Slobodan Božović stood behind the large picture window with his legs apart and stared out into the garden. In the gathering dusk he could make out the bushes, shrubs and herbaceous perennials, and among them the statue of Venus, which he fondly imagined was proof of his good taste.
Conifers were lined up like soldiers at the boundary of his property, obscuring the wire-mesh fence, and whenever these tall evergreens moved – well, it must be the wind catching the branches. This was the third time that evening he’d gone to the window to check the situation outside. He’d also alerted the security firm, even though it was obvious what had happened: Oli had seen a ghost, most probably one of those fantastic creatures straight out of his computer games. Slobodan hitched his trousers up over his beer gut and sank back into the couch.
His beloved wife, Božena, his little turtle dove, petite and pretty, was sitting in her snow-white tracksuit at the glass desk; occasionally, the little ponytail she always wore when working at the computer would bob up and down. Most of the time she surfed the internet and ordered all sort of things – diet aids and pills, or bits and pieces to decorate the room with, like the little glass figurines of every conceivable shape and form that filled the shelves and twinkled in the subtle concealed lighting. His little turtle dove and his home grew ever more beautiful as Oli himself increased in girth. Their son was lounging on the sofa like a fat beached seal. How swiftly and nimbly his fingers manipulated the little keys of his games console, and how utterly focused he was! By contrast, Slobodan’s concentration did not even last long enough to follow an entire CNN news bulletin. The daily dose of English that Božena had prescribed for him went completely in one ear and out the other today.
Of course, there were always some crazy people bothering him; that was to be expected for a person in his position. And those who wrote letters were just the harmless ones. As a minister of state he was constantly in the public eye putting forward strong views, and, despite the fact that he did a great deal of good, it was inevitable that he would cross swords with someone now and again.
He put his feet up and placed the ashtray on his belly. The skyline of Manhattan appeared on the giant flat-screen TV: the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the Rockefeller Center, Times Square, yellow cabs, red brake lights and gridded streets. Next came a shot of the United Nations building. Flags flapped in the wind, and politicians in dark suits assembled for a group photo. One day he would stand there as well, and shake the hand of the US secretary of state. If only there weren’t that problem with his damned English. He hadn’t made any progress, and that was mainly the fault of the teacher Božena had foisted on him. A real killjoy, and dry as dust to boot.
‘Darling?’
He turned the volume down. ‘Yes, my sweet?’
‘This guy last week – should I put him on the list?’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘I mean, he’s not bad looking, and he’s from abroad, isn’t he?’
‘Are you talking of Jonathan Spajić?’
‘What?’
He zapped past a game show and reached for his cigarettes. Women in colourful national dress swayed their hips and formed a semi-circle around men in brightly embroidered shirts, with jaunty hats on their heads. Those guys could still dance, that was for sure. Like the old days, at home in Gnjilane on high days and holidays, like when lambs were slaughtered.
‘Oliver!’ He blew smoke up towards the ceiling. ‘Look – isn’t that amazing? Your grandfather could still do that. Exactly like that.’
Come to think of it, it was a real shame. Slobodan’s father had never jiggled his grandson on his knees, never seen what a fine young man he had become, the spitting image of his father. On the other hand, his son would never have to walk behind a plough or pick up potatoes or spend his evenings in the workshop hunched over a punch press. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his background, or that that kind of work was in any way demeaning, but when Slobodan looked down and saw his huge hands he became aware of how different they looked to those of people like Jonathan Spajić. The guy even wore gloves when he rode a bike! He couldn’t make up his mind which was funnier: the bicycle or the gloves.
‘We’ll send out the invitations on Monday.’ Božena sounded content, almost jolly. ‘One hundred and twenty people,’ she chirped, ‘including the plus-guests.’ She pulled the band off of her ponytail, shook out her beautiful hair and checked her reflection in the dark windowpane.
What would he do without her? She cultivated his friendships for him, carefully planned each of his career moves and watched his back the whole time. If his father had still been alive, he would surely have made his peace with her by now. Back then, when Slobodan brought her home for the first time – a Muslim woman from Sarajevo, whose name was Fahreta, on top of everything else – his father had understandably not been overjoyed. But Slobodan had fallen in love with that woman, especially with her rosy-red cheeks and the funny, careful way she washed her white plastic sandals in milk every night. All that was far in the past now, and the rosy cheeks had given way to wonderfully high cheekbones. In the clingy little jacket she wore she was a picture, boobs and ass in perfect shape – and so dainty that he felt like putting her on her a pedestal, like the Venus statue out in the garden, and just gazing at her the whole time. Oliver was the fruit of their love, the tie, so to speak, that bound them closely together.
‘Hey, champ!’ He gave Oli a playful dig in the ribs. ‘Go and say goodnight to your mum, and then off to bed with you.’
His eyes followed the boy as he waddled out of the room, still bent over his console, unable to take his eyes off the screen. If only he weren’t so narrow shouldered. He ought to have a word with the trainer. The boy needed to toughen up.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ he called after Oliver. ‘D’you hear? Half past seven on the tennis court. Then you can show me your backhand.’ He put out his cigarette and downed the last few sips of beer straight from the bottle, even though he knew that Božena hated it. She’d surely be on his case in an instant.
Instead, she whispered, ‘Slobo!’
He put down the bottle. She was sitting bolt upright at the table in alarm and staring out of the window. He turned the television to mute and put down the remote.
‘There’s someone out there again,’ she whispered.
He went and stood next to her, bending down to get the same viewpoint as her: the Venus, the conifers and some dark shapes, which on closer inspection turned out to be rhododendron bushes – what else could they have possibly been? He laid his hands on her trembling shoulders and kissed her cheek. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’
Božena disappeared upstairs. He stayed behind in the living room, his heart pounding, feeling like he was on show to the world, exposed and under observation. Here he was, standing around with no shoes on, an old guy, just about to turn fifty and unable to control his nerves. He quickly switched off the lights.
He put on his woollen jacket and slippers and stepped through the kitchen door out onto the terrace. He made a great play of breathing in the cool evening air – a display of nonchalance, but for whose benefit? It was strange, he noticed, that the motion sensor on the corner of the terrace hadn’t registered his presence and activated the light.
A job for the electrician. Yet another thing to sort out on Monday. As so often, he conjured up an image of a great expanse of open land behind the house, meadows and fields that he could run across with the wind in his face, making him catch his breath. Of course, the reality was very different. The evergreens on his boundary actually belonged to his neighbour, and he had no scope to fulfil either his dream of building a swimming pool on this plot or Božena’s desire for a sweeping driveway. He needed to talk to Jonathan Spajić again about this property, this little palace, which he had spoken of with such enthusiasm.
He unlocked the door to the workshop, a small annexe behind the garage, turned on the light and the radiator and bolted the door behind him. Somewhere he could still pick up a familiar aroma, which he knew from his childhood. A mixture of glue and European beech wood for battens that had been steamed, seasoned and air-dried. These materials lay together with the leather in his trunk, but he doubted that he’d ever get them out again and revive his own little private cobbler’s workshop. The machines were mothballed and everything had been shifted to one side to make room for the projector and to allow a clear view of the wall, which he had painted white.
He poured himself a drink and put on his glasses. The aroma of the whisky reminded him of the smell of helichrysums, of summer and his youth. He hadn’t a care in the world back then, when his pockets were full of cash and he spent his time painting the town red with his Albanian mate Režep. The route to Albania had been theirs for the taking. The stuff they’d smuggled! They would load up the car in Prizren with chocolate, tights, body lotion or whatever and then make a dash across the border. Sometimes they didn’t even get as far as Tirana, as the people in the villages en route bit their hands off to get hold of the contraband. What a great time they’d had – he had been his own boss and had a girl in every other village. There’d been no talk of having a family and settling down back then, nor of civil servants, lobbyists and the whole apparatus of the Minister-President’s Office, which he was now saddled with, which he had to know how to spin and control every minute of every day so as to ensure that the blowhards and toadies didn’t go ruining his carefully laid plans with their intrigues.
With no great enthusiasm he rummaged through his collection of DVDs. He had no particular preference today. He just wanted to wind down and turn his mind to other things. He loaded the disc into the player, pushed the ‘play’ button and settled down to watch. Two girls at a pool, presently joined by a third – in other words, the usual, no surprises, exactly what he liked. Before long he was getting into the mood, really into it, and the rhythm of the music filled the room. Perhaps that was the reason why it took so long for him to hear the noise. There was a knock, somebody rattling the doorknob. He pulled up his trousers in a panic, and swore volubly.
A contorted face appeared at the small barred window, a strangely beaten-up mug, which he recognised from somewhere.