Kiss Of The Butterfly Part 7

'I can't believe it's happening again,' Vesna exclaimed emotionally, her high cheekbones flushed with emotion. 'First Slovenia and Croatia, now Bosnia...its deja vu ...and Bosnia will be far worse. It's all so immoral. Evil has been unleashed and no one's doing anything about it.'

'They're sh.e.l.ling Sarajevo,' Tamara said, shock written across her slender face. 'My parents took me there for the 1984 Olympic Games... we used to ski there every winter... my father took me to the old Bascarsija market to eat the spiced cevapcici sausages...' Tamara began to cry. 'My mother is there now... she remarried a Bosnian Muslim and refuses to leave...' Her voice trailed off as tears rolled down her cheeks. 'I don't know what's happening to her, if she's alive, if she has food...' she sobbed. Bear hugged her.

'Slobo says the Muslims want to create an Islamic republic, but his propaganda's the same as at the beginning of the war in Croatia,' Vesna said, irritated. 'They're calling the Muslims fundamentalists, but we all know that they drink and smoke and eat pork and go to the mosque as often as Serbs go to church. Their women don't wear veils and they dress in modern fas.h.i.+ons like other women in Yugoslavia. It all seems like a big lie.'

'Why don't people protest?' Steven asked.

'We tried on March 9th last year,' Bear muttered, 'but Milosevic sent police on horseback and water cannons against the demonstrators, and when those didn't work he sent tanks. Two people were killed. And then we occupied Terazije, but that didn't work either.'

They sat in silence for a long while.

Bear broke the silence: 'The Military Police came for me at my parents' home this week.'

'What happened?' asked Steven.

'Obviously they didn't find me. I was spending the night somewhere else,' he grinned, squeezing Tamara's hand.

'Why didn't you tell me about the police?' Tamara demanded, withdrawing her hand abruptly.

'Tamara? Bear? Are you two dating?' Steven asked with a grin.

'Yes, for over a year, but please don't tell anyone,' Tamara said, her stern expression indicating concern.

'It's okay to tell people,' contradicted Bear. 'We're in love and I want everyone to know. It's just that Tamara's afraid of her father.'

'He doesn't want anything to disrupt my studies,' Tamara interjected. 'As if the war and all this chaos are helping. My older sister got pregnant, got married and never finished the university. And then she immigrated to South Africa. If my dad finds out about Bear and me, the Military Police will be the least of Bear's problems. My dad's a difficult person...' her sentence trailed off.

'Difficult is right. He's an SPS party official,' Bear added.

'Where will you stay?' Steven asked Bear.

'At my Uncle's place on Banovo Hill.'

'So you're a draft dodger,' smiled Steven.

'Yeah, it's an old Serbian tradition. Everyone makes a big deal about how we're such warriors, but n.o.body wants to fight, just a few crazies,' Bear answered.

'How's your research?' Tamara asked. 'Anything new?'

'Well, I finished with vampires and moved on to fairies...'

'That's good, fairies,' interrupted Vesna. 'They're common in our folklore, and they aren't as horrible as vampires.'

'I started on fairies, but everything led back to vampires. Then I collected material about witches, but once again, vampires kept popping up. I'm surprised there's so little mention of vampires in Yugoslavia, because they're really prevalent in folklore. No one would ever know there'd been vampires in the Balkans. It's like they've been erased from public discourse,' Steven said.

'The communists did a good job erasing superst.i.tions,' Bear remarked. 'In fact, they did better than the Church.'

'Stefan, Professor Ljubovic told us you'll present more of your findings at a round table next week,' Tamara said, eagerly. 'Will it be about vampires again?'

'Yes, but this time I'll talk about their characteristics.'

Vesna's face registered her displeasure.

'Don't make faces, Vesna,' Steven smiled. 'It'll be fun. If you come you'll learn something.'

'Oh come on Vesna, don't be superst.i.tious,' Bear said. 'No one's going to bite you. After all, vampires don't exist, isn't that right Stefan?'

'Of course not, they're just folk tales.'

'It'll be fun,' Tamara said, smiling. 'Your last presentation really had people talking.'

'Will you come?' Steven asked Vesna, c.o.c.king his head playfully. 'I promise I'll keep it safe for families and small children.' He winked at Tamara.

'Well, okay, but promise you'll not be scary.'

'Well, I can't promise it won't be scary, but I promise that if a vampire appears I'll come to your rescue.'

'Great. Just what I need, my own personal vampire-slayer. Okay, if you insist. But I'm doing it only for you.'

'Great. And bring rotten tomatoes to throw in case you don't like it. I'm definitely going to write my dissertation on this.'

'Don't even think about that!' Vesna said bluntly.

'Why not?'

'I really mean it. Don't think about it. There are so many dark and evil things in this part of the world and you really should stay away from them,' Vesna's voice rose. 'Evil is all around us, waiting to attack us. The last thing you need to do is invite it into your life. Why can't you find a topic that's uplifting, that will bring light into the world?' She was attracting attention from nearby tables.

'Oh, please, Vesna, don't exaggerate,' said Tamara.

'Exaggerate? Vesna continued. 'What about Milosevic? What about the horrible things in Croatia and Bosnia and here in Serbia that everyone accepts as normal? The Devil has a vacation home here, and he won't leave until we toss him out. Some things are meant to remain hidden in dark places and never see the light of day. Stefan should just leave it alone. It'll only bring trouble.' Vesna stood up, grabbed her backpack and stalked off.

Steven stood up to go after her, but Bear reached out a large paw-like hand and stopped him. 'Let her go. She has her own problems. She's made up her mind and there's nothing you can do about it.'

'She's touchy. All I did was talk about my research,' Steven said.

'It's okay. Sit down and tell us about where you come from in America and what it's like in countries where Slobodan Milosevic isn't running things and where the only vampires are in Hollywood movies,' Bear said.

Steven had tried to phone Slatina several times, but without success. Due to the wars, phone service was often disrupted, and to get an outside line he had to call the operator, and then wait for a call back. Each time he tried, he was either unable to get a trans-Atlantic connection, or the telephone would simply ring with no answer. He also tried to reach Katarina, but to no avail. He felt increasingly cut off from the world.

With only one letter from Slatina since his arrival, Steven didn't know if his research would meet with the professor's approval. He missed hearing Slatina repeat the phrase 'et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.' He missed talking to Katarina. He missed California, especially the salad bars and guacamole. Some days he looked at the pljeskavica and longed for an In and Out burger or enchilada.

The next day the mail arrived. This time the postman brought six letters, two from Slatina, one from his parents and three from Katarina. The envelopes had all been opened, and looking at the post marks he could tell that they had arrived in Serbia weeks and even months ago. Steven sat on his bed and read them one by one, savoring each word. Slatina's letters were vague, non-descript, full of general well wishes and greetings with nothing specific, other than a few pieces of university and academic gossip. The professor made no mention of Steven's topic of study, other than to wish him continued success and to urge him to visit Novi Sad at his earliest convenience. His father's neat typewritten letter contained the latest family news and gossip.

He put down his parents' letter, looked at Katarina's photograph and picked up her first letter. It was written in Serbo-Croatian and began with the words Dear Stefan. It was full of cheerful ba.n.a.lities about university life, coursework, roommates, the weather, her professors, how different California was from Vojvodina, how much she missed home and her mother, how the Serb emigres in America were all ultra-nationalists and fascists. She ended the letter by writing kisses and a smiley face. The second letter was the same. In the third she told him that one of the boys in her freshman English cla.s.s had been teaching her to surf. When you see me next I will be the all-American surfer girl, she wrote, with a smiley face. She then asked why don't you write to me? and ended with I will come home to spend the summer with my mother in Novi Sad. I didn't have enough money for an airline ticket, but Marko has purchased one for me as an early birthday gift. Kisses.

Steven began writing responses to Slatina and his parents, and saved writing the letter to Katarina for the very end. His closing paragraph to her was awkward and stilted, but he decided not to change a word.

Clouds and darkness lie everywhere. Light comes during the day, but seems strangely distorted, as through a blurred lens, as though something is missing and we are receiving false light. I sought ways to defend against it, to keep from being dragged down into it and overcome by despair. The churches are no help: both Orthodox and Catholics are involved in a war of hatred, using religion to define their enemies. When I enter the churches I feel the devil laughing. The very inst.i.tutions that should be spreading light are spreading darkness, as though doing the devil's work. The only light I have found is through prayer, and I am now praying at least once a day, even more. Perhaps it's strange, but the terrible darkness has caused me to seek light in a way I never knew I would. Without it I would have lost my nerves long ago and come back to the States. Thank you for encouraging me in this.

The following week marked a turning point, when after months of tedious reading, Steven hit the mother lode. On Monday when he requested volume 66 of the Serbian Ethnographic Digest, Gordana the librarian said it was missing. But then she looked again and said it had been placed in a special restricted circulation section the communists had created for ideologically dangerous material. 'But since we are no longer communist, I can give it to you,' she said with a smile, handing him a thick book.

Judging by the dust on the cover, the stiffness of the binding and the crispness of the pages, Steven was the first person to open it. As he turned its pages he came across a piece from 1952, written by Tihomir Djordjevic, a member of the Serbian Academy of Arts and Science. In a 136 page article ent.i.tled Vampires and other beings in our folk beliefs and traditions, Djordjevic had painstakingly catalogued and summarized the work of all the major 19th and 20th century ethnographers on vampires. It sent electricity through Steven's body as he read the sub-headings: "what is a vampire", "who becomes a vampire", "what makes a vampire", "protection from vampires", "destroying vampires". This was a veritable catalogue of vampirism, scientifically organized and categorized with instructions. 'Everything you always wanted to know about vampires but were afraid to ask,' Steven thought to himself.

He read with elation, taking copious notes, tempted to simply copy the entire book verbatim by hand. By the time the reading room closed at 2:00 p.m. he had taken notes on the first 15 pages.

When he returned the next day he continued taking notes. Just before closing time he thumbed through the remainder of the volume and discovered another article by Djordjevic ent.i.tled The Twelve Mighty Vampires in Legend and Fact. He noted the bibliographical information and as he returned the volume to Gordana he asked: 'Can I buy a copy of this somewhere or photocopy it?'

Gordana examined it then placed it on a cart. 'I doubt you'll find it in a bookstore. Well, perhaps in a used bookstore, but this was printed in limited numbers, only enough for a few libraries and academicians.' She hesitated, then leaned over and whispered: 'But tomorrow I'll see if I can find a way to photocopy it for you. Come just after opening time.'

'Thank you,' Steven said, sincerely. He vowed to buy Gordana a box of chocolates and flowers.

On Wednesday morning he flew up the smoke-filled stairs and arrived in the reading room completely out of breath and full of expectation, only to find a librarian he had never seen before whose build and dumpy brown outfit made her the embodiment of a bulldog.

'Where's Gordana?'

'She's taken sick leave and won't be back for some time.'

'But she seemed healthy yesterday. What happened?'

'She had a bad night and became suddenly ill.'

So Steven asked for the Djordjevic book. After a few minutes in the stacks she returned and said: 'It's not here,' spittle dribbling from bluish lips.

'But it was here yesterday,' Steven protested.

'Perhaps a professor has taken it. Is there anything else I can get for you?' Her bloated, jaundiced face seemed less than eager to help.

'Do you know when it'll be returned?'

'No, I do not,' she barked abruptly, turned up her pug nose and disappeared into the darkness of the stacks.

Steven waited with growing frustration for the librarian to return. She finally did so ten minutes later, and shot Steven a look of disgust that said 'are you still here?'

'Perhaps Gordana put it somewhere.'

'It's not here and Gordana won't be back for some time,' the librarian huffed with annoyance. 'Is there anything else you need?'

'No. But say h.e.l.lo to Gordana from me,' he said, no longer in the mood to study. He trudged down the smoky stairs and b.u.mped into Professor Ljubovic on his way out.

'Steven, how good to see you. How are you?'

'Well, I'm kind of b.u.mmed out. An important book has disappeared and n.o.body knows where it is. Gordana the librarian set it aside for me, but she's out sick.'

'I'm certain it'll turn up soon. Be patient. Sometimes these things happen. Come with me for a walk. It's a beautiful day and we shouldn't waste it inside.'

Outside all of Serbia was enjoying the bl.u.s.tery spring weather. They walked silently to the Kalemegdan fortress, where they looked out at the confluence of the Danube and Sava below the ramparts. Steven gazed at the two great rivers, swollen with spring runoff, that nearly submerged the forested hulk of the Great War Island under their greenish-brown waters. He followed a hawk as it circled above the lower plain of the Kalemegdan and out over the river towards the concrete-grey forest of New Belgrade's ma.s.s-produced communist apartment blocks.

'Do you know much about the Kalemegdan fortress?' Ljubovic asked.

'Some, not much,' admitted Steven.

'You know that Belgrade's a combination of two Slavic words: beo meaning 'white,' and grad meaning 'city,' due to the white limestone used to build the fortress,' Ljubovic said, pointing at the stone walls. 'In Roman times the city was called Singidunum and the Roman Flavian IV Legion built a castrum on this spot. For them the Danube was the line between barbarians and civilization. To the north were the Barbarians.

'But beginning with the Austrians, things flip-flopped and civilization and Europe were to the north in Vojvodina, while here to the south of the Danube and Sava Rivers lay the barbarians. Today we Serbs are deeply divided, and our rivers are a symbol of that. Do you see that tower on that hill across the river?'

'That one over there?'

'Yes. It's in Zemun. Until 1918 Zemun was a Habsburg border town...Semlin. If you'd been here in 1801 everything would have been different. Zemun looks like many other towns throughout Habsburg Europe, from Salzburg to Transylvania, from Zagreb to Prague, and the Serbs in Zemun looked like and were educated as Europeans. Come with me down to the river,' he said, leading Steven through an old gate, down a steep rock-paved path.

'Back then, Belgrade was a dirty cattle town, a decaying Turkish backwater border outpost that had more in common with Istanbul than Zemun. The last Turkish soldiers didn't leave Belgrade until 1867.'

'In Zemun they ate schnitzel, paprikash and Sachertorte: in Belgrade, pljeskavica, djuvec and baklava. In Zemun Mozart and Beethoven were all the rage: in Belgrade, the one-stringed gusle and shepherd's bagpipes. In Zemun people sat on sofas: in Belgrade, on divans. In Zemun wives slept in the same bed as their husbands: in Belgrade they slept in the harem. Women of Zemun wore the latest fas.h.i.+ons from Vienna: in Belgrade, ornamented vests and harem pants. In Zemun men wore polished leather shoes and the latest European suits and hats: in Belgrade baggy Turkish pants, curly-toed leather opanci and the fez. Zemun had Catholic and Orthodox churches, nuns and monks: Belgrade had mosques and dervishes.'

Steven listened raptly to Ljubovic's interpretation.

'The only things both cities shared were strong Turkish coffee, the Serbo-Croatian language and Gypsies. In the truest sense, Belgrade was where East met West, where two radically different cultural spheres collided. Even today our country has trouble choosing which way to look, which is why we have a two-headed eagle on our coat of arms, with the heads looking in different directions.'

'The Habsburg Empire kept the barbarian Balkans at bay and European culture prevailed, gradually taming the evils that the primitive villagers brought with them from the mountain darkness. After the fall of the Habsburg Empire in 1918, Serbia's kings maintained this civilizing influence and taught the people right from wrong, good from evil, and showed them the path to enlightenment and the modern world. But Serbia hasn't had a king since 1941, and the communists unleashed the primitive instincts that had been kept at bay for centuries. But at least the communists tried to impose order, no matter how faulty or amoral. Today we have neither a king nor communists, but only Milosevic, a man who values neither morality nor culture.'

'What about the Church?' Steven interrupted.

'The Church? Hah!' Ljubovic spat with disdain. 'It's a collection of primitive, half-educated peasants living in a world of myths and half-truths based on poetic memories of a battle lost 600 years ago in Kosovo. They're part of the problem. They teach superst.i.tion instead of faith, lies instead of truth, myth instead of history, and state instead of G.o.d. And Milosevic has let the Church set the values of the new generation, values steeped in ignorance and based on vengeance, hate, blood l.u.s.t and superst.i.tion. They have unleashed a great evil.'

Steven was surprised at Ljubovic's vehemence. The professor stopped talking as they crossed a road.

'Why does everyone constantly speak of evil as if it's a real force or presence?' Steven asked suddenly. 'The concepts of good and evil were banished from western scholarly discourse long ago. Everything is supposed to be examined within its specific cultural context without making judgments based on our own society's values. Scholars argue that good and evil are relative concepts and that objectively they do not exist. They claim that they are purely artificial constructs based on subjective judgments that emerge from our cultural context. In America, if I were to talk about evil as being real they would laugh me out of the university. Yet everybody I speak with here talks of evil as if it exists and is a palpable presence.'

Ljubovic led Steven along the concrete-lined riverfront embankment. 'It's easy for scholars sitting far across the ocean in the civilized comfort of their universities to speak theoretically of good and evil and deny its existence,' Ljubovic said. 'But I guarantee you that if they lived here for one year, they'd change their minds. The Apostle Paul described these scholars well when he warned his dear friend Timothy of men who are "ever learning, and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth." My advice to you is to ignore scholarly theory, particularly in the Balkans, where you will find that such theory bears little relation to reality.'

'So do you believe in evil as a real concept, as something tangible?' Steven pressed.

'Do you believe in G.o.d?' Ljubovic responded with a question.

'Yes, I do,' Steven replied.

'But do you believe G.o.d exists? That he's real and tangible and not just some greater cosmic force?' Ljubovic became increasingly serious.

'Yes.'

'What about the Devil? Do you believe the Devil exists? Satan, the Prince of Darkness, Lucifer, Perdition, Beelzebub, the Father of All Lies, the Old Serpent, the Great Dragon?' Ljubovic pressed him further.

'What did you call him?' Steven's interest was suddenly piqued. 'What were the last names you used?'

'The Old Serpent and the Great Dragon,' Ljubovic responded.