Milena pulled the junk mail out of the letterbox – a special offer from a dry cleaner – and deposited it in the wastepaper basket. It was Friday, the weekend beckoned and she had given Adam permission to stay overnight at Zoran’s. Vera had been against it. She found the whole arrangement horrible: her grandson would be gone until Sunday, sleeping in a strange bed for two whole nights, and she couldn’t check whether he was warm enough, had brushed his teeth before bedtime or had drunk enough water.
Milena skipped the lift and took the stairs. On her part, the main concern was that the boys did not sit glued to the computer the whole time playing one of their war games. But Adam had promised her they weren’t going to do that, and she trusted him. On the other hand, hadn’t he told her only recently that Zoran had been given a new PlayStation by his stepfather and that now he wanted one too?
She unlocked the door to the flat and prepared herself to be confronted by a depressing atmosphere, or one of Vera’s curtain-washing or carpet-cleaning blitzes. Instead, she heard loud voices from the kitchen. Their neighbours Milka Bašić and Tamara Spielmann were busy clearing away dirty dishes to make room for a bottle of apricot schnapps and little glasses.
‘Good evening.’ Milena smiled and greeted the visitors.
‘I can tell from the look in her eyes that all’s not right with the world,’ Milka called out, while accepting a glass that Vera had filled to the brim.
In the oven Milena could see the casserole dish filled with proja, the golden yellow cornbread which was only served up when there was no time to prepare something more elaborate. The ingredients – corn and wheat flour, baking powder, eggs and a little cheese, preferably mature – were readily available. You could always add other things you had to hand in the kitchen cupboard – in this case, red and yellow peppers and green olives, along with spinach.
‘I’ve been wondering what the funny doodles on the wall mean,’ Tamara lisped.
‘Doodles?’ Milena took a piece of proja, balanced it on her plate and put the rest back into the oven. ‘Has somebody been decorating the lift with graffiti again?’ She shooed the cat off the chair and squeezed in next to Tamara at the corner of the table.
Milka emitted a sigh that somehow expressed her entire frustration with the world and all its inhabitants, who never behaved as she expected and wished. She went on to explain that they now included the man from the travel agency on the ground floor. Milena learned that he wanted to annexe part of the entrance hall – the porch, to be precise; the loft of the porch, to be even more precise – which he planned to use as storage space. His plans had progressed so far that his markings on the wall had caught the attention of not only Tamara but also Milka. Accustomed as these ladies were to instantly putting two and two together, they had confronted the man. After all, he had form in such matters: a few years ago he had unofficially enquired whether it might be possible to lower the ceiling in the hallway for his benefit. The residents’ association had turned him down. With very good reason, as Milena recalled.
‘So what did the guy say?’ she asked.
‘He was as stubborn as a mule,’ Milka replied, angrily crossing her arms.
‘And what does the management agent say to the whole story?’
‘They say it’s none of their business.’
‘They’ve all been bribed,’ Vera claimed.
Tamara nodded.
‘Did you manage to have a word with the caretaker?’ Milena enquired, sneaking a look at her watch.
‘We thought that maybe you’d do that,’ Vera said.
Milka added, ‘You have a standing, a certain authority, which the guy recognises.’
Tamara nodded.
Talking to Šoć was more easily said than done. The man was an inveterate grumbler, and drunk most of the time, so it was useless relying on his assurances or anything else he said. Milena put her dishes in the sink. ‘All right. OK. I’ll look into it. First thing next week.’
Presently, the ladies took their leave. Vera sank onto the sofa, utterly exhausted, and Milena secretly wished that the whole matter would resolve itself of its own accord in the next few days. She put on a fresh black T-shirt, applied eyeshadow and reached for her denim jacket.
‘You’re going out again?’ Vera asked.
‘Just leave it all; I’ll clear up later.’ Milena crammed money and her ID into her small handbag and searched for her keys. ‘Aunt Isidora called today,’ Vera told her, ‘at least three times, asking after Miodrag. I told her I wasn’t up to speed and that you’d call her back.’
Milena bent down to straighten the wrinkled rug in the living room. ‘We should get Uncle Miodrag a mobile. That way, she can call him directly.’
‘Are you crazy? Just remember how she lost it here over the weekend. The woman’s hysterical, and your uncle would never have a moment’s peace.’ Vera stroked the cat and watched as Milena straightened out the rug’s fringe.
‘Are you meeting the German ambassador?’ Vera asked.
Milena looked at her in surprise. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? I just wanted to get out, meet a few people…’
‘Then it must have something to do with the Valetićs, am I right?’ Vera sighed. ‘Your uncle should draw a line under that unhappy event and get himself back on his feet, but he can’t do that as long as you keep rubbing salt into the wound and adding fuel to the fire.’
‘Mama, not now, please.’
‘Well, then at least don’t be late.’
‘Go to bed, Mama. Relax. And tomorrow morning I’ll call Aunt Isidora.’
‘Milena?’
She turned around. ‘What is it?’
‘Do you think the boy is getting something decent to eat tonight?’
Milena kissed her mother. ‘I’m sure he is.’
‘Fiona needs her fur trimming, by the way,’ Vera said. ‘She’s losing her winter coat.’
In the daytime, you could already walk with your coat wide open, but now, at night, with clear skies and a cold wind blowing from the East, Milena had to button up her jacket against the cold as she crossed the street.
Students were sitting on the steps outside the building of the Technical University and were risking hangovers by kicking off the weekend with a spot of open-air binge drinking. That suited an old man who collected the empties in his cart to claim back the deposits. He came trundling by at that moment, heading in the direction of Tašmajdan Park. Milena turned into Ilija Garašanin Street.
When she finally reached Old Nowak Street she could make out the sign from a distance: a multi-coloured oval with a yellow airship in the middle, which blinked rhythmically. The entrance door had been strengthened with an iron plate, painted black, and with a small, barred window at eyelevel – really only a peephole – with a massive silver knob below it. On the right-hand side was a brass button, which looked like it had only recently been installed.
She hesitated. She’d have felt safer with Siniša at her side, but she didn’t want to wait until next week and let so much time go by. She had a gut feeling. With a shiver, she pressed the bell. In the distance a police siren howled, fell silent, started up again and then receded.
Milena stepped back and looked upwards. Next to a satellite dish a window was illuminated. She couldn’t make out another entrance. She rang the bell again, grabbed the knob and, to her surprise, found the door unlocked.
Silver cloakroom tags were hanging on hooks in the entrance hall, along with a single jacket. Instead of a cloakroom attendant there was only a little dish, and a lamp that radiated warm light. A cardboard sign read 150 dinar per person. Milena crossed a carpet and approached a large curtain, pushed aside the heavy material and entered a huge, empty room, a sparsely lit hall with no one inside. Chairs stood around little tables, all facing the stage. On it, partially obscured and in front of a black backdrop, stood a piano. A bit further forward was a drum kit, a collection of microphones and something that looked like a cable drum. From somewhere offstage there came a lot of banging and clanging.
The wall opposite was made up of glass bricks subtly lit from behind so as to lend a sophisticated sparkle to the bottles standing in front of them. Behind the bar, someone was obviously restocking the shelves. Milena could only see a bent back, barely covered by a white shirt that had tugged free of the trouser belt, revealing the top of a colourful pair of boxer shorts.
‘Good evening,’ she said.
The young man glanced over his shoulder.
‘I just have one question,’ Milena said.
‘I can tell you straight away.’ He went on picking bottles up, two at a time. ‘The concert won’t start for another hour and a half. More like two, actually.’
‘I’m looking for a young woman,’ Milena said. ‘She’s supposed to work here.’
The man looked up. ‘Diana?’ He shut the door under the bar with a bang.
‘Is she here?’ asked Milena.
He pushed aside an empty crate with his foot, brushed back his hair and looked at his watch. ‘In half an hour – if you’re lucky.’
Milena put down her handbag on the bar. There was a tray with a row of candlesticks, which presumably needed replacing.
The bartender turned his back on her and clattered around with a pile of CD cases. Soon after, there came the muted sound of a jazz trumpet, and the lamps on the wall lit up with a soft light that set off the dark brick nicely. She really was the only customer in the place.
‘Can I get you something?’
She looked at the twinkling bottles with their designer labels and picked up a menu. It must have been an eternity since she’d last been to a bar, probably in Berlin, before Adam was born.
‘If I’m honest, I’d like a cup of coffee.’
‘How boring.’
Startled, she looked at him. ‘Do you have a better idea?’ He stroked his manicured beard. ‘How about an Old Fashioned?’
‘OK, then.’ She closed the menu.
He reached into a basket, brought out two limes and picked up a knife.
Milena turned her phone to silent and saw that Tanja had sent her a text message. ‘I’m home,’ her friend had written. ‘How about you?’ Milena put it back into her pocket and climbed onto a bar stool. ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ she said.
He positioned his knife accurately and cut the lime in half, took a glass from the shelf and heaped ice cubes into it. ‘This your first time here?’
‘I’ve only come to speak to Diana, or to ask her about something, to be precise. It’s to do with Goran Valetić.’
‘Goran?’ He squeezed the limes with his hands. ‘Haven’t seen him for a long time.’
‘You know him?’
He let the juice trickle into the glass. ‘When he was still seeing Diana he came here often.’ He picked up a bulging bottle from the shelf above the bar.
Milena sighed. ‘I’d hoped Diana could help me. It concerns Goran’s parents. I spoke with his sister the day before yesterday.’
‘I didn’t know he had a sister.’ He added a few splashes from a little bottle to the cocktail, fingered a glacé cherry from a glass and stuck a slice of lemon on the rim of the glass. Then he dried his hands, placed a small cocktail napkin on the bar, straightened it out and served her cocktail with a flourish. ‘To your health.’
Milena placed the glass at her lips and took the first sip. ‘It really does taste old fashioned.’
With a smile, he wiped the bar with a cloth.
‘Is that bourbon?’ She took a slightly bigger sip.
‘With orange bitters and lemon.’ He started cutting limes in half and dropping them onto a silver plate. Conveyor-belt work. His red tie was stuck into his shirt between two buttons.
‘I’m sorry to be so nosy.’ Milena carefully put down the glass. The drink was strong stuff. ‘Could you tell me about Goran? What kind of guy is he? The last time you saw him – when would that have been?’
The bartender opened a cupboard under the bar. He looked past Milena and pondered. ‘He was wearing a dark suit, and I thought, wow! I asked him, “What’s with you?”’ He began plucking the leaves off a head of celery. ‘But he wasn’t in a good mood. He was already in her bad books.’ He gestured with his head towards the glass wall.
‘You mean Diana’s?’
The knife kept chopping on the board. ‘She’s sweet and nice, honestly. She just has one tiny flaw.’
‘Which is?’ a bright voice asked. A young woman had come in without either of them noticing. She had a round face, wore a black shirt, had a blonde ponytail and was in the process of tying on a long white apron. She was clearly irritated. ‘I’d really like to know, Marco!’
He took her by the hips, turned her around like a little child, and grabbed the apron strings. ‘You always fall in love with the wrong men.’
‘And whose business is that?’
‘Nobody’s.’ He tightened the knot. ‘I’m sorry, darling.’
Full of suspicion, the woman glanced over at Milena. ‘This your auntie?’ she asked sullenly.
‘Apologies. My name’s Milena Lukin.’ She took a business card out of her purse and pushed it across the bar. In the meantime, Diana had crouched down and was rummaging around behind the counter.
‘We were talking about Goran,’ Marco explained. ‘She’s looking for him.’
‘I was hoping you could help me,’ Milena added.
The young woman banged a box of candles on the bar. ‘There was someone else here recently asking after him. Remember, Marco?’
‘The bald guy?’
‘No, not him. The other one. With the pocket handkerchief with little spots on it.’
Milena pushed her glass to one side. ‘Somebody else was asking after Goran?’
‘Goran’s pretty busy at the moment and I haven’t a clue where he’s hanging out – yeah, Marco, go figure!’ She started putting new candles into the holders. ‘What’s your interest in him?’
‘I don’t know whether you know – Goran’s parents are dead, they were dispatched in a rather nasty way. I’ll spare you the details. I’d like to talk to Goran. Could you tell me where I can find him? Or do you have his telephone number, by any chance?’
‘And you are who again? Not from Safe ‘n’ Secure, are you?’
Before Milena could say anything, Marco began reading aloud what was written on her business card. ‘Milena Lukin. Institute for Forensic Science and Criminology.’ He handed Diana the card. ‘Does that mean that you’re from the police?’
Milena shook her head. ‘I’m a forensic scientist and acting in a private capacity.’
‘I honestly don’t know what’s going on anymore,’ Diana said.
Milena patiently explained the connection to her uncle and added, ‘And the tip-off to come here came from Goran’s sister.’
‘OK. Understood.’ Diana picked up the tray with the candles and stepped away.
Milena followed her. ‘Maybe Goran can help us clear a few things up. Do you have his number?’
‘Goran’s gone.’ Diana distributed the candles on the tables and lit them with a lighter, which she had put on the tray for the purpose. ‘As for his phone – you can forget about that. He doesn’t answer calls. I don’t even know whether the number’s still current. And I’ve no idea where he’s staying – so no point asking me that.’
In the meantime, a group of four had come in and sat down at the very front of the room, while another couple had not yet made up their minds and were standing at the side. Milena followed Diana from table to table, and persisted. ‘But you are in touch with him. So why don’t you help me?’
Diana put the tray down. ‘Goran and I are no longer together. We stopped seeing one another six months ago.’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
‘After this horrible thing happened to his parents he turned up again a couple of times. OK, he spent the night at my place, but that’s that now. I don’t want anything more to do with him. I made that very clear to him.’ She combed her hair back. ‘And now I’ve got to work.’
Milena went back to the bar. She took a banknote out of her purse and put it on the bar.
‘Thank you,’ Marco nodded. ‘And good luck.’
She picked up her jacket from the bar stool. On the way to the exit she passed the next guests coming in. They were laughing and chatting – for them the evening had just started. Diana, with her ponytail jauntily bobbing up and down, was taking orders right and left, then stuffing her notebook back into her belt. Milena thought for a moment and then went up to her one last time.
‘This club you were talking about,’ she said, ‘Safe ‘n’…’ ‘Goran worked there. I don’t know whether he still does, though.’
‘And if he should turn up at yours?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
‘And you’ll give him my number?’
With the tray tucked under her arm, Diana stepped closer. ‘You know,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it’s strange somehow: we refugee kids seem to bear some mark which we recognise each other by.’
‘Where are you from?’ Milena asked.
‘Croatia. Operation Storm. We were among the 250,000 who escaped back then. The point is, we were all tiny, some just born. Even so, I can understand where Goran’s coming from.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘If I picture them doing something like that to my parents – I’d go crazy. Honestly, I hope and pray Goran gets them.’
‘Gets who?’ asked Milena.
‘Those Albanian pigs.’
‘And then what?’
‘He’ll kill them, of course.’ She got out her notebook again and turned, smiling, to a guest.
Milena walked slowly towards the exit. In the foyer people were pushing and shoving to reach the cloakroom. She made her way through the crowd and stepped outside, where another short queue had formed. Milena hailed a taxi that had just dropped off its previous passengers, took her seat in the back and gave the driver her address. Before she forgot, she made sure to take out her notebook and write down ‘Safe ‘n’ Secure, Goran Valetić’s employer’. That would be the first thing to check out when she got home. Anything else? Goran had been wearing a suit – but maybe that was unimportant. Somebody with a dress handkerchief had asked after him. Perhaps an official. She leant back.
At Republic Square hordes were milling around, tourists and people in their finery, ladies clutching evening bags, probably just leaving the theatre. A large group, possibly a class of students, was crossing the road, bringing the traffic to a standstill. The taxi driver, an elderly man, grumbled and shook his head.
‘There’s a lot going on tonight, isn’t there?’ Milena said.
‘They’re all here to see that American singer, that nattily dressed one, and act like the whole city belongs to them. And none of them take a taxi.’
The young men all wore hoodies and were around Goran’s age or younger. Why had Goran done a disappearing act, and why was he pestering his sister with phone calls?
She paid, thanked the driver and got out. She was tired but also elated, and her appetite for jelly bananas was rapidly developing into a ravenous craving. She searched her handbag.
Worse than not discovering any sweets there, she couldn’t find her house keys. Hopefully they hadn’t fallen out of her pocket when she pulled out her notebook. Surely not; most likely she’d left them at home. Whatever the case, she’d have to ring the bell and get Vera out of bed.
Her persistent ringing on the doorbell produced no results. When Vera finally went off to sleep – probably lying on her right ear, while she was almost deaf in her left – cannon fire wouldn’t wake her. And Adam was at a sleepover at his best friend’s house. It was maddening.
Milena quickly ran through her options. Should she ask Milka Bašić to put her up? Or call out a locksmith? She had a better idea.
She raised her arm. ‘Taxi!’