Chapter 8: Research
The bus to Pristina rattled and swayed, a tin can full of cigarette smoke and the scent of unwashed wool. Vanja stared out the grimy window at the bleak winter landscape, the memories of Marko’s hands on her body a fresh brand beneath her clothing. She had come to Pristina under the thin pretext of visiting the National Library, to research Ottoman land grants. It was flimsy, but it had gotten her a travel pass. The truth was simpler: she needed space from the claustrophobic gravity of Podujevo, from the dangerous calculus of Marko Stojanovic.
The city unfolded in a gray tapestry of concrete blocks and crumbling Ottoman facades. Graffiti blazed on walls—sometimes the double-headed eagle, sometimes the Serbian cross. White UN vehicles cruised the streets with a quiet, observant menace. She found a cafe off Mother Teresa Boulevard, one known to be neutral ground, its windows steamed from within.
And he was there. Again.
Bahri Nika sat at a corner table, a half-empty coffee cup before him, a German newspaper spread open. He looked older than she remembered, or perhaps just wearier. The striking blond hair was pushed back from a forehead now permanently lined with tension. He wore a simple black jacket, but his posture screamed alertness. Their eyes met across the room. His showed no surprise, only a deep, simmering recognition. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod toward the empty chair opposite him.
She ordered a coffee and joined him, the vinyl seat sticking to her tights. “Do you live here?” she asked, dispensing with hello.
“No. I have business.” His Albanian was clipped. He folded the newspaper. The front page showed a blurred photo of a burned-out farmhouse near Glogovac. “And you? More research on cultural patrimony?” The phrase was laden with sarcasm.
“Something like that.”
“You smell of them,” he said quietly, his intense eyes fixed on her. “Of their soap. Of their offices. You walk differently.”
A cold trickle of fear traced her spine. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t insult me, Vanja. You are seen with Stojanovic. The Serpent. They say you are his pet journalist now, his little translator. That you smooth the way for their propaganda.” His voice was low, but each word was a shard of ice. “Is that your patrimony? Preserving the fiction of their control?”
Anger, hot and defensive, flared in her chest. “You have no idea what I’m doing. You sit here in your cafe, reading newspapers, while I am in it. I see the checkpoints. I hear the talk in their stations. That is research.”
“Research for whom?” he shot back, leaning forward. The table shook. “For your Swiss magazine? Or for him? Does he fuck you after you write your pretty reports?”
The vulgarity, so close to the truth, was a physical blow. She didn’t flinch. “Fuck you, Bahri.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get. You think this is a simple game? Good Albanians, bad Serbs? You think I don’t see the boys in the hills? The ones collecting guns? I hear the whispers too. You’re preparing for a war you cannot win. You’ll get everyone here killed for a symbol.”
His face darkened, a storm cloud passing over his features. “You speak of symbols? You, with your Swiss passport and your rich family? This is not a symbol. This is my home. They are strangling it, day by day. What would you have us do? Ask nicely? Offer them more coffee?” He spat the last word. “You understand nothing of occupation. You are a tourist of our suffering.”
“And you are a fanatic,” she hissed, her control snapping. “You’re so in love with the idea of martyrdom you can’t see the children who will bleed for it. You’re just another young man with a gun and a grudge, thinking it makes you a hero.”
He stared at her, his breath coming fast. The insult had landed, she saw it; it had cut through the ideology to the raw, afraid young man underneath. For a second, he looked shattered. Then his eyes flickered over her shoulder, toward the cafe’s entrance. His whole body tensed, the transition from anger to operational alertness instantaneous.
Two Serbian policemen in their gray-green uniforms had just walked in, their boots heavy on the tile floor. They were not here for coffee. Their eyes scanned the room, methodical, predatory. One spoke to the waiter, his voice a bored growl. “…routine check of identification.”
Bahri was already moving. His hand shot across the table, closing like a vise around her wrist. “Up. Now.”
“What?”
“Now, Vanja!” It was a whispered command, urgent and absolute. He pulled her to her feet, sending her chair scraping back. He didn’t run; he moved with a swift, purposeful stride toward a back hallway marked ‘WC’. She stumbled after him, her heart jackhammering. He shoved open a fire door at the end of the short hall, revealing a dingy alley choked with frozen garbage and stacked crates. The cold air hit her like a slap.
He pulled her into the alley, closing the door softly behind them. Then he was running, dragging her along, their footsteps echoing off the narrow walls. He ducked into a recessed doorway, pulling her tight against him, his body shielding hers from view of the alley’s mouth. She could feel the frantic drum of his heart against her back, smell the scent of his skin—wool, coffee, and adrenaline. They waited, frozen, listening. A minute passed. Then two. No sounds of pursuit.
He let out a long, shaky breath, his forehead dropping momentarily against her shoulder. Then he pushed her away, his expression a mask of fury and confusion. “Why did you bring me with you?” she scowled, wrenching her arm from his grip, rubbing her wrist.
He stared at her as if she were insane. “Why did you come with me?” he bit back, his voice raw.
The truth was, she hadn’t thought. The fear in his eyes, the grip of his hand—it had been a primal trigger. She had followed. Now, in the reeking alley, the absurdity of it crashed down. She was in a hidden corner of Pristina with a wanted UÇK sympathizer, having just fled the police.
“They were checking papers. I have mine,” she said, defiance covering her panic.
“And when they ran your Swiss name through their system? What then? How long before Stojanovic gets a call that his pet was taking coffee with Bahri Nika?” He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “It was a mistake. I acted without thinking.”
“So did I.” The admission hung between them, another fragile, dangerous thread.
He looked up and down the alley. “We can’t stay here. This way.”
He led her through a labyrinth of backstreets, moving with an intimate knowledge of the city’s neglected arteries. They emerged onto a quieter residential street lined with brick apartment blocks from the 1980s. They looked nice, or once had; now the balconies were crammed with storage and satellite dishes, the paint peeling. He stopped at the entrance to one, keyed a code into a rusty lockbox, and pulled out a key. He didn’t speak.
The apartment was on the third floor, small and spartan. It smelled of stale tobacco and damp plaster. A simple wooden table, two chairs, a faded sofa. A map of Kosovo was pinned to one wall, dotted with notations in red pen. A Kalashnikov leaned in the corner by the window, a casual, horrifying piece of decor. He locked the door behind them, sliding two heavy bolts.
Silence enveloped them, thick and suffocating. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving a toxic sludge of shame, fear, and unresolved conflict. She stood by the door, hugging herself. He went to the window, peering through a slit in the blinds down at the street.
“You called me a fanatic,” he said, his back to her. The anger was gone, replaced by a hollow exhaustion.
“You called me a collaborator.” She walked to the table, tracing a watermark on the wood with her finger. “Maybe we’re both right.”
He turned. The gray afternoon light from the window cut across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the troubled depth in his eyes. “I am afraid,” he said, the words so soft she barely heard them. It was the most terrifying thing he could have admitted. “Every day, I am afraid. Of what is coming. Of what I must do. Of dying for nothing. But being afraid and doing nothing… that is a different kind of death.”
Vanja said nothing. The intellectual argument was ashes. Here, in this safehouse, with his weapon and his fear, it was all horrifyingly real.
He walked toward her slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal. He stopped a foot away. The tension was no longer ideological. It was cellular, a magnetic field pulling them across a impossible divide. She could see the pulse in his throat, the way his hands clenched and unclenched.
“Why did you come with me?” he asked again, this time a genuine question.
She had no answer that made sense. So she showed him. She closed the distance between them, reached up, and pulled his face down to hers.
The kiss was nothing like with Marko. It was not a battle. It was a confession. A desperate, hungry search for solace. His lips were soft, hesitant for a second, then they yielded, opening to her with a groan that seemed to rise from the very core of him. His hands came up to frame her face, his touch surprisingly tender. He kissed her like a drowning man finding air.
It unleashed something. The careful restraint, the political divisions, evaporated. His arms wrapped around her, crushing her to him. She clawed at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He broke the kiss only to pull her sweater over her head, his fingers fumbling with the button of her jeans. There was a frantic, clumsy urgency to it. This wasn’t about domination. It was about connection, a raw need to feel something other than dread.
“Vanja,” he breathed against her neck, his accent thickening around her name.
“Shut up,” she whispered, undoing his belt, pushing his trousers down. “Just… don’t talk.”
They staggered toward the sofa, a tangle of limbs and shed clothing. The worn fabric was scratchy against her back. He was above her, his body lean and powerfully built, his skin warm. He looked into her eyes, his own wide, almost scared. “Are you sure?”
In response, she hooked her leg around his hip and guided him into her.
He entered her with a slow, deep thrust that made them both gasp. He was big, but there was none of the brutal claiming she had experienced with Marko. This was a joining, a seamless fit. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged. He began to move, a rhythmic, rolling cadence that felt less like fucking and more like a shared heartbeat.
“You feel… Christ, you feel so good,” he murmured, the words muffled against her skin. His hands roamed her body, worshipping the curves he had only glimpsed before—cupping the full weight of her breast, thumb circling her nipple, sliding down to grip the swell of her ass, pulling her deeper onto him with each stroke.
The pleasure built differently. It was warmer, deeper, an emotional tide rising alongside the physical one. She wrapped her legs tightly around him, meeting each of his thrusts, her hips arching. The sounds she made were not cries of conquest, but moans of release, of a loneliness so profound it was finally being met.
He shifted, sitting back on his heels, pulling her with him so she straddled his lap. The new angle made her cry out as he filled her completely. She rode him, her hands braced on his shoulders, her head thrown back. He watched her, mesmerized, his hands on her waist, helping her move. His eyes drank in the sight of her body, the bounce of her breasts, the flush spreading across her chest.
“Look at me,” he pleaded, his voice rough. She opened her eyes, locking onto his. In that gaze, she saw everything: his fear, his passion, his impossible hope. It was too much. She felt her orgasm gathering, a coiling spring in her belly.
“I’m close,” she gasped.
“Me too. Come with me, zemra.” My heart.
The tender endearment, in Albanian, shattered her. The climax exploded through her, a wave of sheer, blinding sensation that wrung a sob from her throat. Her inner muscles clenched around him in violent pulses. With a broken shout, he followed her over, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside her, his whole body trembling with the force of it.
They collapsed sideways onto the narrow sofa, a sweaty, breathless heap of intertwined limbs. He held her close, his face buried in her hair, his heart hammering against her back. The room was silent except for their slowing breaths. The map on the wall, the gun in the corner, the world outside—all of it had receded to a distant hum.
Long minutes passed. The sweat cooled on their skin. Reality, cold and intricate, began to seep back into the room.
“That was…” he began, voice husky.
“A mistake,” she finished, though the word had no conviction.
“Yes.” He didn’t let her go. His hand stroked her arm, a slow, absent caress. “But a necessary one, I think.”
She didn’t know what that meant. She was adrift, caught between two men, two worlds, two versions of herself—one hardened by Marko’s possession, one softened, dangerously, by Bahri’s vulnerability.
Outside, a car backfired. He tensed, his embrace tightening instinctively around her. The sound was a reminder. The three hours of borrowed time were up. The war was still coming. And she was now irrevocably, catastrophically, entangled in it.
The silence after was a physical thing, a third presence in the room smelling of sex and damp wool. His arm remained locked around her waist, his fingers splayed possessively over her stomach. She could feel the dry scratch of his callouses against her skin. A vein in his bicep pulsed against her back, slow and steady. The world had not ended. The ceiling, stained with water marks that spread like ancient archipelagos, remained.
“I have to go,” she whispered. The words felt absurd.
“You can’t.” His voice was gravel, his lips moving against the nape of her neck. “Not yet. The patrols will be looking for a woman alone.”
“Marko will—”
His arm tightened. “Fuck Marko.” The curse was low, venomous. “He is not here. I am.”
She twisted in his grip to face him. The dim light caught the sweat drying on his collarbone, the fresh scar on his shoulder—a pink, raised line from the bullet graze she’d helped him with in another lifetime. Their faces were inches apart. His eyes searched hers, not for information, but for something else. Corroboration. “Why did you help me that day? ”
“You were bleeding.”
“That’s not a reason. Not here.” He shifted, his thigh sliding between hers, a reminder of the intimacy they’d just shared. “A Serbian woman, helping an Albanian militant? You could have been shot for less.”
She thought of the history she carried, the future she knew. Kosovare. His future wife. The war that would take him, shape him. “Maybe I was tired,” she said, the truth a sharp sliver. “Tired of watching from the sidelines.”
He kissed her then, not with passion but with a stark, probing intensity. It was a question. She answered by opening her mouth to him, by biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper. He groaned, the sound vibrating into her. The urgency returned, hotter, dirtier. The respite was over.
He rolled on top of her, his weight pinning her to the scratchy sofa. His hand went between her legs, fingers sliding through the wetness his own release had mixed with hers. “Still so fucking slick,” he muttered, his breath hot in her ear. “You want it again. Already.”
“Don’t talk,” she snarled, but she arched into his touch.
“I’ll talk. I want to hear what you are. Tell me.” He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them. Her hips jerked. “Are you his? Or are you mine right now?”
“I’m not a fucking flag to be claimed,” she gasped, but the feel of him stretching her, the proprietary thrust of his hand, was sending dark sparks up her spine.
“Everyone is a flag here.” He withdrew his fingers and guided himself back to her entrance. He didn’t slide in. He pressed, just the thick head of his cock stretching her, a brutal, promising pressure. “So choose. His apartment, his rules, his bed? Or this?” He thrust in, a single, deep, conquering stroke that punched the air from her lungs.
It was different this time. Raw. There was no tenderness, only a feral contest. He fucked her with a punishing, rhythmic drive, each snap of his hips slamming her into the sofa cushions. The frame squeaked in protest. She met him thrust for thrust, her nails raking down his back, leaving fiery trails. She wanted to mar him, to leave proof that this, whatever it was, had happened.
“Whose?” he grunted, his face a mask of strained pleasure.
“Yours,” she hissed, the admission torn from her. “Here. Now. Fuck. Just yours.”
The permission unleashed him. He hooked his arms under her knees, spreading her wider, driving deeper. The angle was devastating. She could see everything—the flex of his abdomen, the way his balls tightened against her, the raw, hungry focus in his eyes as he watched himself disappear into her body. The obscene, wet sound of their coupling filled the small room. It was crude. It was magnificent.
“Come for me, Vanja.” His command was guttural. “Come on my cock. Show me.”
The coil in her gut shattered. Her orgasm ripped through her with a silent, white-hot violence, her back bowing off the sofa, her internal muscles clamping around him in frantic, milking pulses. He followed a second later, a choked roar stifled against her shoulder as he emptied himself deep inside her again, his body shuddering through the release.
He collapsed, his weight crushing her, both of them slick and heaving. The room swam. A truck rattled past outside, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling.
Slowly, he pulled out of her. The feeling of emptiness was acute. He stood, his body pale and stark in the gloom, and walked naked to the sink in the corner. He splashed water on his face, on his chest. He didn’t look at her.
Vanja sat up, her body feeling used and profoundly alive. She found her clothes, dressing with stiff, clumsy movements. The fabric of her underwear felt strange against her sensitized skin. She could smell him on her. She would carry it back.
“There is a back stair,” he said, his back still turned. “Leads to the mechanic’s garage on Bulevari i Lirisë. Safer.”
“Thank you.” The formality was ludicrous.
He turned then. He looked ravaged. “This changes nothing. You know that.”
“I know.”
“The things I will have to do… the things that are coming.” He walked toward her, stopping an arm’s length away. He did not touch her. “When you see them on the news. When you hear the reports from your Serb friends. You will remember this. You will remember I am a man, not a monster from a bulletin.”
Tears, hot and stupid, pricked her eyes. She blinked them away. “And when you see a Serbian woman,” her voice barely held, “you will remember I am not a target. I am a person.”
A long, strained moment hung between them. He reached out, his thumb brushing a single escaped tear from her cheekbone. The gesture was unbearably gentle.
His handheld radio, silent on the table all this while, crackled to life. A burst of static, then a voice, tense and hurried, spoke in coded Albanian. “Eagle to Nest. The truck is at the warehouse. The shipment is early. Immediate assistance required.”
Bahri’s face hardened, the man she’d just been with vanishing behind the militant’s mask. His eyes met hers one last time—a flicker of that other self, desperate and afraid—before being extinguished.
“You need to leave,” he said, his voice all business. He was already pulling on his trousers, grabbing the rifle from the corner. “Now. Use the stairs. Don’t look back.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. He was at the door, checking the magazine of his Kalashnikov with a practiced, metallic click. The lock turned. The bolt slid.
And he was gone.
Vanja stood alone in the silent, sex-haunted room. The map on the wall seemed to pulse. The red dots were clustered around a location east of the city. A warehouse district. She knew, with a historian’s terrible certainty, what a “shipment” meant in 1997. Guns. Explosives. The gears of the war grinding forward.
She touched her cheek where his thumb had been. Then she moved. She found the narrow service staircase, descending into the oily, echoing dark of the garage. She emerged onto the boulevard, the winter air slapping her back into the present. She walked, not toward the bus station, but with a detached curiosity toward the industrial fringe of the city.
She had to see. She had to know the machinery of the history she was trapped within. From a distance, she told herself. Just from a distance.
The warehouse was a slab of dirty concrete under the flat gray sky. She saw the truck. She saw figures moving with tense purpose. And she saw Bahri, just a silhouette, directing the unloading of long, heavy crates.
A man next to him, taller, broader, clapped him on the shoulder. Arben. Bahri’s friend. The brother of the woman he would one day marry. The future reached forward and tapped her on the shoulder with cold fingers.
Vanja turned and walked away, each step feeling less like an escape and more like a march toward a rendezvous she had just irrevocably confirmed.