Before Slobodan Božović became a politician, when he was just a little boy, he owned a stick that he had found near the barn – where the path led up to the privy, to be precise, almost at the dung heap. As he roamed around the countryside, he imagined that he was using the stick to defend his big sister, the house, the barn and everything dear to him.
One day in the summer, he was sitting on watch again. His father was probably working in the fields, and his mother and sister were doing the laundry. Bees were humming over the stocks, which were in bloom, and the dog dozing under the farm cart was not stirring. Crouching down, Slobo ran from the water butt to the well, and from there to the poplars, and sneaked along the picket fence to the garden door. Runner beans and sunflowers provided cover, enabling him to reach the big meadow undetected. The grass had been mown, and clay bricks were lying around everywhere.
Slobo looked at the evenly shaped blocks and imagined them to be not just bricks produced by his father and put out into the sun to dry, but something altogether more mysterious. As if extra-terrestrials had landed in the field and these strange objects were messages from a distant galaxy.
Making contact by placing a naked foot on such an object became something of a test of courage. The smooth surface felt moist and pleasantly cool, while he found that shifting his weight forward onto one leg left an impression: the ball and heel were clearly visible and the toes less so.
He hopped from one mud brick to another, and marked every one of them. That same evening he was summoned to the barn by his father.
Slobo was made to fetch the whip down from the hook and hand it to his father, pull down his trousers and lie on his stomach over the milking stool. That was the usual procedure, but this time the blows on his back and naked backside were particularly heavy. Slobo grabbed his stick tightly, pressed his lips together and fixed his gaze on the stone floor. He heard his father wheezing, his sister screaming and his mother praying before everything went black before his eyes. For days he was lying on his stomach, and swore in his delirium never to forgive his father.
Today, Slobodan had a son himself. He loved Oliver more than life itself, and would never be violent towards him. On the contrary. Oli was given everything other boys his age could only dream of: a PlayStation, tennis lessons, fencing instruction. When Oli said he wanted a trumpet, he got a trumpet, and if he decided the next day that he’d rather play percussion, then he got a set of drums. Slobodan swore on his mother’s life that there was no desire his son expressed that he wouldn’t fulfil. And when they exercised together – their father-son time, which Slobodan called ‘quality time’ – when they wrestled each other and sweated, Oli could test his strength and he could mould his character.
For all that, however, Slobodan did not expect any gratitude, anything in return; it was all just a matter of course – he was his father, after all. Only in certain circumstances, when he issued certain orders and let his wishes be known in no uncertain terms, did he expect Oli to obey and not give him any lip. Was it too much to ask the boy to put on a tie and stand next to his father with a straight back at the reception in celebration of his fiftieth birthday?
Slobodan’s hand had slipped while they had been wrestling. Oliver had been thrown across the room, and now, with the gash on his forehead, the brat had achieved what he wanted. Slobodan had no choice but to tell him to go up to his room, to stay there and under no circumstances to let any of the guests set eyes on him.
As a precaution, and because he had no idea what the boy might get up to next in the coming hours, Slobodan had locked the door. That way, the little rascal could sit in front of the computer until late into the night and play computer games to his heart’s content, and be compensated by his mother for the pain suffered with inordinate amounts of ice cream and popcorn.
Slobodan spotted his wife outside on the terrace, explaining to the young guy from the party service company where he was supposed to place the torches among the conifers and in the herbaceous border. Božena was wearing her white cocktail dress with the rhinestones, and her curves were so perfect that he could have raised her up onto the pedestal right next to the Venus statue. Sometimes he hated the woman.
Not only because she mollycoddled the boy and used every opportunity to conspire against him. He hated her lying next to him in bed wearing her sleep mask and dental braces. He hated the satin bed linen, which made him feel cold, and the silicone implants in her breasts and bum which stopped him groping her like he had done in the past. He didn’t dare – he was afraid he’d damage something, and suspected that this suited Božena, that she was secretly paying him back for those little indiscretions he granted himself on the odd occasion, and for everything else he’d done to her. He missed his Božena from years gone by, the Božena with the rosy apple cheeks, whom he could tickle and fuck. Sometimes he missed that little vixen so much it physically hurt.
He poured himself another drink, just a finger’s depth in the glass, and put his feet up. Once upon a time, he’d had the right telephone number for every occasion, his notebook bursting at the seams, back when one call would have been enough to have ten bitches queuing up if he’d wanted. While he was wallowing in nostalgia, he reflected that he’d been indefatigable back then, constantly on the road, crossing the country and forever meeting people, especially farmers. He’d been the guy from the ministry, responsible for infrastructure projects, though the farmers probably didn’t know what that meant. He bought their land, putting more money on the table than they’d ever seen in their life. It was all done with a handshake and a signature and then came the convivial, social bit. He had a real knack back then, the right instinct.
When the people took to the streets, demonstrating against the dictator, against corrupt politicians and civil servants who were lining their pockets at every possible occasion, he had grasped immediately what was up, and handed in his resignation to the perplexed minister – despite the fact that his pet project, his baby, had only just got off the ground and was coming along quite nicely. Corridor 17, the east–west arterial route, was designed to link Southern Serbia with Kosovo and bring prosperity to the region. He realised that the people hammering the cooking pots and blowing whistles out on the streets were full of rage and beyond the reach of reasonable arguments and explanations. His colleagues from the ministry didn’t get it, and continued to feather their own nests long after he’d cleared his desk.
He shredded all his files, especially those referring to any transfers of ownership and the company he’d founded in his brother-in-law’s name. He put all his plans on ice: the property development project, the villa, the tennis court. He even got rid of the SUV he’d just purchased. Božena was at a complete loss. Overnight, he became a one-man band, a sole trader, but of the hands-on type, a self-made man. Wherever the need was greatest, he made generous donations – particularly schoolbooks and medication – and in this way got himself a lot of publicity for relatively little outlay. On these occasions – initially just small photo opportunities but later large-scale public forums – he talked about humanitarian values and global change, about economic boom and progress. What he said was credible and courageous, plus his timing was spot on and he found the right pitch. When the regime was consigned to the historical dustbin, it was almost a foregone conclusion that he would become the man to tackle the new tasks ahead.
Slobodan carefully put his glass down. His lower back hurt. He’d become an old geezer, not so nimble anymore, and seriously doubted whether, at the age of fifty, he still had the gift of reinventing himself. Which of his employees did he still know by name? Could he recall whether they were married or what their favourite food was? His chief occupation now was finding out who was likely to be a threat. Everybody wanted his ear, and everybody held out their hands for rewards. So, the bureaucrats in Brussels had increased the grants for returnees, had they? Fantastic. Another opportunity to line your pockets. But he was no fool. The job was over, Kosovo was finished, and every last drop had been squeezed out of the whole business – especially after the affair with the elderly couple. Slobodan stretched, poured himself another drink and put on his glasses.
The blueprints that Jonathan had unrolled on his desk yesterday had almost covered the entire table. They showed two ground plans, of a raised ground floor and first floor respectively. A living space of almost three hundred square metres all told, though large sections of cross-hatching indicated that barely a quarter of the building was habitable at present. It was an old pile, built in the mid-nineteenth century, facing straight onto a street, with no driveway or swimming pool, and his first reaction was ‘Thanks, Johnny, but no thanks.’
‘It’s a gem,’ Jonathan contradicted him. ‘It’s tailor-made for you.’
Slobodan studied the floor plan for what must have been the tenth time now, and it gradually began to dawn on him that the man was right. This property had potential. Central location, turn of the century, with all the frills, and on top of it all a huge garden. Slobodan could picture it laid out with boxwood hedges, stone statues and water features. He could turn this pile of rubble into a little castle, could build himself a proper residence, perfect for musical soirées and all that other intellectual tosh, round-table meetings and glamorous receptions. The building would give him an aura that would help propel him on to more exalted roles and more highprofile tasks. There was a knock at the door.
Božena stuck her head in. ‘What’s keeping you?’ she chirped. ‘Put your shoes on – hurry up. The guests are arriving.’
He emptied his glass. Jonathan wasn’t stupid. He’d try and crank up the price, no doubt. Slobodan had to impress upon him that a deal like this was also an investment in his future, a significant step on the career ladder. At least, it was if Jonathan didn’t want to forever remain Johnny with the silly bicycle and the dress handkerchief, who hung around the tennis courts in his spare time.
‘Didn’t we agree that you’d clip the hair in your nose?’ Božena was tugging at his tie and straightening the knot. ‘Your welcoming remarks are in thirty minutes; I’ll give you a signal. Don’t go on too long, try to include a joke or two and don’t forget to open the buffet.’
Slobodan pushed his thumb into the collar and tried to free his Adam’s apple. ‘Has Maček arrived?’ he asked. ‘And old Pašić?’
Božena shook her head. ‘Listen to me now. Rozena’s performance will start at ten, and the running order’s as follows: the light will be dimmed, spotlight on Rozena. No announcement, no explanation. She’ll be standing on the lower part of the staircase and will start singing “Happy Birthday”. Pure and simple. You’ll take my hand and we’ll walk up to the front together. Please keep eye contact with Rozena, but also with me. Then there’ll be applause, you’ll kiss her hand and then leave the stage to her. She’ll sing three songs from her new album, plus an encore. The DJ and the lighting technician know the score, the media have also been informed. The guests will lap it up.’
On the way to the reception, he put his arm around her waist. He was as much in love with her as he had been on the very first day they met, and Božena snuggled up to him amid the blizzard of flashing light bulbs.
Slobodan shook people’s hands and received kisses on both cheeks. The minister from the Home Office hove in view; the little mouse at his side was probably his intern. The transport secretary had sent his deputy, but he couldn’t immediately spot anybody from the ministry. The anchor of the morning magazine programme and the editor-in-chief of the free newspaper cosied up to the programme director. The nancy boy without a tie was probably the new star of that TV soap opera, and there was also the odd bit of eye candy among the ladies. It was a good mix. Božena had done a fabulous job, as per usual. Out of the corner of his eye Slobodan spotted a bobbing blonde ponytail.
Dressed in a long apron, the little bitch was balancing a tray with drinks and walking directly towards him. Slobodan embraced Božena and turned with his wife in the opposite direction, where he immediately ran into Jonathan.
‘We’ve got a problem,’ his aide whispered in a hoarse voice.
Slobodan patted him on the shoulder and made to squeeze past, still with Božena hanging on his arm, but Jonathan wouldn’t give up.
‘We’ve got to talk now,’ the man said with a calm determination that shocked Slobodan. ‘I wouldn’t insist if it weren’t important.’
‘Would you care for a glass of bubbly, sir?’ Diana curtsied mockingly.
Slobodan took a glass and hissed at Jonathan, ‘In my office.’ He felt Božena’s hand on his back and added, ‘After Rozena’s performance.’
Božena propelled him gently in the direction of the photographers. Slobodan straightened his back and looked into the camera lenses, just as he had rehearsed in front of the mirror. Even if he was being lauded today, a statesman could not afford to forget for one second: these were serious times. And enemies were lurking everywhere.