antidote was Van Morrison. Boris played mostly
Poetic Champions Compose
, especially the instrumentals. He loved that album so much he bought a copy for Johnny so he could listen to it when he went to Johnny’s place. Which was usually every day, but not now. Johnny was in Novi Sad recording with some local musicians and Sara was visiting distant cousins in Macedonia.
Boris looked at the absurdly large wall clock hanging above his desk. It was almost eleven and he put the book down and zapped through several channels trying to find a movie. Instead, he stumbled upon news on a satellite channel. Flashing images of Earth exchanged places with pictures from big cities of the world. The anchor was a prototype, probably a legend in German or Swiss journalism. Boris did not speak German, so he muted the box and reached for an ashtray and the notebook that lay next to it. Before he could light a cigarette, the telephone rang.
“Are you asleep?”
“No. Where are you?”
“Are you alone?” There was urgency in Johnny’s voice.
“I am. Why?”
“Not over the phone. I’m back in Belgrade. We need to talk.”
“Come over.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, okay?”
Johnny hung up, and Boris put his small red phone back on the hook. He went to the kitchen and opened the window. He took out a few eggs, some cheese, and the remains of assorted salamis he found in the fridge behind the milk and set them on the counter. He put the frying pan on the stove and turned on the burner, then started mixing everything he had found in a bowl. When the oil in the pan started smoking, he emptied the bowl into it and let it fry for a minute or two. He removed the pan from the stove and set the table for two.
He opened the door to the small balcony and went outside, propping the door open to allow the fumes out. The street below was almost deserted. That was another thing that had changed with the coming of war. Normally, Belgrade was alive at any time of night, except maybe around four in the morning, when the night owls would be withdrawing before the skunks of day. A cab stopped below him and Johnny got out.
“I thought you were supposed to be in Novi Sad,” Boris said, taking Johnny’s old, long coat.
“I thought so, too. But people have other plans for me.”
“What people?”
Johnny looked at him, not yet ready to talk.
“All right, let’s eat. I made a little something. Wine?”
“Anything to warm up, it’s biting outside.”
As Johnny sat down at the kitchen table, Boris poured some red wine into the water glasses he’d grabbed from the sink. Johnny took a long gulp and Boris refilled his glass.
Johnny stared at his plate, then pushed it away. “You eat, I’ll keep you company.”
“What’s going on?”
“Well, it seems that we pissed someone off with our concert in the square.”
“I’m sure we did,” Boris said, chewing on his omelette.
“Yeah, but it’s payback time. At least for me.”
Boris reached for his glass.
“Last night we worked ’til two in the studio. It was good so we stayed a little longer to celebrate. When I got back to my hotel, there was a message for me. It said, ‘Call Mr. Stosic, extension 517, whenever you get back to your room.’ It was past three in the morning and I don’t know anyone by that name so I ignored it and got ready for bed. The telephone rang. I was rude, but the guy cut me off—he was from State Security, he said. He suggested that I meet him in the morning in the hotel restaurant. At first I thought he was pulling my leg but then I realized that the guy knew I’d just returned to my room so he could have indeed been a cop.
“This morning, I’m downstairs having my breakfast, and the guy comes to my table and sits with me. He doesn’t look anything like a cop. He was our age, jeans, leather, all that. Big shoulders. Snake eyes. He orders a coffee and gets right down to business.”
“Where was the good cop?” Boris said.
“This guy
Poetic Champions Compose
, especially the instrumentals. He loved that album so much he bought a copy for Johnny so he could listen to it when he went to Johnny’s place. Which was usually every day, but not now. Johnny was in Novi Sad recording with some local musicians and Sara was visiting distant cousins in Macedonia.
Boris looked at the absurdly large wall clock hanging above his desk. It was almost eleven and he put the book down and zapped through several channels trying to find a movie. Instead, he stumbled upon news on a satellite channel. Flashing images of Earth exchanged places with pictures from big cities of the world. The anchor was a prototype, probably a legend in German or Swiss journalism. Boris did not speak German, so he muted the box and reached for an ashtray and the notebook that lay next to it. Before he could light a cigarette, the telephone rang.
“Are you asleep?”
“No. Where are you?”
“Are you alone?” There was urgency in Johnny’s voice.
“I am. Why?”
“Not over the phone. I’m back in Belgrade. We need to talk.”
“Come over.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, okay?”
Johnny hung up, and Boris put his small red phone back on the hook. He went to the kitchen and opened the window. He took out a few eggs, some cheese, and the remains of assorted salamis he found in the fridge behind the milk and set them on the counter. He put the frying pan on the stove and turned on the burner, then started mixing everything he had found in a bowl. When the oil in the pan started smoking, he emptied the bowl into it and let it fry for a minute or two. He removed the pan from the stove and set the table for two.
He opened the door to the small balcony and went outside, propping the door open to allow the fumes out. The street below was almost deserted. That was another thing that had changed with the coming of war. Normally, Belgrade was alive at any time of night, except maybe around four in the morning, when the night owls would be withdrawing before the skunks of day. A cab stopped below him and Johnny got out.
“I thought you were supposed to be in Novi Sad,” Boris said, taking Johnny’s old, long coat.
“I thought so, too. But people have other plans for me.”
“What people?”
Johnny looked at him, not yet ready to talk.
“All right, let’s eat. I made a little something. Wine?”
“Anything to warm up, it’s biting outside.”
As Johnny sat down at the kitchen table, Boris poured some red wine into the water glasses he’d grabbed from the sink. Johnny took a long gulp and Boris refilled his glass.
Johnny stared at his plate, then pushed it away. “You eat, I’ll keep you company.”
“What’s going on?”
“Well, it seems that we pissed someone off with our concert in the square.”
“I’m sure we did,” Boris said, chewing on his omelette.
“Yeah, but it’s payback time. At least for me.”
Boris reached for his glass.
“Last night we worked ’til two in the studio. It was good so we stayed a little longer to celebrate. When I got back to my hotel, there was a message for me. It said, ‘Call Mr. Stosic, extension 517, whenever you get back to your room.’ It was past three in the morning and I don’t know anyone by that name so I ignored it and got ready for bed. The telephone rang. I was rude, but the guy cut me off—he was from State Security, he said. He suggested that I meet him in the morning in the hotel restaurant. At first I thought he was pulling my leg but then I realized that the guy knew I’d just returned to my room so he could have indeed been a cop.
“This morning, I’m downstairs having my breakfast, and the guy comes to my table and sits with me. He doesn’t look anything like a cop. He was our age, jeans, leather, all that. Big shoulders. Snake eyes. He orders a coffee and gets right down to business.”
“Where was the good cop?” Boris said.
“This guy
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