Buying Cigarettes in Montenegro

The smell of dust and cypresses, and the bored vendor shimmering gently in the heat waves. He is chewing gum. He does not look pleased to see me.
Spread out on the makeshift table in front of him are lots of packets of cigarettes.
He spits the gum in the dust and asks:
"Do you want the ones with the obituary or without?"
The obituary in question is the warning label, and its presence or its lack on cigarette packets indicates where they were smuggled in from.

Going home from the beach

The sky is ribboned with glowing pinks and oranges, and the wood is still golden-coloured but growing darker by degrees.
"How long until sunset?"
"I don't know. 15 minutes maybe."
"It takes us 20 minutes to walk this path. How fast do you think we'll get there if we run?"
"I don't know Nikola. And the reason I don't know is because I've never run through the wood. It's part of my strange habits of not wanting to break my ankle." But my mood is unexpectedly light, matching the sky.
"Do you want to hike the highway in the dark?"
"Not especially."
"In that case what do you say we race the light?"
"I say let's not tell my mother about it."
Our laughter tangles with the leaves, follows our pounding, skipping feet and years later I'll remember it as the summer I spent with friends, in which everything felt like an adventure.

Russian Church, Belgrade, Orthodox Christmas - January 1984

The other children and I are linking hands. We form a line, and the child leading holds the Christmas star. Earlier we had been coerced into reciting poetry, and now we dance. We snake around the tree, holding hands and singing.

Hristaslava, Hristaslava The Glory of the Christ.

Winter in Belgrade

The snow turns the streets white, transforms the town briefly into a more magical, cleaner version of itself. In this secret town I wade through the drifts and leave a trail that vanishes as quickly as the breadcrumbs Hansel and Gretel scattered in the wood.

The inside of a wave, Sveti Stefan, 1988

The sea has eaten me, swept me up, swallowed me in one big gulp. I am in the belly of a wave. I know I should be scared but I'm not. It is perfectly calm here. Infinately blue.
I am in the sea's womb, enclosed in a perfect pocket of space.


A Hospital. October, 1989

A window. A piece of sky. Tall dark trees.
The last glimpse of a dark-haired man in the hospital room through the shutting door.

NATO Bombing, 1999

The colour of bombs is a gaudy red with snakes of orange. They make a noise like fireworks.

Sometimes it rains ash and the ash covers the streets like snow.

The only thing worse than knowing exactly what has been hit is the not knowing anything at all. The only thing worse than being there is being safe when everyone you love isn't.

I am drinking vodka. I am eating fire.
The colour of my grief is also a gaudy red, the colour of blood and jagged wounds.

Views from the train crossing Skadar Lake - October 2003

The window is stained but I've learned not to dwell on questions such as when it was last washed, or what the origin of the puddle on the floor is.
It's the first time I've made this trip as an adult, without the company of my mother or grandmother.

As such, I treasure it as something wholly mine. The hills are threaded with mist. For a moment when the sun struck the autum leaves , it seemed as thought he hills were on fire the mist rising off them like smoke. Skadar is an expanse of blue and green, colonised in parts by the lillies and marsh grasses.

Summer

We eat olives and white cheese and thick slices of wholemeal bread.
The whole world is sleepy with sunlight.
A cat has curled itself around my neck, purring.


Belgrade, A Highway

Rolled down car windows and the tooting of horns.
"Get a move on, motherfucker!"
"Fuck your mother!"
"Fuck yours!"
The song of drivers accompanied with graceful hand gestures.

Bakeries in the morning

Fresh bread that warms the hands. Elaborately curled pretzels. Cheese and spinach pies. Baklava.
Yoghurt.
An accumulation of small pleasures.

Rain

A summer storm to end the drought.
The smell of wet stone.
The shelter of the doorway.
My wet hair.
The light coalescing on the cheekbones of the man I am with.

2004. The night before leaving for London again.

Wine. Music. An mix of nostalgia and rock'n'roll on the radio.
"When will you come back?"
"I don't know. When I can."
A lull. A silence. Bittersweet.
Occasional cars passing on the street outside.
The scent of nightflowers, and linden in bloom.