Siniša drove along King Alexander Boulevard with one hand on the steering wheel, and said, ‘I hope you haven’t promised this Marco Begolli too much. Even I can’t work miracles.’
Milena did not answer. The papers from the envelope Marco had given her lay on her lap: newspaper clippings, texts and correspondence, partly held together with paperclips, and all neatly filed in see-through folders – just as Slavujka had predicted.
Siniša shot her a sideways glance. ‘Café Little Prince?’
‘No, the office. We’ll have some peace and quiet there.’ Milena shook some letters out of the folder and read: Application for a reconstruction grant. She leafed through it. Submission to the office of the Commissioner of the UN Interim Administration. The following page read: To the Ministry for Labour and Social Welfare, Priština, Republic of Kosovo… She muttered to herself, ‘Goodness me.’
‘What did you expect?’ Siniša indicated, changing lanes. ‘Malcontents like Miloš Valetić are used to running up against brick walls.’
‘Just listen to this,’ said Milena. ‘A small sample: Dear Mr Valetić, regarding your case we hereby inform you that the Government of the Republic of Kosovo is neither empowered nor entitled to implement its own programmes for Serbian returnees –’
‘Of course they aren’t.’ Siniša glanced at the rear-view mirror. ‘That’s the wonderful thing about Kosovo: when push comes to shove, national politicians can always hide behind some decree or another issued by international organisations. KFOR, UNMIK, OSCE or whatever the hell they’re all called – you can always find a broad back to hide behind.’
‘– and politely points out,’ Milena went on, ‘that we can only assist the local authorities with advice and in a coordinating capacity.’
‘And you know what the biggest problem is in Kosovo? That everybody’s out for themselves. Be they minister or mayor – everybody looks after the interests of their own clan first. The international organisations have long since colluded in this old boys’ network. Sooner or later, almost every bureaucrat succumbs to the temptation to do a little private work on the side in Kosovo. Or take pay-offs for turning a blind eye – it’s a nice little earner on top of a salary that colleagues back home can only dream of. But of course, no one breathes a word about all this in public.’
‘For any further information/enquiries please contact the local authority representative in Ferizaj, at the Town Hall, on the Old Market.’
‘And don’t forget,’ Siniša said, indicating again, ‘the NGOs with their thousands of employees. They get on everybody’s nerves with their human rights demands and their concern for the environment; in reality, all their presence achieves is to drive the rents for offices and housing sky-high.’
Milena studied a pamphlet that was attached to the letter from the local authority with a paperclip. The image looked familiar: two youngsters in light blue shirts with epaulettes and dark ties smiling at the camera. The caption, in large letters, read: ‘Your security is our business.’
‘Isn’t that the company that employed Goran Valetić?’ asked Siniša.
The same folder contained another brochure. Resplendent on the front was a peony, with a beautiful landscape as its backdrop. ‘Returning home – some important tips and advice.’
‘I think,’ Siniša pointed at Milena’s feet, ‘you’ve dropped something down there.’
Milena fished for a narrow envelope by her feet that was neither franked nor sealed. It contained two letters densely covered in blue ink. Although the handwriting was a bit wobbly, the determination of the person behind it was easy to sense.