At the Honest Lawyer’s

The year of the tiger

Has come –
Even the spring mist rises
In spots and stripes

Teitoku

Bart walked down Regent Street looking at the dark spots on the
pavement. ‘Stupid chewing gums,’ he murmured between two brisk and
nervous steps. Once he reached the corner with Lensfield Road he turned
right and found himself at the entrance of a small pub opposite of the
Catholic Church.
The pub was nestled in the ground floor of a narrow, medieval-looking,
three storey building with a tired, yellow painted façade that was framed and
traversed by dark black wooden pillars. It featured only one window looking
onto the street. Engraved in the glass was the head of a lawyer sporting a
long white and curly wig. The inscription read: ‘The Honest Lawyer’s – Oyster
and wine bar’.
Bart pushed the tall, scratched, wooden door with a half-moon,
colourful vitrage at the top. He entered, nodded to the right atto the
bartender and took his grey and yellow computer bag off his shoulder,
removed the hat, the black-leather jacket and gloves and threw them all
without much care on the bench that was leaningrunning against the wall on
the left hand side.
‘The evening is still young and fresh’, he thought while rubbing his cold
hands and checking this den like a wild animal. To the right there was a dark,
solid oak counter and there were four wooden tables, two were set on theto
left along a bench that ran down a dark green wall, one table was at the
bottom of the room, against a crimson wall, and one was placed between the
entrance and the counter. Next to the window there was a high, thin table
with three tall chairs. When on his own, the tall chairs and window-high table
waswere Bart’s favourite spot for he liked to watch people crossing the street,
the light changing at the pedestrian crossing, the impatient cyclists and
motorists, he liked to hear the glorious sound of the church bells and count
the tolls.
‘This TV screen is never the same, always different, geometrically
unpredictable,’ he thought and concluded that paradoxically it was ‘as close
as it gets to comfort’.
The walls of the ‘Lawyer’s’ were sooty, impregnated with layers of
smoke and perfume. There was a wide, long mirror with a fat, golden frame
on the left-hand-side and there was a bookshelf with law books covering the
bottom wall ofr the room. Under a thick coat of grime, the ceiling plaster
featured traces of elaborate ornamental patterns that bore witness to the
glory days this fine and run down establishment must have been seen (ili: …
must be seen).
On each of the tables there was an empty wine bottle yoked by a
cascade of white wax with a candle on top and there was a timid, yellow light
coming fromout of the candle, light that would waver at every move, at every
breath of air and utterance. The mellow sound of a saxophone spilt out of the
speakers on the liquor shelves behind the counter. The music seemed to
come out of the lively-labelled bottles like an unruly genie, always descending
towards the wooden floor boards and venturing to meander further among
the toothed, curved table and chair legs in search for companions, for
shadows and for thoughts.
‘Chasin’ the bird’, exclaimed Bart in a self-assured manner while
approaching the bar.
‘Yep,’ said the man behind the bar and nodded his head. He looked
barely over twenty years of age, had very short blond hair and wore a black t-
shirt that claimed in loud yellow letters: ‘God, the Pope and I speak Polish!’
He stood there, on the other side, with both hands on the counter and
smiled.
‘When will you buy another CD?’ tTeased Bart.
‘Well, you know that the boss likes this one!’ rReplied the barman with
a chuckle.
‘Andrzej,’ said Bart and glanced at him as unsympathetically as he

2
possibly could, ‘I’ve been listening to this Charlie Parker record it’s been five
years now. You can tell Bob that I’ll buy him a couple of CDs for Christmas!’
‘OK, ok, but you know that he is attached to this music... you now!’
Affirmed Andrzej shrugging his shoulders in resignation.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Bart and started scrutinising the beer taps.
‘What beer is unavailable today?’ He said (mozda bi bolje bilo he
asked).
‘No Stella and no Guiness today,’ Andrzej replied readily.
‘Ok, not too bad, not too bad today,’ concluded Bart with a hint of
cynicism. ‘Pour me a pint of Staropramen then, please!’
Bart and Andrzej had already discussed many times the etymology of
the name of this beer, Staropramen. The beer was Czech and between them
they spoke Polish and Serbian. All three languages were Slavonic The
languages were all Slavonic and they were able to tell that staro meant old,
but Bart was confused with pramen, which in Serbian was a tress!
‘A tress?’ He would mumble, ‘what’s the connection here, old tress?
What kind of name is this for a beer?’
They had to wait until Gregory turned up to work behind the Lawyer’s
counter. He was a Czech and thus able to demystify this baffling affair.
‘It’s a spring!(a spring or just spring?)’ He said and Bart was pleased
recognising the ease with which the native speakers unravel so intricate
linguistic predicaments.
‘Old Spring thus it is!’ He cried again and raised his fist in triumph.
Andrzej poured the beer in a tall, handsome glass and placed it on the
mat in front of Bart who paid, picked the glass up and turned towards his
table. The floorboards squeaked under his step as he whistled a couple of
random, disjointed notes from what he thought was, the Cool blues theme. He
dropped the glass on the table and sat set on the bench with his back against
the wall.
‘This day is not over yet,’ he thought, ‘and it’s already so desperately
long!’
He glanced through the window and saw the lights of cars moving
across the intersection. ‘They are all going away...’ he mumbled, ‘from where
I sit they all seem to be leaving’.
In the corner of the window glass there was a small quadrant, and Bart
knew it was an epitaph that read ‘Thomas Downie 1973-1996’. The ‘Lawyer’s’

3
legend had it that Thomas was Bob’s son who was to inherit the place but
tragically died on this very pedestrian crossing. Hence the Charlie Parker and
the dry beer tabs, the legend went, a sorrowful memento of the promising
glory days.
Bart’s attention was suddenly drawn to the only other customer in the
Lawyer’s. She was seated at the next table down the wall and wore a lime
green jacket, several layers of dark, matte lipstick and half a dozen of gold
and diamond rings on her thin, aged fingers that were wrapped around a
large wine glass. She was of ‘a certain advanced age’, thought Bart as the
lady stared right at the glass in front, immobile.
‘Like people who carry a heavy load on their souls, that’s how she
looks,’ thought Bart, and then took a sip of beer, sunk his hands deep into the
bag, fumbled around to find some soft, old papers that he eagerly grabbed
and took out. He leaned back onto the wall, put the papers in order and
started looking at the first page.
Eddie gave him these sheets weeks ago, photocopies of his articles
written some years ago and published in the Dresden Polytechnic student
magazine. The articles were about Eddie’s trip to the States with special
reference to New Orleans. Titles were written in those funny cowboy fonts we
remember from the John Wayne Western movies and on the front page there
was a photograph. The copy Bart held in his hands was old and of poor
quality. The photo was grey rather than black and white and it was hard to
tell the faces of people on it. It was a group of young, black people, five of
them standing in the street in front of a bar, all in one big happy, brotherly
hug. Two of them wore tall white heats and two wore dark newsboy hats.
They all had huge Afro hairdos that jutted out of the hats, and big, shiny
smiles. One of them was Eddie and Bart spotted him immediately. He was a
lot younger and wore something that resembled a colourful, ‘must be
colourful’, thought Bart, poncho. It was his famous, kente, a handmade,
cotton coat in the traditional colours of Ghana, ‘red like the colour of the
blood of its citizens, golden like its Golden Coast, green as a symbol of the
fertility of its land and black like the colour of the skin of its people’.
On the photograph Eddie wore a dark, newsboy hat with a large red, ‘I
hope it was red’, thought Bart, star on the forefront.
Bart took a sip of the beer and started skimming through the article:
''Don’t mourn the death of a friend, but celebrate his life’ is one of the things

4
that make New Orleans different from the rest of America’'.
'Yeah,' he thought, 'this might be true in the land of jazz, far and away
from the Balkans where we seem to be genetically predisposed for tragedy
with intertwined, with paradox and comical twists.
‘‘It was music that put a spell on me and made me leave Nashville
after one day and drive 'Way down to New Orleans'. It was the music of
families like the ''Neville Brothers'' and the Marsalis-clan, of people such as
Professor Longhair and Dr John, which makes New Orleans quite a find – and
not only for lovers of Jazz and R&B. Arriving there on a sunny day in early
March with temperatures up in the 70s (if you want to say that in Celsius, just
subtract 32 and multiply the result by 5/9) I dropped my bag at the Marquette
House’’.
At this point Bart paused and raised his head.
‘...I dropped my bag at the Marquette House!’ he mumbled with some
suddenly found (maybe: appearing instead of found?) joyful pride. ‘A good
name for a hotel, a bar, a brothel, anything really, the Marquette house!’
He then went on reading.
‘As someone once put it, ‘‘the trouble with New Orleans is, that there is
too much talent. The same people might be stars elsewhere but they barely
make a living in this town.''
'Same with as with us back on Voždovac,' thought Bart with a wry
smile, 'it would have been different if we were born in 19th century Paris,
among the artists on Montmartre, or in Manhattan in the fifties or in the
renaissance Florence, at the court of the Medici family, or at least, in a
Genghis Kahn tent during his glorious Persian campaign!'
He then waved his hand, nodded and whispered to himself: ‘these are
very poor excuses, you’re right, Art. It’s what the feeble spirited came up with
to justify their failed existence. Just empty, void words that stand for lack of
determination, courage or strength. You don’t like this world? Tough, change
it. Change it, before the world changes you!’
‘Remember, they bury their dead above ground, because the water
table is so high that coffins would pop up out of the ground if they used
regular graves – look, Aunty Daphne’s back!’
‘Well, of course that the hurricane brought such terrible floods upon
the city, with so much underground waters...’ thought Bart and read again the
following sentence ‘remember, they bury their dead above ground!'

5
 Zacharias was born in a French family in New Orleans. He told stories
about the penguin-nuns and his upbringing in a Catholic convent, about the
jazz joints at the outskirts of the city and his greatgrand-grandfather who
fought at Gettysburg. He would hum ‘The night they drove Old Dixie down’
and managed to smuggle, into just about every country he’s been to, a bag
full of original Louisiana spices to cook industrial quantities of the famous
Cajun specialties, the Gumbo and the Jambalaya. He spoke about the weak
dams that were supposed to protect a city traversed by canals and
surrounded by the vast Pontchartrain Llake, the mighty Mississippi rRiver and
alligator infested swamps.
‘Everybody knew the city was in real danger, we all knew that,’ he used
to say and wave his hands across the air, ‘but no one gives a shit when you
are small and poor. No industry there, no multinationals, no oil, no big bucks,
just poor people. Regardless of the colour of the skin, black and white, yellow
and purple, doesn’t matter when you’re down and out. Anybody can just
come over and give you a good kick in the teeth!’
‘‘After a hard night, take a walk to the garden district, pull up at 'Cafe
Artchafalaya' for athe vegetable plate. Not healthy, these veggies: southern
green tomatoes, black eyed peas, lima beans, etc. – giet down with some real
cholesterol-laced, carbohydrate-friendly food – didn’t you say you want to
experience Nnew Orleans truly?. The music and the food – they go together
as they say. 'Another thing about the feeling of New Orleans is that people
may not have anything but nevertheless you walk like you got music playing'
Aaron Neville once said. ''
‘That president of theirs,’ Zach said once.
‘You mean of yours?’ Reproached Bart ironically.
‘No, not mine for God’s sake!’ Screamed Zach and rebounded (mozda:
sprang or jumped umjesto rebounded) a couple of feet up from the chair.
‘I never voted for that idiot and know of no-one who ever did!’
Exclaimed Zach and bowed his head as in deep thought. ‘Except my older
sister, maybe! And I’m not even sure about her, not sure!’
Zach married a tall, beautiful Austrian girl with blue eyes and bought a
house in a small village in the Alps a half an hour drive from Linz where he
taught the history of the English language at the Johannes Keppler University.
‘A Cajun rebel with his pockets full of okra, cayenne pepper and a
blend of herbs, fish hooks and baits,’ imagined Bart, ‘stranded high, among

6
the white peaks and glaciers of the Austrian Alps and all those holiday skiers
and yetis’.
While reading the article Bart recalled the conversations at the
Lawyer’s. Eddie, Zach and Bart were men without a clearly defined a
belonging, without a homeland they could go back to, and thus, be free from
the unnecessary and carnivalesque chimera of return itself.
‘Free from any idea of return, anytime, anywhere,’ thought Bart and
then paused. ‘Yes,’ he finally concluded. ‘Free’ is a good adjective for this
sentence, free is the word!’
Dresden, New Orleans and Belgrade were cities that in a certain
moment of their respective histories were struck by cataclysmic events that
altered irretrievably their identity and at the same time negated to their
inhabitants (citizens umjesto inhabitants ako se misli i na ljude koji su, kako
mi kazemo, “negdje vani”) any illusion of homecoming. Atlantis-like cities that
vanished from the face of the earth, populating now only myths and dreams,
featureding on the esoteric maps drawn by cartographers of the impossible.
‘Eddie was of a Ghanian father and a German mother, born and raised
in Dresden, in Eastern Germany,’ Bart was thinking. ‘He underwent an
additional displacement, the fall of the Wall, the Great Wall of Europe and the
unification of Germany’.
Years ago, Eddie met Emma who had come to Dresden from Ghana to
study medicine. They then moved to England and Eddie told Bart that this
was because of the racial tensions in Dresden.
’Why to Camford of all places?’ Pondered Bart. He knew the answer to
this simple question, but preferred obscure metaphysical explanations that
left enough room for further debate and possibly misuse. He then imagined
Art popping out of a dark corner, shaking his head in disapproval and pointing
a finger at the starry skies while uttering a profound pronouncement that
featured destiny and fate in the same sentence.
Eddie got a job to work for the commercial branch of the University but
Bart never understood fully what was it exactly was that Eddie did. He knew
though, that Eddie was a manager for worldwide online tests, or something
along those lines. Even though Although his original trade was teaching
English he ‘jumped ship’, as he would put it, and continued his carrier in
‘shark infested’ business waters.
Comrades Karl, Leo and Chef that’s what they used to call each other

7
for years now in that bar, at ‘The Honest Lawyer’s’, every Friday night. Karl
Marx, Leo Trotsky and Che Guevara, the comrades. And no one remembered,
no one knew any more how, when and why it all began. This ridiculous
pseudo-revolutionary act with the secretive cell meetings and a designated
nom de guerre!
Many a patron of the Lawyer’s grumbled something about the bloody
foreigners and Karl Marx coming back from the stupid, shallow grave.
‘Most probably because the English don’t have any historical
understanding of for the revolutionary cravings of other nations or continents
for that matter,’ would assert Leo and Karl.
‘Or because their sense of humour is somewhat underdeveloped,’
would conclude Bart with a gesture of indignation.
The first one to turn up was Eddie. Bart spotted him as he was
diligently waiting at the pedestrian crossing in front of the Lawyer’s. As
always, he carried two big, black briefcase pannier bags that fitted perfectly
the rear wheels of his bike. These bags contained no less than a pair of black
evening shoes, at least three Swiss knives, a couple of silk ties, a pocket
pump, a raincoat, an umbrella as well as a battery lamp and some home-
made, healthy food in a plastic container.
The streetlight turned green, Eddie looked right, then left, then right
again and crossed the street wobbling under the heavy weight of the bags.
Once he reached the other side of the street, he leaned forward and pushed
the entrance door with his shoulder.
‘Guten Abend, Herr Che,’ he called with a slight bow of the head.
‘Guten Abend, Herr Leo,’ replied the courtesy Bart raising his pint.
Herr Leo dropped his bags on the floor with a thud, took his coat, jacket
and tie off with what seemed to be an one and only swift move, as if he were
taking a piece of armour off. He then grabbed his waistline with both hands,
raised it and nodded towards Bart’s pint: ‘What was it, Staropramen?’
‘Yep, thanks,’ said Bart and downed the remaining half pint of beer.
Eddie turned briskly and in a couple of steps reached the counter. He
soon returned with the two pints of beer and two green bags of crisps (ili:
chips).
‘For starters,’ he said dropping the baegs on the table, ‘onion and
vinegar flavoured!’
‘Most excellent,’ said Bart, ‘nothing can beat the good, old- fashioned

8
English cuisine!’
‘Prost,’ said Eddie, raised his glass and immersed his nose into a thick
cloud of beer foam.
He sat at the table, with his back to the bar and inquired what was Bart
was up to with those papers. When Bart replied that he was reading his New
Orleans article Eddie smiled and exclaimed: ‘Mmy article? What a great
honour for it to be read in this fine establishment!’
Then Bart went on asking Eddie what was New Orleans was really like,
what were his personal impressions were, how were they were welcomed,
what was the people were like, the music and the food, what was that
mythical French Quarter was like, the legendary Mardi Gras and the street
parties, the people, that weird Voodoo stuff... and so on and so on.
Bart wanted to hear Eddie’s story for he felt he couldn’t trust Zach, not
completely at least. Zach was a native of New Orleans and that made him
kind of partial (mozda: biased umjesto partial). Bart also knew of Zach’s
predisposition to embellish, as he would put it himself, the stories he told, the
sceneries he walked through and the food he ate, the wines he drank and the
women he met.
Eddie (felt) obliged and told Bart how he turned up with Emma at the
Tipitina’s, the famed jazz venue. People gathered around them, (together
with) all those musicians there, they were nice and wanted to know if they
were from Africa for real. ‘Yeah’, Eddie said and spiced it up, just for the fun
of it, by adding that their tribe’s village was in the very heart of Africa, far
beyond the delta of the Volta River, the white men’s colonial stations and the
reach of tarmac roads, electricity and mobile telephony.
‘The famous trumpet player, Raymond Andrews then said, and I had
many of his records back home in Dresden,’ continued Eddie. ‘He said he was
honoured to meet a real, proud African jewel’.
He paused, looked at Bart and added: ‘He meant Emma of course. The
jewel, you know... and he then he went on by saying,’ and Eddie knew these
words by heart. ‘I can see that Africa is not only famine and poverty. I can see
now that we come from a long line of princes and princesses!’
He said and made a wide gesture with both arms before going on.
‘One evening Tunji, my mentor in town, and I were driving through the
French Quarter. We saw a man laying lay in the middle of the road! We
stopped the car and Tunji jumped out and attended (ili: approached) this man

9
who was completely drunk. We lifted him to the car and put him on the back
seat. We then took him to someone’s home and left him there. I was in awe
owe and asked Tunji who the man was. He said he didn’t really know him
personally but he respected his music. He then took me to a record shop
where we found some fifteen records of Guitar Slim Junior. I looked at the
photographs on the covers and there he was, our man! Guitar Slim Junior in
person. We found the man completely plastered, knocked out and laying in
the middle of the road. A man who made who knows how many records with
the biggest names in the business, one would should think a big star, famous,
rich... but no, not there, not in New Orleans!’
He said and shook his head looking at the dark texture of the wooden
table.
‘But, you seemed worried to me!’ he said as he realised that Bart was
struggling to keep focused on his account. ‘Back-stabbings at work, Christmas
shopping madness, wailing in Japan, what’s your worry?’ Inquired Eddie.
‘No, no,’ said Bart and he was glad that he could talk to someone, ‘that
friend of mine, the astrologer if you remember, I mentioned him some time
ago!’
‘Yes, sure I remember!’ Confirmed Eddie.
‘I received a phone call today. He died, you see, the astrologer died!’
Said Bart and sounded as he were in a terrible hurry.
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said Eddie, ‘how did he die? Suddenly?’
‘Yes, it seems he was unwell for quite some time, cancer, nasty stuff,’
said Bart. ‘No-one believed him though, he always borrowed gambling money
on account of his illness and ran some dodgy deals, gambling and drugs, who
knows... no one believed him anymore, it’s hard to tell now. He might have
died for he couldn’t afford a doctor, the medicine, who knows. He said once,
many years ago that all we were was just drummers and goalkeepers. No
more no less, all drummers and goalkeepers, useless, sad little pawns on this
much greater stage!’
They both took a sip of beer in silence and then retracted somewhere
deeper in their thoughts.
There were more people now around the table and a lively buzz filled
the bar.
‘It’s so strange,’ said suddenly Bart, ‘when someone close to you dies
you always remember some silly words and events, some silent movie like

10
scenes with Buster Keaton or the Marx Brothers, your mind projects a
weightless ballet of shadows with no depth or substance, a cabaret of
memories, a collection of stamps and butterflies pinned on a battered, old
wall’.
Eddie listened carefully and then nodded. He knew what was Bart was
talking about, he knew the routine of the play and those long, playful
shadows. He hasd had his fair deal of encounters with death, he knew the
smell and could tell when others were affected.
The lady at the next table was still swinging back and forth holding her
glass tight. ‘Perhaps too tight’ crossed Eddie’s mind.
In the middle of the pub, between Bart’s and Eddie’s table and the bar,
there were three newcomers sporting striped blue suites, light blue shirts and
red and grey ties. They held in their hands tall and narrow flute champagne
glasses and Bart observed how they loudly they toasted to the recent
business successes of the Barclay’s Bank and to beautiful women, in that
precise order.
‘There is more to it though,’ said Bart taking his eyes off the group of
merry bankers. He turned his attention to the beer glass and penetrated it
with a steady look as if it were a magic bowl. ‘That old story of his, of my
friend Art about the Krasojević family and his alleged aristocratic
background...’ uttered Bart and it sounded like he was talking to himself.
‘He would tell tall stories, claim unusual things but I never believed
him. There was a point where I stopped believing anything he would say. So,
at some point he claimed his ancestors were gospars, noblemen from
Dubrovnik who at some point in history and for very mysterious reasons left
the cobbled, fancy streets of renaissance Dubrovnik for the forests adorning
the hilly and muddy landscape of Mionitsa. We all found the story laughable
and teased him a lot but he never budged, especially not when in presence of
nice ladies, you know. It’s a long way from the Mionica Ivković Turk-fighting
farmers to the Krasojević gospars of Dubrovnik and the silk, spice and gold
trade routes of their ships.’
(ova recenica treba da je nastavak od predhodnog paragrafa, a ne novi
paragraph sam po sebi…) Concluded Bart looking at the Heineken beer mat
on the table. Eddie listened in silence, with interest and patience.
‘A couple of years ago,’ continued Bart, ‘I was already here in Camford
when that old story of his came to my mind. I googled in this surname, to see

11
if there was such a name at all since it always sounded somewhat false (ili:
fake) to me. And suddenly, what a big surprise! Yes, there was such a family
and yes, they were of noble-like origin, related to then old Serbian dynasty of
Kotromanić whose descendants were said to still inhabit the medieval, coastal
cities of Kotor and Dubrovnik! Known for distinguished seafarers, tradesmen,
physicians and lawyers it was a prominent family indeed. Interesting, I
thought and decided to check upon them at in the University library. I went
there and got out a pile of books on the topic and started to plough through
them. It was mid summer. I had a whole afternoon at on my disposal and just
took my time. And there it was, another great surprise!’
(ova recenica je takodje dio predhodnog paragrafa)Exclaimed Bart,
moved in his seat and lifted his arms and eyes towards the ceiling as he was
venerating the cruellest of pagan gods. Eddie just nodded in approval.
‘So, the family existed, it was pretty old too, fine, well known and
wealthy these Krasojevićs but what was the connection with Serbia and
Mionitsa?’
(dio predhodnog paragrafa)Cried out Bart raising his right hand middle
finger in the air with an ominously inquisitive expression on his face. Eddie lit
a cigarette, nestled in his chair and assumed the posture of a listener.
‘I kept on going through those pages and stumbled upon a book called
the Petrović Chronicles! These Chronicles make brief reference to a dodgy
character, a certain Vasiliye, a family outcast who was remembered as a
poet, gambler, womaniser and dueller. Forced to flee Dubrovnik, he
apparently also left with some hurry Kotor, Cetinje and Korčula and the
legend had it, Venice and Vienna too. He found himself in Herzegovina, in
Bosnia and crossed the Drina Rriver into Serbia’.
Bart paused and glanced at Eddie who was still listening patently (ili:
patiently, ili: clearly – who was clearly still listening.).
‘We are talking about the mid 19th century here, the Balkans at their
best, featuring horror tales and legends populated by multiple-headed
monsters, undead-millers, friendly vampires and fairies, righteous Serbian
knights and noble Turkish horsemen, the twilight of the Austro-Hungarian and
Ottoman empires characterised by no trustworthy records, a cavalier attitude
towards the rule of law and brigands praying upon the food of the farmers
and the riches of the passing caravans. So, any trace of Vasiliye was
apparently lost in this conundrum of the Valjevska Nahija, a mountainous

12
region just beyond the Drina River, inhabited by the great, white-headed
eagle and the brown bear, the Petrović Chronicle has it. And Mionitsa is right
there, smack in the middle, underneath the wings of that great white-headed
eagle!’
Concluded Bart this short introduction to the iconography of the
Balkans. The account was meant to be about his friend Art and not about
empires and the fall of the Turks. He continued, more focused on the main
characters:
‘So, once upon a time this character, Vasilije Krasojević came to area
and that’s where I lost his trace. Is he the long lost link? Is he anyhow
connected to Art’s Ivković family? I am afraid I don’t know but will find out. I
will travel to the area and visit the local monasteries and churches. If there is
any paper trail or oral testimony of Vasiliye’s fortune to be found it should be
there.’
He paused and looked at Eddie.
‘I don’t know why I bother, I don’t know!’ He said. ‘As pastime pass-
time maybe, I don’t know. But maybe, only maybe there was a trace of some
system in his madness, in his tall fantasies... a system, any kind of system!’
Concluded Bart and felt like a great weight came off his shoulders, off
his chest and rolled into the cold depths of an inscrutable, mountain well.
‘Interesting,’ said Eddie who felt it was the right time for him to speak
up. He wasn’t much into the Balkan mythology affairs and some parts of the
account didn’t really square (add up?) he thought. However, he said it was all
‘very interesting indeed!’
In that very moment the pub door opened wide with a slam that halted
all conversation. In he came, with reddish, longer and tidiery hair and beard,
wearing a black winter coat that was reaching his ankles and was three to
four sizes too biglarge. On top of the head he whore something that looked
like a tall Russian silver fox fur hat and in his hand he held a sizeable key that
he had just used to lock his bicycle to the lamp post outside of the Lawyer’s.
He impatiently trampled his feet like someone calling for everybody’s
attention. He had it.
‘Seid bereit, comrades,’ solemnly called Zach.
‘Immer bereit, Herr Karl,’ replied Eddie.
‘Na zdarovlje, tavarish,’ said Bart in a wry voice. He didn’t really care
that much for the German branch of the pseudo-revolutionary cell and held in

13
somewhat higher regard the Orthodox Russian tradition.
‘How did you know where to find us?’ Said Eddie and downed his pint in
eager anticipation.
‘Well,’ said Zacharias Lavelette with poise. ‘They didn't give me a PhD
for nothing!’
He took his bag, coat and hat off and chucked them onto the bench, on
top of Bart’s belongings. He then looked around the table, murmured
‘Staropramen’, made a swift U turn and walked straight through the group of
merry, champagne drinking bankers to reach the safety of the bar where he
anchored and yelled to summon Andrzej.
While Zach was negotiating a new round of drinks Eddie’s attention
was caught by the lady sitting at the next table. She looked worried, held a
large glass of white wine in her right hand and was swinging back and forth
so that Eddie thought she might have fallen asleep. She was trying to bend
her head forwards to reach the glass with her lips. She wasn’t successful. She
then tried to bring the glass to her lips, she suddenly opened her eyes and
tried to hypnotise her own hand, or the glass.
‘Unusual,’ thought Eddie, ‘such an uneven contest between man and
wine!’ And he was glad that wasn’t his mother. He took a pack and a blue,
plastic lighter from the pocket of his trousers and lit a cigarette.
‘Comrades,’ said Zach dropping the pints on the table, ‘the secret
services of the imperialist thugs and capitalist swines are following closely
into our footsteps.’
He then turned around to check if anyone was eavesdropping. Bart and
Eddie exchanged silent glances and joined in the checking.
‘Last week, last Friday I was on my way home, coming from the cell
meeting and...’ Bart and Eddie stopped breathing with their eyes opened
wide.
Eddie, took a fag (cigarette, ili smoke – mislim da je bolje od fag, posto
se fag danas vise koristi za homoseksualce…), blew the smoke underneath
the table and prompted: ‘and.’
‘I was ambushed,’ continued comrade Karl with a worried but dignified
facial expression. ‘They tried to get rid of do away with me. I was ambushed
and cowardly attacked by the street signs while peacefully cycling along the
Backs! I tried to skip one of them and by movinged to the left, but there was
another one in waiting, or maybe it was the same one but moved quickly. So I

14
moved to the right but alas, there was another one there! There wasn’t much
I could do, the crlash was inevitable, bang!’

Bart sighed and leaned deeper into his seat and thoughts. Eddie
however, decided to contribute to the meeting.
‘Indeed, comrade Karl,’ he said. ‘They tried to prevent my own
revolutionary activity (mozda je bolje action ili act umjesto activity) a month
or so ago!’
At which moment he commanded the undivided attention of the other
two cell members.
‘I was on my way back from the regular cell meeting when I was
attacked by the street!’ He calmly asserted.
‘The street?’ Echoed both Zach and Bart.
‘Yes, comrades, by Mill street to be precise! I was cycling when the
road suddenly bent and swirled and finally came onto and upon me!’
At which point of the story they all took a sip of Staropramen beer.
‘I woke up half an hour later when a kind bypasser buy got me and my
bike and myself out of the ditch, down there down next to the Common near
Coldham’s Lane!’
Due to utter, although understandable disbelief this was all that Zach
and Bart managed to pronounce: ‘Woooow!’
All three now just looked at each other and nodded. In silence, they
exchanged significant and most probably, heavily coded glances.
The first to interrupt the stance was Bart.
‘Yes, yes my friends,’ he said lifting his pint. ‘Class enemies, ideological
adversaries and their cronies are never to be underestimated. By now these
people must have realised that their vile historic mission is drawing to an
abrupt end. Hence, they are desperate and very, very dangerous and
unscrupulous!’
‘Immer bereit,’ said Zach and raised his glass.
‘Seid bereit, meine Herren,’ confirmed Eddie asserting thus, the stoic
nature of the cell.
Bart just nodded and gulped down a good half a pint of the beer. He
was thirsty and the night was there, behind the glass for everyone to see, for
everyone who ever looked anywhere the night was there, behind the thin
glass, behind the Lawyer’s wig, among the cars, cyclists and pedestrians.

15
 ‘For Christmas last year I went to see the Queen,’ suddenly said Zach.
Eddie took a drag from the cigarette and, after the smoke touched
what it seemed, the bottom of his lungs, he blew it away from the table and
turned back to Zack: ‘You’ve been where you said?’
‘I went to pay a visit to the Queen!’
‘In London?’ went Eddie on while Bart was browsing through the
patrons of the pub.
‘No, not in London. The Royal family owns a mansion not that far from
here, in Sandrigham. That’s some sixty miles north, about an hour by car,’
explained Zach eagerly. ‘The family reunites there for Christmas, it’s a
tradition. There’s a little, local church just a stroll from the house where they
attend the service and to reach the church they walk through the crowd that
cheers and waves to them and they wave back. It’s quite an interesting
spectacle’.
‘Excellent move comrade Karl,’ commented Eddie. ‘Observe them
when they least expect it, in their own homes and in the family circle!’
‘Who did you spy upon, you said?’ Bart jJoined the conversation Bart
like he was suddenly thawed from deep hibernation.
No, I wasn’t spying on anyone,’ hissed Zach back.
‘I went to observe your Queen,’ he explained stressing the word your
and reaching out for the glass.
‘Mine twofold,’ murmured Bart. ‘Queen of both New Zealand and
England. Queen of the people and the birds, the penguins, the sea and the
hills, Queen of the clouds and of the dreams!’
‘Can you actually enter the (ili: their) very house?’ Asked Eddie.
‘Yes, you can,’ confirmed Zach. ‘Not when the family is in attendance
though, but during the year you can. I drove there on my own, there was one
thing of particular interest to me’.
‘What thing?’ Interrupted Bart. He was impatient as he felt that Zach
was somehow purposefully cagey.
‘The menu!’ Announced Zach triumphantly and Eddie and Bart
exchanged curious glances.
‘Louisiana is a great cauldron where people of many origins find
themselves in a boiling gumbo immersed in spices and ingredients from all
over the world, with influences ranging from French to African or Chinese and

16
the food reflects, if I may say so, these historical facts.’
Zach was a great food lover. A diagnosis of diabetes however, had
brought to an abrupt end his gourmand exploits and resulted in a nearly
immediate loss of some eighty pounds. This, turned his otherwise imposing,
roundish figure into a light, thin, ghost-like apparition that wore oversized
jumpers with a v-cut reaching his waist belt, and shirts with collars that hid
half of his face.
‘Yes, a menu,’ confirmed Zach. ‘But not in the sense of food or eating!’
‘A menu that is not in the sense of eating?’ Said Bart pooling a sad face
and finally protesting. ‘And what’s wrong with a menu in that normal sense of
food and eating?’
Eddie was blowing his smokes away from the table and followed closely
the development of Zach’s account. He expected Zach to have something
special in store and was patently waiting.
‘So, comrade Karl,’ asked Bart eagerly adding a slight philosophical
note to the conversation. ‘What other interest can anyone possibly have in a
menu other than foodeating-related?’
‘A linguistic interest, of course!’ Revealed Zach and opened his arms
wide in awe.
‘You see,’ he continued. ‘It’s been said that the Queen speaks French!’
‘Yes, and it’s been also said that she is German!’ Agreed Bart.
‘That is correct,’ confirmed Zach. ‘The Royal family surname used to be
Saxe-Coburg-Gotha of the house of Hanover. They changed the surname into
Windsor during the First World War, to make it sound English, patriotic. But
that’s not my point, they themselves are not that important’.
‘Comrades,’ joined the discussion Eddie. ‘Many say it and some claim
that they know it for a fact, that in the Royal family they are all but
bloodthirsty crocodiles, reptiles, dragons and vile snakes!’
Zach looked now at Eddie and Bart with a sense of achievement and
pride. He tried to imagine Prince Charles as a lizard with a red rose on a white
polo uniform as he rode a black stallion on the green lawn of the Windsor
castle. The scene brought a smile to his face and he enthusiastically
continued to build his case:
‘Reptiles, oh yes that’s all very well known and documented! The Royal
family, Bill Gates, the Rockefellers and Rothschilds, the American President
and of course, Ernesto Sabato, the great Argentine writer who made public

17
the existence of these cold-blooded, subterranean and repulsive creatures
that are devouring the world. They already rule darkness and instigate fear
even into the rats, the masters of abhorrence themselves!’
‘Herr Karl,’ Bart couldn’t help inquiring. ‘Are you now saying that your
Fearless leader of the Free World is a reptile or that he can’t speak proper
English?’
‘No!’ shrieked Zach. ‘George W. is not even that, he’s just a total
moron and that’s it!’
At which point, Bart chuckled triumphantly and Eddie smiled,
benevolently.
‘OK, ok, I got the message! It serves me right, point taken!’ Agreed
Zach while trying to piece his thoughts together.
‘That menu over there in Sandringham, is really written in French. I
went to see the dining hall and the table was set exactly the same as the last
time the family was there. The menu was displayed on a stand next to the
table and I asked one of the curators about it. He confirmed that the Queen
would converse every day with the Queen mother in French at tea time, at
least half an hour’.
‘So, the British Queen is a French speaking German!’ Eddie concluded
solemnly and nodded his head.
‘Yes, that would be correct,’ agreed Zach. ‘And Richard the Lionheart
as well!’
‘What? Was he German, a lizard...?’ Prompted Bart.
‘No, comrade Bart,’ concluded Zach. ‘He only spoke French only, had
no English at all!’
Bart and Eddie exchanged looks and nodded their heads. Without
verbalizing it t hey were saying: ‘Yep, what did I tell you! I felt it all along!’
Zach leaned back into his chair and raised his glass. He took a sip and
with a serious note in his voice said with a serious note in his voice: ‘Well,
comrades. They haven’tdidn't given me a PhD for nothin’!’
At which point Bart raised his glass and took a very long sip of beer. He
hoped it would be deafening too. It wasn’t though!
Zach went on: ‘In those days, the aristocrats were all Normans, French
that is! They couldn’t and didn’t want to speak the language of plain people,
of the Saxon peasantry!’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Bart. ‘I went to Bury Saint Edmunds a couple of

18
weeks ago. In the town centre there’s a park and in it the remains of a
monastery destroyed several centuries ago in a local villagers’ uprising.
Today there’s a nice park there and the remnants of those sumptuous walls.
On one of those walls there’s a plaque that commemorates the signing of the
Magna Carta Libertatum, the first constitution as they would call it on the
continent.’
Bart made a brief pause and looked around the table at the two very
attentive faces. He appeared to be satisfied and continued:
‘The most interesting bit for me was the list of names of the barons,
the dignitaries that King John Lackland put in charge of overseeing the
implementation of the charter. Well, that surely was an interesting read!’
Said Bart and made another brief, meaningful pause before
proceeding: ‘There are twenty five names on that list and all the names
sound very French! All Normans, all noblemen, landowners, conquerors, in
November 1214!’
Having come to the conclusion of his argument, he nodded and stared
at his interlocutors with pride.
‘Interesting,’ admitted Eddie.
‘Yes, very!’ Zach hHad to agree Zach who authored several books on
the history of the English language and preferred, if possible at all, to deliver
himself rather than to listen to lectures. Something like a professional
deformation, perhaps!
‘Yep, that’s all there is to it!’ Said Bart and downed his beer.
Eddie sat immobile with a glass on the table in front of him. He held
that glass in a hand and now and then he would turn it around like he
werewas exploring its round surface. He then turned his eyes towards the
lady at the next table. She sat still there.
‘Petrified, maybe,’ he thought.
‘Mummified, for sure,’ he concluded.
Her shirt was showing signs of movement and Eddie was happy that
she was still breathing and still alive, albeit it was obviously a very different
form of life.
‘Seid bereit!’ Cried Zach suddenly and raised his glass.
‘Immer bereit,’ followed it up Eddie.
‘Na zdarovlje tavarishi,’ joined in Bart raising his empty glass with a
grim expression on his face.

19
 Zach then tapped Eddie on his shoulder and asked: ‘So, what does the
language tell us about the Norman days of England?’
Eddie and Bart were now staring at Zach with unequivocal signs of
admiration and fear. With admiration for the obvious, though slightly cynical
reasons concerning Zach’s erudite eloquence and with fear for they dreaded
they would hear again the fatal interjection ‘they didn’t give me a...’ and so
on, and so on.
‘It can tell us lots of things. One can learn lots of things from an
ordinary menu!’ Granted Eddie.
‘Well, let’s just say that one can learn a lot,’ agreed Zach. ‘If one knows
where and how to look that is, of course!’
At which point Bart felt obliged to assert himself in this discussion more
firmly: ‘Fine, but could we then say for instance, that the English are French
and that the English language is actually French and that...’
‘We could,’ interrupted him Zach. ‘But such an argumentation is
completely futile and would get us all back to the Tower of Babel in no time!’
Concluded Zach who finally found himself on his home turf and felt like
answering some clumsily articulated student questions.
‘Actually,’ said Eddie who nodded his head and hid the cigarette
underneath the table. ‘That’s true for all the nations in the world. Nationality
is nothing but an simple convention, an empty carton box, just a cigarette
butt on the dirty, old boards of an old pub!’
In front of the astonished Zach and Bart he then pooulled his hand from
underneath the table, took another quick drag and threw the cigarette butt
on the floor: ‘We don’t want it to cause a fire, do we?’
Said Eddie with a mysterious smile which and it sounded like an
apology.
After a brief pause they all laughed loudly, tapped each other on the
backs and cheered to the international and intergalactic brotherhood of the
honestly-revolutionary spirits of the universe.
‘Comrades Leo and Che, I’ve done some serious thinking lately,’ began
Zach with a dead serious voice. ‘You know that I patched it up with my wife
and decided to go back to Austria. So, in view of that decision, the other night
after a high table at the college I got a bit more relax than usual and let
myself go. You know, a couple of glasses of wine, then Port, then Cognac...
people start talking and actually saying things they might even mean. Yes,

20
quite unusual, I know!’
The poise and tone of this revelation attracted the comrades’ full
attention. They found something unduly ominous in this whole spectacle and
made up their minds to forgo their customary and most often lethal dose of
cynicism.
‘So, the evening went on. Everybody was talking, all so clever, all so
knowledgeable and successful, all those “Nobel Prize winners- to- be” who so
(so nekako zvuci cudno, mozda da se stavi “clearly” ili “so obviously”) take
for granted their intellectual and ethical superiority as well as higher moral
ground on most of the earthly issues. It went on like that until I nearly felt
physically sick. There was too much wine and Cognac, too many big and
empty words. At one point I just stood up from my armchair and started
shouting at everyone. I must have said lots of things for it went on for quite
some time. I told him them that there was no democracy left in their highly
praised world, that all that was left was this phantom cruising the so called
West, the virtuous International Community and that terror and despotism
were what was left for everybody else. America and Europe are now where
they were thousands of years ago in the days of the Inca, the Maya and the
Aztec, the Huns, Visigoths and Ostrogoths!
I went on saying that the only way to establish genuine democracy in
the world as the least bad form of governance was to give one vote to every
citizen of the world who would then vote for one and only World government!
Ha, but I know that’s exactly what the sleazy Community, the Yanks and the
Brits, or their alienated, militarised, power-structures and clans will never
allow! This President preaches human rights with a bible in his hand and with
the other he pillages, plunders and murders! Of course, all he cares for once
in a while, are his fellow-American tax-payers who for the most part are
totally blinded by the mass media and have no concept of geography or
history astherefore unable to place Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Serbia or Ghana
for that matter on a map, not to mention positioning them within any sort of
cultural framework!
The next great revolution should be all about establishing a world wide
democracy based on equal human rights! Then, and only then there will be no
need for all these CIAs, KGBs, NATOs and Al Kaidas for there will be political
means to articulate the will of all groups. Alas, as we all know so well from the
history of mankind no one has ever given up the political order granting them

21
a privileged status without a fight. So, only a direct action on a global scale
could bring to this truly democratic world order! Yes, and it would probably
take some five centuries to achieve. On the other hand, as the philosopher
had it, should we stop longing for it only because it is unattainable? God
forbid, that is precisely what makes such a quest dignified and glorious,

longing for the infinite and eternal while ridding ourselves of this rat-
like (ratty?)(I would put ratty), vile and slimy order of values. Hellas, if there
really were more than half a dozen believers in such ideas these would
already begin flowing into the sewerage of the institutionalised, ideologised,
quasi-religious mainstream with its phoney cathedrals, holy shepherds, and
astute, selfish and cutthroat dignitaries all raising their eyes and hands
towards the great above while humming solemn prayers and moving
rhythmically their hips in a pseudo-mystic, secretive ritual held on a blood
drenched soil of the river bank. And if you ask me, these sermons might as
well be performed in ArameicAramaic or in Swahili for they would be
incomprehensible anyway ,for removed from their original, deep and
fundamental, non-mediated, pre-political meaning! Just a bunch of individuals
and istomisljenika will be left, of idealists and hermits, shadows and wraiths
that rummage through the underworld of human conscience. That’s our
mission, the mission of humans beyond the horizon of the mentally and
spiritually crippling laws of this primitive, manufacture-and-consume
ideology’.
Once he finished retelling his rant, Zac made a pause, looked around
and took a deep breath. He then looked at Eddie and Bart and said:
‘That’s what I said. Or, better, that’s what I think, what I recall I said, I might
have said. What did I really say, we’ll find out, sooner or later we’ll find out!’
Zac finished his emotional account of the previous night’s debate and
was about to exchange a few more significant and unavoidably revolutionary
glances with his comrades when they heard something coming from the
background, something like a slow and heavy handclap.
Clap, clap... it went, stubbornly, sarcastically thought Bart.
The comrades looked around and spotted the man who was clapping.
He sat on one of the high chairs by in the window, short in stature he couldn’t
reach the ground so he sat there with his feet on the footrest of the chair and
clapped his hands. He was in his mid-fifties, had sky blue eyes, a broken nose

22
and completely white, short hair. heHe wore a short, light green jacket and
underneath it a white shirt with the collar open.
Apparently pleased for he managed to catch the attention of the three
comrades, he stopped clapping, lowered his shoulders and planted the palms
of his hands and all his body weight firmly onto his knees. He looked firm and
assured just like a marble statue.
‘Nice speech’, said this man. He then dismounted the chair and
brought it closer to the comrades’ table.
‘I apologise’, he continued placing again his hands onto the knees, up
in that chair, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing part of your conversation.
‘And what part of our conversation would that be?’ Asked Bart looking
the stranger defiantly, straight in the eyes.
‘Well, the part about democracy, the World government, terrorism and
so on...’ admitted the stranger and looked at Zac and Eddie who were seated
facing him. ‘Those are all great, liberal ideas but the main point is that things
need to be taken care off out there, in the real world, you know?’
‘What do you mean by out there, in the real world?’ Asked Eddie for
clarification with a worried expression on his face.
‘I work at the Clinic in Tavistock Square, in London...’ started the man
but was interrupted by Bart who wanted to know what was the stranger was
doing in that Clinic?
‘I am the Head of the Clinic and...’ the man tried to continue, but Bart
was merciless. Bart was merciless for he didn’t like the fact that the man was
listening to their conversation. He also disliked the fact that this stranger
didn’t seem look to him as the Head of a clinic, too shabby, he thought and
went on: ‘and how many employees are you responsible for?’
‘Five hundred, I think!’ Said the man and looked at Zac and Eddie like
he was asking for help.
Bart didn’t like the man. He didn’t like him barging into their
revolutionary routine, he didn’t like him eavesdropping, he didn’t like his
casual attitude and clothes, he didn’t like him addressing Leo and Karl and
not him, Che, he didn’t like his clinic in Tavistock Square... he just didn’t like
him!
‘So’, managed to continue the Head of the Clinic in Tavistock Square in
London, ‘I was at the Clinic that seventh of July. I was on the third floor when
there was that terrible blast was there!’

23
 Those words caught even Bart’s attention. He turned around, faced the
Head of the Clinic and leaned back into his chair. He was now ready to listen.
‘We all ran downstairs. Luckily, I thought, whatever happened it
happened in front of the hospital’. Said calmly the man.
‘We ran downstairs and onto the street and so this red double-decker
bus, it’s roof was gone and it was like it was opened in a hurry, by a huge can
opener, recklessly. There were shouts and cries, and people running in panic,
there was smoke and the smell of the explosion. All over the road and
pavement there were scattered pieces of the bus, of clothing items, there
were body parts on the trees and blood everywhere... even on the building’s
façade, and that ugly smell of the explosion.’
The man made a brief pause, took a sip of beer and made a noise like
he was clearing his throat. He then looked at the three comrades and
continued.
‘I have considerable experience with explosions and explosives...
served in the army, you know. Ten years in Northern Ireland, Belfast and
Londonderry, I’ve seen plenty of destruction and terror, I breathed gun
powder and walked hand in hand with death’.
Said the Head of the Clinic and a thick film of silence descended upon
and commanded the Lawyer’s.
The man then made a swift turn in his high chair and cried ‘Andrzej,
give me another pint!’
Before continuing, ‘we attended people laying on the road, we got
some off the bus. It was a slaughter, a damn slaughter. Thirteen people died,
just there, on the bus, more than thirty wounded!’
Andrzej brought the pint of beer and placed it on the table, in front of
Bart. The man got off his chair, grabbed the pint and took a sip of the thin,
white layer of foam. He then nodded his head in approval and continued:
‘It is not that hard to reconstruct the position people found themselves
in at the moment of the explosion. The only thing that is left of the terrorist
with the rucksack on his back is his head. It pops up like a cork out of a
champagne bottle, ha, ha...’, laughed wholeheartedly the Head of the Clinic
and spilt some beer out of the glass.
Zac sat immobile with his eyes firmly locked onto this man while Eddie
smoked, observed and listened without flinching. Bart appeared to have
suddenly lost his sense of humour and taste for bitter irony. His eyes wide

24
open, he was looking at a roofless red double-decker bus engulfed in smoke
and thought he could hear the cries for help and smell the blood.
‘All you need to do to find your terrorist is to find a severed head, some
fifteen, twenty yards away from the centre of the explosion. That’s your brave
suicide bomber. The first circle around him people are hit hard by the
explosion and reduced to pieces that are spread all over the place, very hard
to pick up and identify. People in the next circle got their limbs and heads
plucked off by the power explosion! Then there are those a bit further again
who are just skinned. Skinned, I say, and you just stand there staring at the
raw, naked flesh. Then you find those hit by the explosion as if it wasere a
free-running train. Straight into the chests taking all air out of the lungs. They
just suffocated!’
The man stopped in his account and looked at the three comrades as if
he were checking what effect did this strange account hadve on them. He
seemed pleased by the results, nodded his head with satisfaction and took a
sip of beer. It seemed like this sip was a reward for the job well done.
‘Some people we just could not save for they had their limbs severed.
Blood was spurting out of these chirurgical-like, fine cuts. There was no
stopping of the blood! A girl died there, in my arms, in front of the hospital.
There was no stopping of the blood, no way of getting her save anywhere in
time!’
The comrades listened attentively to the end of the stranger’s account.
Then, Eddie lit another cigarette, inhaled the smoke and blew it under the
table. Zac gulped half of his point in one generous go. So did Bart who missed
the throat and poured the liquid down his oesophagus nearly suffocating
himself in the process. He was impressed by the stranger’s story and couldn’t
help himself imagining the terrorists’ head popping up like a cork out of a
champagne bottle.
‘Those people are prepared to die in order to inflict the greatest
possible number of civilian casualties and the victims were people of all races
and religions. There are three hundred different languages being spoken in
London and these people must be stopped, they must be stopped!’ Cried the
Head of the Clinic and for a moment, just for a brief moment there was a
nervous, lingering cobweb of silence over their heads.
‘Yes’, said Bart shuffling in his seat and tearing the cobweb down, ‘but
first of all we need to eliminate the roots of their disposition to sacrifice and

25
murder, the roots of the evil that pushes these people into the outstretched,
comforting arms of the Jihad!’
‘Of course’, argued the Head of the Clinic, ‘however, I don’t think we
should worry so much about them, that’s not our job!’
‘Well, it’s not about a job it’s about civilisation,’ replied Bart, ‘these
people are brought to despair and beyond despair to the very brink of
existence. I do not condone what they have done for that is not possible, their
methods are repulsive but I can understand where do they come from!’
At which point the man hissed and uttered with contempt: ‘to
understand means exactly that, to condone!’
He waved his hands and continued: ‘it means placing them on a
pedestal of victimisation and granting them impunity. That’s exactly what
they want to achieve, that’s their goal and milestone towards winning this
ugly war!’
‘Maybe!’ Exclaimed Bart. ‘But you cannot deny to these people the
readiness to sacrifice their own lives for an idea, a religious belief or fort heir
own people and family. Unlike the brave NATO pilots, the professional
mercenaries who keep on bombing, roads, trains, schools hospitals and whole
neighbourhoods from a very safe altitude. That’s what instigates these people
to perform those terrible acts of self-sacrifice and utter destruction! They are
giving away heir bare lives for they have nothing else left!’
Once the dam was overcome, words purred freely out of Bart and he
felt like they were waiting for centuries to be uttered. Eddie and Zac looked at
him with a worried expression on their faces.
‘Yes, we all said things like that many times but never so... in public as
it were, in front of them the foreigners, in front of this weird stranger.
‘There were twenty seven kilometres of rail in Afghanistan before the
bombing, twenty seven bloody kilometres!’ Bart went on.
‘Well, that means that it’s been for years that the Americans are
bombing just rocks and people. There’s nothing left there, apart from a few
lizards, I guess, and the poppy fields!’
The Head of the Clinic sat quietly on top of his tall chair. He held half a
pint of beer in one hand while the other arm went across his chest and the
hand was tucked away underneath his armpit. The expression on his face
gave away the ease he obviously had in dealing with difficult people and
situations. He listened very carefully to what Bart had to say and then replied:

26
‘I understand your point, that’s all very nice, civilised and maybe even true.
As a matter of fact though, problems in real life are solved in a different,
much, much different manner!’
There was something sinister in that voice, in that posture, Bart
thought. He didn’t know what, or how, but he knew there was something
sinister about this man and he felt an eerie chill dripping down his spine.
‘What manner would that be?’ Bart felt compelled to ask naively.
Eddie and Zac sat in silence. They sipped the beer and observed this
scene as a grotesque shadow play. It was all for real, not a dream and yet, it
felt like a simulation of life, like a string puppet play depicting a scene of El
Cid Campeador fighting the Moors.
‘Northern Ireland’, said the man coming out of the shadows, ‘that’s
how we solved a similar problem n Northern Iireland!’
‘Ha,’ had to interject Bart ironically, ‘and you did solve it in Northern
Ireland?’
‘Yes, we did!’ Continued the man firmly. ‘Every time there was such a
situation, an attack on our troops or a terrorist act against the civilian
population we would get out oin the streets and into the houses, searching
them one by one. We knew pretty much who the IRA people were, if you
didn’t find one of them you would pick up in the middle of the night their
families, friends, neighbours and take them out in the street and then...’
‘... and then what?’ Cried Bart and all three comrades jumped in(from?)
their seats.
‘Then, nothing’, said the man, ‘that’s what we need to do to these
Muslims. Get them out oin street, stand them in line and that’s it, over!’
The Head of the Clinic then treated himself to a generous sip of beer.
He looked like a man who just completed a good day’s work.
For Bart on the other hand, nothing was over as he was waiving his
hands in the air and then shouted: ‘and that’s what you call democracy,
right? So that’s what you did in Ireland, shot innocent people oin the streets.
No news items about it, no media outlets interested, you cold-blooded,
murderous bunch! No wonder then that those Muslims are rising against you.
I can only imagine what you do to them in Iraq, in Afghanistan and around the
whole world. And who are you anyway, under what authority do you do what
you do, how is that possible?’
Eddie put gently a hand on Bart’s arm and Zac gave him a worried

27
glance. The Head of the Clinic in Tavistock Square in London calmly downed
his beer and placed the empty glass on the table. He had a tiny, cynical smile
in the corner of his thin lips and for some strange reason he looked like a man
who accomplished something important. He excused himself and swiftly got
off his chair. It was Christmas, he mentioned, and he had to reach a distant
farm in the countryside where his friends lived. He was visiting and didn’t
know the road that well. He saluted everyone at the table, nodded to Andrzej
and walked out to in the street leaving The Honest Lawyer’s immersed in
silence. The comrades looked at him as he was exiting and as he crossed the
street. The light was red, someone remarked.
Then Bart sprung onto his feet and in a couple of long steps reached
the counter. He grabbed it with both hands like a castaway reaching for the
safety (a dingy) (a dingy ne ide bas, mozda da se kompleto izostavi?).
‘Who’s the madman?’ He asked breathing heavily.
‘No idea’, said Andrzej, ‘I’ved never seen him before!’
‘Interesting, very interesting. Give us three triple Oban single malts
and three more pints of Staropramen, please. That’s what I call the Holy
Trinity’, said Bart pushing his chest forward and assuming a posture of
importance.
‘It kinda helps in times of crises!’ He informed the much younger
bartender as he started shifting the drinks towards the table.
He sat at the table and raised the whiskey glass: ‘comrades, let’s skol
(cheer ili raise?) this one in honour of my friend Art!’
‘For Art!’ Exclaimed Eddie and Zac, raised the glasses and downed the
stiff drink.
While all three of them were still shaking under the formidable and
certainly benevolent influence of the whiskey, Eddie managed to utter
through his teeth: ‘who the hell was that one?’
‘If he is Head of a Clinic or anything else I am Mother Teresa’,
concurred Zac reaching in a hurry for the beer.
‘What did he say his name was?’ Asked Eddie.
‘He didn’t say!’ Answered Zac and Bart at the same time staring at
each other.
‘Does Andrzej know him, he called him by the name?’ Insisted Eddie.
‘No, he doesn’t’, said Bart and shrugged his shoulders, ‘I already
asked!’

28
 They sat in silence, drinking the beer and looking at the stained texture
of the old wooden table. There was an unpleasant feeling lingering on, like
when you know that you are being observed on the sly, that something is just
not right.
There was a buzz around them, people drinking wine, chatting and
laughing the evening away and all words they uttered were flowing into one
single, united buzz turning remote and unintelligible like drops of rain carried
by the river and into the ocean.
Bart was intent on observing Eddie’s self-assured smoking routine, that
rhythm that seemed so natural and relaxed when suddenly the old lady
dropped her glass against the table with a thud and started murmuring and
hissing while she tried to get out of her seat. Once she managed to free
herself from the table she stepped towards Eddie. She held a little, red lady’s
purse in one hand while she pointed the finger of the other hand like a dart
towards Eddie. She had a painful grimace on her lips when she cried: ‘it’s all
your fault, it’s all your fault, damn you!’
Eddie sat immobile, looking straight ahead and holding his right hand
with the cigarette underneath the table. Everybody else turned frozen and
speechless.
‘South Africa is my country’, the lady yelled getting into Eddie’s face,
‘that beautiful country, you destroyed my country!’
She then extended her finger straight into Eddie’s forehead, pressed
hard and yelled even louder: ‘we should have shot you all, we should have
shot you all back then!’
Eddie just sat there, did not wink, did not breathe, his cigarette did not
burn. He looked like someone prepared for eventualities like this one, like
someone who knew more and knew better.
Zac sat with his mouth wide open while Bart felt like his head was just
about to explode. He jumped on his feet and approached the old lady from
behind, grabbed her with both hands for the shoulders and started dragging
her towards the exit door.
‘Out’, he cried, ‘get out you old witch!’
He cried while dragging the old, little woman out oin the street. Once
he threw her out and left her standing there with her little red purse, he
rushed back into the bar, grabbed her overcoat and went out into the street.
He threw the overcoat onto her, shouted something and came back into the

29
bar taking his seat. The woman was left standing in the street, with her
shoulders inwards, a long, sad face and tears in her eyes. For a moment she
waved as if unsure whether to collapse and fall or to leave. Eventually, she
left. She turned left and disappeared around the corner of Regent Street.
Bart went back to the bar. He stood for a moment, in the middle of the
room, he then shook and felt dejected, turned towards the bartender and the
other guest standing in front of the counter and mumbled something like an
apology. They nodded approvingly without uttering a word, only Andrzej
leaned over the counter and said, ‘that’s fine, you were right to do that!’ The
bankers nodded too and raised their glasses.
More guests were now arriving at to the Lawyer’s. There was a buzz
lingering on and distant banter and laughter suffocated the music coming
from the loudspeakers. There was thick cigarette smoke and beer spilt on the
wooden floor that made it sticky and shiny. Now and then you could tell apart
some isolated words, too lonely (abandoned?) to make any sense, just words.
The three comrades sat at their table truying to remember details
about the old lady: when did she come, what did she drink, how much, did
she hear the conversation with the Head of he Clinic... and so forth.
Zac said that he had to go back to the college. He was flying to Vienna
in the morning. He made a truce with his wife and decided to leave Camford
and go back to the Alps. Bart on the other hand had a ticket to for Belgrade to
attend Art’s funeral and same as Zac’s, his was an early flight from Heathrow.
Eddie said he wasn’t going anywhere for a while. Emma decided to go back to
Africa and left. They were now separated, just friends and some day Eddie
would go down south to Accra himself and they would open a jazz club. They
already had a name for it, ’The Coconut Bar’.
They picked up their belongings, put on their jackets and after waving
goodbye got out in the street where they stood on the narrow pavement,
between the window of the Lawyer’s and the oncoming, night traffic.
Bart put a hand in the pocket of his jacket and after a brief search
fished out a couple of small and shiny, metal badges. He then triumphantly
turned towards Zac and Eddie exclaiming: ‘here they are! For you Herr Karl
I’ve got here a badge with comrade Marx and for you Herr Leo, I’ve got...
Leon Trotzky!’
He then went on trying to attach the badges to the lapels of his friends’
jackets, which proved not to be an easy task in pitch dark and after all the

30
drinks they’ve had.
Once the task was accomplished he fished out of the pocket the last,
third badge and solemnly announced: ‘Herr comrades (Herr comrades ne
zvuci bas kako treba, Herr se koristi u jedinici, dakle ili Herr Comrade ili ako
se njima obraca mozda Dear comrades), and for myself, of course, I have a
Che with all of his beard and a star on the cap!’
Zac and Eddie dutifully applauded and then all three congratulated and
hugged each other. Bart appeared to be very proud as he stood on the
pavement wavering.
‘This is the Medal of the Order of the Crossed Daggers with the Eagle’s
Balls!’ He explained.
‘In my country this is a great reward which that it is bestowed only
under remarkable circumstances, upon remarkable individuals who
accomplished some very remarkable deeds!’
He concluded while he continued to wave his arms and swing back and
forth.
‘Like what... deeds?’ Asked Zac scrutinising his badge and trying to fix
it a little bit better for the lapel of his oversized, velvet jacket.
‘For instance, like...’ accepted the challenge Bart, ‘like... for a
successful rhetorical synthesis of the useless with the unnecessary, of the
invented with the dreamt, for the perseverance in touching the untouchable
and thinking the unthinkable, for catching the un-catchable, and for mapping
the black wholes of the mind!’
He then made a brief pause, to catch a breath and observe the effect
his explanation was having on Leo and Karl before concluding: ‘in my culture,
you now, back there in the Balkans, these are all great and memorable
achievements that people are most proud of!’
‘OK’, said Zac and nodded his head. He was looking at his badge with
unashamed pride, ‘very clear and perfectly deserved, I can tell you that!’
He hugged Bart and added: ‘see you tomorrow on the train to London
and tube to Heathrow!’
‘See you tomorrow!’ Confirmed Bart and turned to hug Eddie whose
mind appeared to be a little bit clearer than that of the other two comrades:
‘good luck my friends. Take care and if you ever wanted to come by to Africa
just come. Don’t wait for me to invite you again!’
‘Thank you brother’, said Bart and inserted his right hand underneath

31
his jumper pulling out a little, thin object tied by a shoe string. He took the
shoestring off his neck and offered it to Eddie: ‘from BB King, Art and Bart to
the children of the Black Continent!’
Eddie accepted the unusual gift, exchanged hugs and while looking at
the little object between his fingers said: ‘one more thing, not to forget.
Comrades, the future will be built on water and air. All of this talk and tantrum
tonight might be interesting but I think that this civilisation will have to return
to the basics, to change tracks and focus on the essential values of nature
and spirituality, to develop higher levels of a superior, global and unselfish
awareness. If not, my friends, there will be no civilisation, there will be no
people! Our children will curse their forefathers for their selfishness and
stupidity but it will be too late. Alas, it will be way too late for all of us!’
‘Immer bereit!’ said Zac.
‘Seiden bereit, Herr Karl und Herr Che!’ Agreed Eddie at which point
Bart stepped backwards and raised his left hand. With a rather theatrical
hand motion he then announced: gentleman, everything I learnt, I learnt as a
young man. Ever since, all I am trying to do is to forget! Having said that I bid
you...’
At which point Eddie had to pull him back and out of the trajectory of
an oncoming car. Bart looked around himself obviously, not understanding
what the fuss was all about and continued: ... farewell. Yes, farewell... quoting
the great Japanese poet and honourable traveller Matsuo Basho who once
observed intently the snowy peaks of the mountain Kia and the giant waves
of the ocean and jotted down the following verses: Like the wild geese, lost in
the clouds, separated we shall be, for ever, my friends!
As he finished reciting the poem, Bart bowed, turned swiftly around
and ran across the street straight into the thick shadows of Lensfield Street.
Eddie and Zac looked in the direction of his wild run trying to spot him.
They could only hear however, the sound of the quick steps bouncing off the
wet pavement. They were getting lighter and lighter until they finally merged
with the darkness. Only then, they shook hands, tapped each other on the
shoulder and with a couple of appropriate words bid each other farewell.
That is how it went, one Friday night, the day before Christmas in the
famous English city of Camford, on the pavement in front of the bar called At
the Honest Lawyer’s.

32
 ***

It was Saturday morning and Eddy managed to get out of the bed. He
stood in the middle of the room and looked around trying to establish where
he was.
‘Good’, he suddenly thought, ‘after all, this looks like my house. It’s the
head that must be someone else’s!’
He went downstairs into the kitchen and picked the biggest coffee pot
he had. He waited until the coffee brewed and then took the pot and an
empty cup into his study. He felt he wasn’t brave enough at the moment to
face himself in the bathroom mirror.
He entered the study, sat at his desk and poured the coffee into the
cup. It was then that he realised it was his Revolutionary cup, the one with a
Fidel Castro photograph that he bought in Cuba, in Santa Clara.
‘No more revolutions this week’, he thought and turned the computer
on and went for the BBC news page.
The first thing he saw was that the page was unusually dark, nearly
black and then he noticed the big title across the top of the screen. He read
the title but didn’t seem to understand it. He read it again, and again. It was
only after several readings and a couple of sips of coffee that he fully
understood. He stood up and went to his jacket in the corridor where he took
the cigarette pack out of the pocket.
He lit a cigarette and returned to the study. Eddie didn’t smoke in the
house and didn’t have any proper ashtrays so he threw the matchstick into
the half-full Revolutionary coffee cup and looked up onto the screen.
The page carried a news item about another terrorist attack in London.
The attack took place in the tube at 7.30 that morning between the stops of
King’s Cross and Russel Square.
‘Same place as the last attack’, thought Eddie.
It was the old branch of the London tube network in the deep
underground where between the carriage and the tunnel walls there were
only few inches of empty space. Down there you were trapped, even if you
survived the blast you were buried alive in the darkness, in the smoke and in
the fumes.
It was the line of the tube that takes travellers from Camford to the
Heathrow airport.

33
 ‘Yes, that’s the line’, though Eddie and picked up his phone from the
desk. He dialled a number and waited. The phone rang and he waited some
more. There was no reply and cut the connection and dialled another number.
The phone rang and he waited. After a while he heard a sleepy but familiar
voice: ‘yes, comrade Leo, has the revolution started?’
‘Hello comrade Karl’, said Eddie eagerly, ‘where are you?’
‘Hell! I’m in bed, I missed the train!’ Cried Zac.
Eddie explained the news patiently. He said he was glad that he, Zac,
wasn’t down there in that... in that mess, that’s what he said. He also said he
hadn’t heard from Bart and that he was afraid that comrade Che might have
been on that train. He then said he had to go. He was in a hurry.
Eddie switched the computer off, got up from the desk and went to
window overlooking the garden. The grass in garden was short, trimmed and
tidy. Among the grass spears he could see raindrops reflecting sunrays
coming through the clouds. The garden was long and narrow. On the left hand
side there was a paved path that led to a wooden shed that was nestled at
the very bottom of the grass carpet. That shed featured a porch where Eddie
liked to sit on his own for hours and hours, since Emma left.
He sat there too often and for too long, he felt, cloaked in thoughts and
memories. He looked at the long grass carpet and the house and only saw the
girl who once, many years ago, escorted her friend to one of his lectures.
Now, he looked at that garden, at the paved path and the little wooden
shed with a porch and all he saw were his own thoughts.
‘What was the lecture on?’ He asked himself. And then, ‘oh yes’, he
mumbled, ‘it was something about the jazz music, about jazz music and food
in New Orleans. Must be that, what else?’
He then shook like he suddenly remembered something very
important. Hhe put his hand into the pocket of his trousers and got out a
small, thin, black object. It was a very old, scratched guitar pick. He took it
between his forefinger and thumb and started turning it around and
examining. One side featured a very old, barely visible engraving that read
B.B. King while the other side was blank and looked like at some time there
had been something written on it.
‘Not any more’, thought Eddie, ‘you can’t tell the inscription any more’.
He then looked again at the grass, the shiny raindrops and the grey
clouds running across the sky.

34
 ‘The pick of B.B. King, Art and Bart’, he murmured, ‘I’ll take it to Accra
and give it to a kid somewhere in the streets’.
‘In Accra, down south, it will bring luck to a kid!’ He said while clinching
his fist and squeezing the pick.

35
 Epilogue

Winter came back to Camford with its Siberian winds, stubborn rain
and morning freeze. Days turned too short again and the nights unnecessarily
long.
I had with me the first version of my novel. It was printed on fine, thin
paper in elegant Serbian Cyrillic Minion Pro font. I carried that first copy of my
manuscript in a big, brown, size A4, paper envelope. On the envelope I wrote
the name of the editor of a reputable publishing house in Belgrade whose
former wife was a distant cousin of a cousin of mine. On one occasion at a
dinner somewhere, one of the cousins insisted and the editor promised he
would read my manuscript.
So, that was all fine, done. The editor will read my story and, I have no
doubts, will like it and offer to publish it.
On my way to the post office I stumbled upon Hans and Greta’s little
coffee shop. I walked in and immediately recognised the posters with German
castles in the snow. This is the same coffee shop from the beginning of this
story. I was here with Lydia, drinking coffee and talking about films and my
novel about to be published. When we admired the sugar cubes from Fidel’s
plantation and watched the bypassers by being flogged by the Siberian wind.
There was a free table in the window shop. I could watch people
passing by from here while pretending I was myself was invisible. I dropped
my envelope on the table and went to the counter where I ordered a double
espresso.
Hans greeted me and placed the cup in front of me.
‘Sugar is at its usual place’, he said with a friendly grin on his face.
I looked at the little table next to the counter and saw many different
types of sugar but (maybe except?) the one from Fidel’s plantation. I was
confused and asked Hans what was all that about, where was Fidel’s sugar?
‘We don’t get it any more’, said Hans. ‘Anyway, it seems that Fidel sold
all of his plantations to an American multinational company!’
Then he laughed loudly as he obviously thought that was amusing and
some other people around us laughed too. I didn’t laugh, and I didn’t
understand how could people could be so insensitive. It wasn’t funny at all,
that gratuitous, silly joke and I was really angry at with Hans.

36
 I picked up my coffee and a couple of sachets of horribly sweet and
unhealthy, white sugar and defiantly turned away without saying a word. I sat
at my window table and while I was stirring the coffee I took a deep breath.
Since the beginning of this story so many things changed. Lydia rang a
couple of weeks ago to tell me that she got a job at the University of
Winchester, down south somewhere, way down south. She will teach the
language of film, the relation between music and literature and she will have
plenty of time to indulge in research. Who knows, she might actually be
better off down there. She might find some interesting people who are not
afraid of their creative potential and she might even be able to express
herself, to speak up in her own voice and leave a mark on other people’s
lives.
In the mean time, my compagno Arturo Bandini, Lydia’s brother,
accomplished a great carrier. He became mayor of Bergamo, that very
beautiful and important Italian city at the bottom of the Alps and within the
reach of the prosperous Po Valley. At theDuring the elections he was a
candidate of the Forza Italia party. Interesting I thought, as we agreed at
some point that we actually despised and hated Berlusconi’s political
playground.
It somehow happened, he told me, that he was offered some very
reasonable terms and could remain fairly independent. All he had to do was
to join their list of candidates.
And yes, he said, we would go to Belgrade and hire the gypsy band but
not now, now he was too busy. That’s what he said. Being a mayor is a very
demanding job that itwhich eats up all your time and energy.
Yes, I thought, and I thought that I was thinking, but didn’t really think.
Yes, I thought how I didn’t think, anything.
The winds were back, loneliness and the voices of shadows, the dance
macabre of the ghosts. The adventure was over. Yes, I thought then, that the
adventure was over, and I thought that I was thinking, that I am thinking.
In that desperate moment I heard some unusual voices, no those were
not familiar voices, those were familiar words, a recognizable language or
languages. I heard something that struck me as clear, something primordial,
deep.
I turned around and saw two very young students of the first, maybe
second year, so cheerful so full of energy and promise. They brought their

37
cappuccinos to the table, took their notebooks out of the colourful rucksacks
and were discussing next week’s timetable.
He spoke with a Zagreb and she spoke with a Sarajevoan accent, or
language, or whatever they are called now those words, and utterances.
I listened to their conversation and admired the different
pronunciations of the same words, different words for the same things, the
melody and rhythm and of their sentences and the resonant, graceful
laughter. I followed the conversation, I eavesdropped while, like a drowning
person, squeezing in my embrace, like a drowning person the brown
envelope.
Then, I suddenly took opened the envelope and took all the papers out
and onto the table, right there by in window. Something was wrong, I knew I
did something wrong, those voices reminded me that the final count of my
story was flawed. Something, somewhere didn’t add up. Somewhere along
the road I lost something and I my fear grew, and grew some more and I felt
like drowning in that fear, right there in the window of the coffee shop.
I was desperate. I grabbed the papers and pushed them into the
envelope.
I pretty much nearly ran out of the coffee shop. I felt the stone
pavement underneath my feet and the power of the Siberian wind blowing
into my back. I turned around one more time towards the shop window and
saw the young students moving their cappuccinos, papers and bags onto my
table. The brown envelope was under my arm and I could feel it. I retracted
my head into my scarf and shoulders and started walking swiftly down the
road towards the post office.
The cousins and the editor cannot wait, I thought. They must be very
busy people and they undoubtedly don’t have much time to waste.

38
 Endgame

‘Listen, why don’t we move to that table next to the window’’ said the
young man and without waiting for a reply picked up his belongings and
started shifting them to the other table. The girl nodded and without saying a
word followed him across the floor of the coffee shop.
As soon as he sat on the tall chair by in the window, the young man
spotted a single sheet of white paper on the colourful oilcloth. He reached for
it and said: ‘look at this one Sabina, it seems that someone forgot this on the
table!’
‘Yes, Damir’, Sabina replied, ‘let me have a look’.
‘It seems Russian, isn’t it?’ Asked Damir.
‘No, no, this is a Cyrillic script, that’s correct but it’s not Russian!’ Said
Sabina while trying to decipher the script.
‘Not Russian? And which one is it, you know?’
‘Yes, I know’, said Sabina. ‘It’s Serbian, just written in Cyrillic’.
‘So, you studied that at school, right?’ Damir was curious.
‘No, no, same as you in Zagreb’, said Sabina, ‘we don’t learn it at
school. I know how to read it for since my parents have many books in Cyrillic
and I read them with my father’.
‘OK, and what does it say?’
‘Let me see’, said Sabina and started to read the page aloud:

In that very moment his mobile phone rang and interrupted his
daydreaming. Eddie picked up the phone without looking at the display.
‘Yes, Eddie Agu speaking’, he said.
There was a silence at first, a distant and dense silence after which
Eddie heard a familiar voice: ‘Like the wild geese, lost in clouds, comrade
Leo!’
Eddie recognised the voice and a timid smile shone across his face. He
looked at the telephone display and then into the garden that was now
bathing in the winter morning sun.
‘Good morning, Herr Che’, he said and reached for the coffee cup.
‘For ever my friends...’ the recitation went on in a monotonous, slow
pace which that was suddenly replaced by a more articulated and intense

39
voice.
‘Eddie’, said Bart, ‘after all there was some system in all that madness
of Art’s. ‘Beware of the waves and you are never to go underground’ he said
when we parted one awful night. I remembered his words when I was walking
down the stairs at King’s Cross, I was going to the tube station and I
remembered his advice, his pledge never to go underground! I remembered
his words and stopped half way down, turned around and ran out of the rail
station like a madman. I got into a cab and was on my way to the airport
when I heard the news. I followed his advice. For the first time in my life I
believed him and it saved my life. He did it again!’
‘Glad to hear your voice, comrade’, replied Eddie and leaned back into
the soft fabric of his office chair.
‘Comrade Eddie’, continued Bart with a serious voice, ‘I am going now
to visit Art and have a chat with him, one last time. I will then write a
resignation letter to Camford and get a ticket straight from Belgrade to Accra.
You and Emma please, do save me a bartender’s job at your Coconut bar. As
you know, I do have some modest experience with bars.’
‘Of course, comrade Che’, said Eddie, ‘for you guys (ili mozda: for guys
like you) there always will be a place in the bars of Accra, on both sides of the
counter!’

‘Interesting’, said Damir once Sabina finished to read from the page, ‘it
sounds like the end of a story!’
‘Yes’, agreed Sabina and let fall the sheet opf paper fall onto the table.
She then placed her hand onto Damir’s, looked him straight into the eyes and
kissed his lips.
‘Yes,’ she said‘, with a devilish smile, ‘it’s either the end of one story or
the beginning of a much more important and happier one!’

40