June 15, 1999
In Dača’s kafana, time had stopped somewhere in the seventies: plaid tablecloths, glassware with a little line marking volume, a menu limited to barbeque and the daily course of cooked meals. And guests who asked for kilo-kilo — a liter of white wine and a liter of sparkling water.
“Bread, circuses, and cigarettes,” said Goran, taking a carton of Winstons from his bag, making a face as the exhaust fumes from the number 26 bus, passing down the street, prevailed for a moment over the scent of linden in the air of the kafana’s terrace. “That’s how the saying should go.”
“If only they’d had cigarettes in ancient Rome,” said Neda. “Thank you. You know I—”
Goran made a gesture to stop her. Knowing that she was completely broke, he didn’t expect money for the cigarettes. They had known each other for quite some time and he helped her when he could. It was all part of their friendship, which endured despite their differences in life philosophy. Goran was practical. He always knew what he wanted from life and would find a way to get it. Neda was a seeker. The only thing she knew for sure was what she didn’t want, or that what she wanted was rather more complex than the university-marriage-children recipe. Although in her late thirties and despite all her problems, she still hoped to tumble into the right path eventually, one that her “own blood whispers to her,” as her favorite writer put it.
“Now buy me a drink and I’ll forget about the fact that you brought me here to exploit my feminine charms,” she said, lighting a cigarette and inhaling with unconcealed pleasure.
“Who else if not you?” said Goran, smirking. “You are the only Swede I know, and I have no better ideas, even if this one’s kinda wicked. Besides, you have better chances than me. I could only hope to worm my way in.”
Neda smiled, thinking of the nickname “Swede” someone had given her a long time ago, on account of her being a natural blonde. In her experience, most men reacted to strong statements, so in addition to her main allure — her long blond hair — tonight she wore a short red dress, an Olé! for the rich bull.
“So where is this friend of yours?” she asked.
“An acquaintance of an acquaintance,” Goran quickly corrected her, slightly offended.
Said “acquaintance of an acquaintance” was their last hope at finding a job. The weekly newspaper Goran used to work for had been forcefully shut down by the regime and now he generated his income by selling smuggled gasoline and cigarettes on the black market. But those days were quickly coming to an end, partly because of the bombings, partly because a monopoly on smuggling seemed to be changing hands.
“Whatever, as long as he’ll pay for a round.”
“I think he’s coming,” said Goran, looking over the terrace’s metal fence at the silver BMW pulling into a parking spot. “Charm him from the start and we could get ourselves a nice dinner. For him, it’d be pocket change.”
“How did he get his money?” Neda inquired, taking a long look at the corpulent man in black jeans and a red polo shirt approaching their table.
“These days you don’t ask questions like that,” whispered Goran.
“A criminal?”
“Quiet. It’s all relative, isn’t it? As long as he doesn’t ask me to smuggle drugs or people or be a professional assassin, it’s okay with me.”
Neda shook hands with Viktor Marković. He was in his early forties, bearing the wide-set, dark eyes of a shark. Eyes that didn’t reflect his thin-lipped smile, yet in a second had likely rated her and categorized her somewhere in his mind. He could be called handsome — or at least interesting, with that air of self-confidence and his velvet baritone. Yet, something about his face looked wrong, as if someone had disassembled it and then reassembled it, but made some sort of a mistake along the way. She couldn’t describe the fault, but it was definitely there. A fault that made Neda want to avert her eyes.
August 30, 1999
I understand that in a way, I betrayed myself. I guess it was the result of weariness. Fatigue and struggle without rewards quickly exhaust one’s mind. But my situation needed a solution, and it came down to an attempt to balance my needs and the price I’d have to pay.
In all honesty, it’s not like you’d have had to bend my arm for me to sleep with him. He’s one of those men who radiate power like body odor and, as much as it confuses me, his power pleases me in some primal way. I let the woman in me out — nota bene: a rather lonely woman — and let him take the lead. I let myself enjoy it: being just a woman, “the weaker sex.”
Speaking practically: besides giving me a job and a more-than-decent salary, through his connections he acquired the medicine my father needed, making my parents’ lives easier. Instead of taking from them, I’m finally able to help them. God, how good it is not to feel guilty anymore.
Yes, I am perfectly aware that he is not somebody I can talk to about the universe and freedom. But isn’t that something people like me contemplate in solitude anyway?
No, I’m not lost, I am still me. This arrangement is a temporary solution, just one little bump obstructing the right path of my life.
September 30, 1999
At Vimark Consulting, where she officially worked as one of the secretaries — though it was clear that her more significant role was serving as a hostess at the business lunches and dinners Marković often organized — Neda got wind of the existence of his children. But she never asked him, not about children nor his marital status; not even during their intimate meetings in the small private hotel owned by one of his friends.
Actually, the answer wasn’t important: what was happening between them was not a relationship but a trade, a transaction in which, for the first time in her life, she used her looks and her body as currency.
Marković was a skilled but uninspired lover and it suited Neda. At first, she had expected something different. She often had a feeling that “different” was there — some small move, the way he grasped her, the expression in his eyes would almost reveal… what? Neda couldn’t finish the thought, or maybe she was afraid to do so. Making her curious and excited at the beginning, “different” was starting to scare her.
Then things happened and she didn’t know what to do.
“I have a problem which I have to solve fast if…” said Marković, standing naked by the window of the hotel room with a glass of cognac in his hand. He was relaxed in his nudity, as a man who knew very well that power is a substitute for most flaws. “Actually, that part is none of your business. What’s important is that our friend from the Ministry of the Interior can help me. You’ve met him. I think you are aware of what he wants in return.”
He took a small sip of his cognac, and looked at her, tilting his head as if to better focus on her reply. “I’ve heard he has a somewhat specific taste, but you are an experienced woman, aren’t you?”
At first, Neda was not sure if she had heard him properly. Then she realized she wasn’t that surprised. No matter how much she wanted to believe she was special to him, not just one of many, she was actually prepared for something like this.
He came closer, slid to the edge of the bed, firmly took her ankle in his hand, and looked her in the eyes. Behind the darkness of his gaze, there was no room for discussion.
“Life is an expensive adventure, Neda. We all pay a price. What we get depends on what we pay. Simple economics. Do we understand each other?”