Yugoslavia, My Fatherland. Goran Vojnović

the road, without even looking back to see if I was following her.

      We continued our aimless wander, and she softly said that her friend Goca, whom she’d once visited after secondary school, lived in that brick apartment building beside a wide street called ‘the boulevard.’ Goca Mladenović had been her classmate from secondary school back in Ljubljana, but had moved to Belgrade with her parents. Now she guessed that only Goca’s mother, whom she had known as Aunt Zdenka (and who, in Ljubljana, was referred to as ‘the famous lady from Belgrade’) lived there. Goca probably married and changed her surname, mother continued, without trying too hard to get me to understand.

      I soon admitted that I was getting tired, so we turned back to the hotel. After lunch she went out for a walk again, and I stayed alone in our room until evening, until she returned, showered, and lay on the bed in silence. Eventually, she fell asleep: Even back then I thought that she might be deliberately trying to drain herself. Despite giving the external appearance of a strong, decisive woman, and widely known for her Podlogar stubbornness, in truth she was sensitive and vulnerable. A single inopportune word from father was enough for her to spend a sleepless night.

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