‘Miloš, take a blanket and go outside. Sit down in the light. Did you hear me, Miloš? I’ll make you some tea. It’ll do you good.’
Before I decided to turn to you, esteemed Dr Božović, I tried contacting the man who ran information meetings at the refugee centre in Avala. The leaflet handed out at these events referred to ‘Jonathan Spajić, Programme Coordinator’. The small print mentions an agency called Step Forward, acting on behalf of the Serbian State Chancellery for the Affairs of Kosovo.
The telephone number and the web page for this agency are no longer available. My assumption that the agency no longer exists was neither confirmed nor denied by your office, the State Chancellery for the Affairs of Kosovo. My questions concerning Mr Spajić and the cooperation with that agency remain unanswered, and were presumably never passed on to you.
‘Miloš, I thought there was still some water left in the bucket, but I was obviously mistaken. You’ll get your tea when we get back from fetching the water, OK? Are you keeping an eye on the clock? We shouldn’t leave it too late.’
So my first step was to approach the Kosovan Albanian authorities. Searching the internet for somebody to talk to, I came across the following information on the website of the Ministry of Work and Social Services: it mentioned a ‘Representative for Real Estate’, who had been advising local authorities on the matters of returnees and refugees. His name? Jonathan Spajić. I was shocked: it seems the governments of Serbia and Kosovo engage the services of one and the same man to deal with returnee and refugee affairs.
I don’t want to cook up any conspiracy theories, or blame others for something I have instigated myself. I let myself get carried away by something that had taken years to get out of my head: to return to my homeland one day, and to start all over again as a Serb living in Kosovo. I let myself be tempted by the idea that a dream could become a reality, and refused to see that, of course, nobody had any interest in fulfilling the wish of an old man. In reality, we are being used to push through Serbian demands in Kosovo. But I did not think it possible that the indifference inside the ministerial bureaucracy would be so immense that returnees were not even granted a proper roof over their heads.
Three questions remain. First: what has become of the money the EU made available for our house in Talinovac? Second: why was there no security for our property – as stipulated in the statutes – to guard against vandalism and looting prior to our arrival? And third: what role does Mr Jonathan Spajić play in all this? Is he a mediator between the governments of Serbia and Kosovo? To what end? Why did his name disappear from the website of the Kosovan Albanian ministry soon after I made my enquiry?
I can testify in front of any inquiry in Priština, Belgrade or Brussels to the fact that the returnee programme is not being properly implemented, and I can support my testimony with pictures of our house in Talinovac. I want to stress, however, that this letter should not be seen as a threat or as an attempt to have any individual made a scapegoat. At risk of stating the obvious, this is meant to be a wake-up call to improve the lot of future Serbian returnees.
Esteemed Dr Božović, I will never forget how you came to Avala with a lorry full of schoolbooks and other educational materials. Maybe you remember: I was the old man who burst into tears in front of the cameras – I was so overwhelmed by your gesture. I am convinced that if there is anyone who can clear up this scandal, it is you.
I wish you luck and persistence, and place myself at your disposal as far as my strength allows it. I thank you for taking the time to read these lines.
Yours faithfully,
Miloš Valetić
He screwed the top back onto the fountain pen, blew on the ink and waited for it to dry. He folded the sheets, put them into the envelope and placed it in the folder. He then put the folder in the leather suitcase containing all the valuables that remained in their possession after their flight. At the bottom of the case, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, lay the icon, the White Angel of Mileševa, which had hung over the sideboard in the living room – back when they still had a life.
He shut the suitcase and pushed it into its hiding place, the hole in the wall. Tomorrow he would go down to the post office and find the address of the State Chancellery in Belgrade.
‘Don’t make such a face, Miloš.’ Ljubinka stroked his cheek. ‘You’ve cut the cardboard strips. They’ll make it much easier to carry the bucket. It’s those little things that are important, Miloš. And now let’s go, we’ve got a long walk ahead of us, and I don’t want to be struggling in the dark.’
35
Siniša stopped the car by the side of the road, turned off the engine and took the letter from Milena’s hand. ‘What was old Valetić thinking? Just because Slobodan Božović turned up at a public meeting in Avala with a few schoolbooks? The man’s a professional politician adept at playing the media and all kinds of other things besides, but he ain’t a saint.’
Dumbstruck, Milena stared at the dashboard and tried to marshal her thoughts.
‘Do you remember a project called Corridor 17?’ Siniša asked.
She shook her head and pushed the button to open the window. She needed air.
‘The east–west arterial route that was supposed to link the south of Serbia with Kosovo.’ Siniša opened the ashtray for her. ‘Back then, in the nineties, Božović was working in the ministry responsible for infrastructure projects. He was still relatively young and decided to take a hands-on approach. So, he personally criss-crossed the country, going from one village to the next and visiting every farmer at home. Those yokels had no idea that their land was worth a fortune. Božović put cash on the table right next to the purchase contract, transferred ownership of the properties to a company he owned and then sold it on to the state for a heap of money. He grew rich in the process, and was clever enough to share the profits – with the heads of the clans in Kosovo and the public prosecutors, who helped him cover up the whole business. I never did manage to make anything stick to Božović, and when the regime collapsed and the dictator was driven from office all the files were destroyed.’
‘Siniša –’ Milena interrupted.
‘I know,’ Siniša waved his hand. ‘Same old stories. But it still bugs me whenever I think about it. And one key thing to bear in mind – Božović still looks after the contacts he built up back then. His people are still in positions of power in all the Kosovan ministries and town halls. They all know one another, esteem one another and, above all, want to do business with one another – undisturbed and as hush-hush as possible. And this whole nationalist nonsense – whether one person’s a Serb or the other’s a Kosovan Albanian – nobody gives a damn about it in those circles.’
‘And still,’ Milena objected, ‘two Serbs had to die in Kosovo, and not long afterwards their son as well.’
‘Don’t get me wrong.’ Siniša stuffed the papers back into the envelope. ‘Božović is unscrupulous and ruthless – especially when it comes to defending his interests. And his interests are the same as back in the days of Corridor 17: siphoning off as much money as he can and stuffing the bulk of it into his own pockets. He probably never knew the Valetićs or took the slightest notice of them. Why would he have been bothered by calls or emails from some old man anyway? Maybe he just made some remark that led to the deed, or a gesture with his hand. But how could we prove that?’
Milena let Siniša light her cigarette, and blew the smoke out of the open window. ‘There’s an old house in Mutap Street,’ she said. ‘And a woman living there, an old lady, by the name of Juliana Spajić.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The lighter snapped shut. Siniša looked inquiringly at Milena.
‘At our first meeting, she was terribly excited because she thought she’d seen her cousin, Nicola Spajić. The guy emigrated to Canada many years ago, probably after the war, and she’s been waiting for him to return ever since.’
‘Are you saying that the man referred to in the letter, Jonathan Spajić –’
Siniša shook his head. ‘It all sounds a bit far-fetched. Maybe we oughtn’t take it too seriously.’
‘For sure,’ Milena nodded. ‘For decades she’s lived with the hope that her beloved cousin might return one day. She seems to ignore the fact that he too might be old now, and might have even died.’ Milena took a drag of her cigarette and continued. ‘But even so, I found some evidence to suggest that there has recently been some change in her life, in that house. That somebody really has visited there.’
Siniša leant forward expectantly.
‘A pair of gloves.’
‘Gloves?’
‘On the sideboard. I noticed them and thought: that’s strange. They were far too big for an old lady’s hands.’
Siniša sighed. ‘Now, don’t get mad at me, Milena, darling, but if we’re trying to establish whether there really is someone there connected to our case, we need something a bit more concrete than that. A photograph, for example, or a description at least, that we could take to people and ask, “Is this Jonathan Spajić, a relative of Juliana Spajić? Was this man in Avala with the refugees, and where is he now?”’
‘Please don’t go thinking I’m crazy.’ Milena flicked her ash into the little receptacle between the seats. ‘But when I was in Slobodan Božović’s study, I saw a plan on his desk, and my first thought was that it was a development and land usage plan, like in the Kosovo brochure. But when I took a closer look, I realised that there were two architectural drawings on it, probably the ground and the upper floors of a building, along with some strange cross-hatching. Now I’m thinking it could have been a blueprint of the house in Mutap Street, the old palace, which is partially derelict.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Siniša pressed the palms of his hands together, as if he were praying. ‘If I understand you correctly, then you’re saying it’s possible that this guy from the letter, Jonathan Spajić, is related to the old lady in Mutap Street, and that he might be about to sell the house, this old palace, to the secretary of state?’
‘Just think: Mutap Street. The plot alone is worth millions.’
‘The same Jonathan Spajić who – according to old Valetić’s research – was responsible for property deals in Kosovo?’
‘And for the returnee programme in Avala.’
‘Jonathan Spajić…’ Siniša closed his eyes. ‘But then the man at the party, in Slobodan Božović’s study, the guy who threatened you with a gun –’
‘Nat. Or, as Diana called him, Mr Natty. Her description fits exactly: checked suit, dress handkerchief, slicked-back hair. ‘Nat’ comes from ‘Jonathan’. Jonathan Spajić and Nat are one and the same person!’
Siniša nodded. ‘Sounds logical. Yes, that makes sense.’
Milena stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Let’s go there, right now.’
‘To Mutap Street?’ Siniša shook his head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘You said it yourself: we need proof. And we’ll get it there.’
‘You’re crazy, you know.’ Siniša started the engine. ‘I should drive in the opposite direction, to the police station.’ He flicked the indicator. ‘And why do you suppose that the guy’s in Mutap Street? Do you imagine he’ll be sitting with the old lady drinking tea?’
‘Why not? Turn left here, please, via Crown Street; it’s faster.’
‘And what do we do if we run into him?’ Siniša changed lanes. ‘Confront him? We’ve been there already, remember?’
‘The situation’s totally different now. At the party I was alone, totally unprepared and standing there empty handed. We’ve got the documents now. We can tell him: If you want these papers, you’ll have to spill the beans, about the people pulling the strings, for example, and Slobodan Božović’s role in the whole affair.’
‘Don’t underestimate this Spajić bloke. You got away at the party, but only just. The Valetićs weren’t so lucky. And try to see it from his point of view – imagine the pressure he’s under. Ever since he got the Valetićs into the returnee programme, everything’s gone pear-shaped. Three people are dead, and he still hasn’t managed to get hold of the evidence. And what I don’t understand in the slightest – if he’s so close to achieving his aim, why doesn’t he show up to the meeting with Marco and get hold of the incriminating material?’
‘Who says he didn’t turn up? Maybe we just beat him to the punch.’
Siniša looked into his rear-view mirror. ‘I’ve got another explanation – things are getting a bit too hot for this Spajić guy’s liking. He’s looking for a way out.’
‘Back to Canada?’
‘Wherever, just out.’
‘What about the inheritance?’ Milena asked.
‘The plot on Mutap Street? He’ll try to flog it before he disappears. As quickly as he can.’
‘And the old lady?’
‘No idea. Packed off to a home.’
Milena stashed the papers in the glove box, checked her phone nervously and said, ‘Can’t you drive a bit faster?’
Siniša stepped on the accelerator, raced down to the traffic lights in the far lane, turned the corner – and swore. A flatbed lorry was blocking Njegoš Street. Siniša slammed the car into reverse, but the road behind was now also blocked.
‘I’ll go on ahead.’ Milena tugged the door handle. ‘If I cut across the market, I’ll be there in no time.’
‘Don’t do anything until I get there.’
‘Maybe I can get the key from the neighbour.’
‘Do you have your phone on you? And not silenced?’
‘You know the house, right? It’s the old palace with the big green gate. You can’t miss it.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘See you in a bit.’
Milena ran through a market lane full of pyjamas and nightgowns, and raced past the beer stall and the men from the municipal cleaning department. Market traders were lifting crates full of fruit and vegetables, handing bags to customers and tenderising escalopes of veal. Siniša had been quite right to give her a hard time. For instance, what would she do if the guy over there by the spices – wearing a jacket and sneakers, and more wiry than strong – turned out to be Jonathan Spajić? Call for help? Summon the police? Or just say: ‘you and I need to talk, but this time without your gun’? Milena straightened the shoulder strap of her bag. She’d have to deal with the situation as it presented itself, and when the real Jonathan Spajić stood in front of her it was vital she didn’t lose her cool.
The green gate was shut, and pigeons were flapping around nervously on the windowsills. Milena knocked, and tried to remember which house Angelina lived in. The neighbour had just pointed vaguely to the opposite side of the street when they’d met the other day.
While Milena wondered how to proceed, she put her hand on the doorknob and noticed that it was fairly loose, probably from overuse. She turned and rattled it a bit, and felt resistance from something that was just about to give – or was she imagining it? If she could just lift the door a little and push on it at the same time…
With a soft click, the gate suddenly yielded to her efforts. Milena peered through the narrow gap into the gloomy entrance. A cat looked up, and then crept off. Milena pulled the free newspaper from the letter box and jammed it between the threshold and the gate to wedge it open for Siniša.
When she had last been here, five days ago, in the dark, everything had looked different. She barely recognised the garden at the end of the driveway.
Miss Juliana had to be at home, because her shopping trolley was parked next to the water butt. A thin bicycle wheel and a silver frame were poking out from behind a low wall covered in ivy and brambles, which separated the courtyard from the garden. Milena knew without looking that the saddle was
made of red leather. This same bike had been leaning against the house on the night of Slobodan Božović’s party.
There were butterflies in her stomach. She clung to the thought that everything was all right, and that she and Siniša had got themselves worked up about nothing. He’d be here any minute now. She wasn’t going to act alone; she’d promised as much. She climbed the stairs to the mezzanine floor.
The door was open a crack, and the hallway was dark. Milena listened, then called, ‘Miss Juliana?’
The doors on the right, into the larder and straight on to the kitchen, were both shut. Milena didn’t know whether it was better to crash about or just to stay silent and wait.
‘Miss Juliana?’ She knocked gently on the kitchen door. ‘It’s me, Milena Lukin.’
By now she was familiar with this room, the one with tiles on the wall. Dutch motifs from floor to ceiling. The giant cabinet full of china. The sink. The pots and pans hanging over the range. Nothing had changed – only there was now something lying on the floor behind the gas stove that had not been there before. Milena bent down to look at it.
The Bakelite was smashed, and the line was dead. As if someone had hurled the phone across the room in a blind fury.
She replaced the receiver, and put the telephone back on the chest of drawers.
Around the corner was the bed, and on the blanket lay a suitcase. Cabin-sized, black, with wheels and seemingly never used before – maybe recently purchased. Was Miss Juliana about to embark on a trip? The suitcase was half open, and empty.
The easy chair stood with its back to the room, the divan was pushed aside, while in a cup some dregs of tea had dried out. Miss Juliana had disappeared.
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