‘The Ministry for Kosovo?’ The porter put down his sandwich and picked up Milena’s ID. ‘No such thing exists here.’
Milena put her handbag on the counter. ‘Are you having me on?’
He chewed, shook his head, put on his spectacles and inspected her photo ID. ‘The ministry you’re talking about has been redesignated as a Minister-President’s Office. He ran his finger across his appointment schedule. ‘But I can’t see anywhere that you have an appointment. Who did you speak to there?’
‘Nobody. That’s the problem.’ She hadn’t even managed to get the office’s press spokesman on the line.
‘No appointment, no pass. But I can see on the screen, next to Ms Njego of the Ministry of Education, Lukin – ten a.m. That’s you, isn’t it?’ He looked up at her. ‘Do you want to go and see her now?’
Soon after, Milena was striding through the lobby with her pass, past a seating area that had probably been there since the 1960s, when the building was inaugurated. Milena could recall old photographs of the brigades of the socialist workers’ youth movement, who had been sent here after the war from all across Yugoslavia to construct the Palace of the Yugoslavian Federation on the bank of the River Sava. The vast, sprawling building – with four wings, a central glass cupola and a marble façade which had at one time been white – had literally been built on sand, and had experienced some turbulent times. In this building, General Tito had opened the first conference of the Non-Aligned Movement in 1961, received heads of governments, crowned and uncrowned heads of state from all over the world, and hosted lavish banquets. After the end of socialism and the dissolution of the Executive Council of the Federation in 1992, the successor regime – the federal government – had moved in. When Yugoslavia disintegrated in 2003, the government of Serbia and Montenegro followed. Since Montenegro had gained independence, only the Serbian government was left in this building, which was now called the Palace of Serbia.
Milena got out of the lift on the fifth floor and walked over marble flooring that had dulled over the years, past decommissioned tables and chairs which had been piled up like heaps of garbage. Files had been left in the corridors; it seemed as though no archivist would ever take an interest in them, nor would a historian ever study their content in years to come. Here and there, doors stood open, affording views of empty offices and meeting rooms panelled with cedar and jacaranda wood. Milena saw motes of dust dancing in shafts of light, and could sense the rarefied atmosphere in which politicians and civil servants had conferred when they had still believed in the idea of Yugoslavia, the multiethnic state, when they had sought reconciliation between nationalities and federal states and had always found new compromises. The fragile construct had been wilfully destroyed and soiled by blood, and the chance of creating a common southern Slavic state had been squandered. The emptiness of this huge building embodied the state of the country, the dearth of ideas, the absence of imagination and ideals. Now it was only sensible and pragmatic to sublet the surplus space in this government building to private-sector companies. These strangely named companies had exploited the opportunity to give their services and import-export activities a gloss of respectability through this pretence of proximity to the government.
The Ministry of Education, the secretariat where Lydia Njego worked, was situated in the north wing, right next to the marble washrooms. This was where the extensive Bologna documentation – for which Lydia was responsible, as she was the assistant to the chair of the accreditation commission – was stored. Lydia was in her early fifties, in other words slightly older than Milena, and still wore the same large, colourful scarves she had worn at university, where she had run for president of the student union but lost narrowly to her opponent, a well-coiffed swot and talented orator, who many years later became minister of defence.
Milena apologised for her lateness – she had underestimated the traffic on Branko’s Bridge – and handed over the application. Lydia confirmed receipt with a date stamp and signature. In response to Milena’s query as to whether or not the Bologna criteria had been met in full at this stage, Lydia made a gesture of throwing something over her shoulder.
If there was anything to object to, she said, a formal complaint procedure would be enacted, and this would automatically open a time window in which a lot of changes could be made. Milena admired the pragmatic and efficient way in which Lydia handled this job in the university administration. Whether her salary was sufficient to support her husband, an unemployed dental hygienist, and his children from his first marriage, was another matter.
Before Lydia had a chance to embark on her tea-making ritual and her litany of which institute was about to be closed down and which scientist was threatened with forced redeployment or the sack, Milena brought the conversation round to the subject that was preying on her mind above all else. ‘Do you have any idea,’ she asked after cutting short an incoming telephone call with two curt sentences, ‘who I could talk to upstairs among the Kosovo guys?’
‘Concerning what?’
‘The programme to return Serbian refugees.’
Lydia mulled this over. The problem was that there were so many new faces in the Kosovo department since it had been restructured. But there was one old acquaintance left there, and she had even risen to the position of special advisor in the recent round of promotions. Lydia grabbed her keys and said, ‘Come with me.’
The Minister-President’s Office for Kosovo and Metohija was on the next floor up. The redesignation from ministry to Minister-President’s Office had entailed a loss of status – a quite intentional consequence, of course. Through it, the Serbian government was signalling to the international community, especially the United States and the EU, that the conflict in Kosovo was no longer top priority and was being dealt with at a lower level. The anticipated quid pro quo for that was that Serbia’s application to join the EU would be fast-tracked.
‘The new minister of state,’ Lydia ventured, ‘might not be that stupid after all.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Lydia showed the security personnel her badge and propelled Milena ahead of her through the gate. ‘Did you hear about the initiative called “Small Pupils – Big Hearts”? Serbian children from Kosovo are supposed to come on an exchange to Belgrade. To establish contacts with their contemporaries, make new friends – all that kind of thing. And on top of everything else they get to see our beautiful capital. The Ministry of Education supports the project and wants to cooperate with the Minister-President for Kosovo’s Office.’
‘Yeah, that’s a good thing’, Milena agreed.
‘It’s supposedly the brainchild of minister of state Slobodan Božović.’
‘A man of action, then.’
‘Apparently.’
She opened the double glass door; Milena’s first impression was that they had somehow strayed into an advertising agency or other entity that was completely at variance with a dilapidated old pile like the Palace of Serbia. There were silvery grey carpets, chairs and sofas covered in black leather and potted plants arranged in small islands. People working at their computer screens were visible through narrow window units. All of them looked busy, as if they were electrified, which might have be the result of constantly ringing telephones. The huge picture on the wall was particularly striking, a photographic work showing an apparently abstract composition made up of different kinds of red, mainly magentas.
While Lydia went off in search of her acquaintance Milena took a closer look at the picture. Only then did she realise that this explosion of colour was composed of close-up images of peonies, the flower of the Kosovo region. Behind the flowers she could see a field – in all likelihood Kosovo Polje, whose name translates as ‘blackbird field’ – and wooded slopes typical of the region. Six hundred years ago the Serbs had fought and lost against the Ottoman Turks on the ‘blackbird field’ in the Battle of Kosovo, a defeat which was still commemorated in old folk songs. Ever since then, Kosovo had been the seat of the Serbian Orthodox Church as well as being the political centre. As a result, Kosovo was often referred to as the ‘Cradle of Serbian Culture’. The tragic thing was that it occupied just as central a position in the identity and culture of the Albanians, who saw themselves as the descendants of the Illyrians, the original native inhabitants of the region. This small tract of land was charged with a great deal of history and many legends, one of which maintained that peonies bloomed in such a vibrant red only in this location, because the ground here had been drenched in so much blood.
The young man who suddenly appeared from around the corner had his ear glued to his mobile phone. Milena tried to step aside, but that only resulted in an even more full-on collision. The pile of brochures he was carrying under his arm went all over the floor. Cursing loudly, the man bent down to pick them up.
‘I do apologise,’ Milena said, as she helped him gather them up, ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Thedarkbluefolderswerelabelled‘Real-estatesurvey/report Kosovo xxiv-14/5.1’. Hastily he snatched back the brochure that she had picked up – meaning that they must be confidential internal documents – gathered up the rest in a hurry and disappeared into the adjacent conference room. Milena saw that he wore a little ponytail, and registered that one of the brochures had slipped underneath the sofa. She went after it.
‘They’re expecting a large group of important people to arrive here any minute now.’ Lydia’s voice was coming from behind her. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
Milena straightened up, emerging from beneath the sofa with the folder in her hand.
‘They told me you can address all your questions to the media spokesman,’ Lydia said. ‘Here’s his number.’
‘Thanks,’ said Milena, pocketing the business card. ‘Wait a moment. I’ll be back in a minute.’ She was planning to dash over and hand in the real-estate report at the conference room, but she found her way barred by a hulk of a man. With a wide stance and a headset on, he stood square in front of her and commanded, ‘Step back, please.’
The gold-framed doors of the Minister-President’s Office were pushed open into the lobby by a dark cloud of men in suits with grey sideburns and attaché cases, flanked by security personnel and women in business attire.
‘Come along.’ Lydia made a gesture with her head. They made to leave via another door, but one of the gorilla-like guards pushed them back behind the potted plants.
‘Frau Lukin?’ A slim, clean-shaven face peered through the leaves of the weeping fig – a face, Milena thought, which looked familiar: Count Alexander Kronburg, the German ambassador. ‘Don’t tell me you’re here as part of the Serbian delegation!’ he exclaimed.
‘Delegation?’ Milena straightened her jacket. ‘We were actually just trying to leave.’
‘Oh, I’m glad to hear it.’
‘What?’
He walked around the plant, smiling sheepishly and suddenly looking for all the world like a mischievous boy. ‘After all, I know what a tough negotiator you are at these kind of meetings. Are you keeping well?’
‘May I ask what important issues you’re going to discuss in there?’ Milena asked.
‘The Kosovo subsidies.’
‘For the Serbian refugees? I see.’ Milena nodded knowingly. ‘The support for the refugee return programme has presumably now been put on ice?’
‘Quite the contrary. It’s supposed to be increased. And it seems that we’ll have Thornton on our side in this decision.’
‘Thornton?’
‘The EU commissioner for refugees.’
‘So, even more money for the returnees?’ Milena was taken aback by his response. ‘Didn’t you hear what happened to the old Serbian couple in Talinovac?’
‘Dreadful story. That sort of thing ought never to have happened.’
‘They were executed, for all intents and purposes.’
‘That’s exactly why we have to double our efforts now. We mustn’t let ourselves be intimidated by these criminal elements. All refugees have the right of return and restitution of their property. That’s what it says in the plan, which we’ve now got to implement step by step.’
‘The Martti Ahtisaari Plan, nothing but well-meaning words,’ Milena said. ‘The reality unfortunately looks very different. Multicultural politics aren’t going to work in Kosovo.’
‘The implementation will take time, undoubtedly.’
A woman with a clipboard came up to the ambassador and whispered something in his ear. He nodded to her and continued his conversation with Milena. ‘The atmosphere is still very tense and explosive. I have to agree with you on that. And as long as that continues I guess we have to expect such casualties.’
‘Casualties?’
‘But that shouldn’t deter us, don’t you agree?’ Smiling sweetly, the clipboard-carrying woman steered him towards the conference room. ‘I’ll be in Brussels tomorrow,’ he called out to Milena. ‘But maybe Wednesday next week would suit you? I urgently need to discuss something with you. My office will get in touch.’ Then he disappeared. The doors closed silently behind him.
‘Wow,’ Lydia exhaled.
‘What?’
‘Does that guy wear blue contact lenses?’
‘How should I know?’
‘I think he likes you.’
‘You know what, Lydia, somebody who calls the dead in Talinovac “casualties” can get stuffed as far as I’m concerned.’
And yet, when she returned to her car she had to admit to herself that her heart was pounding. Small wonder! She tried to imagine those diplomats and politicians sitting up there, deciding the fates of thousands of refugees in their pursuit of abstract targets. Those men were motivated by all manner of concerns, but never by the welfare of the people involved.
She walked past the line of black limousines with their chauffeurs in white shirts behind the wheels. Only then did she notice that she was still holding the real-estate brochure, an internal document not meant for public consumption.
She took her cigarettes out of her bag, lit one and opened the folder on the first page: a map of Kosovo. Cities, towns, thoroughfares. She turned the page. Once again the map, this time with symbols strewn all over the place, like houses on a Monopoly board, and a key. Further on, there were tables, columns of figures, pie charts, diagrams and calculations. A lot of money was up for grabs, sixand even seven-figure sums.
Milena leant against her car, snapped ash from her cigarette and studied the explanatory notes.
The Brussels money for the refugees and for the reconstruction didn’t go directly to Kosovo, but first came here, to Belgrade, to the Kosovo Minister-President’s Office. Maybe it was sensible that the money flow was controlled by Belgrade – after all, it was destined for Serbian refugees. On the other hand, the Ministry for Returnees in Priština was also headed by Serbians. From there the money was eventually distributed to the thirty-eight communities in Kosovo and then finally to the people.
Milena closed the file. All good and fine. She was going to study the figures in peace and quiet later, just out of interest. But these facts were probably not germane to discovering why two people had been murdered down there.
Maybe the whole story was simply too complex and distant: two deaths in a country with a reputation of being a place where ‘other laws’ applied, one of which stated that Serbs were hated there, and on the other side the settled political will to repatriate as many displaced Serbs as possible to Kosovo even if that cost millions. Where should she start? Without Lydia she wouldn’t have even managed to get into the Minister-President’s Office. Had she even thanked her?
She took out her telephone and saw that an unknown number had called and left a message. She accessed her voicemail.
‘This is Slavujka Valetić,’ the caller said. ‘You tried to reach me. Yes, we can meet. I’d suggest tomorrow, two-thirty p.m., Café Präsent.’