Chapter II
20 km back, on a narrow road, over the snow-covered, long ledge of rock edging the Uzlomac River where it flowed into the Usora River, a bus was pushing through the mountain snow. It was an old "Ikarus" bus manufactured in what was once one of the largest vehicle factories in former Yugoslavia, but that was now turned into a Serbian factory for military equipment and vehicles. Although the bus was old, it was still in driving condition and eager to cope with the road, the blizzard, and its passengers.
A tall, bony man in his late thirties was huddled tightly in his seat. His name was Martin Radman, and his mind was occupied with the events of the last few weeks, since he had landed at Zagreb Airport. It was funny that it took him only one day to come from the States to Europe and another one to reach Croatia, just to lose two weeks waiting for a Bosnian visa. Even his false press card hadn't been of any help.
"You will see, sir," the hotel clerk said to Radman, "many things changed in Zagreb and Croatia. In few years we might become a new Switzerland!"
Radman had enough time to see all the changes the man was talking about, although his perspective had broadened since leaving his native town, some 20 years ago. Zagreb had lost its original innocence, giving way to a lifeless, monotone, socialistic urbanization of 70's and 80's. Its new, democratic government of the 90's replaced its old, socialistic symbols and flags with national ones, giving the people of Croatia some hope of a new, better age <<for perhaps the first time in 900 years.
"First the war must end, and then we shall have democracy and prosperity," politicians yelled on TV.
Radman saw no trace of war in Zagreb except that a large number of soldiers in camouflage uniforms swarmed around town.
In the evening of the first day, he visited a house where he lived until his 17th birthday. A new family was dwelling in it now and he hadn't bothered much to explain why he was staring into the house, overwhelmed by emotions and memories. 'Nothing that man remembers really exists in the world,' he thought; 'at least not in the same shape.' He avoided a meeting with the present dwellers by running down the muddy road to his rented car. '20 years is a long period of time,' he mused, 'not to mention moving from France, to Africa — with two years in the Legion — and then to America.'
When he finally obtained a Bosnian visa, he had been glad that he could leave Zagreb. Now his search for his friend Zlatko might start.
Yet the worst part of his journey was the stretch from Zagreb to Klakar, on the Croatian-Bosnian border, and then on to Trnovo, in Northern Bosnia. It was an endless haul through the ridges of the Motayica Mountains and then along the flank of the Usora River, with the snow coming up stronger every day in spite of the fact that it was the end of March. They had to stop in Rakovac for one day, Novo Selo for two days, and, finally, Trnovo for three days.
Here, waiting for the bus to continue its ride, he was winning a card and pool session from a mixed bunch of passengers. Faced with the prospect of another night in their freezing hotel rooms, several groups of them had opted to sit the night out by the stove in the hotel lobby, forgetting the cold and all other troubles in contemplation of cards and pool. Radman was happy enough with the arrangement. His room was cold as anyone's and he enjoyed playing cards or pool under almost any circumstances, especially when he was winning.
"Are you sure that you don't come from Las Vegas?" one of the passengers asked him, commenting on his luck. Radman smiled and gathered a large pile of money, pushing it into his pockets. They played for Bosnian, Croatian, and German currency, usually using all three in one hand.
"I must admit that I feel much better with these folks here than with those in Zagreb," he thought, not without bitterness.
Now, as he was sitting in his seat in the bus, he finally felt the fatigue of the last few days. The conductor had promised a stopover in Kerepnik, and, even though Radman did not know the place, he was looking forward to stretching his legs some place other than in the narrow passage between the seats and to drinking a coffee.
Outside the world was white and clean and lonely, the stark blankness of the snow, broken only by pines and occasional rocks sticking up through the whiteness like wounds. He couldn't see any sign of the war outside. In this area of Northern Bosnia, the front line hadn't moved for months, although the Serbs had only a few Muslim and Croatian brigades against their well-armed forces.
Radman did not care much for the events of war. He saw them on TV and read about them in the papers. He also gave money for the support of Croatia, Slovenia, and Bosnia, but he stayed out of any active role in it. Being half Croat – his mother was Slovenian – he had no defined national feelings, and, living in San Francisco for the last 10 years, he had accepted an American way of life. It was true that he occasionally had strong bursts of nostalgia, but he would force himself to neglect it. 'Am I a good American?' he would often ask himself in sleepless nights after hard booze or drug seances.
On the other hand his friend Zlatko was crazy enough to trade his safe life in California for the uncertain life of the warrior in Croatia and Bosnia.
"I know you can do it, Martin," Zlatko's father said. "Bring my boy back home, please!"
"I can't do it, Mesho," Radman refused. "I'm sick of the war. All war!"
"They'll kill him down there in Bosnia," Mesho begged. "You must save him, Martin. I'll pay you as much as you want."
As the news from the war worsened and the killing raged across the whole of Bosnia, Radman began to fear that Zlatko might die in Bosnia. "I can't delay it anymore," he thought. "I must go and find him. " He accepted the offer, and took few thousand dollars, from Mesho.
According to Zlatko's last letter, he was transferred from Orahovica to Klakar, where his unit crossed the border, taking up a position in the vicinity of Orasye.
"They're all gone to Vitez," the man in Klakar said to Radman. "We expect trouble with the Muslims there."
"Jesus, it's even worse than I expected. Radman felt the first strike of panic deep inside his stomach.
The woman sitting right next to Radman in the bus was, by his guess, around thirty. Her hair was dark brown, falling in fascinating but unfashionable waves over her shoulders. "In Frisco they would say she's trying to look natural," he thought knowing that it was just an ordinary hairstyle here in Bosnia. She was tall and slim and had moved sinuously as she approached his table last night. He couldn't move his eyes from her and it seemed that hours passed before she smiled at him, flashing perfect, white teeth in a wide, sensuous mouth, belying the reserve of her dark eyes. She had been on the bus all the way from Klakar, sharing the same troubles as Radman. That was the reason why Radman smiled back and stood up, inviting her to sit at his table for supper.
"Thank you, sir," she said as she took her place opposite Radman. "You're very kind."
He looked at her, speechless, enjoying the delicate and discreet perfume that spread around her.
"I see no change in our menu so far," he finally murmured, looking at the menu card.
Her laughter was deep and rich, matching her whole appearance.
"Where I come from, supper consists of lamb and potatoes five nights out of six."
"I see," Radman grinned. "I have many friends from Bosnia, and they're all crazy about lamb and potatoes."
"Are you familiar with this country?" Her interest seemed more than that of a casual traveling companion.
"Well, before I emigrated to the States, I used to live in Zagreb," Radman remained cautious, wary of not committing himself too far. "I had many friends from Bosnia then."
"Interesting," she said. "Have you heard of the Redgeps?"
"No, I don't think so. I never knew anyone with such name," Radman shook his head.
"We're one of the richest families in Eastern Bosnia," she said proudly, and then blushed. "I'm sorry, that's just boasting. Please, forgive me."
"Of course," Radman smiled. 'I wonder why people with money need to talk so much about it,' he thought. 'It is the same here in Bosnia as throughout the States.'
He knew very well that in the former Yugoslavia only few families were so rich as to mention it. And they all belonged to, or were supported by, the Communist elite.
"Boasting about money here and now, in the middle of the war, can only bring troubles," he said bitterly.
"I'm sorry," she looked genuinely regretful as she watched him over the table, "but sometimes I just need to talk."
"So talk to me," Radman grinned. "I'm willing to listen."
A waiter arrived to alleviate her blushes with a polite enquiry as to their dinner.
"Have you got lamb and potatoes?" Radman asked blandly.
The woman giggled as the waiter recited a list of lamb dishes with potatoes. She chose boiled lamb with potatoes and cabbage, and Radman joined her. He ordered beer for himself, but she refused it and took a coke for herself.
Throughout the evening he made polite conversation with the Redgep woman, carefully avoiding the war and the politics until she decided to go to sleep, 'despite my obvious charm.' Radman then returned to his card and pool friends.
Now she was sleeping in her seat, right next to him, and he could smell her perfume again. Emina Redgep! 'I must admit, I like her,' he thought. 'It's been a long time since a woman made an impression on me like she did last night.'
She told him that she had spent the last year in Croatia, with her friends from better days who were kind enough to offer her their home in Zagreb. 'People of her kind always have one more exit than ordinary people,' he couldn't help but to think so. In spite of all her "rich style", she was a very amusing companion, the kind of woman who could make a man feel at ease in her company, being sure enough of herself to forget coquetry. 'She is an emancipated Muslim woman who had enough time and money to learn all the pleasures of this world. Yes, I definitely like her,' Radman concluded.
He glanced at his wrist watch, and then moved the window drape to peer into the white night. Dimly, shining from around the next bend, he could see the lights of Kerepnik sparkling faintly through the snow.
Emina moved in her seat, opening her eyes.
"I'm glad we're stopping in Kerepnik," she purred like a cat. "It will be nice to stretch my legs after this endless drive."
