The women were parading around town again in their short skirts, posing in front of large shop windows and sitting at street cafés with their legs crossed. Slobodan Božović ogled their shapely behinds as they strutted along the pavement in the afternoon sun, and their beautiful calves, the best he’d ever seen, yet none of this could raise his spirits. He was sitting on the back seat of his official car, and through the tinted windows the world looked doubly bleak. He wondered what the correct response to this disaster might be. Sack the press secretary, maybe? He had a headache.
‘Minister,’ his driver piped up. ‘It’d be quicker if we took King Alexander Boulevard.’
Slobodan loosened the knot of his tie. This guy was beginning to get on his nerves. ‘Take the route I told you to.’
He wouldn’t go so far as to say his career had suffered a body blow. He’d grown accustomed to being way down in any ranking or poll of the best-known or most popular politicians. It was his price to pay for choosing to stay in the background and quietly ensure that the funds in his meagre budget were fairly distributed and used on projects delivered with competent partner organisations. He preferred not to make a big song and dance of it. But in light of the two dead in Talinovac, he’d had no choice. Suddenly he was a wanted man. So he’d chosen to confront the issue head-on, had done the rounds of all the talk shows, been a guest of the Press Club, deplored the outbreak of violence and demanded more security for his Serbian brothers and sisters in Kosovo. And the upshot: he didn’t feature in the latest polls at all!
‘Minister? Sir?’ The driver was trying to make eye contact in his rear-view mirror. ‘Zeleni Venac is chock-a-block at this time of day. Instead, if we go down –’
‘Leave me alone. I need to think.’
Jonathan Spajić, his good friend and advisor, had hit the nail on the head: ‘Slobodan Božović,’ he’d told him, ‘you have a communication problem.’ The name ‘Božović’ was now a byword for bad news, death, war and displacement, eclipsing his achievements. If he wanted to look good, like a politician people could trust and who was far-sighted and took the right decisions, then he needed some good news right now, and above all some upbeat pictures, for example showing him with cute children. He had to conjure up those kinds of photos without delay. The idea of a pupils’ exchange and the slogan Little Schoolkids – Big Heart was a stroke of genius. Jonathan was easy to mock, with his leather gloves and his silver racing bike, but in this case he’d really delivered the goods.
‘We’re here, Minister.’
‘Go round the block one more time.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Just do as you’re told!’
There were elections in two years’ time. He had twentyfour months to be considered for another post. He definitely didn’t want to go down in history as the person who’d switched off the lights in the State Chancellery. Maybe he should hire Jonathan as his official advisor. In some respects the guy was a twerp, but he brought a certain sophistication to his staff. Slobodan put his hand on the back of the driver’s seat and said, ‘I’ll get out at the next lights.’
‘You mean…’
‘Exactly.’
‘Should I wait?’ the driver asked.
‘No,’ Slobodan growled. ‘I’ll let you know where to pick me up and when.’
He followed the stream of passers-by with a spring in his step, broad shoulders, an open jacket and the feeling that he could have any one of these women with their fringe haircuts, red lips and painted nails. But he had grown wary. He avoided looking at people, as he didn’t want to provoke awkward glances. Even though he’d never admit it, last Sunday’s incident had frightened him. The fact that the guy had got past the security guards on his property without any problem, had walked right up to his bedside, so to speak, had been a shock. That the man was actually employed by the security firm was a scandal in itself, which he preferred not to make public. He had a gut feeling. The security firm had apologised to him, the nutter had been removed from his premises and the security detail around his house had been strengthened. The whole affair had cost him a whisky and the projector, which the guy had pushed off the shelf and smashed in the process of legging it.
Slobodan had no knowledge of any bounty money or reward paid to those who’d been willing to return and the people who made the arrangements. That had also been one of Jonathan’s bright ideas, but whether it had been such a smart one he was now beginning to doubt. Anyhow, in this case the money had been returned, the crazy guy had flung it down on the table in front of him; as it happened, it had just covered the cost of the broken projector. If you looked at the whole affair from that perspective, Slobodan had emerged without losing a penny. And he was content to leave it at that. He meant to take the matter seriously but not make too big a deal of it; that was his way. But he had instructed Jonathan to be a bit more careful with his budget and more circumspect about recruiting people in the future.
He kept right, then turned and walked through a passageway and climbed the steps up to Vasa Street. In times gone by, he’d have had a beer in the bar across the street, just in order to listen in on what people were saying, but those days were over. He crossed the street and hailed a taxi.
‘The zoo, please.’
This doubling back was just to be on the safe side – to check who was following him, if anybody. When he reached St Stephen’s Street, he asked the driver to stop again, and paid. He crossed the road again, went around the corner and disappeared into the first entrance. He passed through the first courtyard at a leisurely pace, past the bicycle stand and the bins, and entered the building opposite through the back door. The staircase was dark, the air cool. His steps and the creaking of the floorboards were the only sounds. On the second floor, he knocked and waited. He’d told her a hundred times not to make him wait out here for so long. Finally, the key turned in the lock and the door opened.
The scanty knickers and baggy T-shirt she was wearing and the delicate curvature of her shoulders were enough to placate him. Like some kind of chemical reaction, something exploded in his brain. Thank goodness he didn’t have to waste any words. He could just get straight down to business without more ado. The girl was so wonderfully uncomplicated, so undemanding, and the sex with her was fantastic. For a few minutes, Slobodan forgot all about his office, his dignity and his headache, and this state of oblivion was the best thing about it. He wanted it to last forever, or at least for a good long time – alas, nature willed it differently, and who was he to resist nature?
Still panting, he rolled onto his side and tried to catch his breath when he heard the sound of running water in the bathroom; the little minx had already got out of bed. That was fine by him. He didn’t like it when women clung to him for affection after sex. He listened with satisfaction to the sound of her clattering about and whistling a tune. He could have lain like this forever listening to her and waiting for her to bring him a cup of coffee. He propped himself up on a pillow.
Beneath the window stood a makeshift table with a candlestick on it; a feather boa hung limply over the back of the chair. Hadn’t she mentioned once that she trod the boards? And wasn’t it strange how history kept repeating itself: Božena had done just the same once upon a time. He leant over and reached for his trousers.
One day he’d stop smoking. He’d get his teeth fixed too, like Jonathan had. And he intended to find himself a new English teacher. He rummaged through his pockets – nothing.
‘Diana!’ he called out.
Wrapped only in a bath towel, with her hair bound in a ponytail, she skipped in and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. ‘Just a quick question while we’re about it,’ she chirped. Saying this, she pulled her legs up to her chest and propped her chin on her knees; her little blonde ponytail stopped bobbing for a moment. ‘Did you manage to have a word with him?’
He looked at the swellings of her firm breasts above the edge of the towel and asked absent-mindedly, ‘Have a word with who?’
‘Your friend, the director.’
He had no idea what she was on about. ‘Of course,’ he replied without thinking. ‘It’s looking promising.’ He couldn’t remember what he’d told her before. He made to grab hold of her, but she eluded his grasp.
‘You’ve completely forgotten about it, haven’t you?’ She stood up. The angry flush of her cheeks was enchanting. ‘You don’t take me seriously.’
‘Sweetie,’ he sighed. ‘The reception isn’t until next week.’
‘What reception?’
‘My birthday party. Everyone will be there and I’ll talk to them all, including my director friend.’
‘Promise?’
He was saved by the whistle of the kettle. ‘Yeah, I promise,’ he muttered. Where the hell were his cigarettes?
The bedside table was covered with books and on top was a saucer, which he had clearly used as an ashtray before. He pulled open the drawer. All it contained were some condoms and a picture frame, face down.
He knew hardly anything about the little slut and wanted to keep it that way. Still, he couldn’t help himself. Just a peek to see who or what she was hiding. He picked up the frame and turned it over.
The shifty look on the face of the man, who’d been photographed sitting at a table with his legs akimbo, hit him with a force he hadn’t expected. Once again he found himself staring into that oddly beaten-up mug, once more this guy was pursuing him all the way to his bedside. He wanted to hurl the picture against the wall, but he seemed to be paralysed. That pendant on the chain around the guy’s neck, were those football boots?
‘Are you looking through my things?’ Diana was standing in the doorway with a tray.
‘What’s your connection to this man?’ he asked softly.
‘That’s none of your business.’ She plonked the tray down so abruptly that coffee spilt over the edges of the cups. She snatched the framed picture from his hand and threw it back into the drawer. Enraged, she slammed the drawer shut.
‘And you think that puts an end to it, do you?’ He grabbed her arm. ‘I’m warning you. Don’t mess with me.’
‘Are you jealous?’
He had never heard her laugh in such an idiotic way. He grasped her arm even tighter. This matchstick of a bone – one twist and he could break it. He was inclined to do just that. ‘I want to know what the hell’s going on here!’ he shouted.
‘You’re hurting me. This is stupid. It was over a long time ago.’
‘What was over?’
‘We split up. I split up with him. Satisfied?’
He let go of her. He sensed her fear, he could smell it – and he found the smell disgusting, as it always went hand in hand with betrayal. He turned aside and without another word put on his trousers and buttoned up his shirt.
‘You’re leaving already? What’s wrong?’ She clung on to him, slipping her hand through the buttons. ‘Don’t be like that. I didn’t mean it. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’ She looked up at him and pouted.
He closed his eyes as her little fingers began to wander up his inner thigh. He could feel the blood coursing in his veins.
With one move, he shook her off. He wasn’t sure what was going on here or what role she played in the whole story, but he wasn’t an idiot. And Jonathan always claimed he had everything under control. Master of the universe. Ridiculous!
Slobodan was already halfway down the stairs when a thought struck him: was this all Jonathan’s doing? For far too long now, the guy had been acting smug. Maybe trusting him had been his first mistake.
He heard Diana call after him, ‘What about the reception? Can I come as well? I could do some waitressing!’
He noticed damp on the walls, splinters in the wooden floor and a broken window. This moment, when an affair came to an end, was always unpleasant. He didn’t feel sad, just a bit nostalgic; even so, he didn’t look back. Somewhere out there the next one was waiting for her chance, and she’d get it. She, too, would have her own particular attractions. But still – he’d almost grown accustomed to this staircase.
Pity about the time and money he’d invested in this fling. Pity that the sex had been so good. Pity that he’d been so fond of the little slut.