Deep Black

71

When a mortar round explodes on a hard surface like a road or pavement, it creates a characteristic pattern. We came across a lot of strike marks that had been filled with red cement as a memorial to whoever had died on that spot. Bascarsija, a warren of narrow cobblestoned streets, alleyways and dead-ends, had more than its fair share of ‘Sarajevo roses’. The Serbs had been particularly fond of busy places like markets and shopping arcades.

The area was dotted with mosques and lined with tiny interconnected one-storey wooden shops, selling leatherwork and brass tea-sets, postcards of bombed-out buildings and pens to write on them made from spent .50 cal cases. I didn’t see any tourists haggling with the owners. Most customers, when there were any, seemed to be in uniform with SFOR flashes.

We turned a corner and the massive Gazi Husrev Bey mosque was suddenly there in front of us, pristine and white. They’d really gone to town on the renovation. Elevations had been re-rendered, strike marks in the stone had been removed, and there were brand new his’n’hers washrooms in the courtyard area.

The arched entrance was protected by a stone portico. Big carpets were laid out beneath it, perhaps for those who wanted a quick prayer without going inside, or to cater for overspill when the mosque was full.

There are different lengths of prayers for the different prayer times, and shorter prayers if you’re travelling or ill. They can be said alone, or in congregation. It’s pretty much a pick ’n’ mix affair to suit the individual. You can even combine a couple of prayer times, like some Catholics do on a Saturday night to save them having to get up early the following morning.

A lone man in his mid-sixties, wearing jeans and an Adidas windcheater, was kneeling and offering Salah [prayers]. His shoes were tucked into the racks provided. We made our way towards the side door, past a small shop window decked out with a lifetime’s supply of Qur’âns and other religious paraphernalia and two stone shrines to a couple of high-rankers in the Muslim world. Jerry couldn’t remember exactly who they were and actually blushed with embarrassment because he felt he should: after all, this was the most historic mosque in Europe.

We took off our shoes before going in. Non-Muslims are welcome in mosques; they don’t like you trying to take part if you’re not one of the faithful, but you can stand at the back and watch if you want, it’s no big deal. The two religions I had most time for, Judaism and Islam, both managed to create this sense of everyone being part of one big family.

The interior was cavernous, with a dome at least twenty-five metres high. Chandeliers hung down on cable and chain. The walls were decorated with beautiful framed quotes from the Qur’en. The entire floor was covered in intricately woven Oriental carpets.

Four old women had their backs against the wall to our right, heads covered and mumbling to themselves. I smiled, gesturing for their permission to enter. They smiled back and ushered me in. They gave Jerry a strange look, which made me smile: in a world of Muslims, he was clearly the weird-looking one.

The moment we stepped out of the hustle and bustle of the street, there was a sense of tranquillity I could almost touch. People seemed to glide across the carpets; voices were hushed.

I looked down and could see my socks were leaving sweat marks on the highly polished tiles. I shrugged an apology to the women.

They all smiled back.

Encouraged, I moved closer to them. ‘English? Speak English?’

They smiled even more, nodded and said nothing. I thought I might as well start asking about Salkic. I wanted as many people as possible to know we were looking for him. With luck, the bush telegraph would swing into operation. He’d either run for cover, or get curious and come looking.

‘Mr Salkic? Do you know him? Ramzi Salkic?’

They looked at each other and gobbed off, then just smiled and nodded again.

I had another go, but got exactly the same response.

I shrugged my shoulders and thanked them, then started to back out with Jerry. We put on our shoes and left.

‘You did well there, didn’t you?’ At least Jerry thought it was funny.

‘C’mon, then, we’ll go in the shop. Let’s see you do better.’

It turned out to be little more than a table covered with a jumbled selection of books and cassettes and other religious bric-à-brac. Maybe this was where the airport’s minibus driver had bought his greatest-hits collection. A guy with a grey beard stood behind the display, in a black tanktop over a white shirt buttoned all the way up his neck. He smiled at me and I smiled back.

Jerry tried his luck. ‘Speak English?’

He looked almost offended. ‘Of course!’

‘I’m looking for Ramzi Salkic. We were told he prays here. Do you know where we can find him?’

He didn’t even give it time for the name to sink in. ‘No, no. I’ve never heard that name. What does he look like?’

‘That’s the thing, we don’t really know.’

He opened his hands, palms upwards. ‘Then I am sorry.’

‘Never mind, thanks a lot.’

Dark clouds were scudding across the sky as we emerged from the mosque, and it had turned noticeably colder. ‘We’ve got thirty-five till Zuhr.’ I shoved my Baby-G under his nose. ‘Let’s get a brew. Pointless hanging around.’

We left the sanctuary of the courtyard and moved back into the hustle and bustle of the streets. A guy in a fluorescent vest was holding a fat hose over a blocked manhole while his truck sucked noisily. Paddy obviously hadn’t got round to sorting out the sewers yet. It probably wasn’t top of his list of priorities because, according to the waffle on its side, this shit-clearing vehicle was a gift from the German Red Cross. I wondered if they were being ironic.