فصل 08

CHAPTER EIGHT

Zeljko

‘The thing about this city,’ Colin said from the back of the car, ‘is that you really have to know where you’re going.’

‘That’s original, Colin,’ Carla turned round to say. ‘I suppose that’s what makes it different from other cities.’

‘All right, all right,’ Colin said, ‘but you know what I mean. After all, this isn’t like New York or Paris, is it? You understand what I mean, don’t you, Katy?’

‘Come on!’ Katy objected. ‘You can’t expect me to take sides. This is only my third day here. I’ve only just met you!’

‘Quite right, Katy,’ Carla said. ‘This is a private war between Colin and me.’

‘I think you are crazy both,’ Haris said from the driver’s seat. They all laughed at that, though their laughter was uncomfortable and nervous.

Suddenly they heard the sound of gunfire to their right. In front of them sparks showed where bullets were hitting the road. Haris turned sharply and the car screamed into a side street.

Katy was thrown against Colin in the back seat as they bumped along the dark street. ‘They were firing at us?’ she asked stupidly.

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone else on the road, so I guess they were. What do you think, Haris?’ Colin was trying to sound calm, but his voice was shaking.

‘I think that was too close. That is all I think.’ He’d slowed down again. ‘This is the second time this week I am nearly dead. Third time maybe I am not so lucky. Perhaps now I go back to my wife in Montenegro.’

‘She must be missing you,’ Katy said.

‘Here you are. You have arrived,’ the Montenegrin said, without his usual humour. He stopped the car. They were outside a cafe. Its lights were on, but there was no-one to be seen through the windows. ‘Come on,’ Haris said loudly. ‘You get out now, quick.’ Colin jumped out. Carla and Katy followed him. ‘I come back in two hours,’ Haris told them. ‘You wait there.’ He pointed to a street to the right of the cafe, where people were running inside through a side door.

‘All right, Haris. Thanks. Be careful.’ Colin’s words were drowned as the car roared off into the night.

Carla, Colin and Katy joined the people hurrying through the side door into the cafe. They found themselves in a narrow corridor with a table at the end of it where two women were selling tickets. It was crowded. Katy didn’t like being in small spaces and as if to make her feel worse, the lights went out. Somewhere in the building people groaned. In the corridor somebody laughed. Katy heard Colin say, ‘Oh, no! Not again!’ But he didn’t sound worried, so she tried to tell herself that she wouldn’t be either.

A light appeared at the end of the corridor where the table was, and then another and another as people lit the candles they were carrying. Carla turned round and, seeing Katy’s worried face, tried to calm her. ‘Don’t panic!’ She laughed. ‘This happens all the time. Welcome to a nightclub, Sarajevo style. Come on, let’s go down and hear the music.’

The stage was no more than a few boxes at the end of the basement room for the musicians to stand on. It was hot and crowded, and all the usual things like emergency exits and lighted bars were nowhere to be seen. When the three journalists walked in, a saxophone quartet was just finishing a tune. There was enthusiastic clapping from the audience, which made the candle flames dance.

‘Come on,’ Colin said. ‘Let’s see if we can find a table.’

They pushed their way to the front. There was one small table free in a dark corner by the edge of the ‘stage’ and they sat down at stools around it. Katy looked at the musicians. There was a woman in her early twenties with a huge instrument hanging heavily round her neck, curling away from her. Next to her a man with not much hair had a smaller saxophone. Another woman, well a girl really, played an instrument which was smaller than the man’s, and finally, nearest Katy, a tall dark-haired man of about her own age was playing something which looked like a gold clarinet.

‘That’s Zeljko,’ Carla said, following the direction of her eyes. ‘Everybody likes Zeljko.’

‘Everybody?’ Katy asked.

‘Yes. Everybody. In a way. Wait till you hear him play. Then you’ll really like him.’

‘What are all the different instruments?’ Katy asked her. ‘Do you know?’

‘Sure. The biggest one, which Ajsa’s playing, is the baritone sax - it’s like a cello, or the bass in a rock band. Then Josip, the man next to her, is playing the tenor sax. Selma, the younger woman, is playing the alto sax, and Zeljko, the handsome Zeljko, is playing the soprano sax.’

‘He is rather good-looking, isn’t he?’ Katy said.

‘Yes. Yes, he is,’ Carla agreed. ‘But with Zeljko it’s more than that. He’s a bit of a nightmare really, when you get to know him, but he’s also the greatest guy in the world. It’s a bit difficult to explain.’

‘You’ve got me really interested now!’ Katy laughed.

‘Well, don’t be,’ the Italian said. ‘Not like that, anyway. Just enjoy the music. You will, I promise you.’

The quartet started to play again and it was immediately clear to Katy that they were very good. The music was - how would she describe it if she had to write about it? Dreamy. Warm. She suddenly found herself thinking of long hot summer afternoons, sitting on the bank of a river with the sun above her and a light wind in the trees. She had a strong, almost physical, memory of a day many years ago, with her mother and father. They were on a boat on a lake, in a park. Her father’s hat was pushed back on his head as he rowed. She heard the sound of his laughter calling to her across the years.

The memory faded. She was back again in a kind of music club in the middle of Sarajevo under the eyes of a murderous army in the hills and soldiers in the streets. But when she looked at the other faces in the candlelight their expressions had changed too. The warm tunes and the soft sweet saxophones were wrapping them in comfort, taking the fear away.

The applause when they finished wasn’t like the usual clapping in a theatre or a concert hall. It was loud, and people murmured or shouted their approval too. But what made it different was a strange feeling that the audience was grateful for the music itself, and this was mixed with a strong sense of community, a togetherness you could almost touch.

‘What was that? It was beautiful,’ Katy said.

‘I don’t know,’ said Colin, ‘but it was incredible.’

‘I know what it was,’ Carla said in a superior voice.

‘All right then, what was it?’ Colin asked.

‘The third movement of the String Quartet by Debussy - arranged for saxophone quartet, of course.’

‘How come you know about Debussy?’ Colin asked.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘No, no reason. I was just surprised. That’s all.’

‘I seem to surprise everybody,’ Carla replied, looking straight at Katy and laughing.

‘Go on,’ Katy responded to her glance. ‘How come?’

‘Oh, I studied music at university in Rome.’

‘So you play an instrument?’ Katy asked.

‘Used to,’ Carla said. ‘The piano. I was never that good. And anyway, music wasn’t exciting enough for me. It was useful though. I played piano in a bar while I studied journalism at night school. That was after university.’

‘Do you still play?’ Katy asked.

‘No. What’s the point?’ Carla shrugged.

‘But surely…’ Katy started.

‘These days I prefer to listen.’

‘He makes a beautiful noise, the interesting-looking one,’ Katy found herself saying dreamily. ‘The tone of his instrument… It was out of this world. It was so…’

‘Sexy?’ Carla suggested.

‘Yes.’ Katy laughed. She’d been watching Zeljko. She liked the way he closed his eyes when he played, as if his instrument was doing all his talking, all his seeing, all his listening. She’d noticed his hands and the way his long thin fingers worked the keys of the saxophone. He was the kind of player that made you want to watch him as well as listen to him. His smile when people applauded had been absolutely genuine, as if he was really delighted.

‘Well, you enjoy Zeljko. I’m just going over there to talk to Vlada and Imrana,’ Carla said, and Katy watched as her friend got up and walked over to a couple standing by the door. The three of them began talking. When Katy turned back, Colin was smiling and Zeljko was coming over to their table.

‘You are not from here,’ the musician announced when he arrived, looking straight at her.

‘No, I’m a journalist,’ Katy said.

‘Another journalist!’ he said, unimpressed.

‘I try to write about what I see,’ she replied.

‘All right. That is something, I suppose. Can I sit here?’

‘Don’t mind me,’ Colin said, standing up. ‘I’m going to get some drinks.’

‘What about you?’ Zeljko asked Katy, ignoring Colin. ‘Will you give your permission for me to sit here?’

‘Of course.’ The musician sat on the stool Carla had been using. Someone brought a beer and gave it to him. ‘Why are you a journalist?’ he started.

‘Stop right there,’ she joked. ‘I ask the questions.’

‘OK, OK.’ He put his hands up as if she was pointing a gun at him. ‘I surrender.’ Then, when he realised what he was doing, his smile disappeared and he put his arms down again, looking embarrassed.

‘Where did you play before… before all this?’ she asked quickly.

‘I was - that is, I still am, officially - a postgraduate student at the Royal Academy of Music in London.’

‘So why are you here and not there?’ she wondered.

‘I came back when the war started. My father went to fight. I was worried for my mother, my sister,’ Zeljko said.

‘Are they all right?’ Katy asked.

‘My father was killed in the first week.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It was all she could think of to say.

‘Everybody has lost somebody.’ He said it as a matter of fact, nothing more or less.

‘And your mother? Your sister?’

‘They escaped. They left the city. They are in South America now.’

‘So why don’t you leave and join them,’ she asked, puzzled, ‘or go back to college in London? You could. You wouldn’t have any trouble getting back into England. Or perhaps you can’t leave?’

‘No. I could leave,’ he said. ‘There are ways of leaving. But I do not want to go.’

‘Why not? What about your studies?’

‘Studies! I do not want to study music any more. I want to play it. Now. Here. In Sarajevo. Look around you. Look at this city, at Yugoslavia, at Bosnia and Herzogovina, at my country. The world is crazy. It is too important for studies.’ He suddenly looked straight at her. He was so serious, so intense that she had to lower her eyes. ‘No,’ he said, touching her hand. ‘Look at me. Look at me. I want you to understand.’

Slowly she raised her face again. His eyes were shining in the candle flame.

‘This is how it is,’ he went on. ‘Here we all are suffering, we are dying. My father. My friends. Two of the violinists from the symphony orchestra who studied with me at university. My uncle, many more. We are a city of funerals, a city of cemetries. So of course I want to go to South America or back to London. I am frightened. But I cannot.’

‘Why not?’ Katy asked.

‘Because the streets of this city, my home, are covered in blood. It is the blood of my family, of my friends, of my countrymen. Their spirits are here. They tell me I cannot go. It is sacred ground. I have to stay to keep them company.’

‘But what will happen if you too…?’ She didn’t finish her question.

‘If it happens, it will happen. But before it does, I have music, something to give, something to remind myself, all of us, even visiting journalists, about life and love and beauty.’

‘Music is that important?’ Katy asked.

‘Music is everything,’ he said, his voice rising passionately. ‘Language without words - straight into your heart. It does not even have to go into your brain first. You do not have to think. You just feel. Colour. Emotion. Everyone can understand it even if they do not know why. It can tell you how beautiful something is. Or it can make you angry. Sometimes it can make you laugh. And sometimes,’ he said, his eyes looking into the distance, ‘sometimes it can tell you that there is something better than just survival, something as good as friendship and sadness, something to make this terrible cruel world a thing to be in love with. Life. Life. Music is life.’

‘I love your music,’ she said, hardly daring to speak.

‘I do not play so well.’ He laughed.

‘You play beautifully,’ she protested.

‘Thank you. I play for you as well.’ He lifted his hand to her cheek. She felt the touch of his skin on her skin, soft and warm. It seemed to spread all over her body. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Her heart seemed to stop and she felt a huge wild pulse of hope. She could hardly breathe.

‘You will come again,’ he announced.

‘Yes, I will,’ she promised.

‘I will wait for you. Please come soon.’ He got up. The other musicians were waiting for him on the little stage.

Colin came back with some beers. ‘How did you get on with Zeljko?’

‘He’s…’ Katy couldn’t think of any words to describe her excitement. ‘He’s wonderful.’

‘That’s what all his girlfriends say!’ Colin joked.

‘I’m not a “girlfriend”,’ she started, but she saw the smile on his face and stopped, laughing herself.

‘Just be careful though,’ he said, suddenly becoming more serious. ‘It’s easy to admire Zeljko, love him even. At least that’s what they say. Everyone does, apparently. But they don’t get anything in return. He gives everything he has when he plays.’

‘Well, thanks for the advice, Uncle Colin,’ she said half angrily. She was going to say more, but Colin suddenly looked hurt and unhappy. Anyway, the quartet had begun to play again. This time they played an old Beatles number, a famous Whitney Houston song, and music by Oasis and Ocean Colour Scene. The four saxophones seemed to be chasing each other, the notes bouncing off the walls, making everybody in the darkened room smile. They made her smile too, made her feel like dancing. And for a moment in that cellar there was no war, no suffering and no death, just people. Music. A future.