2

Gusts of wind lashed Sava Square, driving sheets of rain before them and hastening the people who were leaving the station and the bus terminal. Laden with umbrellas, plastic bags and handbags the people hurried past the yellow cabs, leaping over puddles, potholes in the tarmac and rusty tramlines until they reached their stop. One after the other they slipped under the cover of the tram stop roof and huddled together behind the glass shelter, its side panels decorated with the Belgrade coat of arms. This little shelter was brand new, and so spick and span that one could easily imagine it standing in Berlin, Paris or any other European metropolis.

Milena Lukin found it hard pushing her way through the crowd of people, and sometimes even found herself using her elbows to claim enough room to set down her handbag and the shopping bag, which was full to bursting, between her feet. Unfortunately the slender bench was so short that only three adults could sit down on it, and then only if they didn’t mind squeezing up against each other. Milena loosened her scarf, which she had wrapped tightly around her neck, and unfolded the arms of her spectacles.

The number-twelve tram was the only line that would take her straight to the municipal clinics. If the timetable was to be believed, the service ran every ten minutes. Milena ran through the list in her head: she had packed bananas and oranges. Also the white cheese, the mature one from Zlatibor. And cornbread, parsley and paprika. Plus two pieces of blueberry pastry. And, because calcium was now especially important for building up bone strength, cinnamon milk – a whole pitcher of it.

The tram came rumbling round the corner, squealing as it crawled across a set of points. Milena grabbed the handles of her bags – one left, one right – in a movement that was synchronised with all the other people who were lugging provisions into hospitals all over the country around this same time. In all Serbian hospitals, visiting times were limited to two hours in the afternoon, from two till four p.m.

Twenty-five minutes later she got off at Liberation Boulevard, but not until the tram had reached the university buildings for veterinary medicine, where she backtracked slightly and turned into Louis Pasteur Street. The various clinics were distributed around different buildings set in park-like grounds, which at one point had been surrounded by high walls. Over the decades, gaps had opened up in the walls, but the gates at the four cardinal points of the compass remained intact.

She entered the grounds through the North Gate, via Jovan Suboti Street, which took its name from a famous surgeon who had invented the splint at the end of the nineteenth century and had founded this hospital. The old buildings, with their lofty ceilings, huge rooms, high-stepped staircases and rickety, draughty double casement windows, were unsuitable for a modern and efficient hospital operation. Even the new building – eighteen concrete floors, built in the 1970s and dominating the area in a rather ugly way – had in the meantime also passed its prime. Since the collapse of socialism the adjacent helipad had not been used for its intended purpose. Instead, it had become a parking lot for use by visitors, nurses and doctors, flouting the original ban on all vehicles in the park grounds.

Milena carried her bags past the cardboard boxes of the street vendors who were hawking assorted underpants, soap and toothpaste, bought that day’s paper at a kiosk and walked past two tall pillars and forsythias in full bloom to reach the orthopaedic clinic. She had just ascended the small flight of steps, and pushed down on the wrought-iron door handle with her elbow to open the heavy wooden door, when her phone rang.

Breathing heavily, she propped her luggage against the half-landing and looked at the display: Siniša Stojković, the lawyer, her good friend, whom she hadn’t heard from in several days.

She pressed the green button. ‘What’s up?’

‘Listen,’ Siniša said at the other end. ‘I’ve got someone now. My best man at my first wedding. He’d completely dropped off my radar.’

‘Your best man?’ She stepped aside to make room for a group of people coming in behind her.

‘Exactly. He’s an orthopaedic surgeon, and the icing on the cake is that he’s the new boss of the clinic in Novi Sad. What do you say to that? I’ll call him tonight. He should get in touch with the consultant here. That way we make sure our patient gets proper treatment and the doctors here don’t get any bright ideas about installing any cheap spare parts.’

‘They did the operation the day before yesterday.’

‘What?’

‘But it’ll take some time before he’s back on his feet. The doctors say he’s in good shape and has great bones. I’m sure he’s in good hands here. To be honest, I’m more concerned for my mother at the moment.’

‘Why? Is there something up with Vera?’

‘You know her. She cooks, fries and bakes like a maniac, and she’s got little bottles of ointment all over the place, and sachets of tea, just so her little darling brother can get back on his feet as fast as possible.’

‘Always ready for the fray. A true partisan.’

‘But she’s no spring chicken anymore! I’m afraid she’ll overdo it.’ Milena sighed. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go in, see how he’s doing and give him a little sustenance. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Let me know if I can do anything.’

‘Thank you, that’s sweet of you. See you.’

Instead of taking the lift she picked up her bags and climbed the stairs.

The male ward was located on the second floor behind a wide door with frosted glass. The nurses’ station was directly behind it, on the right-hand side. Milena knocked.

The matron, Sister Dunja, had the telephone pressed between her shoulder blade and her ear and was massaging her foot. She looked tired when she glanced up and said into the receiver, ‘I’ve got to go now. Be good and don’t mess around, you hear me?’

One of the bank of lights on the wall started to blink and at the time a muffled buzzer sounded. Sister Dunja ignored them. She slipped her foot back into her sandal and said, ‘Come in, Mrs Lukin. I need to have a word with you anyway.’

Shock made Milena freeze in the doorway. ‘Has something happened? Have there been complications?’

‘Your uncle is fine. It’s to do with your mother.’ She straightened her nurse’s cap and closed the door behind Milena. ‘That is to say, it concerns the homemade remedy that she brought him yesterday.’

Relieved, Milena breathed easy again. ‘He had complained of rheumatism,’ she said. ‘My mother swears by this old recipe for joint pain.’

Sister Dunja nodded grimly. ‘Schnapps made from plums, mixed with camphor, rosemary and some sort of roots, right? The gentlemen definitely approved.’ She picked up a notepad and recited, ‘Loud singing, and Mr Stojadin hyperventilated.

Only when the night nurse made him breathe through a paper bag could he breathe normally again.’ She screwed up the sheet of paper and threw it into the bin. ‘We don’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill. Even so, if this gets out I’ll lose my job. So, please: no alcohol on the ward, in any form whatsoever. Please tell your mother, and in future check what you bring in. We’re so short staffed we can’t have our eyes everywhere.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m counting on you.’

‘That goes without saying. It won’t happen again.’ She felt uncomfortable being told off by this woman who worked her fingers to the bone for the good of the patients and for scant reward. She had a haggard face, even though she wasn’t that old – not yet thirty. No wedding ring, perhaps even a single parent. Ashamed, Milena turned around and made to leave. In the doorway, she changed her mind.

‘I almost forgot.’ She put down her bags and rummaged for a particular tub with a red lid. ‘I brought you some of our blueberry pastry,’ she said. ‘Homemade, with healthy honey. And with our thanks for going out of your way to care for my uncle.’

Sister Dunja took the plastic tub with a nod of her head; a smile flitted across her face. ‘You really didn’t need to.’ She weighed the container in her hand for a moment and then put it down on top of a pile of well-thumbed magazines. ‘Your uncle is a very nice and charming patient. And he’s actually quite easy to deal with, by the way.’

His room was situated at the end of the corridor, the last door but one. It contained six beds, three on each side. Vera had not rested until her brother had been transferred here from Niš, as she had insisted on the best specialists in the whole of Serbia operating on the fractured head of his femur. The fact that it had been a clean, uncomplicated break, which the doctors in Niš could have treated very easily, was of no comfort to Vera. The big loser in all this kerfuffle was Aunt Isidora; she had to make the long journey from southern Serbia to see her husband.

Uncle Miodrag had the bed by the window on the righthand side, with a fine view of the old trees. One disadvantage, though, was that it was draughty. Vera had tried to improve things by cramming ‘war sausages’ – old duvet covers stuffed with rags – into the gap between the two windows – much to the annoyance of the nurses, as they had to remove them every time they wanted to air the room.

And then there was the floor: the old lino was ripped at the edges, especially below the metal skirting boards – breeding grounds for all sorts of vermin and bacteria, which Milena’s mother regularly disinfected. But Vera’s even greater fear was that, confined to his bed, her beloved brother would develop bedsores – he, of all people, who was always so active, and used to dash around tending to his bees, roses and vines.

As a precaution, Milena got hold of a special knobbly mattress cover, which was supposed to help improve circulation and which – with the help of the nurses – she manoeuvred into position between the sheet and the mattress. If that didn’t work, she still had some good silver adhesive plasters from Germany at home in the medicine cabinet.

‘You’re late!’ yelled Uncle Miodrag.

She kissed him on the cheek, and he muttered, ‘I thought Adam was coming with you today. What’s happened to him?’

‘He has classes in the afternoon.’

He had shaved, and smelt of expensive cologne. She put her newspaper down on the blanket and started to unpack. ‘How are you feeling? What did you have for lunch?’

He counted on his fingers. ‘One piece of meat, the size of a biscuit and hard as shoe leather. With some kind of purée on the side – vegetables, I think. The usual soup to start with; Boško’s convinced it’s warmed-up dishwater. But the pudding was halfway decent, at least.’

Milena unwrapped a plate, a glass and some cutlery from the chequered tea towel, pulled the nightstand over to the bedside and started laying the table. Uncle Miodrag took a piece of cheese and said quietly, ‘Dimitrije talks about rapeseed all day long. He wants to switch to rape because he thinks when Serbia joins the EU he’ll grow rich on rapeseed oil. But he’ll have to wait a long time before that happens.’

‘Eat the parsley, it’s good for your blood pressure.’ Milena poured a glass of cinnamon milk. ‘I mean it. I don’t want them to end up giving you statins. Vera would have a fit.’ She started to make up cheese sandwiches.

‘No sweet today?’ Uncle Miodrag reached for the newspaper.

‘I had to use the blueberry pastry to buy off Sister Dunja, because you caused such a ruckus here yesterday! No more compresses in future, d’you hear? Not even if your joints hurt like hell. How are they, by the way? Are you in pain?’

The visitors who entered the room at that moment and politely said hello, laden with flowers and sweets, were all here for Kosta Popovi, a small, well-groomed man with a tanned forehead and receding grey hairline who was in for a hip replacement. The hullabaloo they kicked up may have been the reason why Boško, the factory worker from Kragejevac, had quit the room as fast as his crutches would carry him.

Somehow she had grown fond of all these men. Mr Stojadin, earplugs in place and white as a sheet, was always immersed in books on nineteenth-century European social history when visiting hour arrived. The man with the clipped moustache, who was in the bed at the end of the row, never had visitors and never said a word. Uncle Miodrag claimed he was an Arab and his clan was far away. Milena got the feeling she’d seen him somewhere before.

She swept up the crumbs and packed away the used cutlery in a piece of kitchen towel. She was sure – though she said nothing – that all the leftovers would be polished off by the time the next visiting hour came around, and that Uncle Miodrag, who could not possibly eat all that food on his own, would have shared it with his roommates. Tomorrow she’d bring fresh supplies.

‘As I said,’ Milena continued, pouring more milk, ‘Aunt Isidora will arrive on Sunday. We’ll pick her up from the station and then we’ll come straight here.’

Uncle Miodrag had disappeared behind the newspaper, anchoring it as a wall between the left and right hands of his outstretched arms.

‘Uncle Miodrag?’ Milena leant forward. ‘Is everything all right?’ She laid her hand gently on his arm and repeated, ‘Uncle Miodrag?’

He gazed at her expressionlessly, as if he were far away, and opened his mouth to speak – but no sound emerged. He handed her the newspaper. Set in bold type, the headline jumped out at her: Serbian compatriots murdered in Kosovo. Below, slightly smaller, was the sub-head: Police left in the dark. Ethnic motives cannot be ruled out.

Milena frowned, put on her glasses and read the article: ‘A Serbian couple have become the victims of a murderous attack in the former Serbian republic of Kosovo. According to local police reports, the incident occurred on Friday last week. Both victims were killed by a shot to the back of the head in their house in the village of Talinovac, near Ferizaj (Serbian: Uroševac). A spokesman reported that cartridge cases, 7.62 mm calibre, were found at the scene. The Kosovan Albanian Regional Prosecutor has begun an investigation under the supervision of the multinational protection unit Kosovo Force (KFOR). Read more on page 4, news; editorial on page 7.’

The colour photograph showed a green, hilly landscape, with a few scattered houses, all very picturesque. Next to it were two more photos, this time in black and white, small like passport photographs and slightly out of focus, showing two elderly people. The caption read: Miloš and Ljubinka Valetić returned to their homeland and immediately met their deaths.

Uncle Miodrag’s voice was hoarse. ‘Please tell me, does it really say Ljubinka Valetić?’

Milena let the newspaper drop and looked at him in surprise. ‘You know her?’

‘She had the most beautiful eyes in the world. I wanted to marry her.’

‘What?’

‘That was long before your Aunt Isidora.’ Uncle Miodrag spoke very softly. ‘Ljubinka Višekruna, she was then. I’m afraid I wasn’t good enough for her, so she took up with that Valetić instead.’ He sat up straight with a pained groan. ‘And now she’s dead, they say? Murdered?’

Milena looked at the photograph: an old woman with hair loosely combed back, and a slightly crooked mouth as if she were feigning a smile – which gave her an air of shyness, of a girl, as far as one could tell from that grainy image, at least. The man in the other photograph looked more severe, more determined, though not unfriendly. He had a noble, almost aristocratic air. It may have been something to do with his posture, or his slender nose, which was slightly too long.

‘Miloš and Ljubinka Valetić,’ Milena murmured, and turned to the fourth page. ‘Are you sure you’re not mistaking them for somebody else?’

‘I know that she went to Priština with him back then,’ Uncle Miodrag replied. ‘I believe he got a post there. A totally unprepossessing guy, that Valetić; I don’t really recall much about him.’

Milena smoothed down the page. ‘Miloš and Ljubinka Valetić were two of a larger group of returnees, it says here. They were part of the EU programme. They only left Kosovo and came to Belgrade in 2000. Back then they were refugees.’

‘They were refugees here in Belgrade, the most beautiful city on earth, and voluntarily returned to that pandemonium?’ He shook his head. ‘Why? Just because of some EU programme? Didn’t they have a life here?’ He reached for the newspaper. ‘Does it say anything else? About who did it? Or what exactly happened?’

Milena ran her finger over the column as she read aloud. ‘The Kosovan Albanian government spokeswoman condemned the murders and demanded a no-holds-barred investigation of the crime, which ran completely counter to the values of the society of the young state of Kosovo.

‘Hear, hear.’

The rights and liberty of each individual, irrespective of their ethnicity, must be respected and protected. The Kosovan Albanian prime minister and parliamentary president also condemned this act of violence. A search of the neighbouring houses of both Serbian and Albanian families was ordered and carried out, but nothing relating to the crime was discovered. There are no reports of any conflict between the retired murdered couple and the local Kosovan Albanian residents.

Uncle Miodrag pressed his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose and said, as if talking to himself, ‘Why didn’t she get in touch with me when she got into trouble? I was in southern Serbia the whole time, very close by, always in Prokuplje, never anywhere else. Isidora and I – we would have helped them out, for sure.’

Milena looked at the photographs one more time. The landscape was idyllic, there was so much open country there. How great did people’s hatred have to be to kill two old people in so brutal a fashion – people who had most of their lives behind them and meant no harm to anybody? She looked out of the window, at the branches and the first emerging green leaves.

‘Do you know whether they had any children?’ asked Milena.

Uncle Miodrag didn’t answer. He was white as a sheet and staring up at the ceiling with its big round lamp fitting.

She softly squeezed his arm. ‘Get some rest.’ She folded the tea towel and stowed the cutlery away in her bag.

‘She was so…’ As he groped for the right word, he turned his head to look at Milena. ‘She was so totally different from your Aunt Isidora.’

She looked at her uncle with great tenderness, surveying his wrinkles, the finely drawn map of lines around his mouth, nose and eyes. His lips were dry and his cheeks sunken, and the hospital-induced paleness of his skin showed up an abundance of blotches, which she had not noticed before. She carefully brushed back a thin strand of hair from his forehead. She would do anything to ease her uncle’s grief.

‘Go, my child,’ Uncle Miodrag said. ‘It’s time. Adam will be waiting for you.’

She nodded and folded the newspaper.

He raised his hand. ‘Could you leave that here, please?’

Reluctantly she put the paper on his bedside table, bent down and kissed him on his forehead. ‘Tomorrow you’ll get your blueberry pastry.’

She had reached the hallway and almost closed the door behind her when she glanced back one more time.

Uncle Miodrag had fixed his gaze on the trees and had his right fist pressed to his mouth. She had never seen him cry before.

She pulled the door shut quietly and set off down the hallway. She walked fast, almost breaking into a run.

The sun shone from the west down Count Michael Street, illuminating the colourful façades, the stucco, ornamentation and pilasters – the splendour of the nineteenth century, a time when the people here had long wished for the Habsburgs to go to hell, but still emulated their architectural style.

Milena steered a zigzag course around the people idly ambling along at the end of the day, pressing their noses against the large shop windows. Tourists swayed to the rhythms of catchy English pop and Russian folk tunes, played by a street musician with a rough voice, guitar and amplifier. He profited quite handsomely from the change the tourists got from the popcorn booth and tossed into his battered hat. Milena turned into a side street, Vuk Karadžić Street, where it was far quieter.

At the end of the street on the right was the Red Rooster. It wouldn’t be long before the young people started sitting outside again at the bar, sipping espresso macchiato and Aperol Spritz and exuding an atmosphere of coolness, success and affluence. Only the building behind them didn’t really fit this picture.

When the sun was at this low angle, this old barn of a building robbed the square of its light, and its sad grey-brown colour cast a sombre mood over the scene. The holes in the plaster – in places as large as a square metre – disfigured a façade that must once have been very beautiful. Huge plywood boards covered some of the rotten windows on the ground floor, and were the only indication that somebody was actually aware of the dilapidation, apart from those poor so-and-sos who actually worked there, like Milena and the other employees of the Institute for Forensic Science and Criminology.

Milena, moreover, knew what others didn’t even suspect: that the entrance hall had a beautiful vaulted glass ceiling, and that the walls of the staircase and the hallways were painted pale yellow. There were moments, gazing at the stucco ceilings and walking over the creaking parquet floor, when you could imagine yourself in a castle. Milena felt at home in the institute. And she would have felt even more comfortable there if her office on the first floor – the last but one at the end of a long corridor, and a former box-room – had had central heating.

She closed the door behind her, and hung her bag on the chair and her coat on its hook. As her computer started up and the programmes opened, she crawled under the desk and switched on the electric heater. Then she clicked on her web browser, put on her spectacles and opened the online version of Kurier newspaper.

Death in Kosovo, read the tabloid headline. Retired couple brutally murdered. The photographs of Miloš and Ljubinka Valetić were the same ones she had seen in the broadsheet newspaper Politika; the only difference was that here they were even bigger and more grainy. Milena scrolled through the text. Acts of repression against Serbian residents of Kosovo had reached new heights, and the security of the Serbian citizens there could not be guaranteed. The editorial in the Vreme newspaper was statesmanlike: it appealed to international representatives and local institutions to clear up this crime as quickly as possible and to ensure a quiet, secure and dignified life for the Serbian inhabitants of Talinovac and all other places in Kosovo. Milena clicked on the Blitz, another scandal rag. Again, the faces of Miloš and Ljubinka Valetić leapt out at her. Serbian couple executed – why? Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Boris Grubač was not the kind of boss who waited for a ‘Come in!’ and Milena had long given up trying to teach a man of almost sixty to behave properly. She preferred to stare at the screen, count to five and turn to him with an expression on her face that hopefully made it clear to him that she was very busy and he should keep it brief.

His shirt was so tight around his waist that he might have just polished off a huge helping of the Bosnian stew that his wife Itana so lovingly prepared for him. His face was unusually flushed and his thinning hair, which now grew luxuriantly only in his ears and nostrils, stuck sweatily to his skull and temples. ‘My dear Ms Lukin!’ he trumpeted, causing a light mist of spittle to descend on the desk and keyboard. ‘I’m delighted that you’ve decided to grace us with your presence here today after all.’

It was pointless reminding Grubač that she had already done battle today with the students and professors at the law faculty, who were either chronically lazy or fantastically selfimportant. Grubač himself was proof positive that lazybones and pompous asses could be one and the same person. But today something had clearly happened to upset that equilibrium. Grubač was like a pressure cooker which had to let off steam, the quicker the better.

‘What’s the matter?’ Milena asked, in a tone that implied why don’t you calm down first?

‘The minister called!’ His hands waved frantically as he spoke, and Milena automatically reached for the folder in anticipation. A call from that far up the hierarchy was without question something special, but for Boris Grubač it was evidently something disconcerting too. ‘The minister’s furious,’ he screamed, ‘because we’re behind schedule. And why are we behind schedule? Because you’re not getting on with it!’

‘We’ve already discussed this at length.’ Milena leafed through the notes. ‘Here. Paragraph seven.’

Grubač pressed his lips together.

‘After Bologna we have to define three areas: humanitarian international law, international jurisdiction…’

‘Enough! I know the paper by heart.’

‘Then you’ll also know that we have to fulfil all the criteria, point by point, to attain the EU status of an academic institution of equal ranking.’ Milena closed the folder.

‘Three full-time lecturers with a PhD – Ms Lukin, please! Have you got any other pipe dreams you’d like to share?’

‘I didn’t make these rules. But you’ll recall that I drafted an advertisement for these posts. It’s been on your desk since last week and ought to be posted as soon as possible.’

‘Let’s not kid ourselves: your esteemed colleagues in Copenhagen, The Hague, Bruges and wherever won’t exactly be queuing up to apply for the post of lecturer in Belgrade.’

‘Why not? I’ll try and twist a few arms behind the scenes.’

‘That won’t do any good.’ Exhausted, Grubač pushed a wayward strand of hair, which his exertions had shaken loose from his bald patch, back into place. ‘We’re wasting time. It’s in your own interest to crack on. We have to keep to the schedule and get our snouts in the EU aid trough.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Did you think of the obvious solution – some homegrown candidates, your own students? What about that guy doing his PhD who you’ve been supervising for ages – you know, the long-haired dachshund?’

‘Milan Miljkovic?’ Milena shook her head. ‘He’s not ready yet.’

‘Ms Lukin, you’re stonewalling. What’s wrong with you? You know I’m relying on your co-operation. Don’t let me down now. Be a little creative for a change!’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘Before you think too long, a word to the wise: bend the rules a bit for once. You know the saying: paper’s more patient than man.’ He placed his hand on her backrest, bent over her and stared at the screen. His breath smelt of peppermint.

‘OK,’ Milena said, ‘I’ll bend the rules a bit. Anything else?’

‘Now I get it,’ he muttered. ‘So that’s what’s on your mind. Those old people.’ He stroked his tie in consternation. ‘Bad news. The minister of education said the same.’

‘Is that a fact?’ Surprised, Milena looked up at him. ‘Do you know anything more concrete?’

‘Two shots to the back of the head from the pistols of Albanian nationalists – how much more do you want to know?’

‘The background,’ said Milena. ‘What led up to the killings. Everybody’s outraged, but there are no facts.’

‘Ms Lukin, we are talking about Kosovo. What facts do you need? Kosovo is a state founded by criminals, a criminal state. We Serbs are fair game down there. Those retired folk should have never been allowed to set foot there.’

Milena replaced the file on the shelf. ‘May I remind you that the Serbian government and the EU support Kosovan Serbs’ right of return?’

‘What’s the use of the right to return, however finely drafted, if no one enforces it? Our police aren’t even allowed to investigate in Kosovo!’

‘That’s why our allies are going to do everything to get this murder case solved as soon as possible.’

‘What allies?’

‘The EU.’

‘Your allies – if you pardon the expression – couldn’t give a shit about two dead Serbs in Kosovo.’

Milena pushed her chair back. Of course Grubač was right. Kosovan Serbs had no lobby and were a nuisance to everybody – unwanted in Serbia, hated by the Albanians and a problem for Europe which couldn’t be resolved, no matter how many conference agendas you put it on.

‘What’s up, Ms Lukin? Am I right, or am I right?’ He watched as she closed the tabs and clicked on the shutdown icon.

‘Where are you off to?’ he enquired.

‘Home.’

‘And Bologna? What am I going to say to the minister?’

She took off her glasses. ‘I’ll think of something.’

‘I’m afraid that’s a bit too vague for the minister.’

She snapped her glasses case shut. ‘The State Chancellery for the Affairs of Kosovo and the Ministry of Education – aren’t they both located in the same building?’

‘Why? Are you planning on intervening personally now?’

Milena swung her bag over her shoulder and picked up her keys from the table. ‘Not a bad idea, Mr Grubač.’

It was unusually quiet when she got home. The television wasn’t on, and instead of Adam lounging in the easy chair, the cat was there. Surprised, Milena hung up her coat. ‘It’s me!’ she called.

She eased her feet into her slippers. There was an aroma of braised onions, roasting food and something else she couldn’t quite identify. The door to Adam’s room was closed.

‘Have you eaten yet?’ Milena went to the bathroom. As she washed her hands, she looked into the mirror and saw two red rabbit eyes gazing back at her. No matter. One day they’d return to normal. She was really worried about the deep-set wrinkles between her mouth and cheeks, though. She opened the bathroom cabinet and took out a small tub of face cream. Last weekend she had splashed out on it – it had cost a fortune. The heavy lid of black glass was beautiful, and the cream itself was still untouched beneath its protective layer of silver foil.

She screwed the lid back on and carefully placed the precious tub back in the cabinet, on the very top shelf, pushing it right to the back.

There was a plate on the kitchen table and next to it a wine glass, cutlery and a napkin. Vera was sitting there with her glasses on her nose, doing the crossword.

‘Where’s Adam?’ Milena lifted the lid of a saucepan. The light in the oven was on. ‘Is he in bed already?’

‘You might have bothered to call at some point.’ With raised eyebrows, Vera kept her eyes fixed on the little crossword grid, filling it with letters as she spoke. ‘Or didn’t you go and visit Uncle Miodrag? We were worried.’

‘Uncle Miodrag’s doing fine.’

‘And what about his rheumatism?’

‘Much improved.’ Milena picked up the oven gloves, opened the stove door and lifted the lid from the casserole. Little parcels wrapped in kale were braising in a broth of olive oil, parsley and finely chopped shallots. Milena suddenly realised how hungry she was. She spooned three little parcels onto her plate and ladled onto them a spoonful of sour cream from a bowl.

‘There’s white wine in the fridge. Please help yourself.’

Milena did as she was bid, jammed the cork back into the bottle and sat down. She carefully pushed her fork into the kale and cut the little rolls in half. The steaming filling of rice and minced beef had been augmented with raisins and chopped almonds, and was complemented perfectly by the cool sour cream made from strong sheep’s milk.

‘Mama,’ Milena said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, ‘these little rolls are a dream.’

‘Not too much nutmeg?’

‘They’re delicious.’

‘There’s plenty more there.’

Either the little note by her plate hadn’t been there a moment before, or Milena hadn’t noticed it. She sipped her white wine. The numbers on the torn piece of paper were somehow familiar.

‘Zoran’s mum,’ said Vera, without looking up. ‘She asked you to call her back.’

Zoran was Adam’s best friend and his buddy from basketball club. ‘Are they in trouble?’

Without uttering a sound, Vera moved her lips, mouthing a word to herself and counting out squares on the puzzle. Finally she replied, ‘Some sort of quarrel. But leave the boy be. He’s tired. He’s had an exhausting day.’

Adam was in bed, leafing through his children’s magazine. In a defiantly casual gesture he had tucked his left arm up under his head.

Milena sat down on the edge of the bed and handed him a glass of herbal tea, to which Vera had added a large dollop of honey. ‘Here, drink some of this.’

He did as he was asked.

She took the glass back. ‘And now, tell me, what’s this I hear about a quarrel with Zoran?’

The cause had been Adam’s bike, a present from his father in Germany. Milena had known right from the start that it would cause problems. Precision German engineering, seven gears, feather light, wide tyres, perfect for running rings round the old people, dogs and baby buggies in Tašmajdan Park. Zoran, Milena learned, had picked up this bicycle, the best bicycle that ever existed, and hurled it at his friend Adam’s feet.

‘Why on Earth did he do that?’ Milena asked, startled.

Adam ran his finger along the pinstripes of his duvet cover. ‘I told him to take care, especially with the gears, and treat the bike well. But he did the opposite. So I told him to get off it.’

‘And then what?’ She handed him the glass again.

Adam drank and leant back. ‘And then I added that he’s a Serbian peasant and that Serbian peasants can only ride donkeys.’

Milena sighed. ‘Why say such things?’

‘Zoran shouldn’t have smashed my bike on the floor. And then he started crying and ran away. Just typical. Typically Serbian.’

‘Zoran felt humiliated, because he doesn’t have as nice a bike as you and because you insulted the Serbs – even though you’re half Serbian yourself.’

‘So, did I start bawling when he smashed up my bike?’ ‘Because you know that as a last resort Papa will buy you a new one. And, if not him, then probably Oma Bückeburg.’ She stroked his soft hair. ‘Don’t forget, your great uncle is a Serbian peasant as well. And he asked after you.’

‘I know.’

‘You can go and visit him with Grandma tomorrow.’ She kissed him. ‘Will you say sorry to Zoran?’

‘I’ll think about it. Yes, maybe.’

‘Now go to sleep. Sweet dreams.’

Vera was sitting in the kitchen, her curly grey head bent over a little notebook, murmuring, ‘Carrots, beetroot…’

Milena washed the dishes and put the glasses and the plate in the rack to dry.

‘Shall I make pancakes with cheese for Uncle Miodrag tomorrow?’ Vera asked. ‘Or maybe cheese croissants with yogurt would be better?’

Milena dried the cutlery. ‘How about French toast and kajmak?’

‘Kajmak?’ Vera looked up in surprise. ‘You should have brought some from the market. Did you?’

Milena pushed the boxes and tubs together in the fridge to make room for the bowl of sour cream. ‘Make him pancakes with cheese.’ She hung the oven mitts on the hook. She would have loved some cold coffee, but there was none left.

‘What’s up?’ Vera put down her pen. ‘You’re holding something back. Has Miodrag developed any complications? Does he need the sticking plasters?’

Milena sat down. ‘Do you remember Ljubinka Valetić?’

‘Ljubinka Valetić?’ Vera looked blankly at Milena. The

name clearly meant nothing to her.

‘Back then she was called…’

‘You mean Višekruna? Yes, I know her. I mean, back then I knew her, but I haven’t seen her for donkey’s years. Why, what’s happened to her?’

‘She died.’

Vera closed the notebook.

‘We saw it in today’s newspaper.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that – really.’ Vera took off her glasses. ‘But Ljubinka was no spring chicken any more.’

‘She was shot.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Milena recounted what she had read from the newspapers and the internet: that Ljubinka and her husband, after living in Priština, had fled to Belgrade and then returned to Kosovo as part of the programme financed by the EU, only to be killed there by shots to the back of the head.

Stony faced, Vera listened. Then she got up and left the room. Milena heard her open the door of the cupboard in the living room.

Shortly afterwards, Vera reappeared and placed a bottle and two small glasses on the kitchen table. Without uttering a word, she poured. The clear schnapps smelt of the plums from Uncle Miodrag’s garden. They drank, staring down at the tablecloth and enjoying the sensation of alcohol-induced warmth spreading through their bodies. Then Milena asked, ‘What went on between Uncle Miodrag and Ljubinka?’

Vera leant back. Fiona the cat jumped onto her lap. ‘She was a beautiful woman. She turned his head.’ She stroked Fiona’s thick fur. ‘I assume it wasn’t just her beautiful eyes your uncle fell for. Miodrag would have done anything for her. There was talk of Munich, and starting a new life there. But just think what it was like back then for us: Papa – long dead. Srećko had died in a concentration camp near Osnabrück. Radoslav was away studying in Belgrade, and all of a sudden Miodrag, the last man left at home, wants to up and leave with this woman and go to Munich. No, that wasn’t on. Believe me, your grandmother was overjoyed when this other fellow showed up, this…’

‘Miloš Valetić.’

Vera swept a few crumbs off the table. ‘And they were really shot?’ She looked alarmed as she pushed the clasp back over the neck of the bottle. ‘I know why I don’t trust any Albanian and why we have three locks on our door here.’

‘Remember Bekim, who carried the coals for Grandma Velika?’

‘Bekim was the exception.’

‘He was also an Albanian.’

‘He was a fine and reliable man.’ Vera nudged Fiona. ‘In future we’ll have to keep this kind of news from Miodrag. Excitement like this is dangerous in his current state.’

After turning out the lights in the kitchen and hallway, Milena retired to her room. She turned down the bed, took off her earrings and began brushing her hair. Her thoughts flitted around all manner of topics: kajmak and cheese croissants, German bicycles and Serbian peasants, Bologna criteria, jelly bananas and the question of what had happened in Talinovac. Two old people – why such an eruption of violence?

She found she couldn’t sleep; after a while spent tossing and turning, she got up again, sat down at her desk and opened her email.

The mobile phone statement had arrived and wasn’t quite as bad as expected. And Philip, Adam’s father, had sent her a message. No subject.

She let in Fiona, who was miaowing outside in the hallway, took a box of cigarillos from the shelf and tilted the window open a crack. She blew the smoke out into the air, opened Philip’s email and read.

Milena, how’s it going, is everything ok with you all? I hear you got your contract extension. Congratulations.

‘All right,’ Milena said under her breath, ‘what do you want?’

He got to the point straight away. The reason why I’m writing is this: We ( Jutta and I) have a new flat, a good location, not too far from Altona station and big enough to finally give Adam his own room. But all that comes at a price. You know how expensive it is renting an apartment in Hamburg. Count yourself lucky that you have your own space and that the cost of living in Belgrade is so low. As for us, things are a bit tight at the moment. So that’s why I’m asking you now if you’d agree to me reducing the maintenance payments for Adam slightly? Only temporarily, of course. That’d give us a bit of breathing space. I’m counting on you and thank you in advance for taking the time to consider this request. Philip.

Milena leant back and inhaled the smoke from her cigarillo. Philip and his endless demands. Always small and inconsequential at first. He had never been short of ideas on how to make his pleasant life even more pleasant. Back when he was a student from Bückeburg with curly fair hair, she’d have moved heaven and earth to do what he wanted. But a lot of water had flowed under the bridge since then. She was no longer responsible for him and especially not for that busty, athletic Jutta and their nice flat in Altona. Were there no contracts for architects in Hamburg? But Philip had never been one to pursue work vigorously. He far preferred dreaming his life away on his sailing boat and eyeing up bits of skirt. Jobs came along sooner or later, when nice little projects dropped into his lap, but even then he’d only take one if it appealed to him aesthetically. She was sick and tired of his attitude. And she had a bad conscience, as she had just bought herself some new face cream at a cost that would give Vera palpitations. And why? Because her salary was only that of a mid-ranking local official. Maybe she should spell that out to him in clear and simple terms and remind him that Adam was only able to go to his basketball club because her friend Tanja dutifully stumped up for his subscription.

She put out the cigarillo and clicked on the link to reply. ‘My dear Philip,’ she hammered into the keyboard. Fiona was sitting under the desk lamp, with her fur all fluffed up, and her eyes closed sleepily.

Milena got up and shut the window. She hated the part she had to play. She was always the nasty ex, with whom you couldn’t have a sensible conversation. She looked at her phone, which was turned to silent but which had lit up with an incoming call. She didn’t recognise the number. Looking at her watch, she was shocked to see it was almost half past midnight.

Alarmed, she picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘Ms Lukin? It’s Boško. I’m a roommate of your uncle. Please excuse this late call.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Miodrag wants to speak to you. I’ll hand you over.’

There was some shuffling, followed by silence, and then came her uncle’s voice. ‘Milena, were you already asleep?’

‘No. What’s up?’

‘I can’t get that story out of my mind. I’ve been thinking. The children…’ He sounded as if he was short of breath.

‘Calm down. What children?’

‘You asked after the children. Two, they had two.’

‘The Valetićs?’

‘There was definitely a girl and I think there was a boy, too, but I might be wrong.’

Milena walked over to her desk and opened a notebook. ‘Do you remember their names?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ He coughed.

She put her pen down on the empty page. ‘If we could locate the children and talk to them…’

‘Maybe they need help.’

‘Who could we approach to find out?’

‘Be careful. This could be a dangerous business.’

‘I’ll keep you posted, I promise.’

‘Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut.’

‘No, I’m glad you mentioned it.’

After she’d ended the phone call she went back to the computer, clicked through to compose a new email, and typed, ‘Siniša, when can we meet? I need your help.’