what was more – she was easy prey. Well, she had taught him a lesson. The slap in the face she gave him, sitting on the stone bench, had gone down in legend. But that had been a fair few years ago now.
Juliana took a sip of tea. She had lost her train of thought. Yes, the stone bench. This morning, when she’d noticed that the lilies were in bloom beneath the bench, those small and tender pale pink ones, she realised that it was the time of year, and of the month – maybe even the anniversary – of the day she had first come to this house. She, the poor cousin from Kopaonik, whose only possessions were the clothes she stood in and the handful of meagre provisions her father had wrapped up in the bundle she was carrying. Her arrival at the home of Uncle Lazarus, the Spajić House – how many years ago would that have been now?
Juliana closed her eyes. She could see everything clearly in her mind’s eye: Sophia as a small girl wearing a dress with polka dots, a ribbon in her hair and white socks, and her little sister in the same get-up, only two sizes smaller. The maids with their starched and ruched aprons and Drinka, the cook, who had put a plate of bread here on the table by the window as a gesture of welcome and sustenance for her – with lots of butter and parsley on it. The excitement that was in the air in the house, the doctor with his big bag, the white sheets, the bowls with hot water – she was so excited she had not understood at first what was going on. But the day of her arrival had also been the day of Nicola’s arrival into the world. The day she had stood here on the steps with her bundle had been the same day her little cousin Nicola had been born.
Anyway, back then she had been involved in more exciting affairs: her voyage of discovery in Sophia’s wake. She had never before set eyes on a soda fountain or a light switch. Not a telephone, nor a bell like the one that summoned the servants up to the salon of Uncle Lazarus and Aunt Persida – or Master and Mistress, as they were known and referred to. The enormous car in the garage, and in the shed the man with the round felt cap – he scared her with his dark sideburns and bushy eyebrows, which were so mobile she almost imagined they could talk. When he came over to her, offering her a toffee in his outstretched hand, Sophia had whispered into her ear, ‘Careful, that’s the Albanian. He steals little girls!’
With a jolt, Juliana suddenly sat bolt upright and looked around in confusion. Had she fallen asleep? It was nearly five o’clock! What was the matter with her today? All these memories, the past, all this was suddenly so alive again. Ah, Nicola, she couldn’t keep hanging on very much longer. And where was the dish with the cookies?
One day she would forget her own head. She stood up, walked past the stove in the kitchen, back to the larder, unlocked it and switched on the light.
On the middle shelf, the cheese shelf, there was the tin of tomatoes again.
She felt giddy, and clutched at the doorframe and the post supporting the shelves to steady herself. Then everything became clear. It was one of Nicola’s pranks. He was playing tricks on her. It was his way of telling her I’m back, little Juliana, dear cousin. Typical! Instead of simply walking in through the door, he sneaked about her like a gremlin, into her larder, and created an almighty mess. Now he was probably hiding somewhere and laughing himself silly, watching her struggle to comprehend what was happening. Juliana put her hands on her hips and looked around. ‘Nicola,’ she called out, ‘that’s enough now. Where are you? Come out. Show yourself.’
She wasn’t angry with him; she’d never been angry with him, not for anything. Quite the contrary: it was good that he brought a little life into this sad house. And she was relieved that she wasn’t going completely gaga. She even felt a little triumphant: after all, she – unlike Sophia – had never doubted that her gadabout cousin would keep his promise and come home one day.
Ah, Nicola. With a smile on her lips she took the tin and put it on the shelf on the other side, where it belonged.
9
Milena pulled the junk mail out of the letterbox – a special offer from a dry cleaner – and deposited it in the wastepaper basket. It was Friday, the weekend beckoned and she had given Adam permission to stay overnight at Zoran’s. Vera had been against it. She found the whole arrangement horrible: her grandson would be gone until Sunday, sleeping in a strange bed for two whole nights, and she couldn’t check whether he was warm enough, had brushed his teeth before bedtime or had drunk enough water.
Milena skipped the lift and took the stairs. On her part, the main concern was that the boys did not sit glued to the computer the whole time playing one of their war games. But Adam had promised her they weren’t going to do that, and she trusted him. On the other hand, hadn’t he told her only recently that Zoran had been given a new PlayStation by his stepfather and that now he wanted one too?
She unlocked the door to the f
lat and prepared herself to be confronted by a depressing atmosphere, or one of Vera’s curtain-washing or carpet-cleaning blitzes. Instead, she heard loud voices from the kitchen. Their neighbours Milka Bašić and Tamara Spielmann were busy clearing away dirty dishes to make room for a bottle of apricot schnapps and little glasses.
‘Good evening.’ Milena smiled and greeted the visitors.
‘I can tell from the look in her eyes that all’s not right with the world,’ Milka called out, while accepting a glass that Vera had filled to the brim.
In the oven Milena could see the casserole dish filled with proja, the golden yellow cornbread which was only served up when there was no time to prepare something more elaborate. The ingredients – corn and wheat flour, baking powder, eggs and a little cheese, preferably mature – were readily available. You could always add other things you had to hand in the kitchen cupboard – in this case, red and yellow peppers and green olives, along with spinach.
‘I’ve been wondering what the funny doodles on the wall mean,’ Tamara lisped.
‘Doodles?’ Milena took a piece of proja, balanced it on her plate and put the rest back into the oven. ‘Has somebody been decorating the lift with graffiti again?’ She shooed the cat off the chair and squeezed in next to Tamara at the corner of the table.
Milka emitted a sigh that somehow expressed her entire frustration with the world and all its inhabitants, who never behaved as she expected and wished. She went on to explain that they now included the man from the travel agency on the ground floor. Milena learned that he wanted to annexe part of the entrance hall – the porch, to be precise; the loft of the porch, to be even more precise – which he planned to use as storage space. His plans had progressed so far that his markings on the wall had caught the attention of not only Tamara but also Milka. Accustomed as these ladies were to instantly putting two and two together, they had confronted the man. After all, he had form in such matters: a few years ago he had unofficially enquired whether it might be possible to lower the ceiling in the hallway for his benefit. The residents’ association had turned him down. With very good reason, as Milena recalled.
‘So what did the guy say?’ she asked.
‘He was as stubborn as a mule,’ Milka replied, angrily crossing her arms.
‘And what does the management agent say to the whole story?’
‘They say it’s none of their business.’
‘They’ve all been bribed,’ Vera claimed.
Tamara nodded.
‘Did you manage to have a word with the caretaker?’ Milena enquired, sneaking a look at her watch.
‘We thought that maybe you’d do that,’ Vera said.
Milka added, ‘You have a standing, a certain authority, which the guy recognises.’
Tamara nodded.
Talking to Šoć was more easily said than done. The man was an inveterate grumbler, and drunk most of the time, so it was useless relying on his assurances or anything else he said. Milena put her dishes in the sink. ‘All right. OK. I’ll look into it. First thing next week.’
Presently, the ladies took their leave. Vera sank onto the sofa, utterly exhausted, and Milena secretly wished that the whole matter would resolve itself of its own accord in the next few days. She put on a fresh black T-shirt, applied eyeshadow and reached for her denim jacket.
‘You’re going out again?’ Vera asked.
‘Just leave it all; I’ll clear up later.’ Milena crammed money and her ID into her small handbag and searched for her keys. ‘Aunt Isidora called today,’ Vera told her, ‘at least three times, asking after Miodrag. I told her I wasn’t up to speed and that you’d call her back.’
Milena bent down to straighten the wrinkled rug in the living room. ‘We should get Uncle Miodrag a mobile. That way, she can call him directly.’
‘Are you crazy? Just remember how she lost it here over the weekend. The woman’s hysterical, and your uncle would never have a moment’s peace.’ Vera stroked the cat and watched as Milena straightened out the rug’s fringe.
‘Are you meeting the German ambassador?’ Vera asked.
Milena looked at her in surprise. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? I just wanted to get out, meet a few people…’
‘Then it must have something to do with the Valetićs, am I right?’ Vera sighed. ‘Your uncle should draw a line under that unhappy event and get himself back on his feet, but he can’t do that as long as you keep rubbing salt into the wound and adding fuel to the fire.’
‘Mama, not now, please.’
‘Well, then at least don’t be late.’
‘Go to bed, Mama. Relax. And tomorrow morning I’ll call Aunt Isidora.’
‘Milena?’
She turned around. ‘What is it?’
‘Do you think the boy is getting something decent to eat tonight?’
Milena kissed her mother. ‘I’m sure he is.’
‘Fiona needs her fur trimming, by the way,’ Vera said. ‘She’s losing her winter coat.’
In the daytime, you could already walk with your coat wide open, but now, at night, with clear skies and a cold wind blowing from the East, Milena had to button up her jacket against the cold as she crossed the street.
Students were sitting on the steps outside the building of the Technical University and were risking hangovers by kicking off the weekend with a spot of open-air binge drinking. That suited an old man who collected the empties in his cart to claim back the deposits. He came trundling by at that moment, heading in the direction of Tašmajdan Park. Milena turned into Ilija Garašanin Street.
When she finally reached Old Nowak Street she could make out the sign from a distance: a multi-coloured oval with a yellow airship in the middle, which blinked rhythmically. The entrance door had been strengthened with an iron plate, painted black, and with a small, barred window at eyelevel – really only a peephole – with a massive silver knob below it. On the right-hand side was a brass button, which looked like it had only recently been installed.
She hesitated. She’d have felt safer with Siniša at her side, but she didn’t want to wait until next week and let so much time go by. She had a gut feeling. With a shiver, she pressed the bell. In the distance a police siren howled, fell silent, started up again and then receded.
Milena stepped back and looked upwards. Next to a satellite dish a window was illuminated. She couldn’t make out another entrance. She rang the bell again, grabbed the knob and, to her surprise, found the door unlocked.
Silver cloakroom tags were hanging on hooks in the entrance hall, along with a single jacket. Instead of a cloakroom attendant there was only a little dish, and a lamp that radiated warm light. A cardboard sign read 150 dinar per person. Milena crossed a carpet and approached a large curtain, pushed aside the heavy material and entered a huge, empty room, a sparsely lit hall with no one inside. Chairs stood around little tables, all facing the stage. On it, partially obscured and in front of a black backdrop, stood a piano. A bit further forward was a drum kit, a collection of microphones and something that looked like a cable drum. From somewhere offstage there came a lot of banging and clanging.
The wall opposite was made up of glass bricks subtly lit from behind so as to lend a sophisticated sparkle to the bottles standing in front of them. Behind the bar, someone was obviously restocking the shelves. Milena could only see a bent back, barely covered by a white shirt that had tugged free of the trouser belt, revealing the top of a colourful pair of boxer shorts.
‘Good evening,’ she said.
The young man glanced over his shoulder.
‘I just have one question,’ Milena said.
‘I can tell you straight away.’ He went on picking bottles up, two at a time. ‘The concert won’t start for another hour and a half. More like two, actually.’
‘I’m looking for a young woman,’ Milena said. ‘She’s supposed to work here.’
The man looked up. ‘Diana?’ He shut the door under the bar with a bang.
‘Is she here?’ asked Milena.
He pushed aside an empty crate with his foot, brushed back his hair and looked at his watch. ‘In half an hour – if you’re lucky.’
Milena put down her handbag on the bar. There was a tray with a row of candlesticks, which presumably needed replacing.
The bartender turned his back on her and clattered around with a pile of CD cases. Soon after, there came the muted sound of a jazz trumpet, and the lamps on the wall lit up with a soft light that set off the dark brick nicely. She really was the only customer in the place.
‘Can I get you something?’
She looked at the twinkling bottles with their designer labels and picked up a menu. It must have been an eternity since she’d last been to a bar, probably in Berlin, before Adam was born.
‘If I’m honest, I’d like a cup of coffee.’
‘How boring.’
Startled, she looked at him. ‘Do you have a better idea?’ He stroked his manicured beard. ‘How about an Old Fashioned?’
‘OK, then.’ She closed the menu.
He reached into a basket, brought out two limes and picked up a knife.
Milena turned her phone to silent and saw that Tanja had sent her a text message. ‘I’m home,’ her friend had written. ‘How about you?’ Milena put it back into her pocket and climbed onto a bar stool. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ she said.
He positioned his knife accurately and cut the lime in half, took a glass from the shelf and heaped ice cubes into it. ‘This your first time here?’
‘I’ve only come to speak to Diana, or to ask her about something, to be precise. It’s to do with Goran Valetić.’
‘Goran?’ He squeezed the limes with his hands. ‘Haven’t seen him for a long time.’
‘You know him?’
He let the juice trickle into the glass. ‘When he was still seeing Diana he came here often.’ He picked up a bulging bottle from the shelf above the bar.
Peony Red Page 8