‘Is that you?’
Goran Valetić pressed the receiver to his ear. His hands were sweaty, his throat was dry and his sister’s voice was very distant. How was he supposed to explain to her what he had done? He had prepared the right words, but his tongue was tied, and he couldn’t utter a sound.
‘Talk to me, Goran!’ Her voice sounded cold and cutting and dreadfully familiar. ‘Just talk to me!’
He hung up. His thumbnail was bloody, the display went dark and the digital clock began to count the seconds. Goran turned on the engine, putting his foot on the clutch and his hands on the steering wheel.
He couldn’t stand the silence at home, or the hurly-burly of the bars and cafés. Driving calmed him down, and the music from the CD player turned the world out there into a movie, which only concerned him peripherally. He had been driving like this for days: across Branko’s Bridge to New Belgrade and back again to Dorćol, Skadarlija, along the Danube and across the bridge again. When the traffic got too heavy, he changed lane, turned right and drove round the corner. The main thing was to keep moving so the movie wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t bear to see old people by the roadside, at bus stops or, like those two, waiting at the traffic light to cross the street: a grandpa carrying the shopping and holding his wife’s hand. Then the film stopped and he pictured them lying there, two lifeless bodies. The questions began: had they shot his father or his mother first? Had she cried and screamed, or had she dutifully dogged his footsteps until the end? Had there been time for a last glance, a last touch? Had his father resisted, had he sworn at his attackers or had he tried to calm his weeping mother? Or had it all happened in total silence? He accelerated, sped along, always ending up in Košutnjak. He turned into Prague Street and, reducing his speed, now proceeded at a crawl.
The house of the minister of state lay in darkness, looking so neat behind its cast-iron gate, and so elegant, just like all the houses here. A green box-tree hedge. White gravel on the paths. On the top floor, in a loft room, a light shone warmly, as though Papa Božović was up there reading a bedtime story to his son. When the whole family was at home the garage was filled with a Mercedes, a convertible and a BMX bike. He had nothing against the guy, and crawling through bushes in the dark and knocking on strangers’ windows, as he had done last Sunday, was generally not his style. But he had been unable to stand it any longer. He’d had to do something: slam the money down on the table in front of the minister of state, the bounty for his parents, covered in their blood. Return it to the highest authority, at least a symbolic gesture, in hope of setting something in motion, of provoking a reaction, if only a word of regret.
He got nothing. Božović had only stared at him as if he were a ghost. The minister had taken seconds to react, and eventually offered him a whisky, but he had understood nothing. Projected onto the wall, a pornographic movie was playing, and against the backdrop of all that heavy breathing Božović had made him an offer: switch off for a while, get the hell out of here, clear your head. What kind of an idea was that? His parents were dead and he was supposed to take a break? Goran didn’t want anything more to do with this guy, with the whole lot of these people, and the fact that the feeling was now mutual was a bitter irony.
He drove back along Liberation Boulevard to the city centre. He hated the thought of turning off the engine, halting the movie. All of a sudden he found himself outside Diana’s front door.
He spoke his name into the intercom, waited and hoped that he would not have to sneak across the backyard and yap like a dog outside her door for hours. A few seconds passed, and then the buzzer sounded. Relieved, he pushed open the door. Inside, everything was familiar: the smell of the staircase, the broken window, the mould on the wall. Diana, who was wearing her washed-out T-shirt, gave him something to eat and drink and sat down across the table from him, with her chin resting on her hand. She didn’t speak, she didn’t ask any questions, she just took him into her arms and kept him in a firm embrace, as the pain overtook him and made his body shake with grief.
When the first glimmers of daylight shone through the curtains, he got up, buttoned up his trousers, slipped on his T-shirt and put on his trainers. Diana rolled over, mumbled something and then breathed deeply. The fact that his picture had disappeared from her bedside table wasn’t a good sign. He still couldn’t believe that it was supposed to be over; when all this had passed, they should talk about it again. He had to work through things. He had to work it out systematically. He kept his eyes fixed on her as he picked up her trousers from the chair and rummaged through her pockets – first the back ones, and then the front.
He went into the kitchen and looked around. He pulled open the drawers, then searched the shelves, top and bottom, and all the tubs and boxes. He finally found what he was looking for in the coffee tin: seven tightly rolled banknotes. He hesitated, thought it over for a while. Then he left her one note and stuffed the rest into his pocket.
He checked his weapon, buckled up the belt and pulled his jacket on over it. Diana had once told him that he couldn’t always just leg it when things got tricky. He couldn’t always hold others responsible for his mess. She was right. He had to fix this now, in his own way.