‘Too old.’ Her sisters shook their heads emphatically. ‘Not to mention too fat.’
‘Don’t listen to their nonsense,’ Enver said. ‘Dig in.’
Ramadan, the eldest brother, handed her a piece of flat-bread and asked, ‘How do you like Kosovo? Has it changed much?’
Milena chewed on her food and reflected for a moment. The hummus was delicious. After a sip of water she responded, ‘How long ago was the war?’
‘I know what you mean,’ Ramadan sighed. ‘So much is still in ruins. When I go from town to town here I ask myself, how is this possible? Such a beautiful country, but it’s like it’s been smashed into pieces, jumbled up and not put back together again.’
‘The wounds are still open and raw,’ said Enver’s mother, taking a drag on a hookah. ‘Remember your cousin. Fatmir should be here today. Instead, there’s an empty chair.’
‘He was killed at Račak,’ Enver told Milena under his breath.
‘And the wound will always be there,’ the old lady added.
Račak was a tiny village in central Kosovo that had been the site of a massacre of Albanians, allegedly carried out by Serbian forces. The situation was unclear, but Europe at the time was still traumatised by the horrors of the war in Bosnia five years earlier and determined to avoid a repeat of that conflict at all costs. Images of the dead of Račak prompted NATO to wage war against Serbia, calling it a ‘humanitarian mission’. International law was trampled underfoot, and by the time it emerged that the pictures had been fabricated by Albanian underground fighters, nobody gave a damn anymore.
Milena dabbed her mouth with the napkin. ‘I have to say, it really pains me what war has done to us, that your cousin and many others are no longer alive, that Kosovo and Serbia are two separate states and that people regard one another with suspicion. But at the same time I admire the determination and resolve of the Albanian people in fighting for their independence.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ramadan. ‘We appreciate your words. And we know we’re not the only ones in mourning.’
All of a sudden, Enver chipped in. ‘And now we have our independence. It’s right there in front of us like a big, ugly present. The irony is that nobody knows what to do with it.’ ‘People have bigger things to worry about,’ Ramadan responded sharply. ‘They have nothing to eat. There’s nothing in this country. No industry, no agriculture. All we really have is wind and sunshine.’
‘And the expectation that rich relatives abroad will somehow fix everything with their money,’ sneered Enver.
‘You’ve got to be patient,’ Milena said soothingly. ‘The state, economic relations – all that has to be built from the ground up.’
Enver nodded. ‘The only thing that’s been erected here so far is a monument to the American president. Have you seen the damned thing? A statue of Bill Clinton waving, in Priština – larger than life, in bronze, on a street called Bill Clinton Boulevard. Doesn’t that say it all?’
‘What, Enver? What does it say?’ Ramadan’s response was so fierce that Milena was shocked. ‘That we’re grateful to the Americans that they were the first to recognise our state? Yes, we are!’
‘Recognising Kosovo was a huge mistake,’ replied Enver. ‘Don’t you think so?’ he said, addressing Milena. ‘Feel free to speak your mind.’
‘That’s a tricky one.’ Milena measured her words carefully. ‘Now there are two Albanian states: big Albania and little Kosovo. And therein lies the danger. Why? Because we have to assume that sooner or later Kosovo will unite with its big brother, Albania.’
‘Would that be so dreadful?’ asked Rozafa.
‘The problem,’ Milena continued, ‘is the Albanian minorities in Greece and Macedonia. What happens if they also try and join with Albania?’
‘Then there’ll be war.’
‘Please, Enver,’ Ramadan groaned.
‘Let’s change the subject,’ implored Milena.
‘I’m sorry,’ Rozafa piped up, blushing as everybody looked at her, ‘but in all honesty I’m glad things turned out this way.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I mean, independence and the fact that the Serbs are no longer bossing everyone around here anymore.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Let her say her piece, Enver.’
‘No, not when we have a Serbian guest!’
‘Stop it!’ Leonora took off her shoes and sat down between her brothers. ‘Not another word about politics. You’re supposed to eat, drink and be merry.’
Saffron rice with cardamom and barberries was served on copper plates, and with it small bowls of chicken, sultanas and almonds. Afërdita gazed admiringly at Milena’s hair. ‘What a beautiful sheen it has; how do you do it? Is there a trick?’
‘I really don’t know,’ Milena mumbled. She felt bad. She shouldn’t have turned the conversation to the subject of the war. She was at a wedding among friends, not at a panel debate. But everything was connected: the dead of Račak, the NATO mission, independence for Kosovo and even ultimately the deaths of Miloš and Ljubinka Valetić. Their murders were a belated consequence of the war – of that Milena was certain.
They ate with their hands; white napkins were passed around along with little bowls of water containing slices of lemon and sprigs of fresh mint.
Rozafa poured tea and said, ‘Don’t take this personally now, Milena. You’re our friend. But last night in Priština you won’t believe what was going on: all the bars, clubs and restaurants, different languages, an international clientele – there was more happening than in Zurich, I swear! And I thought, in the past we Albanians weren’t even allowed to go to the movies, discos were forbidden, there were no parties, the cafés were strictly segregated into Albanian and Serbian venues. That was so horrible and idiotic!’
They raised a toast to the future and to friendship, and the ladies’ bangles clinked against their glasses. The dishes set on low tables, the heady aroma of spices, the music permeating from the next room – sentimental songs about love and faithfulness, about separation and death – it was all so familiar to Milena. Over centuries, the Balkan cultures had grown together, had complemented and enriched each other, and now politicians and nationalists were doing their damnedest to sow division. This narrow-mindedness and divisiveness, these constant efforts to label things ‘good’ or ‘evil’, only generated fear and invariably led to the shrinking of horizons.
When Milena stepped outside onto the terrace and lit a cigarette, she felt the sun’s warmth on her face. She closed her eyes. She’d expected to have long since been in Talinovac. Her son, Adam, was so far away, in another country. She wanted to have him by her side, so he could see for himself all the beauty and warmth and ease with which Eastern customs and Western traditions mingled here. She sensed that someone had appeared beside her.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Enver.
‘What a wonderful party,’ Milena smiled. ‘Your sisters are enchanting, and your mother – she has an aura.’
Silently they watched the kids and men down in the garden playing cricket, for all the world like they were in the English countryside.
‘Kosovo was always cosmopolitan,’ Enver said. ‘We were part of Yugoslavia, we belonged to the non-aligned movement, the world was our oyster. The Albanians over there in Albania were isolated behind the Iron Curtain. They’re alien to us.’
‘There’s no Yugoslavia anymore.’ Milena stubbed out her cigarette on the wall. ‘We gambled it away, we took our eye off the ball, and now it’s gone. We have to look to the future now.’
The girls who had assembled barefoot on the lawn screamed as the bride’s bouquet flew through the air, and they broke out in loud jubilation when somebody caught it.
‘When you were arrested back then,’ Milena said, ‘during the break-in you were telling me about – how did Siniša manage to get you off ?’
Enver smirked. ‘I didn’t have a birth certificate, no one had bothered recordin
g the date – that wasn’t unusual for Kosovo back then. So they rustled one up for me pronto, and shaved a few years off in the process. All of a sudden I hadn’t turned sixteen, so I was a minor. And that’s why I’m only thirty-nine now.’
‘And how old are you really?’
‘Forty-one. At least.’
Milena laughed. ‘That’s handy!’
‘You said it.’
Their faces were suddenly very close. Milena could see his finely shaped lips, his tanned skin and the green flecks in his eyes.
She quickly turned away. ‘We’ve got to go,’ she said.
‘Of course.’ Enver looked down at the toes of his shoes. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘No time to lose.’ Milena buttoned up her jacket. ‘Otherwise, I’m afraid we’ll get there in the dark.’
15
The women were parading around town again in their short skirts, posing in front of large shop windows and sitting at street cafés with their legs crossed. Slobodan Božović ogled their shapely behinds as they strutted along the pavement in the afternoon sun, and their beautiful calves, the best he’d ever seen, yet none of this could raise his spirits. He was sitting on the back seat of his official car, and through the tinted windows the world looked doubly bleak. He wondered what the correct response to this disaster might be. Sack the press secretary, maybe? He had a headache.
‘Minister,’ his driver piped up. ‘It’d be quicker if we took King Alexander Boulevard.’
Slobodan loosened the knot of his tie. This guy was beginning to get on his nerves. ‘Take the route I told you to.’
He wouldn’t go so far as to say his career had suffered a body blow. He’d grown accustomed to being way down in any ranking or poll of the best-known or most popular politicians. It was his price to pay for choosing to stay in the background and quietly ensure that the funds in his meagre budget were fairly distributed and used on projects delivered with competent partner organisations. He preferred not to make a big song and dance of it. But in light of the two dead in Talinovac, he’d had no choice. Suddenly he was a wanted man. So he’d chosen to confront the issue head-on, had done the rounds of all the talk shows, been a guest of the Press Club, deplored the outbreak of violence and demanded more security for his Serbian brothers and sisters in Kosovo. And the upshot: he didn’t feature in the latest polls at all!
‘Minister? Sir?’ The driver was trying to make eye contact in his rear-view mirror. ‘Zeleni Venac is chock-a-block at this time of day. Instead, if we go down –’
‘Leave me alone. I need to think.’
Jonathan Spajić, his good friend and advisor, had hit the nail on the head: ‘Slobodan Božović,’ he’d told him, ‘you have a communication problem.’ The name ‘Božović’ was now a byword for bad news, death, war and displacement, eclipsing his achievements. If he wanted to look good, like a politician people could trust and who was far-sighted and took the right decisions, then he needed some good news right now, and above all some upbeat pictures, for example showing him with cute children. He had to conjure up those kinds of photos without delay. The idea of a pupils’ exchange and the slogan Little Schoolkids – Big Heart was a stroke of genius. Jonathan was easy to mock, with his leather gloves and his silver racing bike, but in this case he’d really delivered the goods.
‘We’re here, Minister.’
‘Go round the block one more time.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Just do as you’re told!’
There were elections in two years’ time. He had twentyfour months to be considered for another post. He definitely didn’t want to go down in history as the person who’d switched off the lights in the State Chancellery. Maybe he should hire Jonathan as his official advisor. In some respects the guy was a twerp, but he brought a certain sophistication to his staff. Slobodan put his hand on the back of the driver’s seat and said, ‘I’ll get out at the next lights.’
‘You mean…’
‘Exactly.’
‘Should I wait?’ the driver asked.
‘No,’ Slobodan growled. ‘I’ll let you know where to pick me up and when.’
He followed the stream of passers-by with a spring in his step, broad shoulders, an open jacket and the feeling that he could have any one of these women with their fringe haircuts, red lips and painted nails. But he had grown wary. He avoided looking at people, as he didn’t want to provoke awkward glances. Even though he’d never admit it, last Sunday’s incident had frightened him. The fact that the guy had got past the security guards on his property without any problem, had walked right up to his bedside, so to speak, had been a shock. That the man was actually employed by the security firm was a scandal in itself, which he preferred not to make public. He had a gut feeling. The security firm had apologised to him, the nutter had been removed from his premises and the security detail around his house had been strengthened. The whole affair had cost him a whisky and the projector, which the guy had pushed off the shelf and smashed in the process of legging it.
Slobodan had no knowledge of any bounty money or reward paid to those who’d been willing to return and the people who made the arrangements. That had also been one of Jonathan’s bright ideas, but whether it had been such a smart one he was now beginning to doubt. Anyhow, in this case the money had been returned, the crazy guy had flung it down on the table in front of him; as it happened, it had just covered the cost of the broken projector. If you looked at the whole affair from that perspective, Slobodan had emerged without losing a penny. And he was content to leave it at that. He meant to take the matter seriously but not make too big a deal of it; that was his way. But he had instructed Jonathan to be a bit more careful with his budget and more circumspect about recruiting people in the future.
He kept right, then turned and walked through a passageway and climbed the steps up to Vasa Street. In times gone by, he’d have had a beer in the bar across the street, just in order to listen in on what people were saying, but those days were over. He crossed the street and hailed a taxi.
‘The zoo, please.’
This doubling back was just to be on the safe side – to check who was following him, if anybody. When he reached St Stephen’s Street, he asked the driver to stop again, and paid. He crossed the road again, went around the corner and disappeared into the first entrance. He passed through the first courtyard at a leisurely pace, past the bicycle stand and the bins, and entered the building opposite through the back door. The staircase was dark, the air cool. His steps and the creaking of the floorboards were the only sounds. On the second floor, he knocked and waited. He’d told her a hundred times not to make him wait out here for so long. Finally, the key turned in the lock and the door opened.
The scanty knickers and baggy T-shirt she was wearing and the delicate curvature of her shoulders were enough to placate him. Like some kind of chemical reaction, something exploded in his brain. Thank goodness he didn’t have to waste any words. He could just get straight down to business without more ado. The girl was so wonderfully uncomplicated, so undemanding, and the sex with her was fantastic. For a few minutes, Slobodan forgot all about his office, his dignity and his headache, and this state of oblivion was the best thing about it. He wanted it to last forever, or at least for a good long time – alas, nature willed it differently, and who was he to resist nature?
Still panting, he rolled onto his side and tried to catch his breath when he heard the sound of running water in the bathroom; the little minx had already got out of bed. That was fine by him. He didn’t like it when women clung to him for affection after sex. He listened with satisfaction to the sound of her clattering about and whistling a tune. He could have lain like this forever listening to her and waiting for her to bring him a cup of coffee. He propped himself up on a pillow.
Beneath the window stood a makeshift table with a candlestick on it; a feather boa hung limply over the back of the chair. Hadn’t she mentioned once that she trod the boards? And wasn’t it
strange how history kept repeating itself: Božena had done just the same once upon a time. He leant over and reached for his trousers.
One day he’d stop smoking. He’d get his teeth fixed too, like Jonathan had. And he intended to find himself a new English teacher. He rummaged through his pockets – nothing.
‘Diana!’ he called out.
Wrapped only in a bath towel, with her hair bound in a ponytail, she skipped in and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. ‘Just a quick question while we’re about it,’ she chirped. Saying this, she pulled her legs up to her chest and propped her chin on her knees; her little blonde ponytail stopped bobbing for a moment. ‘Did you manage to have a word with him?’
He looked at the swellings of her firm breasts above the edge of the towel and asked absent-mindedly, ‘Have a word with who?’
‘Your friend, the director.’
He had no idea what she was on about. ‘Of course,’ he replied without thinking. ‘It’s looking promising.’ He couldn’t remember what he’d told her before. He made to grab hold of her, but she eluded his grasp.
‘You’ve completely forgotten about it, haven’t you?’ She stood up. The angry flush of her cheeks was enchanting. ‘You don’t take me seriously.’
‘Sweetie,’ he sighed. ‘The reception isn’t until next week.’
‘What reception?’
‘My birthday party. Everyone will be there and I’ll talk to them all, including my director friend.’
‘Promise?’
He was saved by the whistle of the kettle. ‘Yeah, I promise,’ he muttered. Where the hell were his cigarettes?
The bedside table was covered with books and on top was a saucer, which he had clearly used as an ashtray before. He pulled open the drawer. All it contained were some condoms and a picture frame, face down.
He knew hardly anything about the little slut and wanted to keep it that way. Still, he couldn’t help himself. Just a peek to see who or what she was hiding. He picked up the frame and turned it over.
Peony Red Page 13