Chapter 4: debut
The bus to Pristina smelled of wet wool and stale diesel. Vanja sat by a window streaked with grime, watching the frozen countryside blur past—skeletal orchards, fields fallow under iron-hard soil, the occasional cluster of houses with wood smoke bleeding from chimneys. It was a relief to move, to be outside the claustrophobic watch of Podujevo. The shadow from the doorway had been absent this morning. She wondered if that was a good sign or a worse one.
The National Library in Pristina was a brutalist puzzle of concrete and angular white domes, looking less like a place of learning and more like a forgotten military installation. Inside, the heating was a feeble whisper against the vast chill. The main reading room was a cathedral of silence, broken only by the turn of a page or the soft scuff of a shoe on linoleum. A few students hunched over textbooks, their breath faint plumes in the air. The librarian, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, regarded her with open suspicion when she asked for the historical archives relating to Drenica region ethnography.
“Identity card,” he said, not looking at her.
She handed over her Swiss passport. He examined it like a forensic specimen, his eyes darting from her photo to her face. “Swiss,” he stated.
“Yes.”
“You write for Serbian papers.” It wasn’t a question. News traveled, especially bad news.
“I am a journalist. I write for many outlets,” she said, keeping her voice pleasant, professional. The lie was smooth now.
He sniffed, handed the passport back, and gestured to a row of grey metal cabinets in a distant corner. “The catalog is there. Do not remove anything. Make no marks.”
She spent an hour in the frigid silence, pulling thin folders of typewritten papers, fading photographs of folk costumes and wedding rituals from a time that felt like another planet. The words were dry, anthropological. They spoke of embroidery patterns, not blood feuds; harvest songs, not the rhythmic crack of automatic fire. It felt useless, a pantomime of the research she was supposed to be doing. A mask for a mask.
Frustrated, she gathered a stack of maps and carried them to a long table. As she spread one out, a man sitting across from her looked up.
He was younger than she’d expected to see in such a place, maybe late twenties. He had tousled, wheat-blonde hair that fell over his forehead, and eyes of a startling, clear blue. He was handsome in a rugged, unfinished way, with a strong jaw shadowed by stubble. He wore a simple grey sweater, but his shoulders strained against the wool. He wasn’t reading. He was watching her.
“You’re blocking the light,” he said in Albanian. His voice was low, but it carried in the quiet. It wasn’t aggressive, just a flat statement.
She realized her map was casting a shadow over the notebook he had open. “Oh. Sorry.” She shifted the paper.
He didn’t go back to his work. His eyes tracked her hands as she traced a road on the map with her finger. “Looking for something specific?” he asked.
“Just getting oriented,” she replied in Albanian, offering a small, polite smile. “The region is… complex.”
“That’s one word for it.” He leaned back in his chair, the metal legs groaning. His gaze was direct, assessing. He had the look of a farmer or a laborer, not a scholar. “You’re not from here.”
“No. From Switzerland.”
“Switzerland.” He repeated it without inflection. “And you’re here to study our… traditional dances?” The slight pause before the phrase was pregnant with sarcasm.
Her guard went up. “Among other things.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. They were intelligent eyes, sharp and entirely devoid of the deference or wariness she usually encountered. “A waste of time. The dances have changed. The music is different now. Faster. You should listen to the new songs.”
The comment was pointed, almost a provocation. “I’m interested in the old ones too,” she said, her tone cooling.
“The old ones are gone. Buried.” He closed his notebook with a definitive snap. “Like the people who sang them. You dig in the wrong place, you’ll find only bones and bad memories.”
The echo of her own words to Rrustem, thrown back at her, was a psychic shock. Her skin prickled. Bones or freshly decaying bodies? She stared at him. There was no recognition in his face, only a chilly, impersonal certainty. Was it a coincidence? A common local saying? It felt like a message.
“Who are you?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.
“Bahri,” he said, standing. He was tall, broad-shouldered. He gathered his single notebook. “. I work with pepple, fix things. Sometimes, I see people trying to fix things that are meant to stay broken.” He looked down at her map, at her finger resting on the village of Prekaz. “That road is closed. Has been for months. The bridge is out. You’d need to go around through the hills. Four-wheel drive. A local. And even then, it’s not a journey for tourists.”
IHe delivered the information like a mechanic diagnosing a faulty engine—factual, final. Then he turned and walked away, his boots echoing in the cavernous room. She watched him go, a strange, cold sensation settling in her stomach. Bahri. A fixer. Rustem had used the same description for himself. It was a cover, a uniform for a different kind of service.
She suddenly felt exposed, as if the archival silence were listening. She hastily refolded the maps, her earlier frustration replaced by a jangling unease. The trip to Pristina had yielded nothing she needed, and something she couldn’t name.
The return bus felt longer. The handsome blonde man’s face—Bahri’s face—floated in her mind. The rude familiarity of him. The way his blue eyes had held no curiosity, only a kind of operational evaluation. He hadn’t been researching. He had been waiting. Watching her. The realization was a cold stone in her gut. Both sides were indeed watching. And now, they were sending messengers.
It was late afternoon, the sky a bruised purple, when she climbed the stairs to her apartment in Podujevo. She had thirty minutes to change, to gather her composure, before her appointment at the station.
She walked into the interrogation room exactly on time. Captain Stojanovic was already there, standing by the single barred window, a file in his hands. He turned as she entered. He was in full uniform today, the dark fabric making him look even larger, more imposing. The room smelled of bleach and old cigarette smoke.
“Sit,” he said, nodding to the chair.
She sat, placing her folder on the scarred metal table. He remained standing, a tactic of dominance. He opened his file, not looking at her.
“Your report.”
She slid her typed page across the table. It was bland, innocuous, a masterpiece of nothing. He picked it up, skimmed it with disinterest, and let it fall back to the surface.
“And your account of your conversations with Rustem Mustafa,” he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Word for word.”
She took a breath. This was the performance. She had to sell the disappointment, the naive frustration. “There’s not much to tell. I met him at the café, as you know. I asked him about acting as a guide, or introducing me to someone in Drenica who could speak about cultural traditions. He refused.”
Stojanovic’s eyes lifted from the file. They were dark, unreadable pools. “His exact words.”
“He said… ‘Drenica is not a museum. It is not safe for tourists, especially now. Especially for a woman who speaks Serbian like a native.’” She delivered the line, carefully maintaining the respectful, slightly wounded tone of the rejected researcher.
“And?”
“And I persisted. I said I was willing to pay. He told me to come back in two days for an answer.” She paused, gauging his reaction. Nothing. “I went back last night. He said no. Just… no. That was it.”
“That was it,” Stojanovic repeated softly. He took a step closer to the table, leaning his knuckles on it. The proximity was overwhelming. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadow of his beard. “You traveled to Pristina today.”
It wasn’t a question. Her heart stuttered. “Yes. The library there has better archives.”
“Find what you were looking for?”
“Some historical context. It was useful.” She held his gaze, refusing to blink.
“Meet anyone interesting? A handsome blonde guy, perhaps?”
The air vanished from the room. The cold stone in her gut turned to ice. He knew. He knew about Bahri. The surveillance wasn’t just in Podujevo. It was everywhere. She was a fly in a web so vast she couldn’t see its edges.
She allowed a flicker of confusion, then a dismissive shrug. “There was a man in the library. He was rude. Made some vague, gloomy comments. I didn’t get his name.”
“His name is Bahri Nika,” Stojanovic said, the words dropping into the quiet room like stones into a still pond. He straightened up, watching the micro-expressions flit across her face—the slight widening of her eyes, the quick, controlled inhale. “He’s from Drenica. He fixes many things. Cars, generators, supply lines. Most of all, he fixes people for Adem Jashari. He’s his distant cousin. His father is very rich and very well-connected here, which is why he can move so freely.”
Vanja felt the walls of the room compress. The rude, handsome man in the library was not just a messenger. He was a key, a direct line to the very heart of the resistance. And the police captain knew his biography by heart. “I did not know,” she said, her voice carefully even, a perfect blend of surprise and academic detachment.
“I know you didn’t,” he replied, taking a slow step around the edge of the table. His boots were silent on the linoleum. “Which is why I’m telling you. So you understand the caliber of people who are now taking an interest in your… cultural research. Bahri Nika does not visit libraries. He does not make small talk with Swiss journalists. His appearance was a direct response to your visit to Rustem. They are assessing you.”
He stopped behind her chair. She could feel the heat of him, the disturbance in the air. She didn’t turn.
“And what was his assessment?” she asked, staring straight ahead at the grey wall.
“Unknown. But his presence means you are on their board. You are a piece they are deciding how to move, or remove.” He leaned down, his voice close to her ear. It was low, almost intimate. “When I warned you about what could happen in Drenica, I was not speaking abstractly. Bahri is the man who would arrange the vehicle. He is also the man who would, if ordered, arrange the afterwards. Do you comprehend the difference now?”
A cold, precise fear slid down her spine. This was no longer about vague dangers. It was about mechanics, about logistics of violence. She comprehended perfectly. “Yes.”
“Good.” He moved back into her line of sight, crossing his arms. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, painting his face in stark relief. “Your report is approved. It’s worthless, but it’s compliant. Your movements, however, are a problem. Pristina is off-limits without prior notification to me.”
“That’s not in our agreement,” she said, turning to look up at him. A spark of defiance, genuine and hot, flashed through the fear.
“Our agreement,” he said, bending at the waist to bring his face level with hers, “is whatever I say it is. You are a guest here. A disruptive one. My hospitality has limits. You will not contact Rustem. You will not seek out Bahri Nika. You will focus your research on the approved, historical topics within this municipality. Is that clear?”
His eyes were dark, relentless. She could see the faint scar through his left eyebrow, the tight set of his mouth. He was so close she could smell the coffee on his breath. The moment stretched, thick with a challenge that had nothing to do with politics.
“Or what?” she whispered, the question hanging between them.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t blink. “Or I will revoke your press credentials and have you on the next transport to Belgrade for deportation proceedings. Your godfather can argue with a judge. You will sit in a holding cell until he manages it. The cells here are not like in Basel.”
The threat was real, bureaucratic, and brutal. He would do it. The sexual tension that had crackled in the car was gone, burned away by the colder, harder reality of his authority. He was the state here. She was an anomaly to be corrected.
She looked away first, a calculated submission. She nodded slowly. “It’s clear.”
He stood upright, the imposing distance returning. “Your next report is due in seven days. Do not make me come looking for you before then.”
He turned and left the room, the door clicking shut with finality behind him. Vanja didn’t move for a full minute. She listened to the retreating footsteps, the murmur of voices from the corridor outside. She placed her palms flat on the cold metal table to steady their slight tremor.
Bahri Nika. Fixer for Adem Jashari. Assessed and found interesting. She knew of him, of course, he survived a war, is a hero-will be a hero, important memember of 111 jashari brigade. Marko Stojanovic. Jailer and reluctant protector. Assessing and finding her troublesome. She was pinned between a ruthless idealist and a ruthless pragmatist, and both now had her name in their files.
She stood, her legs steady. The fear was still there, a humming baseline, but it was being overtaken by a sharper, more focused recklessness. They both thought they could control her movements, her inquiries. They both thought she was just a woman playing a dangerous game she didn’t understand.
She walked out of the police station, the freezing evening air a slap of clarity. The blonde fixer and the dark captain had given her the same warning in different languages. Stop digging. It was the worst advice she’d ever received. It told her, more clearly than any map, exactly where she needed to go.
It told her, more clearly than any map, exactly where she needed to go. The defiance that had sparked in the interrogation room hardened into a quiet, daily resolve. She began to walk different routes, her notebook always visible, stopping anyone who looked like they wouldn’t immediately report her.
At a battered kiosk selling cigarettes and single-serving packets of biscuits, she bought a lighter she didn’t need. “The weather is never this cold in Basel,” she remarked to the elderly vendor in Serbian, making a show of rubbing her hands.
He grunted, making change. “This is not Basel.”
“No,” she agreed, smiling. “I am trying to understand it. My grandfather was from near here. I think the landscape gets in your blood, even if you leave.” She let the confession hang, a tender piece of bait. The old man’s eyes, watery and cautious, flicked over her face. He said nothing, but he didn’t look away either. She pressed gently. “I bet the children here have stories their grandparents tell. About the old times.”
“Children listen to guns now,” he said quietly, his voice a dry rustle. “Not stories.” He turned to arrange a box of matches, his back a clear dismissal. The line had been reached.
Two days later, she found the secondary school during the midday break. She waited near the gate until she saw a woman in a worn but neat coat shepherding a cluster of younger students. “Teacher,” Vanja called out in Albanian, approaching. The woman froze, instinctively moving to place herself between Vanja and the children. “I am sorry to bother you. I am a writer. I am collecting folk tales, the ones children might know. Proverbs, even.”
The teacher’s face was all sharp angles and exhaustion. “There is no time for tales. The curriculum is set. We teach what we are given.” Her Albanian was formal, textbook-perfect.
“But after school,” Vanja tried, her tone softening into shared frustration. “Surely, preserving your culture is important. It must feel like everything is being…” She searched for the word, “…standardized.”
The teacher’s gaze swept over Vanja’s expensive boots, her Swiss-made coat. A flicker of contempt crossed her features. “Our culture is in our survival. Not in books for foreigners. Excuse me.” She ushering the children away, a living wall against Vanja’s inquiries. The rejection was absolute, armored in a pride that left no entry point.
The following evening, she pushed open the door to the kafene. The air was the same—smoke, boiled coffee, damp wool—but the silence that fell was different. It wasn’t the loaded pause of before. It was blank. Indifferent. She felt the men’s eyes slide over her, noting her presence the way one notes a piece of furniture, and then they turned back to their games and murmured conversations.
Rustem’s corner was empty. The chessboard was gone. He was gone.
She took her usual table. Asim, the owner, approached after a moment, his expression unreadable. “Espresso?” he asked, the routine question feeling scripted.
“No, Asim,” she said, offering a small, weary smile. It was the first time she’d used his name. “Turkish. Strong. And some baklava, please.”
He blinked. Then, a slow, real smile touched his lips, changing his whole face. It was the smile of a man appreciating a correct order. “Strong,” he repeated, nodding. “Okay.” He returned with a small copper pot, the grounds swirling in the water, and a plate with two sticky, diamond-shaped pieces of pastry. He set them down without a word, but the gesture felt almost friendly. She was no longer an event. She was a customer.
She drank the thick, sweet coffee and ate the flaky baklava, the honey coating her fingers. No one looked at her. She was beautiful, and most men saw her, but she was also very quiet. She had become part of the scenery, and in doing so, had perhaps disarmed something. It was a different kind of loneliness.
On her way out the second evening, the familiar Lada was waiting, its engine a dark purr in the quiet street. The passenger window was down. Captain Stojanovic stared straight ahead through the windshield, his hands resting at ten and two on the wheel. “Get in,” he said, not looking at her.
She stopped on the sidewalk, crossing her arms against the chill. “How can I help you, Officer?” she asked, layering the question with annoyance.
“You either get in, or I arrest you for loitering with intent to solicit.” His voice was flat, procedural.
She rolled her eyes, a gesture of pure frustration, and yanked the door open. The interior was warm, filled with his scent. She slammed the door shut. “My report isn’t due yet,” she said, staring straight ahead.
He nodded, putting the car in gear and pulling smoothly into the empty street. “We need your help. Tomorrow, a German TV crew is coming. A documentary team. They want to film the police station, interview the commander.”
“Oh,” she said, the surprise genuine.
He smiled, a quick, cold slash of white in the dashboard’s glow. “Oh,” he echoed. He took a turn, not toward her apartment, but toward the newer part of town, where the official buildings were. “They need a translator. Someone fluent in German and Serbian, who looks good on camera. The commander suggested you.”
She absorbed this. It was a logical move from Pendic’s godfather, a way to keep her visible and useful. “And you’re my escort to the meeting?”
“No,” he said, his gaze flicking to her for a second. The streetlights strobed across his sharp profile. “Their flight was early. They’ve landed. The meeting is tonight, to brief them on safety protocols and approved areas for filming. It will run late. Past curfew.” He slowed the Lada, pulling into the parking lot of a grim, concrete apartment block. He turned off the engine. The sudden silence was immense.
He finally looked at her, his face shadowed. “So, you are staying with me tonight.”
Her breath caught. The declaration was delivered with absolute authority, leaving no room for debate. A complex, unwelcome heat flushed through her, instantaneous and physical. Her nipples tightened painfully against the silk of her bra, a traitorous, visceral response to the stark possession in his words. She said nothing, just stared back at him in the dark, the only sound their breathing in the close, heated space.