Deep Black

70

There was some reconstruction in progress along the riverbank, but most buildings still hadn’t been patched up. A few of the places immediately facing the Miljacka had all but collapsed. Others had done so long since, their rubble cleared to make room for muddy car parks. At least the river was nice and picturesque these days. The last time I’d seen it, there’d been bodies floating downstream.

A tram stopped just ahead of us, brand new with a sign announcing it was a gift from the people of yet another guilt-ridden country that had done fuck-all to help when it was really needed. Passengers jostled to get on and off with their shopping, a very few in headscarves, some in grey raincoats, briefcases in their hands and cellphones to their ears.

Soon we couldn’t move for people and cafés. A coffee shop seemed to have sprung up every ten paces, but these were indigenous. George would have given Sarajevo the thumbs up: there wasn’t a Starbucks or skinny latte in sight. A lot of them had outside tables with canopies and butane heaters so the punters didn’t have to stem their nicotine and caffeine intake even when the temperature dropped.

Most of the buildings were still peppered with shrapnel and bullet scars, but at street level it was all plate glass and stainless steel, bright lights and rap. We even passed a Miss Selfridge, where women were holding up the new season’s collection against themselves, and teenage girls lounged around in Levi’s, smoking and listening to their Walkmans.

Our first stop was to buy us each a coat. We didn’t think that the Sunday Telegraph would stretch to Versace so we headed into one of the old local boys’ shops. I settled for a brown three-quarter-length number that didn’t look or feel remotely like leather, despite what the salesman said. But, then, what can you expect for about twelve dollars? Jerry spent about the same on a waterproof with a fleecy lining. We looked like dickheads, but at least we were warm.

Sarajevo isn’t big, but it’s teeming with different ethnic neighbourhoods. We moved into another Hungarian quarter. The pedestrian area, once cratered by mortar rounds, was now paved with flat stone.

The old black and red board was still where I remembered it, inviting us to visit the Café Bar Muppet. The Firm had had a room above it, which was very apt, I’d always thought. There was an archway through into a very small square, and the café was just off to the right. Even at the height of the war it had felt protected. A direct hit wouldn’t have been too healthy, although it would probably have been better than a bullet in the back. I’d preferred the Bodyguard Café up the road, for the simple reason that it was in a cellar. But you had to be quick, because every other fucker wanted to get in there too.

The smell of cevapcici, grilled sausages served with pitta bread, drifted through the streets, signalling that we were coming into the old Turkish area, Bascarsija. The Gazi Husrev Bey mosque, or ‘Gazzer something’ as Rob had called it, was the largest in the city, and now close enough to spit at.