Belgrade Noir

She succeeds in eating something green and tasteless — let’s say some broccoli puree — and doesn’t throw it up. She succeeds in taking a shower without looking at the open red wound around half of her left breast. She succeeds in getting into bed — who cares if it’s noon? The one thing she doesn’t succeed in is napping. Or she almost does. But a tap on the glass of the open windowpane startles her. And frightens her. From the bed she sees only a bent index finger tapping.

“What now?!” says the former Harijeta, who jumps from the couch and marches up to the window, carrying a heavy crystal ashtray in her hands that she grabbed from the bedside. The intruder is wearing a straw hat that reaches the sills of the ground floor’s high windows.

“Why did Nađa send you?”

“She didn’t.” Vera raises her head to Harijeta. The hat dangles backward precariously, she holds it so it won’t fall off. “Open up. We can also talk outside, if you don’t want me inside the house.”

Against her wishes, Hari leaves the old yellow house.

“Wait a second.” She stiffens and turns around. “How did you get inside the garden at all? I locked the gate. I’m sure of it.”

“I came in from the back.” Vera motions to the back entrance of the house. Next to it, for as long as Hari has known this yard, some rusty metal sheets have been propped up against the tall wooden fence. Finally, the purpose of that trash becomes clear to her, since there were three boards missing from the fence behind her. Just enough to let a child, or this skeleton of a woman, squeeze through.

Stunned, she peers into the neighboring yard, right into the foundation pit of the construction site on Topolska Street. Where, until recently, there had been a very beautiful old house, maybe even older than Lila’s, certainly more decrepit. Now, a white four-story monster will rise up, let’s say the nouveau Vračar baroque style, with an underground garage for SUVs…

“Hey, you out of your mind? You could have been crushed there, fallen into the hole, had cement poured on you. They would never find you inside that hole. Why didn’t you ring the bell like a normal human being?” Feeling tired, Hari settles on the lounge chair and points Vera to a wobbly bamboo chair, possibly older than both of them combined. “So, what do you want from me?” she asks, already annoyed, but with no desire to move again.

“I need your professional help,” Vera declares, then goes quiet, taking off her hat.

Huh, I suppose I really do have a beautiful skull

, thinks Hari. An urge comes over her to get her phone and take a selfie, because Vera—

They look at each other.

“Lucky Charm is closed. My last client was the first killed in the series of oncology clinic murders. He was sitting in the exact same chair you are now sitting in when he told me that I had cancer. There you go, you can have fun at the Story and then go chase after the murderers.”

No reaction comes from Vera at first. Then: “Doctor Milošević? I know.”

The reaction from Harijeta is visible, her eyes popping out of her head. “How do you know?”

Vera takes a moment to think. “I saw him come in here. I was walking down the street, from the market. And I read the news. A few days after I saw him, the news was that he was gone. What did he want from you? Money?”

“That’s a trick of the trade,” Hari snaps, intending to stop this insane conversation. “And I don’t believe that Nađa didn’t send you here to get some dirt.”

“She didn’t. I told you, I need help.”

“C’mon, woman, how can I help you? I can’t even get up from this chair. If I could, I’d throw you over the fence right now. And how can you, when you’re so—” She was about to say cadaverous. “How do you even have the strength to run about, move metal sheets, sneak around, and harass—”

“I’m sorry. I have to.” Vera’s facial expression doesn’t change even when she apologizes. “Mara has disappeared. I’m begging you to help me find her. It’s urgent.”

“Who the fuck is Mara?”

“The peasant from the market, from the other day. I have to find her.”

“Then get yourself to the market and find her.” Harijeta has really had enough. For the umpteenth time this morning.

“She’s not there. The day before yesterday I insisted that she move in with me. She didn’t show up. She wasn’t at the market yesterday, nor today. Her phone is out of service.”

“Insisted? To move in with you? What right do you have—”

“What right do I have?” Vera barks. Then she goes silent, thinking for a few seconds, and continues, “Okay, I’ll explain it to you.”

“Just be quick, I need to lie down soon.”

“I’ve been buying fruit from Mara for five or six years. We got to chatting, almost became friends. I was already alone at home at that time… And so we made an agreement that on Mondays, when the market is closed, she would stay in Belgrade and clean my house.”

“Wait, you were already alone? You divorced?” Hari is unaware that she’s entering the standard routine. Interrupting the client with more questions.