Belgrade Noir

He had a strong Bosnian accent, which gave me an idea: I told him, “I’m Sarajevan; the war started while I was a student in America, I lived there a long time and recently came back. Some friends from high school told me about a graduation reunion, and I only then learned that my best childhood friend had been killed in the war. His name was Bogdan and he died as a Serbian soldier somewhere around Rudo, so I’m interested in knowing more about his death, since no one in our class is in contact with his family. You know how it is in Sarajevo: before the war we were all together — Serbs, Croats, Muslims, Jews, you know — and after the war, everything fell apart.” I made up a bunch of lies from a kernel of truth, hoping it wouldn’t sound like complete bullshit.

The guy started giving me shit. “Why didn’t you come back from America to fight with your people?”

My problem with the war was that they were all

my people; Nađa was surely more my people than this idiot or Vojvoda, but I had no intention of saying that out loud. I was even okay with him giving me shit — at least then I knew he believed me.

My interlocutor motioned for the waitress to get us two more rakijas, then casually nudged the zombie: “Hey, were any of our guys in Rudo?”

The other guy was silent for a minute, like he didn’t even register the question. Then, without even taking his eyes off the window facing into the dark, he replied: “Stevo was there, with some guy called Vojvoda.”

At first, my guy couldn’t remember who Stevo was. I talked nonsense about how I didn’t know if Bogdan had a tombstone, how we’d like to put together some money to get him a cross — maybe even write up a story since we wanted to publish a booklet about our class for the reunion. After another round of rakija, the guy murmured that I obviously had money for drinks, since stonemasons and printers didn’t work for cheap, so maybe I could jog his memory. I gave him fifty euros, and he immediately remembered that Stevo’s last name was Perić, then asked the waitress for his number. We had another drink.

In the meantime, three other people came into the kafana and sat at an open table. They called the guy from my table to join them. As he stood up he said, “You have what you came for, so you should get out of here. If you call Stevo, tell him Ranko the Leopard

gave you the number.”

I was tipsy, but not enough to fall asleep easily, so I returned to KGB. I smiled a little to myself for not realizing that the guy who’d slapped the waitress’s ass owned the joint. Him asking her for Stevo’s number came back to me. It seemed like he was one of those old-fashioned types who didn’t even own a cell phone. I decided to try something crazy. I took out my phone and wrote a message to Stevo: Hey compadre, I’m sitting here with Ranko the Leopard. He gave me your number and says you know Vojvoda. I haven’t seen him for thirty years, and we’ve known each other since we were kids. Give me his contact info if you can.

I didn’t even finish my first White Russian when his reply came: I don’t see him much anymore, but I know his wife owns a flower shop on Ilije Garašanina Street.

My hands started to shake. It was nearby, and not just near me now, but near Tašmajdan Park where Nađa had seen him. I paid for the cocktail and headed for the street. I knew it was too late and there was only a slim chance of the shop being open, but I wanted to see where it was. The street wasn’t too long and not very close to the cemetery, so I doubted there were many other florists.

Sure enough, there it was near the intersection with Takovska Street: a tiny, inconspicuous flower shop with Owned by Đorđe Jovanović written on the glass door. I stood there and laughed aloud. Ah, the patriarchy, I thought. This one wouldn’t allow his wife to formally own the shop if his life depended on it.

Walking slowly to the apartment, I wrote a message to Mirko: Could our “John Smith” be Đorđe Jovanović?

He replied within a few seconds: Fuck if I know. I could swear that was his name, but if you wrote Jovan Đorđević, I’d probably tell you the same thing.

Normally I didn’t make cocktails at home, but I had a bottle of whiskey handy. As I set a glass on the table in front of me, I saw Nađa’s business card. Warmed by alcohol, I texted her: There’s been a little progress in the investigation. See you tomorrow?