Belgrade Noir Read online

  On that first night, ten men raped Zumreta Alispahić. At first, she resisted. So they hit her with their fists and thrashed her with their belts and kicked her with their boots until she could fight no more. Covered in blood, she lay motionless while the soldiers took turns.

  Out of the nine women brought in the first group to the motel, three did not survive the night. The rape and torture, beatings, mutilations, and random killings continued into the days that followed. When they were not being raped, they were treated like slaves. After a while, each one of them was allocated to one of the soldiers who would occasionally reside there in the Korzo Motel. Except Zumreta Alispahić. She was, as they liked to point out, “at everyone’s disposal.”

  At this point in the narrative the journalist herself makes an appearance. She also swiftly introduces a third character to the story, a certain Neđo, describing him in a few off-hand strokes as a tough, unwavering soldier assigned as her guide during her first visit to the Korzo Motel. He drove her there from Pale, that depressed little mountain town that became the political and military center for Bosnian Serbs during the war.

  The journalist’s fascination with Neđo is evident throughout the text but it doesn’t affect her professional judgment. For instance, she does not fail to notice that he was nowhere near as shocked as she was with what they encountered inside the motel. And she couldn’t but notice a gleam in his eye when he caught sight of a dirty, malnourished girl, with bruises, cuts, and burns all over her body.

  The journalist spent a greater part of the day interviewing soldiers. But she was strictly forbidden from speaking to the women.

  Neđo, on the other hand, was free to roam around. Later in the day he approached a frightened young girl and gave her a shriveled apple that he dug out from the pocket of his uniform. The journalist remembers watching the girl from the corner of her eye as she “grabbed the withered fruit and started devouring it ravenously, like a starving little animal.”

  When Neđo came to pick her up and led her toward the jeep, she was somehow not surprised to find the little emaciated creature by his side. Hobbled by confusion and fear, the girl was helped into the backseat. On the way back to Pale, M.N. tried talking to her over her seat. She asked for her name repeatedly, but the girl kept turning away and hiding her face.

  “Her name is Zumreta,” Neđo finally spoke for her.

  “Zumreta,” the journalist repeated, as if tasting the word, and then turned again to the little girl. “Really?”

  “Yes,” said Neđo. “Zumreta Alispahić.”

  The rest of the way, they drove in complete silence through the apocalyptic beauty of Bosnian landscapes razed by the war.

  Even though that name—Zumreta Alispahić—stayed with M.N. forever, she confesses that at first she did not think much about the girl’s personal fate. As far as she was concerned, Zumreta Alispahić was saved. Neđo had taken her with him, and that was that. “And so I forgot about her,” she admits. “Simply because I believed she had more luck than the others.”

  She supposedly dedicated herself to the more pressing fate of all those women who still remained in the Korzo Motel and claims that she used all the influence she had on a few of the Bosnian Serb authorities in Pale. “And,” she wrote with glowing pride, “things actually started getting better.”

  The women presumably began receiving food more regularly. They were allowed to gather in the dining room. They were even provided with basic toiletries. Rapes were thinned out significantly. As was the harassment. And the beatings. Days passed without even one of them being killed. And most importantly, the steady stream of “contingents” or “packages” was completely suspended. Then the resettlement began. They carted them away one by one or in small groups. Although the journalist spent many days at the Korzo Motel, she couldn’t figure out where they were taking them. The soldiers kept quiet, and the women knew nothing. Only much later would it become known that they were distributing some of them to the local fitness center and some to the construction site of an electrical power station. In both locations the individual and group rapes, torture, and killings continued with undiminished intensity. A number of women were also distributed to a former women’s prison. The same one where Zumreta Alispahić would also arrive, although much later.

  Several months passed after the journalist had last seen Neđo. But Pale is small and she spent a lot of her days there, so it was truly just a matter of time. When they literally bumped into each other on the street one day, Neđo took the opportunity to invite her over to “his” apartment. She happily agreed and they walked together to a neighborhood at the very edge of town.

  Even though it really couldn’t have been that long since she had last seen him, she couldn’t help but notice certain changes in Neđo. That conceited prince with his long limbs and light step, who once seemed to float high above all the horrors of war, had gone through a striking transformation. His head was no longer raised on his slender neck in that aristocratic way, but as if it had grown heavier and had become difficult to hold up, so much so that his beard constantly touched the top of his chest. The expression on his face had become suspicious, maybe even evil, his step significantly heavier, and his posture revealed an unending tension. He was quieter than before, but simultaneously more crude and short. But his eyes, at this point the journalist’s words were nearly rapturous, dear God, those eyes! Intensely green and sad. Like the Neretva River he grew up near.

  Together they went to a one-bedroom apartment on the last floor of a standard three-story building. She was very surprised when Neđo pointedly rang the bell and when, a moment later, a girl opened the door. It took her a second or two to realize who she was. It was Zumreta Alispahić, of course, but more properly nourished and changed so much from that first encounter that M.N. could barely recognize her. Her eyes gleamed and her cheeks charmingly blushed whenever Neđo addressed her. She fulfilled every order at once and without any comment. She was his faithful, obedient slave. That was obvious from the beginning. The journalist, who had recently read a lengthy essay on Stockholm syndrome, had it all quickly figured out. Or at least I thought that I had it all figured out, she wrote.

  As the evening wore on, Neđo, who tossed back brandy like there was no tomorrow, grew increasingly drunk. He babbled about anything and everything, but the journalist could barely concentrate on his words. Instead, she observed how his behavior toward Zumreta was gradually changing. It was, she wrote, increasingly less commanding and increasingly more intimate. At one point, slapping his knees with his open palm, he called her over to sit on his lap.

  (Zumreta obeyed that command, like all the others.)

  With affection, in which there was at once something of the father and something of the lover, Neđo enlaced his rough soldier’s hands around her thin waist. He kissed her forehead, eyes, and lips, stroked her hair and cheeks.

  (Zumreta, so small and slender, bent supplely into his large body.)

  Only then did everything become clear, the journalist wrote. She felt dazed as she watched the two lovers, the victim and the perpetrator, exchanging hugs and kisses. Maybe Stockholm syndrome works in both directions under certain circumstances? But then disgust overwhelmed her and all she wanted to do was leave.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll help you,” she whispered to Zumreta in the kitchen as they waited for the coffee to boil.

  In the living room, Neđo, already dead-drunk, was singing a sorrowful sevdalinka off key.

  Zumreta smiled in response. She reminded M.N. of a stuffed bird. “Why?” she asked.

  Zato što će te ubiti, budalo, thought M.N. “I’ll save you!” she rasped.

  “No one needs to save me from anything. Or save anyone, for that matter,” Zumreta calmly replied. “Neđo loves me,” she added, arranging the džezva, cups, sugar cubes, and Turkish delight onto a tray. And then she turned and looked straight into M.N.’s eyes. “I’m carrying his child.”

  “I’ll save you,” the journalist rep
eated, though this time less forcefully.

  The next day M.N. fled, helter-skelter, from Bosnia and Herzegovina. She felt sick, was out of breath, and thought she was going to have a heart attack and die. But her breathing became much easier, she admits, as soon as she crossed the border into Serbia.

  Although she never again returned to the war-ravaged Bosnia, she continued to produce, almost mechanically, article after article on the heroic fight of the persecuted and suffering Serbs against the invasive hordes of Muslim militia.

  And then the war was over. And then the years went by. Maybe she was once somewhat scared of possible consequences, but this changed over time. She grew more relaxed and understood that no punishment awaited her around the corner. But she was riddled with a guilt that kept growing stronger. She would often remember the emptiness in the eyes, the blush on the cheeks, and the broad, happy smile of Zumreta Alispahić. Whenever she dreamed of her, and she dreamed of her often, she inevitably woke up in sweat and tears.

  She would discover the rest of the short and unhappy fate of Zumreta Alispahić years later, however, from the court testimonies of the Case of the Women at the Korzo Motel. But sparse evidence collected at the court hearing was not enough for her. She acquired permission to interview the two survivors and thus gathered additional data. Here is what she was able to add to the story.

  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

  The Manjež

  Translated by Rachael Daum

  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.

  “Mr. Malavrazić?” came a hoarse voice. Hoarse from age, the bottle, or maybe throat cancer, I couldn’t be sure.

  “That’s me,” I said, sipping my drink.

  “Could you spare a few minutes to discuss a case?”

  “Depends on how much time you’re asking for . . .” Now my voice was hoarse. Vinjak, of course.

  “I know you’re busy, but you have to be interested in this.”

  “I don’t have to do anything, sir.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Ljudmila Hajji Pešić.” Ah. Her husband’s family had completed their hajj, the Orthodox pilgrimage to the grave of Christ in Jerusalem.

  “Your services were recommended to me.”

  “By whom?”

  “Your grandfather.”

  “My grandfather?”

  “You’re the grandson of Arsenije Malavrazić, correct?”

  “I am.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Ma’am, my grandfather has been dead a long time. It would be difficult for you to get a recommendation from him. Unless you’re St. Pete’s secretary?”

  “It’d be easiest if I explained everything in person.”

  “All right.”

  “The Manjež. Tonight at nine.”

  The line went dead and a mysterious rhythm pulsed from my phone’s earpiece. Every beep was another question I asked myself: Who is this woman? How does she know my grandfather? And how could a long-dead fart recommend . . . me?

  My head hurt from the mystery. I ordered another double vinjak.

  * * *

  I went to the Gusan for lunch. It was a good watering hole run by my friend Ernest. It was in the same area where a small, wild village had been fo
unded long ago, where scum like me used to live.

  That’s where I found Uncle Ljuba, a native of the southern Serbian town Niš, who was solidly in his fifties.

  “Malavrazić, I’ve had it up to here with you,” he grumbled as he rolled his tobacco. “Didn’t we agree that you’d finish that job for me?”

  “What job?”

  “The one you didn’t finish.”

  “Didn’t we say Wednesday?”

  “Today is Wednesday.”

  We munched on ćevapi with cheese. The best in Belgrade. We washed them down with a few beers. I made sure not to overdo it since it wouldn’t look good to be too drunk in front of a potential client. Just enough to warm me up.

  Then a guy walked in and stomped up to our table. He had a big head covered in bad tattoos.

  I looked at him, trying to remember where I knew him from. I thought I knew him from somewhere, but it goes like that sometimes—he could have been a taxi driver, a friend from my time in the army, someone I owed money . . .

  “Did you touch my wife’s ass?” he asked.

  “Sure I did,” I said. “What do you want? For me to do it again?”

  The offended spouse came in. She didn’t do anything for me. Black hair, middle-aged, small tits, and her ass was . . . well. I wouldn’t have been able to miss it.

  “Yes, that’s him, that’s the maniac!” she cried. “Fuck you!”

  “Look at you,” I said. “I wouldn’t fuck you for a barrel of vinjak.”

  He grabbed me by the throat. “I’ll fuck you up!”

  I lifted my coat and showed him the weapon tucked into my belt. Without hesitation, he and his wife headed straight for the door.

  “Still got jealous husbands on your tail?” Ljuba asked, like he actually cared.

  “That one wasn’t jealous, just stupid.”

  “Jealous, stupid . . . it’s all the same. It was one of those guys who got you thrown off the police force.”

  “Ah, happy memories . . . Hey, Jelena!” I called to the waitress. “Get me and Ljuba another beer.”