Belgrade Noir

According to M.N., Neđo brought Zumreta, already far along in her pregnancy, to the women’s prison in the early spring of 1993. She was placed in a cell with six other prisoners. She spent her days mostly sitting in the corner and looking out into emptiness. She didn’t eat. She spoke little. The other women didn’t believe she would, in the state she was in, be able to survive the pregnancy. But she did. She gave birth prematurely on the concrete floor of the cell. She screamed to the heavens and back. Her distraught fellow prisoners strove to help her and they called for help but no one showed up. She bled profusely. They stopped the bleeding with the clothes they had. She gave birth to the most beautiful girl they had ever seen. They all cried together in a big group hug. Zumreta smiled wearily. Two guards entered the cell the following day. They snatched the little sleeping child without a word and took it away. Later they came for Zumreta as well. They took her away too.

“And that’s that,” both witnesses said.

Indeed, that’s that, the journalist echoed, adding: Zumreta Alispahić was only thirteen years old when she died.

Zoe and I read “Cries from the Korzo Motel” a million times. Until we knew almost every word by heart. It didn’t take us long, on the basis of various hints M.N. had deftly scattered throughout the text, to figure out the identity of that mysterious “Neđo.” It was a stroke of pure genius on Zoe’s part that brought us to him after she whittled down a long list of suspects to the one and only name: Nenad Pavlović, alias Baboon. He was a well-known member of mainstream society, a successful businessman, a subject of numerous tabloid articles, and a regular guest on various talk shows airing on popular TV stations. We googled him immediately, clicked on the images tab, picked one of many photos, enlarged it, and stared deep into his eyes.

For a few seconds, the world stood still. And then Zoe closed our laptop. We didn’t need any further proof.

Her father had looked back at us from the screen with Zoe’s eyes. Identically green, with a hazel lining.

And that’s that, as M.N. would say.

As for me, I’ve already said it, and I’ll repeat it a hundred times: life with Zoe is not all sunshine and rainbows. Nobody knows this better than I do.

Sometimes Zoe’ll sob in her sleep for nights on end. Or for days she’ll break things in a rage that simply refuses to pass. Occasionally she’ll turn against herself. Scar after scar on her body, mirroring the ones in her heart.

Zoe can also be unbearably harsh and sarcastic toward me. Sometimes I know she can’t help it. The pain Zoe carries in her heart, which has intensified through the course of her entire life, has finally neared the very limits of endurance. It is the kind of pain that nothing but pure exorcism can eliminate.

We had to do something about it as soon as possible.

“Stop here,” Zoe speaks quietly through gritted teeth from the passenger seat. “Here,” she says, “stop here.”

Although she’s a full twenty years younger than I am, it’s crystal clear who’s got the last word in our relationship.

So, I hit the brakes and pull up to the curb. I click on the hazard lights. I switch off the engine. I pull up the handbrake. Who am I, anyway, to object to Zoe’s wishes and commands?

For some time we just sit in the dark and listen to the drumming from the trunk.

Zoe then removes a big hammer from the glove compartment. She squeezes it in one hand, placing the palm of the other over its black top.

I simultaneously pull out a large kitchen knife from underneath my seat. The sharp blade flashes in the darkness.

These are the weapons we chose together as a way to bring everything to an end. Quickly but brutally. Just as, we figured, it should be. For vengeance, of course, is best served cold. But on the other hand, it would be stupid for it not to hurt.

Zoe finally turns to me. “We goin’?” she asks. Only then does she, for the first time, actually look at me. From the side, with a questioning, observant glint in her eye.

“Yeah,” I respond. And I laugh out loud, involuntarily.

Zoe laughs after me. It’s always, I admit, nice to hear her laugh.

“Okay,” she nods. “Then let’s go.”

We open our doors and step outside.

Part III

Once Upon a Time

Neon Blues

by Dejan Stojiljković

Translated by Rachael Daum

The Manjež

I leaned over the terrace railing and puked into the hanging flowerpot. I wiped my mouth with my tie, called the waiter and ordered another double vinjak, Serbia’s national treasure, created as the Communist version of cognac for the working class.

“Disgusting!” the woman at the next table spat at me. I turned to her with a polite nod and showed her that she could suck it.

My double vinjak arrived as my phone rang.