Kosovo, after the turn of the millenium. Yugoslavia had fragmented. Independent states were rising from the wreckage.
The UN Refugee Agency was delivering me to the Serbian Orthodox Patriarchate in Peé.
I was twelve.
At the time, Kosovo was being ruled by the UN. Demographically it still comprised a large Albanian majority with significant Serbian, Roma, Bosnian, Montenegrin, Macedonian and Turkish minorities. The predominant religion was Islam - a conversion dating back to Ottoman rule from the fifteenth to the twentieth centuries.
The Refugee Agency had arranged to return some orphaned and displaced children to relatives who had found refuge in various European countries. The Patriarchate agreed to serve as the reception centre for the reunions.
An elderly seamstress of mixed Albanian and Roma blood, Vlora Yusufi, who was now living in Slovenia with her second husband, a civil servant, claimed that I was the son of her son from her first marriage. She would come to Peé to collect me.
I wasn’t the Agency’s only ward. There were other teenage boys and girls.
One Albanian boy, Xherdan Kukeli, who had lost both his legs to a bomb in Mitrovìca, was from my orphanage, placed there by the Red Cross. A cousin who had settled in Germany before the troubles would be coming to pick him up. As Xherdan, a few years older than me, was an amputee who barely participated in outdoor activities, our paths had not crossed often. On this trip we became close friends.
Under the custody of Giacomo Manonne, a jolly, lanky, polyglot Swiss-Italian official blessed with the magnetism of a Pied Piper, we assembled in Bari, Italy, took the ferry across the Adriatic to Bar, Montenegro – then still part of the Federal Republic of Serbia – and there transferred to a coach for Kosovo. The journey invigorated me. For the first time in my life, I felt free. No peers mocking my red hair or bullying me to join their gangs. No tedious rules. No wardens to slap me if they deemed my behaviour unsatisfactory or when I sat hunched up or gobbled my food. No Punishment Number 2 that launched punches and kicks for waking up with an erection. (As I hadn’t yet reached puberty and didn’t soil my sheets with seminal emissions, I was spared Punishment Number 1 of cold baths, dunce caps and days without meals.) Above all, no dreaded Zero Tolerance for wetting the bed. That incurred a bastinado.
But I was also apprehensive. Institutionalised, I didn’t have a compass for the outside world. How would I fare in a new life with my unknown grandmother?
As we crossed into Kosovo, the weather broke. The twisting road to Peé through the Rugova Mountains greeted us with a torrential downpour.
Giacomo, whose custodianship included driving the coach, proved to be a good tenor and defied the elements with his favourite arias. Excited by the hazardous weather, we cheered every time he negotiated sharp bends, muddy patches, loose rocks and branches torn by the storm.
Then, in Rugova Gorge, disaster struck. A sudden landslide hit the coach and pushed it to the edge of the road. Only Giacomo’s skilful driving prevented us from nosediving into a precipice. We had survived but we were not safe; the rear of the coach stood suspended over the bluff.
Giacomo appeared unperturbed. ‘Okay. We have a problem but no problem. We’ll be okay providing we keep the front heavy. Grab your coats, water bottles, snacks and come forward. Slowly!’
Fearfully we did as he urged.
‘We’ll get out one by one. I’ll get some rocks for ballast. Stay calm!’
He alighted gingerly. Impervious to the storm, he lined up some boulders by the coach’s door. ‘First out, the handicapped!’
We started to disembark. To compensate the weight loss, Giacomo put a boulder inside the coach. His strength amazed us.
When we were all out, he whooped.
We whooped back, relieved.
Giacomo consulted his map. ‘We’re quite far from Peé. We can’t carry the disabled – so walking’s not an option. We’ll wait for someone to come along. It could be a long wait. There might be more landslides. So, find somewhere sheltered. Avoid trees! They attract lightning.’
Xherdan interrupted him. ‘You can go to Peé, sir, to get help. We’ll be all right waiting.’
‘And abandon you? What do you think I am?
‘The Great Stork, sir – delivering children.’
Giacomo rebuked him affectionately. ‘Cheeky toad!’
‘But a stork that can save the kids by going for help, sir.’
‘Shut up!’
That’s when I volunteered. ‘I could go, sir! I can run to Peé.’
‘Don’t you go nutty, too, boy!’
‘I’m a good runner, sir. Gym teacher says I can race Zephyrs. I’ve got fugue syndrome.’
‘What?’
‘Fugue syndrome, sir. The compulsion to escape. From the past. Or the present. Something like that.’
‘Your Gym teacher says that?’
‘The psychiatrist, sir.’
Giacomo scrutinised me. ‘You’re seeing a psychiatrist?’
‘I saw him in the orphanage.’
‘What’s the treatment?’
‘There’s no treatment, sir. It’s for life. Running, swimming, any sport – they help.’
‘How often do you see this psychiatrist?’
‘I saw him once, sir. Since I have this for life, he didn’t think I needed to see him again.’
Giacomo shook his head in disbelief.
‘Anyway, sir, I’m a good runner.’
Xherdan interceded. ‘He is a great runner, sir. I give you my word. He’s always running. Even on the ferry – you might have seen him.’
‘I caught a glimpse.’
That heartened me. ‘I’ll go straightaway, sir.’
‘Like hell you will!’
I surprised myself with my boldness. ‘You can’t stop me.’
‘I certainly can. I’m a good runner, too. A Boreas who catches Zephyrs.’
‘You wouldn’t abandon your wards, sir.’
Giacomo growled. ‘Another cheeky toad!’
Xherdan urged him. ‘Let him go, sir. For our sakes. We could be here for days. Cold, hungry, hypothermic …’
I insisted. ‘Trust me, sir.’
My appeal touched him. He faced me. ‘I trust you, lad. But it’s not right.’
‘I won’t let you down, sir. I’ll be careful.’
Giacomo gave in. ‘I have your word?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Keeping out of the rain under the coach’s door, he scribbled a note in both Albanian and Serbo-Croat. ‘Find a garage with a tow-truck. Hand them this note. With luck, we’ll save the coach too.’
I pocketed the note and started running.
I ran for about three hours. With the rain still pouring, the wind at full blast and the road spattered with mudslides, it was hard going.
But I felt elated. I was helping the helpless. I was shedding the old skin from my senses, dumping the detritus that had immobilised me. Looking back, I think that was when I began to fantasise that I could have a place in life like most people.
Not far from Peé I came upon a homestead.
Its elderly farmer, Sadiku Mehmedi, intercepted me with typical Albanian benevolence.
I showed him Giacomo’s note.
He read it and immediately summoned his wife, Fetije. Knowing a few foreign words, she improved on our sign language and soon understood the severity of my group’s plight.
Assuring me that normally he would take me to Peé himself, Sadiku insisted that these days the trip would be extremely dangerous. Serbian xenophobia had flared up again and despite KFOR’s vigilance, some clashes had occurred in the vicinity. Therefore, he declared with a grin, it would be an honour for him and his wife to help. They had a tractor, old like him but strong enough.
Hastily we took the road back to the Gorge. We got there late in the afternoon. Giacomo, commending my efforts with a hearty hug, immediately attended to the coach with Sadiku.
While they tied a towrope onto it, Fetije – definitely a Pachamama – fortified us with the cakes and yogurt she had brought along.
Sadiku’s tractor, despite its age, was sturdy, wellmaintained and endowed with gutsy horsepower. Guided by Giacomo, he skilfully pulled the coach away from the precipice.
To our cheers, the two celebrated with long swigs of Sadiku’s home-made rakiya – a permanent item in his tractor.
Then, cautioned again that travelling to Peé during the present troubles would be dangerous, Giacomo accepted Sadiku’s generous offer that we should spend the night at his farm.
He would contact KFOR in the morning and urge them to give us safe passage to Peé.
As Sadiku put it, the evening ‘embroidered a bajram’, a holy day.
Somehow Fetije laid on a banquet. Xherdan, spellbound by her, pirouetted on his crutches as her sous-chef.
Fetije let it slip that, in his youth, Sadiku had been a champion arm-wrestler. This led Sadiku to invite Giacomo for a contest. Giacomo accepted the challenge as etiquette demanded. But when he let Sadiku win, the old farmer admonished him. Declaring that arm wrestling celebrates equality – not prowess – because by giving their all the contestants prove they are of the same mettle, he challenged Giacomo again.
When on that occasion Giacomo won, Sadiku embraced him. ‘You have the Tengrist spirit, my friend. Will you accept to be my blood-brother?’
Humbly, Giacomo kissed Sadiku’s hand. ‘I would be honoured.’
They solemnised their blood-brotherhood by consuming a big pitcher of rakiya. As they drank, Sadiku told us about Tengrism, a pre-Islamic religion from Turkic Central Asia that spread as far as Hungary. Xherdan translated for us.
Tengrism, explained the farmer, protects those who worship the spirits of sky and earth for begetting life and beneficence. Tengrist worshippers settle wherever plants can be grown, and animals can be fed, and Tengrism conveys to them spiritually the Earth’s secrets. In this way, people learn about Nature’s nature. When the environment changes, as it often does, they detect the effects of the shift and unravel truths that they hadn’t known before.
Later, as if by magic, Fetije spread out rugs, cushions, blankets and quilts for everybody and we went to sleep.
Then in the middle of the night – for me the best night I had had in all my twelve years – Sadiku, Fetije and Giacomo woke us.
Some houses on the outskirts of Peé were on fire. We could see the smoke in the distance and hear echoes of gunfire and mortars. Taking advantage of KFOR’s deployment in Peé, Serb gangs were attacking outlying homesteads.
Sadiku was categorical: we could not go to Peé now; nor could we stay in his homestead as it, too, might be targeted. We had to leave immediately and drive back to Montenegro.
Giacomo urged Sadiku. ‘You must come with us. You are in danger here.’
Sadiku held Fetije’s hand and shook his head. ‘We are rooted here. Generations of our families lived here. We stay.’
Giacomo insisted. ‘You can come back.’
‘Don’t waste time. I have two spare cans of petrol. You might need them. Now go. Please!’
Giacomo, deeply saddened, beckoned us.
We started collecting our things.
Xherdan hobbled over to Sadiku and Fetije. ‘I’m staying!’
Giacomo, taken aback, turned to him. ‘What?’
‘This is home for me.’
‘You have a cousin – you’ll have a home with him!’
‘Sadiku and Fetije have become my home. It’s as if Allah suddenly gifted me parents. My cousin will understand.’
‘You’re my charge!’
‘I’m sixteen. An adult. Free to decide for myself.’
Giacomo pleaded with Sadiku. ‘Sadiku, please tell him.’
Fetije started crying.
Sadiku was tearful, too. ‘Look at his eyes, Giacomo. They reflect Allah’s will. How can we ignore that?’
Xherdan hugged Giacomo. ‘Thank you for being you. For all you did for us. For all you still will do for my friends. Tell the Agency I found my home.’
Sadiku had the final say. ‘I give you my word of honour, my brother. Xherdan will be our son as long as we live. Even should he decide to join his cousin.’
Giacomo, much moved, ushered us out.
And we left, tearful and heavyhearted.
KFOR intercepted us on the road and we did get to Peé.
Giacomo’s wards were reunited with their relatives.
But not me. The Agency informed me that my grandmother, overcome by the excitement of meeting me, had died of a heart attack as she was about to leave for Peé.
I was sent back to my orphanage.
Two weeks later, I received a message from Giacomo informing me that Sadiku’s homestead was attacked before KFOR could get there and that Sadiku, Fetije and Xherdan had been killed.
I never stopped thinking of Xherdan hopping around on crutches, never stopped grieving for him.
I should mention: it was when we left Sadiku’s farm that Hidebehind appeared for the first time.
I should also mention: in the Rugova Gorge we saw many birds of prey; one in particular, an osprey, seemed to follow us all the time. Years later, when I spoke to Hrant about Xherdan, he confessed that he was the osprey and that the trip to Peé was one of the occasions when he was assessing me.
I’ve been weeping.
Aurora disengages. ‘That was good.’
‘I’m drained.’
She rose from the bed and redressed. ‘Perfect!’
‘That’s it?’
‘The third birth. Yes.’
I get up, too, and put on my clothes. ‘What about the fourth?’
‘You know already that was when you met Belkis.’
‘Shouldn’t there be one when my son was born?’
‘That was your fifth.’
‘Is there a sixth?’
‘You’ve had that, too.’
‘When? Yesterday? When they gunned down Belkis?’
‘She strokes my cheek. ‘Yes.’
‘The seventh … My death?’
She holds my hand and leads me out of her room. ‘Death is a lie.’
‘That’s what Leviathans say.’
‘They’re right.’
We reach the front door. ‘When I go, will I find Belkis?’
‘Navigate your Moses basket bravely.’
She kisses my brow. ‘Time you left.’
‘I … I haven’t paid.’
Gently she opens the door. ‘Moni’s people don’t pay. Farewell.’