Vidovdan

“You’re younger than you look,” she said with a half smile.

“You’re older than you act,” he quipped back.

Jovan had not expected her to meet him here. After all this time. He also didn’t expect to be so nervous. Tension was in the air anyway, this was not like other Vidovdan. Even the happy people seemed angry. Jovan was ready to leave it all behind.

“It’s been a long time, Amalia.”

“Has it?”

“Please, I’m not here to argue—,” Jovan was interrupted by the sound of Moritz bringing their order.

“Fräulein, weisser Spritzer,” he bowed slightly and placed her drink in front of her. He turned to Jovan and his face went to stone, “Herr,” he placed a coffee in front of him. He left a tray of sirnica between them, “if I can be of any further help, Fräulein,” he bowed again.

Jovan began to pick at one while he let the grinds settle in his cup. His hand trembled slightly at Moritz’s tone. He calmed them by cupping his fildžan, letting the bitter aroma fill his lungs.

The thick dark wood shelves that lined the walls called him back to his grandfather’s workshop. Of course his grandfather could never afford a lot of the food that adorned these shelves.

Amalia sipped her spritzer and made no expression, “so— how are you?”

Jovan chuckled. A man in the corner jumped a little. He whispered to his friend, his eyes never leaving Jovan’s direction.

“I am— fine.” Jovan still struggled with Deutsch. He hadn’t spoken it as much in the last five years.

“how did you get rid of your chaperone?”

“I have not had a chaperone for quite some time, Jovan. I made it abundantly clear to my father how I felt.”

“And he submitted?”

“He had no choice, he cannot fight on two fronts at once.”

Jovan almost choked on his coffee. Her meaning was stabbing him in the chest. After this morning those words may be truer than ever.

“Still— to leave you in the city alone, after today’s events?”

“I am not alone— am I? I am with our family’s familiar and loyal stable boy. Sweet Jovan who wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she smiled seductively.

He felt himself go flush and turn back into a gangly adolescent. With his oversized hat and hand me down knickers. He glanced around the room. Stray eyes still stopped here and there but most were deep in conversation.

“Be careful, Amalia!” He shushed her.

“I am to be careful? Jovie, you invited me. Can you not ensure my safety?”

“You know what I mean,” he leaned back, defeated already, “and after this morning no one can guarantee anyone’s safety.”

“The rumors are getting around— friends of yours?”

“You know I am no anarchist,” he whispered even more, “please, don’t draw so much attention.”

“Mein Herr, you have picked the most popular Austrian grocer in town—.”

“Would you have met me at a Kafana?”

She closed her eyes at that. She had a frustrated look on her face, “perhaps I would have. Did you ever think to ask that in your letter? You write Deutsch even worse than you speak it.”

How he longed to speak to her as a Slav. The German language felt like a borrowed suit that was too tight in places and too loose in others.

“Is that why you learned to speak srpski?” He said in his own tongue.

She looked around nervously, “I was bored,” she said in a much more credible accent than his German.

“You have three horses, how could you possibly be bored?”

“I have four now, thank you, Mein Herr.”

“Four?”

“Yes— Four, Hans is getting old, you know?”

Hans was his favorite. A beautiful black stallion. He would have named it Vukašin. The Austrians love to name everything Hans. Their children, their dogs. Even their guns.

“He should be with the angels by now.”

“Maybe he misses you, maybe he wishes for one last brush before he passes on?”

“Maybe he wants to die in his own field?”

“You might be the body politic, yet, Jovie.”

“I have no time for such things— I work and I go to the cinema.”

Her face lit up, “you like cinema?”

“I was in line the day the Apollo opened!” He said excitedly in a mixture of Slavic and German.

The man in the corner scowled again. Jovan lowered his head like he was being asked for papers. Amalia laughed, “this is completely ridiculous.”

“What do you mean?”

“This here. Both of us, today of all days.”

“Would there be another day that you’d prefer?” He asked.

“I would have preferred one of the days I asked you. Like when my father was away in Morocco.”

“We were fifteen, Amalia— I was too young, too stupid.”

“And you’re smart enough now?”

Jovan looked out of the window at the passersby. He focused on a thin man a little younger than himself. Serb written all over him. He looked dirty. Even to Jovan the man was filthy. He looked around the cafe. Met the scowler’s eyes in the corner. He saw himself through the man’s eyes. It broke his heart.

“Do you see that man?”

“Who? That one?” She pointed at the skinny young Serb.

“Yes, what do you see?”

“What? This is silly, perhaps choose another game.”

“Was siehst du?”

“I see a man, a young man. Who could probably use a shave but otherwise I see a man. Now why do you ask me such riddles?”

“Fort Lee, New Jersey,” he said in broken English.

“What is that?”

“You said you like cinema, that is where the cinema is made!” He was excited now, “we could go, learn English. I could get a job in films.”

“What could you do in films?”

“Who knows? They say it’s a land of opportunity.”

“Who are they to ask me to leave everything behind?”

“I am asking you— because I am smarter now— because I believe it is time to find a place where it doesn’t matter what language we speak in.”

“After all this time? I haven’t seen you in five years!”

More murmuring rounded the room but it didn’t seem focused on them. Traffic was a mess and would be for hours while they gathered evidence. No doubt every officer would want a souvenir, Jovan thought.

“You are right, I should have gone with you then. But you’ve been to London, Paris, Africa, I have only ever been here— in Sarajevo. You would be giving up a lot to go with me, you always knew that— but you never understood how much I was giving up as a Serb,” he was whispering but firmly.

Amalia breathed heavily. Jovan could see her normal cool demeanor cracking, “but why? Why now?”

He gestured outside, “things are changing. I fear for the worst.”

“You sound like an old man—,” she said. Then her face became more upset, “father is worried too, he speaks of war.”

“We have been at war, Amalia. Everyone else is just getting involved now.”

“Why are you not?”

“Because they will make me be a Serb and nothing else. I want safety for my people but I am more than just this,” he motioned to his clothes, “here I cannot be two things at once. I must be a Serb or I must be an Imperial.”

“Which do you wish to be?” She said, her gaze softer now.

“I wish to be your champion. I wish to be your lover. I wish to be your husband.”

“And who must I be then?”

“You will be whatever you wish— just be mine as well?” He held his hand in front of hers. Millimeters from her touch.

“You know I will have nothing, right? No money, no power.” Her hand shuffled uncomfortably.

“Is that what you think of me? That I have nothing?”

“Is that not what you think of me? That I have everything?”

“I think we are all born with nothing, and we must make of it what we are able to.”

“What shall we make then, Jovan?”

“A life.”

Her eyes glanced around the room. They fell onto the slim man standing out front then returned to him. She did not speak but her stare pierced his eyes. He did not look away. Never had he been more determined.

After a moment she finally spoke a single word, “yes.”

“Please, Amalia, I promise I will be good to you— just think about it!”

“I said yes, Dummkopf!”

Jovan’s eyes widened. He felt as if he’d walked into the Sultan’s palace and been told he could keep it. His heart beat through his chest. Over the shuffling of customers and the ring of the cash register he could hear hers as well.

She continued, “be calm— what is your plan?”

He could barely contain himself. Was this really happening? Or some delusion granted to him by St. Vitus? He glanced at the man out front again and felt hopeful.

“There is a liner leaving Fiume in three days heading for New York City,” he said it in a shaky American accent, “if we take the night train we can be on the water before your father even knows your trunk is missing.”

Her hand finally met his. For a moment they sat and said nothing. Jovan could think of nothing to say that he didn’t want to yell at the top of his lungs.

“Ja te volim—.” And then thunder.

Twice. The sound silenced the room. Jovan turned to his right and saw the young Serb saluting someone. No, he wasn’t saluting. He was firing a weapon.

The door burst open as a bystander yelled, “Der Thronfolger! Sie haben auf den Thronfolger geschossen!”

Even in his broken German he understood it perfectly. The man had shot the heir to the throne.

The room began to clear as patrons rushed to join the commotion surrounding the man. Amalia looked at Jovan. Her eyes said everything.

“I know, you need to go.”

“I will meet you tonight, moja mila,” she leaned forward and kissed him deeply. Then she let go of his hand and went to the door, “Tonight.”

“Tonight— Dušo.”

Jovan sat back down at the table. Staring out of the window as Amalia made her way around the fray. He knew she would be safe. He watched her slip past the crowd. The authorities ushering her by.

He tipped his cup up to his lips as the glass next to him began to crack from the backs pressed against it. He drank the last drop, grounds and all. The bitter sandy taste coated his mouth. The glass contorted as it started to break.

“Tonight.”