The radishes shone in the sunlight like bright red boiled sweets andgavealoudsnapwhenyoubitintothem.Theywereperfect. Milena selected three bunches and a butterhead lettuce, the organically grown kind with firm light green leaves.
As the woman at the greengrocer’s stall was putting Milena’s purchases in a bag, she dispensed some advice. ‘Don’t add pumpkin seeds this time. Try brewer’s yeast for a change.’
Milena also bought some spring onions, new potatoes and fresh parsley. She glanced around at the other women on the market stalls. One of them had to be Slavujka Valetić. But she found it hard to imagine that the daughter of a teacher could possibly have such muscle-bound upper arms, be heaving around crates full of fruit and vegetables or be slicing up cuts of meat. The most likely scenario was that Slavujka was a cheese seller, with a white cap and apron. Indeed, one of the women selling cheese behind the glass cabinets now checked her watch, said something to her colleague and took off her apron. But the meeting in the Café Präsent was not for another half hour.
Milena passed the fish counter, with its sea bream, red mullet and trout, and noticed from afar as some tourists organised themselves for a group photo. Uncle Miodrag had asked her to pass on his condolences to Slavujka and to offer her his assistance. She could, for example, come to southern Serbia to stay with him and Auntie Isidora for holidays and even bring her family. This was an open invitation; she would always be welcome. Milena had promised to keep all this in mind and report back after the meeting.
‘Pardon me.’ An old lady was blocking the herb stall with her little shopping trolley and looking around helplessly as if she had lost her way. ‘Is Mutap Street in this direction?’ she asked Milena.
It took Milena a moment to get her bearings. ‘I think you need to cross straight over to the other side.’
The old lady wore her hair in a bun, which was starting to come loose. Her burgundy-coloured trouser suit looked a bit worn in the bright sunlight and was definitely not warm enough for the time of year. The old woman looked exhausted as she leant on the bar of her trolley.
‘Come along,’ said Milena, ‘I’ll walk you a bit of the way.’ She took the trolley and offered the lady her arm. Together they made their way through the crowd, past women inspecting hangers holding pyjamas, bras and nightdresses with floral patterns. A group of men were standing in a row, leaning on the counter of a beer stall with their bellies jutting forward, shooting the breeze and watching a guy from the municipal cleansing department in an orange-coloured hi-vis vest, probably a Roma, as he swept up the cigarette butts at their feet.
‘Do you live in Mutap Street?’ Milena asked the woman.
‘I thought I’d seen him.’ The old lady spoke so softly that Milena had to stoop down to hear her.
‘If my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me, that is. But I haven’t gone completely mad. Then again, he disappeared so quickly. He can’t have vanished into thin air! If only I was a bit quicker on my feet! Instead I’ve been wandering from pillar to post and now I don’t know where I am anymore.’
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Milena.
‘Nicola is like a little brother to me. A good-looking man, but God knows he’s a feckless so-and-so. Always has been. And constantly on the move.’
She rummaged around in the pocket of her jacket and took out a ring of keys. ‘Why don’t I make us a nice cup of tea?’ She unlocked the little door set in a large wooden gate.
‘Another time perhaps, but I’ve got to be going now.’ Milena helped her lift the little trolley across the high threshold. A cold draught blew down the entranceway. ‘Before I go, though, can you tell me your name, please?’
‘Juliana.’ The woman pulled the shopping trolley behind her into the darkness of the entranceway. ‘Plain and simple: old Juliana. The only one still left in this house.’
Before Milena had a chance to introduce herself or say anything else, even a goodbye, the door slammed shut in her face, detaching flakes of green paint from the wood. Startled by the noise, a pigeon fluttered up.
Milena waited, then knocked one more time, perhaps a bit timidly. The door remained shut, and no sound came from behind it. There was no bell. Perplexed, Milena looked along the façade.
The windowsills of the building were green with moss, and the stucco decorations had long since broken off or been washed away by the rain. The house comprised a raised ground floor and an upper storey, and must once have been very beautiful. The idea that an old lady was living here all by herself was a bit unsettling. Probably a gust of wind had slammed the door shut and in her confusion the woman had already forgotten that Milena had brought her home.
She arrived at the Café Präsent almost a quarter of an hour late, and if Siniša had not got there in good time, Slavujka Valetić might well have upped and left already. Milena recognised the woman immediately. She had seen the slim, slightly-too-long nose countless times in the photographs reproduced in the newspapers; the daughter had inherited her features from her father.
‘Please excuse me.’ Milena put down her bags and offered Slavujka her hand. ‘We spoke on the telephone – indirectly, at least.’
Slavujka Valetić returned the handshake before turning to Siniša to say, ‘I’m sorry – I still don’t understand what you want from me.’
Siniša summoned the waiter as Milena hung her handbag over the backrest of the chair. ‘The reason we’re meeting has to do with my uncle,’ she said. She sat down and recounted the story – how he had read about the crime in the newspaper and recognised the photo of Ljubinka Valetić, who – when she’d still had her maiden name of Višekruna – had been the love of his life.
The waiter served them tea, coffee and water, and Siniša told Slavujka how they had driven out to the refugee home at Avala and asked around until they finally got the names of the murdered couple’s children, Slavujka and Goran. Finding the entry ‘Valetić, S’ in the telephone directory had been the easiest part of the exercise.
Slavujka Valetić studied Milena’s business card and said slowly, ‘If I understand this correctly, you’re a criminal investigator.’
Milena nodded. ‘And I teach criminology. Our institute’s in the city centre, near Count Michael Street.’
‘And you, Mr Stojković, you’re a lawyer?’
‘This case isn’t over,’ said Siniša. ‘We’re wondering what happened down there and whether you have any information that could help us.’
Slavujka Valetić leant back in her chair; the light streaming through the window showed that the blue of her eyes almost matched that of her blouse. Her hair was dark blonde and shoulder length, and framed her pale, almost translucent skin, which was covered with soft freckles on her nose. Her somewhat plump appearance was probably due to the clothes she was wearing and the fact she had her sleeves rolled up. ‘You’re the first and so far the only people to show any interest in what happened to my parents,’ she said. ‘I appreciate that. And, to be honest, I’m touched by your concern. But I’m afraid I also only know what was reported in the papers. In other words, I don’t know any more than you.’
‘May we still ask you a few questions, though?’
‘Go ahead. But please don’t expect too much from me.’
Milena nodded and smiled. ‘What I’d like to know first is how you found out about the death of your parents?’
‘Somebody called me, very early in the morning.’ Slavujka stared impassively into the middle distance. ‘The telephone rang, a guy introduced himself and said, “We have some sad news for you,” or something like that.’ Slavujka looked up at the ceiling. When she spoke again, her voice sounded different. ‘“What?” I said. “Dead, shot?” I couldn’t take it in at first.’ She took a sip from her cup. ‘The guy, I think it was some kind of policeman, rambled on about some investigation that was to be opened and about some official body that they were in touch with, and that they’d get back to me.’
‘And did they?’
‘The conversation lasted for all of five minutes and I never heard anything from anybody again. If it hadn’t been all over the papers and on the television news, I’d have thought it had all been a sick joke. I couldn’t believe it.’ She picked up the drinks menu and stuck it into the small card holder on the table showing the ice cream selection.
‘Tell us how your parents got into the returnee programme,’ Siniša said.
‘I don’t know. I’ve no idea. By the time I heard about it, everything had already been decided.’
Milena took out her notebook from her bag and clicked her pen. ‘When was that?’
‘When I heard about the plan?’ Slavujka thought for a moment. ‘The first half of March. My parents came here, to the market, to meet me. It must have been around the tenth of the month, and I thought, what’s up? It was a real performance. They picked me up from the stall and told me they needed to tell me some important news. We sat here, at this very table, and drank tea together.’
‘So you’re saying this was about four weeks ago?’ Milena made a note. ‘And what did they have to say?’
‘What did they say?’ Slavujka repeated. ‘They said that they’d been given a house in Talinovac, with a plot of land, and that they were going there now. And – yes, exactly – the house and land had been granted them as restitution for the property they’d lost back in Priština. It was all part of a programme financed by the EU and coordinated by the Serbian government. They wanted to go there at the end of the month at the very latest.’
The espresso machine hissed, and somewhere in the café somebody let out a raucous laugh. Milena made notes.
Slavujka asked, ‘So, what will happen to the house in Talinovac now?’
Siniša tilted his head. ‘I presume the house will revert to state ownership, but I’m not sure. I could look into that.’
‘Would you do that for me?’
‘Of course.’
Milena put down her pen. ‘Did you see or speak to your parents after that?’
Slavujka shook her head. ‘We said goodbye at the bus stop over there. I asked them, “Do you need anything? Do you need money?” “No,” they said, they didn’t need anything. They’d be fine, they said.’ She breathed heavily. ‘Secretly, so my father wouldn’t notice, I slipped my mother something –’ She paused. ‘Please excuse me.’ Almost angrily she wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘But it’s all of no consequence now.’
‘How did your parents strike you at the time?’ Siniša asked. ‘Did they seem happy?’
‘Happy?’ She sighed. ‘You know, my father had strong opinions about everything, and there was no room for happiness. I’d say they were determined.’
‘Did you think it was right for your parents to return?’
‘I congratulated them. They made it sound like they’d won the lottery. Your own home – just like that! As far as returning was concerned, my view was: if you think that’s the right decision and that you can be happy in a strange place – well, then go for it. But please don’t imagine for a moment that my opinion mattered one bit, at least not to my father.’
‘And your brother?’ Milena asked. ‘Did he think the same as you?’ Siniša asked.
Slavujka put down her glass on the saucer. ‘We’ve lost touch with one another.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Because he’s a loser. I’m sorry to have to say that, but it’s a fact. He only gets in touch when he needs money or when he’s in trouble – and the two usually go hand in hand. Like the other day. Always the same old story.’
‘What gave you that idea?’
‘Because he calls me, normally late at night. It says “the caller withheld their number” – but I can hear him breathing. Do you know how sinister that is, when you can only hear somebody breathing? Why does he do that? To frighten me? If that’s his intention, he can think again.’
‘Why are you so sure it’s Goran who’s calling you?’ Siniša asked.
‘I just know it.’
Milena and Siniša exchanged glances.
‘Because he hangs up when I ask. That’s typical of him.’
‘Do you think this has anything to do with the death of your parents?’ Milena asked.
‘Of course it does. Now that Mum and Dad are gone he remembers he still has a sister. And maybe he also remembers that he still owes me several thousand euros. Well, he can keep them. But then he should come here and talk to me face to face. I was always there for him, even offered him some work, more than once. But now I’ve had enough. “Get lost,” I told him. “Do what you like, but leave me alone.” From then on we’ve not spoken.’
‘Do you know where he is at the moment and what he’s doing?’ asked Milena.
Slavujka shrugged. ‘He wanted to become a professional footballer. That was his dream. No idea. He’s sporty, and good-looking. Maybe he’s working as a model now. Some job where he doesn’t have to work too hard, in any event.’
‘Do you have an address?’
She shook her head.
‘His telephone number?’
‘The only thing I know is: his girlfriend – if she’s still his girlfriend, that is – works in a bar called the Zeppelin. Do you know the place? It’s on Old Nowak Street.’
Milena made a note of the name.
‘She’s called Diana.’
‘Where exactly do you work?’ Siniša asked.
Slavujka got out her purse from her trouser pocket. ‘We’re just a small firm.’ With some difficulty she extracted two business cards.
‘WholeGrainLtd,’Milenaread.‘Breadandpastryspecialities.’
‘We supply hotels, wholefood shops and selected supermarkets. Plus we have a stall at the market, of course. All organic. No bleached flour, nothing artificial.’
‘Do you own the company, then?’ Milena asked.
‘There’s four of us. Four women. But we can always use good people. It’s not a quick buck, but we’re doing OK.’
‘I’m sure your parents were very proud of you.’
‘Where did you get that idea?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I didn’t become a teacher, didn’t get married, have no kids. As I said, my father had very firm ideas.’ Her telephone buzzed on the table. She looked at the display, and for a split second Milena thought that Goran might have been the caller.
‘My colleague,’ Slavujka said, sounding somewhat relieved. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Just one last question,’ Milena said. ‘Are you planning to go to Talinovac?’
‘You mean – for the funeral?’ Slavujka stood up, pushed her chair under the table and leant on the backrest. ‘At one point,’ she said, ‘when the time is right, I’ll go. Then I will go to their grave, or wherever they’ve buried them, cry and maybe take a handful of earth with me.’
Siniša got up and buttoned up his jacket. ‘As far as the house is concerned, the property – I’ll look into it and get back to you as soon as I can.’
‘Thank you.’ Slavujka shook his hand. ‘Just so we understand each other, I have no wish to get anything out of this. I just want to know.’ And then she turned to Milena, and for the first time there was a hint of smile on her face. ‘You know what’s nice?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘The thought that there was another man in my mother’s life – your uncle. I like that.’
She squeezed between the tables towards the exit. Outside she stopped briefly, looked up at the sky, turned left, crossed the street, shoved her hands into her pockets and, with hunched shoulders, disappeared between the cars.
Siniša sat down again. ‘What do you think?’
Milena leafed through her notes. ‘There are two things we need to do. First, we need to go to Talinovac.’
Siniša sighed.
‘We have to talk to the people there.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. I’m going to have a word with my old friend Ramadan.’
‘And then?’
‘The guy’s only in Priština and could easily get over there. Then he can ask around and find out what’s going to happen to this property.’
Milena shook her head. ‘I need to find out for myself. We have to talk to people, up close and personal, just like we did with Slavujka. I’ll swear, you’ll be amazed what will come out that way. This can’t be done by a proxy, this Ramadan guy of yours.’
‘But you’re Serbian.’
‘It’s not written on my forehead, is it?’
‘I’m afraid it is. And on your number plate, in black and white. No, Milena, it’s out of the question. The whole business is far too dangerous.’
She twisted the pen between her fingers. ‘The other thing we need to do is find Goran. As soon as possible.’
He put two banknotes on the table. ‘Good idea. Let’s visit the Zeppelin, first thing next week.’
‘Why not tomorrow?’
‘I’m in Sarajevo until Sunday inclusive.’ He gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you. And don’t drive yourself crazy in the meantime, promise?’
Milena stayed behind at the table, drinking the last dregs of coffee and looking at her phone. Four missed calls, all from Vera, and one text message: ‘If you’re at the market get some bottled tomatoes sour cream dinner at seven.’
She put away her phone, placed the pen next to the notebook and closed it. She suddenly thought of the old lady and her rickety shopping trolley. Both encounters – with the old lady and with Slavujka – had had a curiously moving effect on her. She wondered why that should be so. Because both were so alone in the world? But that was nothing but supposition, assumption on her part: just because the old lady had gone to the market unaccompanied didn’t necessarily mean she had no one. Slavujka, though – it was a fact – had no parents and no children, and was unmarried and estranged from her brother. But what did she know? Slavujka, the former refugee child, was a fighter, who was obviously capable of prevailing against all the odds. When all was said and done, was it that independence, that self-sufficiency and courage of hers, that she admired and maybe even secretly envied?
She got out her telephone and dialled. It rang for a while until the voicemail clicked in. Slavujka’s curt announcement, asking the caller to leave a message, sounded almost familiar by now.
Milena cleared her throat. ‘It’s me again. Milena Lukin. I forgot to say: could you get hold of a photo of your brother?’ Milena wondered for a second whether she ought to say anything else, maybe invite Slavujka over to hers or introduce her to Uncle Miodrag. She decided against it.
‘Thank you,’ added Milena. ‘We’ll speak again. Bye for now.’