Kiss Of The Butterfly Part 12

Steven thought back to the Bermet he had drunk in Professor Slatina's office in September. While he sat and discussed history and ethnography with Niedermeier, the wine's rich taste transported him far across the Adriatic Sea, Atlantic Ocean and the North American continent. Now it all seemed like another lifetime, a fairy tale of normalcy in a country with people who were not scarred by war, atrocities, hatred, hyperinflation and a complete societal breakdown. He sipped the Bermet and thought of Professor Slatina: 'Is he still teaching the second semester survey course?' he wondered. 'Who is his teaching a.s.sistant? What's Katarina doing?' Melancholy set in as he thought back to happier times, and he looked across at Niedermeier puffing on his pipe, wearing a contented smile.

'Thank you for coming,' Niedermeier puffed contentedly. 'I will see what I can do about the Djordjevic book. Are you going to visit the Chapel of Peace while you're here?'

'Yeah, we're going there now,' answered Bear.

'Good. Goodbye, and I wish you good health. Please drive carefully. These are odd times. And be careful what you say and to whom you say it.'

Steven was hearing this warning with increasing frequency.

The Chapel of Peace sat alone in an overgrown hilltop pasture overlooking Sremski Karlovci, a crumbling derelict half hidden by trees, its rust-streaked dome crowned by a small lantern cupola. Time had sent a large crack in the flaking plaster over one of its doors, knocked gla.s.s from many of the windows, and rusted the hands of the clocks on the bell tower. A rusty gate and wire fence barred their entrance to the property, and b.u.t.terflies rested in the tall gra.s.s and on the surrounding trees.

'This is my favorite church in all of Vojvodina,' Tamara said. She thumbed through her guidebook. 'It says that in 1699 they signed the Treaty of Karlowitz right here and drew the map of modern Europe, between the Turks, Poles, Austrians and Venetians. It's famous because it's the first time in the history of diplomacy that anyone used a round table for negotiations. Everyone argued where they'd sit and who'd enter the room first. The Turks put up a round tent with doors on four sides so everyone could enter and sit down at the same time and no one could sit at the head of the table. And that's why the church is round.'

They pressed the gate open far enough for the girls to squeeze through, and then Bear and Steven followed.

'It has four entrances,' Bear said. 'One's in back of the altar. And the bell tower has four clocks facing four separate directions. The fourth one's on the inside ...you can't see it from here.'

As they approached the chapel they saw that one of the side doors was slightly open, hanging partway off its hinges. Bear gave it a shove, which caused it to fall off the hinges and hit the floor with a loud crash that engulfed them in clouds of fine dust.

'Really, Bear, you didn't have to do that,' Tamara coughed.

When the dust had settled, they walked into the center of the chapel. Natural light poured through the upper windows illuminating peeling robin-egg blue plaster. Other than a carved wooden altarpiece, the church was plain and lacked decoration of any kind.

'It's not round,' said Steven.

'Of course its round, what do you mean?' said Tamara.

'It's not round. It's oval.'

'Round...oval...big deal.'

The narrow wooden stairs creaked loudly as Bear and Steven climbed up to the organ loft and followed a narrow gallery around the chapel.

'So what happened between you and Vesna last night?' Bear whispered to Steven.

'Nothing,' Steven whispered back.

'You should have.' Bear grinned. 'She's hot and she likes you.'

'Yeah, Vesna's a babe, but what'll happen when I leave? If I did something now I'd feel like I'm using her and then moving on.'

'd.a.m.n, Stefan, you've got the most over-developed conscience I've ever come across,' Bear shook his head in bewilderment. 'Look, Vesna wants you...she told Tamara that she hasn't been with a guy in over a year. And you want her. It doesn't matter if you're together in two months. What's important is now. The whole world's screwed up and going to h.e.l.l. We might not even be alive in a month, what with the war.'

'Well, there's also someone else I'm interested in.'

'Where? America?' Bear scoffed. 'So what? Have fun while you're here. Vesna's a great girl and who knows, maybe it'll turn into something. You can't tell until you try. And if it doesn't, then you can go back to your girlfriend in America.'

'Well, if I...'

'What are you two talking about up there?' Tamara called, interrupting them.

'Eighteenth century church architecture,' Bear called to Tamara. Then he whispered to Steven. 'Vesna's attractive. Don't be surprised if she doesn't wait around for you. Serbian women make great wives. They're very pa.s.sionate.'

'Okay, enough about Serbian women,' Steven answered, irritated. 'That's all people talk about, the women. Just back off.'

'Be careful you don't fall and get killed,' called Vesna from below. 'We still have a communist bureaucracy. Just think of all the paperwork we'll have to fill out if something happens to you.'

'Ha, ha. You're sooo funny today,' Steven retorted, smiling.

'Have you two finished up there?' Tamara called out, pacing impatiently. 'I need a bathroom!'

'Mind over matter. Ignore the physical,' Vesna said, from a bench, eyes closed, head tilted back, arms outstretched, as though imitating the crucifixion.

'Remember what I told you,' Bear whispered as they walked down the stairs.

As they left the chapel, Bear and Steven tried to set the door back on its hinges, but its frame was warped and it wouldn't hang properly, so they left it askew as they had found it. They walked down the hill, squeezed through the gate and back into the Yugo and drove off to find a bathroom for Tamara.

A westerly breeze from the starboard beam wafted the sailboat south towards San Diego's Point Loma peninsula, as the late afternoon sun bleached the teak decking and painted the mahogany trim a deep orange, fired the raised wooden letters on the transom that read b.u.t.terfly, and infused the taut Dacron sails with the faintest hints of gold. It cast shadows across Slatina's deeply tanned face as he ran his fingers through dark, wind-tousled hair and squinted as the sun moved inexorably lower towards the western horizon.

A group of college students in windbreakers Katarina among them sat on the foredeck, chattering animatedly about whatever it was college students talk about. At this moment they seemed to be planning an ice-skating party at the nearby University Towne Center mall. Slatina tensed and frowned as he saw a young man move closer and place an arm around her shoulder.

Slatina tensed, protectively. 'Her father wouldn't approve,' he thought. 'He's a flakey Southern California surfer.' He leaned down to port and slightly inched out a line wrapped around a winch that led to the Genoa. Satisfied with the shape of the sail, he secured the line.

She shrugged off the boy's hand.

'That's better,' he thought, and relaxed, allowing his eyes to glance upward to check the mainsail's telltales.

Once, when he had been her age, he had sailed north from the island of Hvar towards the Dalmatian port of Split. He recalled the voyage vividly, for it was on that journey with his Uncle at the helm, that he had first seen her, in front of the ruins of the Roman Emperor Diocletian's palace.

She had stood on the white limestone quay, immobile amidst the bustling crowds, tourists and vendors, like the basalt Egyptian sphinxes inside the palace peristyle. When she looked at him she caught his gaze with opal blue eyes that reached inside of him, seized his heart and pulled him towards her. He raced to the bowsprit, grasping the forestay for balance, their eyes and hearts connected. They stood like that, staring unabashedly at each other as the boat pulled close to the quay. Suddenly, a gust of wind tore a broad-brimmed straw hat from her head and carried it over the water towards the boat, causing a waterfall of hair to cascade to her waist, framing her ivory face in black. As Slatina dove from the bowsprit into the water to retrieve the hat, she turned around and disappeared from view into the heart of the old city.

When he climbed back on deck, the only sign of her was the waterlogged hat. His Uncle only grinned. 'Put the fenders on the starboard side,' he bellowed. 'Make ready the mooring lines fore and aft!'

Only later that evening over drinks on the terrace of the family home on the Marjan peninsula, did his Uncle tell him that he knew the girl's father, that she came from a good family, and that he could arrange for Marko to return the hat in person.

'Look! Dolphins,' someone shouted from the bow, interrupting Slatina's reverie as he looked where they were pointing.

'They'll come to us,' he shouted back. 'They'll surf the bow wave.' And his thoughts turned once again to the first time he had seen her, and how she had changed his life. And how, like Steven, he too had buried his hopes and dreams along with his young wife.

It was once called the Gibraltar of the Danube, the enormous fortress of Petrovaradin that squatted wide and menacing on a large rock above the great river. Bear's overloaded Yugo struggled to conquer the great fortress, chugging slowly up the steep cobbled brick and stone road that wound up the hill: first over a bridge and through a modest gate that led through a thick brick and earthen rampart, then over another bridge and the impressive Molinar Gate, then across a third bridge and through the ornate Court Gate into a curving tunnel that led out onto the top of the citadel, where they parked the tired car.

They walked around the edge of the fortress ramparts, looked at the green plain that stretched east, north and west across the Danube, the flatness of the green forests and fields interrupted only by the smokestacks of an oil refinery and a distant power plant. Beneath them lay Wa.s.serstadt, Petrovaradin's Baroque lower city nestled amidst ma.s.sive fortifications. They strolled towards a white clock tower that overlooked the Danube then continued onto a large brick terrace where they found a table under a sun umbrella.

'Professor Stojadinovic should be here shortly,' Steven said, glancing at his watch. 'This is the only restaurant on the fortress, right?'

'Don't worry, it's the right place,' Vesna answered. 'He'll be here.' And no sooner had she spoken than Stojadinovic appeared at the edge of the terrace. Steven stood and waved.

The professor removed his fedora hat and sungla.s.ses to reveal puffy eyes as he tossed his scarf jauntily around his neck. 'Ah, my young friends, how are you? Did you have a pleasant trip?' he asked formally.

After exchanging pleasantries they ordered drinks.

'I am glad we could meet here. Petrovaradin is my favorite place in all of Vojvodina. You know it has a very rich history, don't you?' They all nodded. 'The Celts fortified it in the centuries before Christ, and later Rome used it as a signal outpost to guard the Limes, the Empire's northern border. It was considered impregnable and was built according to the manner of the renowned French engineer Sebastian Vauban. Its battlements formed a dam that kept the Ottoman Turkish tide from flooding north into the heart of the Habsburg Holy Roman Empire.' The fascinated looks on their faces encouraged Stojadinovic to add dramatic flourishes.

'Petrovaradin's last battle took place 276 years ago on the morning of August 5th, 1716, when the hopelessly out-numbered Austrian commander Eugene of Savoy with his 78,000 men, faced the full might of Turkish Grand Vizier Damad Ali Pasha, the Conqueror of Morea, who had at his command nearly 200,000 troops. That morning the fortress's dull red brick and earthen ramparts stood in striking contrast to the Turkish camp, with its splendiferous horse-tail standards and vibrant multi-colored round tents that made the camp resemble an enormous flower garden filled with gardenias, petunias and morning-glories.' Clearly the professor relished talking.

'However,' Stojadinovic continued, as though reciting from memory, 'superior numbers and finer accommodations do not spell victory, and Damad ended up having a rather bad day: troops led by Alexander Wurtemburg broke through the Turkish lines in the center and routed the elite Janissaries, while Austrian Cuira.s.siers and Hungarian Hussars swept the Spahis from the left flank in a magnificent thundering charge of iron hoofs and steel sabers, forcing the Turks to flee and abandon their flower-blossom camp. As Damad's army broke and fled in panic, his heavily-laden treasure wagons sank into quicksand while fleeing Eugene's forces, and he himself received a mortal wound. He died the following day, only to have his lifeless form carried back to Belgrade, where befitting a warrior he was interred at the fortress. Perhaps you have seen his mausoleum, the Turbe on the Kalemegdan?' They all nodded as he gesticulated.

'But that was a by-gone era, and the muzzle-loading cannon, thick earthen bulwarks, cavalry sorties, trenches, draw bridges and multiple glacis walls that so effectively repulsed the surging Ottoman tide now stand silent, impotent against 20th century technology. No longer do fierce plumed Yataan-wielding Janissaries threaten the Habsburg monarchy. What few cannon are left now serve to entertain young children and tourists. The barracks and stables no longer house Serbian Freikorps volunteers, Hungarian Hussars or German officers: their places are now taken by museums, a restaurant, cafe, and an artists' colony.' Steven listened attentively, fascinated more by the artistry of Stojadinovic's delivery than the actual content.

'You're quite the story-teller,' Steven exclaimed.

'Thank you,' Stojadinovic smiled broadly. 'I cheated. That's actually the script for a doc.u.mentary film I narrated several years ago. Have you been in the tunnels?'

They shook their heads.

'Petrovaradin has more than sixteen kilometers of underground tunnels and galleries. It took the Austrians 88 years to build them all, and the fortress could hold 10,000 horses and more than 30,000 soldiers. It was truly an engineering marvel, and all of this before your American War of Independence from Britain. A small portion of the underground has been sanitized for tourists, but the really interesting part is the Great Labyrinth in the deep underground beneath the Hornwerk bastion.'

'Can we see it?' asked Steven eagerly.

'That's not too difficult: you simply need to know the right people,' Stojadinovic grinned wryly. 'I myself know it rather well and used to lead tours down there. But then we had an accident.'

'What happened?' prodded Steven.

'Nine years ago I led some tourists through the deepest part of the Labyrinth. I was showing them a corridor where we had uncovered some unusual brickwork, when the floor collapsed out from under us. We almost lost a gentleman from Osaka. I returned later that evening but couldn't get too near the hole for fear of a collapse. I notified the APP the a.s.sociation for the Preservation of Petrovaradin and we began making plans to take a team of specialists from the university to survey it.'

'Several days later a pack of wild dogs savagely attacked and killed a night watchman just inside the entrance to the Labyrinth. Crazy rumors began circulating about packs of man-eating dogs and there was a public uproar and panic, especially when local farmers began complaining that something was killing their cattle. Some people advocated shooting all stray dogs, while others complained that the dog catchers weren't doing their job properly and that it was the mayor's fault.'

'The police responded in typical communist fas.h.i.+on: they placed the entire Labyrinth off limits and went around shooting all the stray dogs they could find. And then the animal lovers protested...it was quite a circus. They kept the Labyrinth sealed off while they carried out an official investigation. The Communist Party had to have someone to blame so they sacked the director of the APP and replaced him with a Party loyalist. He was extremely cautious and limited in his thinking, and he forbade entry to the Labyrinth.'

'Then the economy collapsed and the funds for preservation and research dried up. The director stole most of the budget and inflation ate up the rest, and then after Milosevic's coup against the Vojvodina government in 1988, the APP stopped receiving money altogether. Right now the APP maintains the fortress entirely from rents, the restaurant and souvenir shops. But now there are no foreign tourists, and the artists don't sell as much as they used to, so the fortress is slowly deteriorating. Just recently they appointed a new director of the APP, someone younger and more innovative, but there's no money in the budget.'

'Did you ever return and investigate the hole?' asked Steven.

'No. The new director might permit it, but I haven't really thought about it for some time.'

'Could you organize a tour for us?' Steven asked.

'Mmmm. That's an intriguing thought. I shall look into it. And now, if you have finished your drinks, perhaps I could take Steven and show him where he will be staying in Novi Sad.'

As they walked back to the car for Steven's bag, Vesna hung sadly on his arm. 'You have my telephone number. You will call me, won't you?' she asked. 'And don't forget to come and visit Belgrade on the weekends.'

At the car he kissed Bear and Tamara the traditional three times. Vesna too kissed him the traditional three times, and then unseen by the others, stole a fourth from his lips as she pulled away. 'Hurry back to Belgrade.'

Steven blushed as Vesna turned and walked towards the red Yugo without looking back.

As he and Stojadinovic drove down from the fortress, through Wa.s.serstadt and across the Varadin Bridge into downtown Novi Sad, Steven gazed wistfully out the window of Stojadinovic's Volkswagen Beetle, thinking that it might be all right to let down his guard and open his heart to Vesna.

'I see you have enjoyed your time in Belgrade,' Stojadinovic commented wryly. 'Our women are beautiful, aren't they?'

The university dormitory a.s.saulted Steven's senses. Moldy carpet, dirty diapers, tobacco smoke and damp concrete hung pungent in the air. As he searched for his room he pa.s.sed entire families crammed into quarters meant for two or three students: parents, babies, grandparents, children, teenagers, the newly dispossessed Serb refugees from Croatia. He ducked under laundry drying on lines stretched across the corridor and pa.s.sed old people sitting on stools outside their rooms, talking to each other, smoking nervously. Loud turbo-folk music blasted from boom-boxes and radios as children raced up and down the corridors, yelling loudly. Some held sticks for rifles, playing Partizans and Ustase, their version of Cowboys and Indians.

Pa.s.sing by one room Steven noticed a muscular shaven-headed youth wearing black jeans, a black t-s.h.i.+rt with gold chains, sungla.s.ses on his bald pate. A black aviator's jacket hung on the back of the chair and he was drinking a yellowish liquid from a water gla.s.s, kept company by a bottle of Johnny Walker scotch and a heroin-thin blonde-from-a-bottle wearing tight jeans, high heels and a lacey tank top that was mostly cleavage. The youth jumped up, raced to the door and grabbed Steven with one muscular tattooed arm.

'You're new here.' He didn't ask: he stated.

'Yes.'

'Good. If you need anything, just let me know.' He spoke almost too fast to follow. 'Marijuana, heroin, has.h.i.+sh, changing money, cigarettes, girls, petrol, cars...you name it, no problem!' The blonde smiled at Steven like a cat about to swallow a canary. 'I'm your man. My name is Neso.' He extended a hand in greeting, offering Steven a closer look at the tattoo, a picture of a triumphant Serb in national costume standing astride a dead Albanian in whose chest he had planted a Serbian flag. The caption read Kosovo or Death.

Not knowing what else to do, Steven shook Neso's hand and muttered 'thanks.'

'You're not from here, are you?' Neso stated.

'No, I'm from America.'

'Really? Is your family from here?'

'No, my entire family is from America.'

'I'm not from here either. I'm a Serb, but I'm from Bosnia,' Neso said proudly. 'America is good. Look, Ceca, he's a real American,' he said turning to the blonde. 'Do you have a girlfriend? Even if you do it doesn't matter: Ceca likes making new friends.' She smiled suggestively and bent over slightly, displaying her plunging decollete to good effect.

'Thank you. But no.' Yet Steven found himself staring at Ceca's vulgar display of flesh and thinking about Vesna's kiss.

'You'll change your mind. You Americans have too many Muslims and blacks,' Neso proclaimed loudly, 'they dilute your racial strength. You also have too many Jews and Mexicans. I've got a cousin in Chicago and he's told me everything about America. Do you know him? His name is Radovan Stojilkovic.'

'No, I'm from Utah. It's a long way away.'

'Oh well, no big deal. I like America. I want to move there someday. Americans and Serbs have always been good friends. Anything you need, just let me know,' he shook Steven's hand once more and then let him continue searching for his room.

Steven's dilapidated room housed one other person, an agriculture graduate student from China who spoke no English and poor Serbo-Croatian. His name sounded like Geronimo, but Steven wasn't sure.

Loud voices and music continued to echo down the corridor. Steven sought respite from the noise in the cafeteria, which was depressingly drab and socialist. Cleanliness was a low priority, as was the quality of the food, which consisted of cabbage and bean pasulj, submerged in grease and cooking oil. The cafeteria stunk of greasy baked fish, so Steven returned to his room.

The noise from the refugees kept Steven up until after midnight, and then he was awoken twice, by a husband and wife screaming hysterically about who had cheated on whom, and by someone pounding loudly on a door, yelling for Neso.

Early Monday Steven fled the chaos of the dormitory for the stillness of the Matica Srpska library, its founders' busts lined protectively in front to keep out noise. He perused the archive's catalogues and took note of collections by famous ethnographers, and then came across the name Stefan Novakovic. It seemed familiar, yet he couldn't quite place it, so he reviewed his notes. Then he found it: Novakovic was the scholar who had found the original Fluckinger doc.u.ments about the Austrian Army vampire-hunting missions in Serbia. Excited, he immediately ordered the first two cartons of Novakovic's papers and then went to the reading room to await their delivery.

After fifteen minutes the cartons arrived, and Steven found Novakovic's notes. The handwriting was nearly indecipherable and resembled chicken tracks more than any particular alphabet. 'It's like cuneiform,' Steven muttered to himself as he struggled through it. But references to the Austrian Army were nowhere to be found, so he returned the cartons and ordered the next two. And the next two. And the next two. It was late afternoon before he found the doc.u.ments he wanted.