Yugoslavia, My Fatherland. Goran Vojnović

because of the rusty burner that was left on the kitchen floor, a red dish beside it that had sat there for three years? Maybe because of the pile of yellowing newspapers in the corner of the living room: a room without a TV, a radio or a wooden bookcase full of hand-me-down ceramics and china? Or maybe just because there were no curtains, no cloth over the dining table, no vase in the living room, just two empty cigarette packs and a small ashtray. A few worn-out shirts in the open wardrobe in the bedroom, a pair of jeans splayed across the floor beside it. The living room was anchored by a stained green rug; and the bathroom by a foul-yellow shower curtain. It was the sort of space that a normal person would only occupy against their will.

      I wondered if Tomislav Zdravković saw this place as a prison cell, which is why he never bothered to make it any nicer. Maybe he thought that by living in this dump, opposite the retired municipal official, he was repaying his debt to society, and that maintaining its unpleasant décor was a mild form of self-flagellation? Or was he just such a misera­ble son-of-a-bitch that he didn’t even notice all the mess and rustiness of his world? Whatever it was, we couldn’t call spending time in a two-and-a-half bedroom flat the equivalent to solitary confinement.

      I was pulled out of my strange lethargy, moving hypnotized around this so-called apartment, wading into the story of Tomislav Zdravković, by a surprising sight: Sudoku puzzles, cut from newspapers and carefully filled-in with pencil, which lay on the floor by the bedside table. A rubber on the table reminded me that Nedelko Borojević used to solve math problems in the Voice of Istria newspaper, using a pencil and rubber. Sometimes it took him all afternoon, and so focused would be on his task that he wouldn’t hear Dusha yelling from the kitchen if he wanted to eat what was left of lunch.

      ‘I don’t think I’ve been in here since he left. I saw people come several times and take things away, but what could I do? Now I don’t even remember what used to be in here, but it was always so... empty. He had a few books and I gave him a potted plant once. I know he had a painting. I think it used to hang above the armchair. He said he’d bought it at a stand beside the farmer’s market, that he’d liked the young painter and thought he was a good haggler. So he said.’

      While Mediha kindly put forth an effort to reminisce aloud about her former neighbour, I mindlessly flipped through the old Sudoku puzzles. They were solved, all of them, filled in with accurate, even beautiful numbers, which revealed an unusually meticulous man, in striking contrast to the state of his apartment. He seemed to have had more time for Sudoku puzzles than anything else in his life. If I could judge by the astonishing number of solved puzzles, I’d say that Tomislav Zdravković hadn’t been up to much of anything else during his time in Brčko.

      ‘Your dad liked to say that he liked Brčko best from his window. From afar.’

      Mediha stood by the window and, as a diehard busybody, scanned the street below, and therefore missed the astonishing effect her words had on me. I didn’t know which aspect of them I found creepier. That she referred to Tomislav Zdravković as ‘your dad,’ or that this same Tomislav Zdravković had an identical aesthetics theory on Bosnian towns as I did. This was a trivial thought, of course, the sort that would occur to anyone, but all the same, it revealed another secret link between us that I’d have preferred remain obscure.

      To calm myself down, I looked once more to the Sudoku puzzles, which were just the right unfamiliar form of entertainment for me, since maths and I never got along. When it came to numbers, I was Dusha’s son – she had trouble with simple multiplication.

      ‘There, Yelena’s off to the farmer’s market. And I was just about to go see her and ask if she could bring me back some cucumbers and... what did I say I needed? Carrots, parsley, potatoes and... I can’t remember. I should check. My brain’s turned off. Nothing. I think I’ve got everything for the soup... I also have Filo pastry... I’ll ask her tomorrow. That’s right... When I go see Nada tonight, I can stop by her place... ’

      Mediha continued her lonely old woman monologue, while I continued to stare at a sheet of paper I’d accidentally found folded between the Sudoku puzzles. Perhaps intentionally hidden from spying eyes.

      It was a letter addressed to ‘My darling.’ Tomislav Zdravković’s writing looked very much like that of Nedelko Borojević, and it disgusted me to think that this ‘darling’ he referred to was the current Dusha Ćirić, ex-Mrs. Borojević, ex-Miss Podlogar. The idea that Nedelko saw Dusha as his darling so many years after his official death seemed twisted to me, though I couldn’t articulate why.

      But oddly enough, the idea also appealed to me, the ghastly thought of an eternal fire of love burning between a fugitive war criminal and the head of human resources at the Ljubljana Polyclinic. And it was far preferable to the more likely target for this letter, a darling who wasn’t my mother at all. In my own bizarre way, I was relieved when I began to read the letter, as I sat on the mattress of Tomislav Zdravković’s bed, holding in my shaky hands, the letter he had written to Dusha at least three years ago.

      My darling. J. should soon be setting off, so I thought I’d write you a few things. The way things are going, I won’t be here for much longer. Things keep changing and they say I should move on, just in case. Until we see how it goes. Loza said that new kids were coming, and that they didn’t know who they belonged to. I don’t know what the situation will be like elsewhere, and when I’ll be able to get in touch again. But I will get in touch. Believe me. I hope you’re all fine. You and V. I left the house last night after seven days, and went to the farmer’s market and a shop. I had a cold for the last few days and I took some pills for my immune system, and I’m better now. So you needn’t worry. I don’t have a sore throat anymore, and I’m okay. I read in the newspaper that everything is more expensive in your country, since it adopted the euro. It would be the same here, if it is ever adopted. Here things are more expensive even without the euro. But for now I’m just fine. I also read about Bojan Križaj. It said he worked in Japan.

      Either Tomislav Zdravković found whatever point he planned to make about Bojan Križaj and Japan of sufficient importance to end the letter, or more likely he never got around to finishing it. Nedelko Borojević was never a particularly literate man, and the very fact that Tomislav Zdravković wrote letters was enough to impress me. But at that moment, I couldn’t have cared less. I was preoccupied by something else in the letter. Aside from the name of Križaj, the famous skier, my name and my ‘darling’ mother’s, there was someone else mentioned in the letter, someone my mother must know about. I stood up, eyes still focused on the unfinished letter, as if more words might sprout if I stared hard enough.

      ‘Find anything of interest?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘There’s nothing left, dear Vlado. They’ve removed everything. Vultures. It’s a strange world that moved here. It’s somehow, how can I put it... moronic.’

      ‘Do you happen to have a phone book?’

      Mediha did not have a phone book, and I didn’t think it fruitful to ask if she had an online computer. I thanked her for everything and promised to get in touch if I ever found Tomislav. She wrote her phone number on a scrap of paper and shoved it into my hands. Standing at the door, she then watched me descend the stairs.

      As I passed the apartment of Vasa Đorđić, who for some reason still piqued my curiosity, I looked back towards Mediha, who smiled and waved like kindly aunts tend to do, grateful that their nephews and nieces come for even a brief, rare visit. I smiled back like a nephew who knows very well he’ll never see his aunt again.

      

      If you just glance at towns like Brčko, it’s impossible to tell whether they might have a cybercafé. But had I stopped random passers-by and asked them about it, I would surely have ended up at the police station sooner or later. So I had to target my inquiries, and sought out fashion­able young people who did not look as though they’d just stepped out of a black-and-white film.

      Initially, those I asked just shrugged their shoulders, but some stopped and thought and pointed in a variety of mutually exclusive directions. Someone even asked me ‘How did you manage to choose Brčko