A Covenant of Poppies

Chapter 6

 DUKE'S NOTEBOOK, Feb. 6, 1991

CROATIA:   Center of power, Zagreb. Leader, Franjo Tudjman

SERBIA:   Center of power, Belgrade. Leader, Slobodan Milosevic

YUGOSLAVIA:   Center of power, Belgrade. Leader, Slobodan Milosevic

  

I spent my first two weeks in Yugoslavia's capital hammering on ministry doors, attempting to obtain quotes pertaining to Serbia's instigation of war. Trying to get someone to talk to you in a place that believes itself maligned by your country is a feat I hope to never repeat.

I was a far cry from substantiating rumors that the Serbian-led army was gearing for action when I was booted from yet another office, this time with the exclamation, "Vi glupo prase, svet je protiv nas!" That's when I had the revelation.

Roughly translated the statement meant, "Stupid pig, don't you know the whole world is against us?" Someone who was less-than-fluent in native color might easily translate this as something else, and so could I with my pen.

My editor, Mrs. Peckingham, wanted what she wanted. Usable reports, she said, loosely defined as tales of gore and vengeance, unwarranted violence, with the bad guy (meaning Serbs) and his evil actions (fill in the blank: raping, maiming, bombarding, committing genocide) clearly described, without omission of detail. My chief overseer, Joseph Egalaria, took delight in reminding me that I was there to provide a viable account of the brewing war in the Serbs' efforts to carve out a Greater Serbia. That afternoon in the ministry office I come up with details to support these conclusions.

"Stupid pig, don't you know the whole world is against us?" became, "the stupid pigs who are against us will find their bacon in the frying pan!"

Well, it was a start.

I was a novelist-in-the-making, a scribe entrusted with the task of blowing liberty and truth into the anal cavity of the Balkan world. That, and to create newsworthy quotes.

"How dare you accuse us of ulterior motives?" became, "We are surrounded by those who've stolen our land."

It was logical that someone with his hand in his neighbor’s bread basket might sound defensive. As my name didn’t yet appear in the byline under Egalaria’s, what I did was, again, purely logical. "We are the defenders of freedom," became, "We spit on your Western concept of 'freedom.' The Serbs will take back what is rightfully theirs, and leave no witnesses."

Okay, so I took more than a few of my own liberties.

"Our tolerance knows no end," turned into, "We will pursue our mission to restore Serbia to its former greatness to the bitter end."

Borislav Ateljevi, the minster to whom I attributed this last statement, should thank me. He became world famous for this line, and was later convicted as a war criminal.

I felt justified. Tolerance? Serbs boasted of the things that divided them.

By the end of the second week my need to expel my self-reproach drove me to clubs where I danced the night away with sullen, half-dressed turbo-folk girls. I refused all offers to engage in further activities with the exception of conversation. I was free and wanted it that way, and these people were into an aggression I didn't want to relate to. They embraced their warrior-ness. They found my avoidance cause for provocation, my messy way of backing out of conversations offensive, and they went crazy over my pronunciation, which they claimed was all wrong. When this flattery grew thin I headed to the taverns, where I bandied soccer terms with dark, militant types who smoked streams of Lucky’s while rhapsodizing over their missed chances in the European Cup.

"Fuck the nails of Jesus!" one of them cried when Red Star gave up a goal.

"Sabanadzovic, you motherfucking Turkish dog. Fuck you and your mother on a hook over the Neretva!"

Here, at least, I felt at home.

With the poetry of angels, they described what they were going to do to the midfielder’s private cavities when they got hold of him.

Tolerance? A castle in the sky. The bartender, who was named Slobo "like the president," told me that Yugoslavia’s Muslims were "frauds."

"They aren’t real Muslims, you see." He explained this as if his Islamic clientele wasn't seated in front of him. "They are Serbs who converted under the Turk and stabbed their brothers in the back with their filthy dicks. Right, Felip?"

 The man next to me nodded. Felip’s friend leaned over the bar towards Slobo and said, "You pig fuckers should go back to the pussies you came from." Then they thumped each other on the back and sipped their precious plum brandy as if they had all come from the same womb. Slivovitz. The same stuff I was drinking.

"Fucking Americki!" someone cried and pounded me on the back.

And then, I saw her. Tawny, sculpted like a model. Translucent gaze. Dark lashes. Eyes of topaz smoke. The type an angry supplicant like myself would relinquish bachelor status for if he hadn’t been ordered by the leader of the allegedly free media to stay detached. The cacophony of soccer fans hid the commotion in my loins as I craned for a better look. Her liquid glance bore a hole right through me. We enjoyed instant communication as I mentally stepped in her direction. Then, recalling Burdoch’s warning, I leaned over to Slobo and ordered another drink.

If I was less practiced in divulging untruths, I’d say it wasn’t Burdoch’s instruction that scared me off. Scratch the surface and you will find I am the epitome of cowardly ineptitude, just like my father always said.