by Paul Carlson
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The Earth turned, the station swept onward, and the moment passed. Its rings met the rosy glow of dawn, while in Old Town Skopje the muezzin's call rang out.
Berta sighed, and reached for Zoran's hand. "Wonderful. Anna spoke well."
Struck from behind, Berta fell to her hands and knees. Her palmtop computer skittered across the cobblestones. With a cry of alarm she reached for it, but a booted foot gave it a vicious kick.
"Hey!" Zoran found himself surrounded by four young toughs. "I know you guys. Get packing or I'll report you."
"Try it and see what happens," said one of the punks. "Forget your fancy peace marriages. We'll show this deluded girl what real husbands are like."
Then all four punks disappeared into the milling crowd.
Berta got up, shocked if not surprised by the assault. "Ow, my hands." Both were skinned, and bleeding a little.
A helpful passerby retrieved her palmtop, then scurried off before Berta could thank him. Centuries of oppression, by whatever name, had ingrained the Balkan's population with a wary mindset.
A murmur of disapproval drew the two friend's attention. An old man, his white qeleshe cap distinct in the dawn's light, stood glaring at them. Zoran recognized his downstairs neighbor Envar, a Kosovar Albanian who lived on the 25th floor of their apartment building. Their paths seldom crossed, but it was Envar's grandson and his cohorts who'd just shoved Berta.
"Merdita, neighbor," Zoran told him. "Good morning to you."
Envar's eyes opened wide, so surprised was he that a Slav would know an Albanian greeting, much less deign to use it. Even so, his expression did not soften.
"You consort with these people," Envar accused Berta. "You dishonor our traditions." He hawked a glob of spittle at their feet. "How dare you mix our blessed Shqiperise blood."
The angry old man turned and shuffled away, toward the mosque and his morning prayers.
Zoran held his girlfriend tightly. "Berta, I'm so sorry. I'll bet he can't stand it, that his own Imam supports our project. You remember what that American lecturer told us last year? In History 202?"
"I do. 'To unshackle the Balkans from its tragic past, you'd have to kill all the grandparents.' He meant bitter men like Envar." Despite the glorious sunrise she shivered. "Mixed blood? I haven't even mixed anything—yet. The station is a catalyst, and peace marriages are what's really going to count. Guess the idea is drawing out the worst in some people."
Zoran held up his palmtop, with the latest news and blogs and polls streaming across its display. "We have a lot left to do."
Betra washed the blood off her hands at a public water fountain. "Envar's heart wasn't in it. I've been accosted by people ten times that angry. I know! Let's call the orbiter Santayana Station."
"It already has a name, but . . . " Zoran used his palmtop to email Trich Barzon, who posted the suggestion on the station's web site.
Within fifteen minutes, as the two friends sipped Turkish coffee at an outdoor café, Berta saw that 70% of the respondents thought it would make a great nickname.
Around them earnest discussions bubbled, like an intellectual stewpot. Zoran knew their concerns well. 'Is our project too simplistic?' 'Will the Imams allow such assertive girls to marry into local households? Much less, allow any girl to marry outside of their faith?'
Berta recognized a conversion that raged, with muted passion, at the next table over. She'd held many like it, at college dorms, on past the midnight hour. In cool psychological terms: 'Can the Balkan peoples recategorize themselves?' In plain speech: 'Can a bunch of two-legged jackasses see beyond their own clan's accepted domain, and truly identify with the larger world?'
Berta's answer was always 'yes,' and she could point to dozens of brave girls who'd already pioneered the way, in Kosovo and elsewhere. There had been two horrible deaths, 'honor killings' at the hands of enraged men, but many more heartfelt reconciliations.
The Imam of the Mustapha Pasha Mosque traveled with bodyguards now, and all he'd done was allow the project to utilize his prestigious gathering place. Berta knew his support ran deeper, but until public opinion swung around, he dared not voice his thoughts.
And it will swing around, Berta prayed.
