14

Milena sat down in the shade, pulled up a chair from the next table and placed her bag on it. She switched on her phone and rummaged around for her cigarettes. Once she had found the packet, she was ready for action.

No sooner had her phone located a network than Siniša was on the line, and he was yelling at her. ‘Where the hell are you? Are you all right?’

‘Calm down,’ Milena replied. ‘Just tell me, if you will, who this guy is who claims to be responsible for taking care of me.’

‘He’s found you, then?’

‘Then it’s right, what he says?’

‘About what?’

‘He says you hired him.’

‘You’ve left me no choice. If you’re intent on traipsing around Kosovo on your own then I have to engage someone to look after you.’

‘Without asking me?’

‘Enver’s a good man, you can trust him. He’s reliability personified. Where is he? Is he there?’

‘He’s getting me a lemonade.’ Milena looked over her shoulder. ‘And he literally isn’t letting me out of his sight. Not for a second.’

‘Of course not. That’s what I asked him to do.’

Milena leant back. ‘What’s the story? Are you paying him? Otherwise, how come he’s obeying your orders to the letter?’

‘He can tell you himself if he wants. I’ve got to go now. Keep me posted. And one more thing…’

‘Yes?’

‘Keep your bloody phone switched on.’

She hung up, and Enver sat on the chair opposite, pushing a glass full of liquid across to her and smiling as though he couldn’t imagine anything nicer than sitting here with her, between a kebab stand and a Portaloo, sipping lemonade in the spring sunshine. She looked at his face; his nose was a bit too big. His curly black hair was cut short and his alert brown eyes had a warm, almost gracious expression. She offered him a cigarette. He declined with thanks, but in the same moment took out a golden lighter and asked, ‘Were you making enquiries about me when you were talking to Siniša Stojković?’

Milena blew smoke into the air. ‘I’ve got two questions,’ she said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘How did you find me this quickly?’

‘Dr Stojković gave me all the gen I needed: Lada Niva, petrol blue, Belgrade number plates.’

‘And then?’

‘If you want to go from Belgrade to Talinovac you have to go via Leposavić, that’s the only feasible route. I live near Prizren, which isn’t exactly just round the corner, but today, by total coincidence, I was in Kijevo with my whole family. Sheer luck! From there to Leposavić is only a stone’s throw. So I set off, waited by the roadside for about forty minutes and voilà – you drove by, right on cue!’

Milena looked at his finely curved lips and the white incisors, which were slightly crooked.

‘And your second question?’ he asked.

‘Tell me why you were so quick to respond to Siniša’s plea for help? Haven’t you got anything better to do?’

‘When Dr Stojković asks me to do something, I try to be of assistance. It’s as simple as that.’

‘Why? Do you owe him?’

‘It’s an old story that I don’t want to talk about. I hope you understand.’

‘If you want me to trust you, you’d better tell me about it.’

‘You might get the wrong impression of me.’

‘The main thing is that I get any impression at all.’

He looked up at the sky, smiled pensively and began. ‘Many years ago – I was still wet behind the ears then – I was nicked. Breaking and entering. Booze and cigarettes. We wanted to throw a party and have a good time with the stuff. The others legged it, but I got caught and was charged. I was meant to go to prison for a couple of years.’

‘And Siniša was the presiding judge?’

‘I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d sent me down and I’d really had to do time. At that time, Albanians ended up behind bars for the pettiest of offences. I think I’d have hanged myself. In prison, a criminal record – my father wouldn’t have survived that, and I don’t even want to think of my mother.’

‘What does your father do?’

‘He was a jeweller. He died four years ago. My eldest brother took over the business, and he’s now the fourth generation of our family to run it.’

‘And what do you do?’

‘I’m an electrician. Currently unemployed.’

Milena put out her cigarette and pulled her bag onto her lap. ‘The fact that you and your family feel indebted to Siniša does you honour, but that’s no reason for you to have to spend your precious time with me. Seriously. As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to go; I promise I won’t breathe a word.’

Enver laid his hand flat on his chest and announced, ‘It’s an honour and a great pleasure for me to accompany you on your journey to Talinovac. Any friend of Dr Stojković is also a friend of mine, and ensuring you stay safe is a debt of honour for me.’

Ten minutes later, Milena was back in her Lada on the country road to Ursoševac, and next to her on the passenger seat, in his dark trousers and white shirt, sat Enver Kurti. Milena decided to take a pragmatic view of things. After all, there was an upside: Enver spoke Albanian, he knew his way around and he could maybe assist with her enquiries.

After overtaking a car, she asked, ‘Did you hear about the double murder in Talinovac?’

‘Of course I did.’ Enver replied, clinging to the handle above the passenger window.

‘And do you by any chance know anything about the state of the enquiries here?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Like I said, I’m only an electrician. But now you mention it, I have to say that I can’t remember reading or hearing anything more about the case in the past few weeks.’

Milena nodded grimly. It was obvious: if two Serbs became crime victims in Kosovo, it was used to whip up emotions in Serbia come hell or high water, with every detail giving rise to yet another conspiracy theory, while the perpetrators in Kosovo simply disappeared and shrouded themselves in silence.

‘Are you investigating the case?’ Enver asked.

Milena fiddled with the ventilation controls and opened the window a crack. ‘Just a private enquiry. I’m a forensic scientist and criminologist. To be honest, if I were to run a serious investigation I’d need time, experience and the whole apparatus, which I don’t have.’ She pulled down the visor against the low sun that was blinding her, and recounted the story of her uncle and Ljubinka Valetić and the romance between them a long time ago. She explained what she and Siniša had done in order to find the daughter, Slavujka Valetić. Enver listened attentively and Milena added that the son, Goran, had disappeared without trace, that he worked for a security firm called Safe ‘n’ Secure which – among other tasks – was responsible for guarding the State Chancellery for the Affairs of Kosovo, and that his ex-girlfriend had hinted that Goran was currently in Kosovo.

‘On personal business?’ asked Enver.

‘Allegedly.’

‘And you want to waylay him there?’

‘An amicable meeting would be preferable.’

He nodded.

‘I also want to talk to people and have a look at the house that was given to the Valetićs – of course, that depends on whether I can gain access to it. And if we could find out at the same time who the previous owner was, that’d be grand.’ Had she just said ‘we’?

Enver said nothing. Perhaps he thought her plans were unfeasible and that she was naïve. Or just plain crazy.

At length, he asked, ‘Are you hungry?’

Milena checked her watch. ‘How far is it to Talinovac?’

‘Your best bet would be to turn right over there.’

‘Here?’ She followed his instructions and turned off onto a narrow and, all of a sudden, properly tarmaced road, which snaked up a hill. Everything was clean hereabouts, no litter in sight. With the neatly pruned hedges to the left and right, it looked really pretty and green.

‘Now turn left here, please.’

The road grew even narrower and ended a few hundred metres further on, in front of a gate between pillars painted white. Several cars were parked in the paved driveway, each larger than the next. Milena looked at her passenger in surprise. ‘But this is a private driveway.’ As if operated by ghosts, the wide gate suddenly began to open.

‘This is my brother-in-law’s house,’ Enver nodded. ‘He got married to my little sister today. I suggest we get a bite to eat here, and I’ll take the opportunity to introduce you to my mother and my brothers and sisters.’

‘Hang on.’ Milena turned off the motor. ‘You’re telling me that your sister got married today, and yet you’re busy cruising around the area with me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Now just listen to me, my dear Mr Kurti –’

‘Enver.’

‘Enver,’ Milena repeated, noticing a man in a white suit coming down the driveway. ‘I’d love to meet your family, but this isn’t the right time or place. How about you go in there and celebrate and I continue on to Talinovac?’

‘Out of the question.’

‘Why?’

‘You have to eat something, come what may, so why not mix business with pleasure? I promise you –’

There was a knock on her window. The man in the white suit asked, ‘What’s up? Are you getting out or not?’

‘My brother,’ Enver gestured to the man, and said to Milena, ‘Best you park over there.’

‘This is all very embarrassing,’ Milena protested, turning the ignition key. ‘I’m sure Siniša wouldn’t have asked for your help if he’d known your sister was getting married today.’ She steered the car onto a patch of gravel. No sooner had she turned the engine off than Enver’s brother yanked open the door.

‘Ms Lukin? Welcome! How wonderful to finally meet you! The doctor’s told us so much about you.’ He shook her hand. ‘I’m Ramadan, Enver’s big brother.’

Milena decided to play along and at the same time try and keep things short and sweet.

She and Enver followed Ramadan up some steps and along a veranda into the front hall. The railings and pillars were decorated with white streamers and garlands of freesia and boxwood; the same decorations were draped over the banisters of the staircase, which led upwards to a gallery in an elegant sweep. Children were dashing about, looking like little adults in their festive attire. There was a particularly boisterous game going on behind an imposing set of glass double doors. If Milena had imagined that there was no high society in Kosovo, the scene that met her eyes here soon disabused her of this notion.

Dressed in a light linen suit, Bylent, the host and groom, greeted them and offered them champagne with such grace and charm as to make it seem that it was only their arrival which had turned this happy day into a perfect one. People were keen to discover where Milena had come from and what her plans were, but she steered clear of telling them her reason for being in Kosovo. ‘What a lovely celebration!’ she declared, casting an eye around the room. ‘And so many gorgeous people.’

The groom laid his hand on her arm. ‘You must meet Leonora. Wait here, I’ll go and get her. Please excuse me for a moment.’ He disappeared.

Enver smiled and raised his glass to her. She sipped from hers and asked, ‘What does your brother-in-law do?’

As Enver explained that Bylent was an architect – much in demand, moreover, with a professorship at the University of Priština and an office in Switzerland – Milena drank in the scene around her: people in velvet and brocade dresses, with little embroidered bolero jackets, women wearing crimson and royal blue, the elderly ladies dressed discreetly in black with artfully styled hair and decked out with family jewellery, including lavish earrings so heavy they pulled down their ear lobes. How she would have loved to be wearing such a flowing garment, studded with pearls and bright gemstones and gathered in elegantly at the ankles to form wide harem pants. Compared to their outfits, designer dresses from famous French or Italian fashion houses just looked dull. Then again, anything would have been an improvement on Milena’s faded jean jacket.

The woman who came back from the terrace with Bylent wore a cream ankle-length dress of fine lace and had a waist so tiny it was almost unreal. With her coiffed hair and tiara, the bride stood half a head taller than her groom. Her necklace, made of large gold medallions embellished with drop rubies, was probably the dowry. It seemed too heavy for her delicate neck.

Leonora’s eyes beamed with joy and welled with tears at the same time. ‘I’m so happy you came, Milena. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?’ She grasped Milena’s hand and gushed, ‘How lucky that fate brought you here today of all days! Every time dear old Siniša speaks of you… You know, you’re like a big sister to me.’ Bylent gave his bride a kiss, and Leonora sighed happily.

Milena expressed her sincere best wishes and made a mental note that, if an appropriate opportunity arose later, she would quiz the groom about the properties given to returnees to Kosovo. He was an architect, after all. Maybe he’d know who to ask.

Leonora turned on her heels and announced, ‘We’re going to cut the cake now.’ There was a ripple of applause and cries of ‘Finally! Get on with it!’

The wedding cake had five tiers. It was covered with pink marzipan, decorated with cream and chocolate and crowned with a tiny bride and groom made from sugar icing. It was the kind of cake Milena had secretly dreamt of for her own wedding. For a brief moment, she recalled Bückeburg and the simple ceremony at the registry office. Her suit had been too tight, Vera had cried, the parents-in-law had stood there stiffly and Philip’s hand had been clammy with sweat. Afterwards, there’d been a glass of sparkling wine, a simple cream gateau, coffee and another cake that was as desiccated as her father-in-law’s speech.

Bylent tenderly put his arm around Leonora, and together they cut the cake, to loud applause and merriment from their guests.

‘Your sister’s ravishing,’ Milena said. Enver smiled proudly.

‘How many brothers and sisters do you have?’

‘Ramadan is the eldest, Leonora the youngest. And in between there are four sisters and myself.’

‘That makes…’ ‘Seven of us in all.’

‘And they’re all here?’

‘Of course. Along with their families. That’s my sister Teuta over there, the second eldest after Ramadan.’

‘But your sisters don’t all live in Kosovo, do they?’

Enver shook his head. ‘They’re all married to Albanians, of course, like they should be, but their families live in Switzerland, France and the US.’

‘But you and your brother stayed here?’

‘I studied in Belgrade and after that I lived in Dortmund for many years. Then my marriage fell apart, so now I’m back here.’

Milena took the plate with a piece of cake that he handed her, thanked him and asked, ‘Do you have any children?’

‘One son.’

‘How old is he?’

‘He lives with my ex.’ Enver suddenly looked like he had bitten into plaster instead of icing sugar. ‘Come along,’ he said, putting down his plate. ‘I want to introduce you to my mother.’

Low upholstered benches lined the walls of the next room, with long tables set in front of them. Colourful oriental cushions were strewn around and woven wall hangings muffled the hubbub and the laughter.

The old lady sitting beneath the window had black hair with a silver streak in it and wore a slim glittering band across her forehead, with small gold coins dangling from it – probably seven, one coin for each child she had borne. The dress was discreetly embroidered with flowers; her décolletage was covered with the same black lace as her delicate gloves were made from. Milena shook her hand and was introduced to the young women alongside her, who were Enver’s sisters Rozafa, Afërdita and Teuta, all with elaborate hairdos, fair and almost translucent skin, long eyelashes and strong eyebrows. They studied Milena with great curiosity, offering wine and urging her to sit down. Milena was required to tell them at length about her family, Adam and Vera, her dead father and finally Philip, the ex in Germany from whom she was divorced.

‘That means you have no husband anymore?’ asked one of the sisters – probably Rozafa – incredulously.

The mother’s bangles chinked together as she patted Milena’s hand and told her, ‘My heart goes out to your mother. I can imagine her concerns. I wish you luck and hope your son will find his place in the world. I’m sure he will.’

Small bowls were served, containing hummus with a sauce of dill and pomegranate molasses; in addition there was a lentil salad with cinnamon and paprika, and couscous with oranges, sultanas and pears. Rozafa prepared a plate for Milena, taking a little bit of everything and finally sprinkling it with some chopped mint. Passing her the plate, she announced, ‘We’ll find you a widower. Uncle Ismet, for example.’

‘Too old.’ Her sisters shook their heads emphatically. ‘Not to mention too fat.’

‘Don’t listen to their nonsense,’ Enver said. ‘Dig in.’

Ramadan, the eldest brother, handed her a piece of flat-bread and asked, ‘How do you like Kosovo? Has it changed much?’

Milena chewed on her food and reflected for a moment. The hummus was delicious. After a sip of water she responded, ‘How long ago was the war?’

‘I know what you mean,’ Ramadan sighed. ‘So much is still in ruins. When I go from town to town here I ask myself, how is this possible? Such a beautiful country, but it’s like it’s been smashed into pieces, jumbled up and not put back together again.’

‘The wounds are still open and raw,’ said Enver’s mother, taking a drag on a hookah. ‘Remember your cousin. Fatmir should be here today. Instead, there’s an empty chair.’

‘He was killed at Račak,’ Enver told Milena under his breath.

‘And the wound will always be there,’ the old lady added.

Račak was a tiny village in central Kosovo that had been the site of a massacre of Albanians, allegedly carried out by Serbian forces. The situation was unclear, but Europe at the time was still traumatised by the horrors of the war in Bosnia five years earlier and determined to avoid a repeat of that conflict at all costs. Images of the dead of Račak prompted NATO to wage war against Serbia, calling it a ‘humanitarian mission’. International law was trampled underfoot, and by the time it emerged that the pictures had been fabricated by Albanian underground fighters, nobody gave a damn anymore.

Milena dabbed her mouth with the napkin. ‘I have to say, it really pains me what war has done to us, that your cousin and many others are no longer alive, that Kosovo and Serbia are two separate states and that people regard one another with suspicion. But at the same time I admire the determination and resolve of the Albanian people in fighting for their independence.’

‘Thank you,’ said Ramadan. ‘We appreciate your words. And we know we’re not the only ones in mourning.’

All of a sudden, Enver chipped in. ‘And now we have our independence. It’s right there in front of us like a big, ugly present. The irony is that nobody knows what to do with it.’ ‘People have bigger things to worry about,’ Ramadan responded sharply. ‘They have nothing to eat. There’s nothing in this country. No industry, no agriculture. All we really have is wind and sunshine.’

‘And the expectation that rich relatives abroad will somehow fix everything with their money,’ sneered Enver.

‘You’ve got to be patient,’ Milena said soothingly. ‘The state, economic relations – all that has to be built from the ground up.’

Enver nodded. ‘The only thing that’s been erected here so far is a monument to the American president. Have you seen the damned thing? A statue of Bill Clinton waving, in Priština – larger than life, in bronze, on a street called Bill Clinton Boulevard. Doesn’t that say it all?’

‘What, Enver? What does it say?’ Ramadan’s response was so fierce that Milena was shocked. ‘That we’re grateful to the Americans that they were the first to recognise our state? Yes, we are!’

‘Recognising Kosovo was a huge mistake,’ replied Enver. ‘Don’t you think so?’ he said, addressing Milena. ‘Feel free to speak your mind.’

‘That’s a tricky one.’ Milena measured her words carefully. ‘Now there are two Albanian states: big Albania and little Kosovo. And therein lies the danger. Why? Because we have to assume that sooner or later Kosovo will unite with its big brother, Albania.’

‘Would that be so dreadful?’ asked Rozafa.

‘The problem,’ Milena continued, ‘is the Albanian minorities in Greece and Macedonia. What happens if they also try and join with Albania?’

‘Then there’ll be war.’

‘Please, Enver,’ Ramadan groaned.

‘Let’s change the subject,’ implored Milena.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rozafa piped up, blushing as everybody looked at her, ‘but in all honesty I’m glad things turned out this way.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I mean, independence and the fact that the Serbs are no longer bossing everyone around here anymore.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Let her say her piece, Enver.’

‘No, not when we have a Serbian guest!’

‘Stop it!’ Leonora took off her shoes and sat down between her brothers. ‘Not another word about politics. You’re supposed to eat, drink and be merry.’

Saffron rice with cardamom and barberries was served on copper plates, and with it small bowls of chicken, sultanas and almonds. Afërdita gazed admiringly at Milena’s hair. ‘What a beautiful sheen it has; how do you do it? Is there a trick?’

‘I really don’t know,’ Milena mumbled. She felt bad. She shouldn’t have turned the conversation to the subject of the war. She was at a wedding among friends, not at a panel debate. But everything was connected: the dead of Račak, the NATO mission, independence for Kosovo and even ultimately the deaths of Miloš and Ljubinka Valetić. Their murders were a belated consequence of the war – of that Milena was certain.

They ate with their hands; white napkins were passed around along with little bowls of water containing slices of lemon and sprigs of fresh mint.

Rozafa poured tea and said, ‘Don’t take this personally now, Milena. You’re our friend. But last night in Priština you won’t believe what was going on: all the bars, clubs and restaurants, different languages, an international clientele – there was more happening than in Zurich, I swear! And I thought, in the past we Albanians weren’t even allowed to go to the movies, discos were forbidden, there were no parties, the cafés were strictly segregated into Albanian and Serbian venues. That was so horrible and idiotic!’

They raised a toast to the future and to friendship, and the ladies’ bangles clinked against their glasses. The dishes set on low tables, the heady aroma of spices, the music permeating from the next room – sentimental songs about love and faithfulness, about separation and death – it was all so familiar to Milena. Over centuries, the Balkan cultures had grown together, had complemented and enriched each other, and now politicians and nationalists were doing their damnedest to sow division. This narrow-mindedness and divisiveness, these constant efforts to label things ‘good’ or ‘evil’, only generated fear and invariably led to the shrinking of horizons.

When Milena stepped outside onto the terrace and lit a cigarette, she felt the sun’s warmth on her face. She closed her eyes. She’d expected to have long since been in Talinovac. Her son, Adam, was so far away, in another country. She wanted to have him by her side, so he could see for himself all the beauty and warmth and ease with which Eastern customs and Western traditions mingled here. She sensed that someone had appeared beside her.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Enver.

‘What a wonderful party,’ Milena smiled. ‘Your sisters are enchanting, and your mother – she has an aura.’

Silently they watched the kids and men down in the garden playing cricket, for all the world like they were in the English countryside.

‘Kosovo was always cosmopolitan,’ Enver said. ‘We were part of Yugoslavia, we belonged to the non-aligned movement, the world was our oyster. The Albanians over there in Albania were isolated behind the Iron Curtain. They’re alien to us.’

‘There’s no Yugoslavia anymore.’ Milena stubbed out her cigarette on the wall. ‘We gambled it away, we took our eye off the ball, and now it’s gone. We have to look to the future now.’

The girls who had assembled barefoot on the lawn screamed as the bride’s bouquet flew through the air, and they broke out in loud jubilation when somebody caught it.

‘When you were arrested back then,’ Milena said, ‘during the break-in you were telling me about – how did Siniša manage to get you off ?’

Enver smirked. ‘I didn’t have a birth certificate, no one had bothered recording the date – that wasn’t unusual for Kosovo back then. So they rustled one up for me pronto, and shaved a few years off in the process. All of a sudden I hadn’t turned sixteen, so I was a minor. And that’s why I’m only thirty-nine now.’

‘And how old are you really?’

‘Forty-one. At least.’

Milena laughed. ‘That’s handy!’

‘You said it.’

Their faces were suddenly very close. Milena could see his finely shaped lips, his tanned skin and the green flecks in his eyes.

She quickly turned away. ‘We’ve got to go,’ she said.

‘Of course.’ Enver looked down at the toes of his shoes. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘No time to lose.’ Milena buttoned up her jacket. ‘Otherwise, I’m afraid we’ll get there in the dark.’