Love & Sex in a Minefield

by Jean Austin

  “Hi,” I say, offering my hand in friendship. Jacob is gracious, shaking my hand with restrained strength.

  “Emma Hallam,” I say. “This is Jilly, and James.”

  “Jimmy,” is the response from beside me. Jimmy hates his formal name.

  “Sofia Fischer,” the woman says, smiling warmly. “Are you staying in Munich?”

  “No, we’re flying on to Sarajevo.”

  “Oh, it is a shame,” Jacob says, having seen everything that transpired. He and Sofia must have been several rows ahead of us, winding their way through customs when they saw Jimmy being sick. “We would love to have you stay with us for a while.”

  I’m floored. I could cancel the onward flight, and for a moment, I consider the possibility, but the prospect of changing international flights and deferring accommodation in another country is daunting, and the opportunity passes. Besides, our baggage is checked through to Sarajevo. It would be a nightmare to retrieve.

  “Where have you flown in from?” I ask Sofia.

  “Tokyo. Jacob is a security consultant for SAP, and spends a lot of time in the East. Occasionally, I get to travel with him. We took a few extra days to trek Mount Fuji.” Sofia unlocks her phone and shows me some photos.

  “Wow. Looks beautiful.”

  “How long until your next flight?” Jacob asks, collecting their bags.

  “An hour or so.”

  Sofia says, “Would you like to get some coffee?”

  “I’d love to,” I reply as we make our way down the concourse. The hall is grand—filled with shops, restaurants and cafes, being used for both arrivals and departures.

  “How are you guys doing?” I ask the kids as we stop at a cafe with several booths covered in plush leather.

  “Better,” Jimmy says.

  “I’m fine,” Jilly says, bouncing on one of the leather seats. A quick look from me, but with no words exchanged, convinces her to sit rather than stand on the leather.

  I ask Jimmy, “Would you like some soda?” I’m thinking the carbonation will help settle his upset stomach, and the flavor will wash the taste of sick from his mouth. Jilly picks up on what I’m doing.

  “I’m sick too,” she says, looking cheerful with an angelic smile.

  “Of course you are.”

  I get the kids something to drink and a plate of crackers and cheese, while Jacob and Sofia order coffee. Jimmy and Jilly have found some coloring pencils and paper.

  “There’s something I’d like to give you,” Sofia says, reaching into her bag.

  “Me?” I’m not sure what to make of a gift from a stranger, especially from someone from an entirely different country and culture. As an American, gifts are normally reserved to family and close friends.

  “I brought this in Hiroshima,” she says, opening a box and pulling out a bowl carefully packaged in bubble wrap.

  Jacob says, “Our country is different from yours. We look at the past with mixed feelings. Both Japan and Germany were on the wrong side of history—and not just because we lost the Second World War. We were fighting for the wrong ideals.”

  I shift in my seat, not feeling comfortable with a one-sided discussion, and unsure where the conversation is going. I must look nervous.

  “Kintsujuroi,” Sofia says, peeling back the bubble wrap and revealing a Japanese bowl. I’m expecting something ornate—as that’s what catches the eye in souvenir shops—but the bowl is plain. The inside is a pale cream color, while the outside is dark blue. The rim is chipped in a few places. At first, I’m a little bewildered, but Sofia turns the bowl around before me, handling it with a sense of reverence.

  The bowl has been broken and repaired. From what I can tell, it must have been dropped and smashed into a dozen pieces, the largest of which is roughly half the size of the bowl itself, while the smallest is barely the size of a fingernail. What’s fascinating is that the bowl has been repaired with gold. Brilliant golden strands trace the cracks in the various ceramic pieces, joining them together.

  “It was broken on August the 6th, 1945.” The year is a giveaway. This bowl was broken when the Americans dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Sofia hands it to me. I run my fingers over the smooth interior, noting that whoever repaired the bowl took pains to ensure a smooth finish.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t. Really.”

  “Please,” she says, constraining me.

  Jacob says, “Kintsujuroi is how the Japanese deal with grief. To us, imperfection is cause for regret. Break a cup, and we throw it in the trash, but not so with the Japanese. They don’t hide from sorrow. They don’t give up on things or people. They accept reality. They embrace the brutality of life. I guess they see beauty where others see ruin.”

  Tears well up in my eyes.

  Sofia says, “You’re a young woman traveling alone with two kids. You’re a long way from home.”

  I nod, unable to speak.

  “You’ve been hurt.”

  Tears fall from my cheeks.

  “But this is not the end,” Sofia says. “This is a new beginning.” She rests her hand on mine, adding, “Don’t try to be perfect—no one ever is—just be yourself. A few scrapes and scratches, and bumps along the way—it’s okay. They make you all the more beautiful, not less.”

  I grab a napkin and wipe my eyes, blowing my nose. Jilly looks up at me momentarily, and then continues drawing.

  “You have beautiful children.”

  “I do,” I say. “I really do.”

  “Whatever happened back there, whatever you’re running from, don’t let the hurt define you. Fill in the cracks with silver and gold.”

  I nod, stunned by this remarkable couple.

  Over the loudspeaker, there’s a call for the flight to Sarajevo. Sofia hands me a scrap of paper with her name, phone number, and address on it. “If you are ever in Munich, please look us up.”

  “I will.” I take the paper from her, treasuring it like a thousand dollar bill. “You’ve been so kind.”

  “Kindness is all we have,” Sofia says, repacking the Japanese bowl and handing the box to me. “When we draw our last breath, what else will be remembered?” We get up from the booth and she hugs me. Outside of my mom and dad, I’ve never known such warmth and acceptance.

  “We’d better go,” I say to Sofia, quickly scrawling my cell phone number on a napkin. She smiles, taking it from me.

  “Take care.”

  “You too... Come on kids.”

  Jacob and Sofia bid us farewell. I’m still choking back tears, deeply appreciating their kindness. Maybe that broken vase in my bedroom back in North Carolina isn’t my life in a microcosm after all. Perhaps Sofia’s right, and regardless of what’s happened between Paul and I, this is not the end, it’s just the beginning.

  Chapter 05: Bosnia

  Our onward flight to Sarajevo has us seated in economy class, but the flight is only a couple of hours long and passes without incident. Jilly is fine, Jimmy is excited, and before I know it, I’m collecting luggage, and looking for the rental car counter. Things are looking up.

  Driving in Bosnia is an adventure in its own right. We rent a small European hatchback. It’s been ten years since I drove a stick shift, and there’s the occasional grinding of gears as I round corners, much to Jimmy’s delight. Mom can’t drive—hilarious. He doesn’t actually say that, but I can almost hear him thinking it. The streets are narrow, but once we’re on the highway, I feel at ease. The countryside is spectacular, reminding me of the Pacific Northwest. Were it not for the foreign signs, we could be in Portland, Oregon. Lots of lush trees, rivers brimming with slow flowing, deep water, green fields with cows and sheep, and farms growing crops like wheat and corn.

  I never realized how much Western society assaults the eyes. It’s not until I’m in another country, with a different language, that I recognize how ads yell at us—desperate for attention. Although most of the people I’ve met in Sarajevo speak English, the primary language is Bosnian, and in written form i
t looks like a jumble of random letters. Instead of stealing my attention, the numerous billboards and signs on the side of the road, all competing for airtime with my eyeballs, are completely ineffective. It’s as though I have a superpower. I’m immune from all but the most common forms of western capitalism. Signs like the golden arches still weave their magic, but for the most part, driving on the highway in Bosnia is an unexpected delight.

  I have GPS enabled on my cellphone, so I follow the directions it provides, turning off the freeway and weaving through various villages toward the hills. Occasionally, there are telltale signs of the war back in the 90s. Rusted tanks and abandoned artillery pieces sit in empty fields. Grass springs from weathered metal hatches. Flowers grow from turrets—exploding with life instead of death. It’s as though nature won the war.

  On the approach to each village there are bilingual signs, highlighting the hidden dangers around us—Pazi - Mine. It’s crazy to think that after decades of peace, the war still rages in these empty fields. It’s as though a shot fired all those years ago only now arrives on target. The locals, though, don’t seem bothered. They trundle around in aging tractors and horse-drawn carts. I feel an impulsive desire to stop and take pictures of them, but I know Jimmy would roll his eyes. I’ll sneak some later.

  “In two hundred meters, you have reached your destination.”

  Jilly claps. I’m not sure what she’s expecting—we’re not going to Disneyland.

  The village of Zepa is nestled into the hills, looking out over the broad valley leading back to Sarajevo, which is little more than a smoggy haze in the distance—a slight smudge on the horizon. The sun is high overhead, radiant in a clear blue sky. We drive over a quaint stone bridge. The arch of the bridge is such that it’s like driving over a gigantic speed bump. The uneven stones make it impossible to travel at more than five miles an hour, but I’m in no rush, wanting to take in everything around me. This is why I came here—to step outside the norm and gain a fresh perspective on life. A few of the village kids sit on the stone wall fishing in the river. I stop, wind down the window and take a photo with my cellphone.

  “Really, Mom?” Jimmy asks.

  “Really,” I say, putting the car back in gear and driving into the village. The main road is paved, but the side streets are worn, dusty tracks. Weeds spring up between the rocks. There are none of the regular street signs I’m expecting, instead metal plaques have been mounted on the stone walls of the houses on each corner, declaring the street’s name. I have a printed map of the village, and drive to the far corner, behind the marketplace, to our temporary home.

  Number 5 and 1/3rd Grozny Lane is a two story stone cottage set beside an open field. Beyond that, a forest stretches up into the hills. The stones are rough hewn, and look as though they belong in a castle wall, while the tiny windows are adorned with colorful curtains. Flowerpots sit against the wall, half in the street. An old wooden wheelbarrow has herbs growing in it. A large barrel by the front door holds water runoff from the roof.

  “Here we are, kids.”

  “Here?” Jimmy asks, not seeing what I do in our new home.

  “Exciting, isn’t it?” Jimmy doesn’t reply. We park in the lane behind the home. AirBnB provided a five digit code for a key drop, but I don’t see any sign of electricity, let along something as sophisticated as a mini safe with an electronic lock. I double check the map. I’m sure I’ve got the right address. We walk around the front of the house, curious about a cottage seemingly lost in time. After peering in through the windows, I try the front door. It’s unlocked.

  “Hello?” I ask, convinced there’s been a mistake. Somehow, I’ve got the address wrong. I only hope there’s someone home that can point us in the right direction.

  “Yes, yes,” a lady in her fifties says, waddling toward the door.

  “Hi. We’re lost.”

  “The Hallams, right?” the woman says.

  “Yes,” I reply cautiously.

  “Welcome. Welcome. Come in.” Apparently, everything needs to be said twice in Bosnia. “Please, come in.”

  “Ah, I’m looking for Number 5 and 1/3rd Grozny Lane.”

  “Yes. Yes,” the woman says, grinning and revealing two missing front teeth. “I’m Branka.”

  “Hello, Branka,” I say, still unsure what’s going on. “Ah, we booked accommodation on AirBnB—a cottage at 5 and 1/3rd Grozny Lane. The home is supposed to be empty.”

  “It is. It is. There’s nobody here but me.”

  Ah, that means it’s not empty, but, okay, roll with it Emma. “So you live here?”

  “Yes. Yes. But upstairs is yours. Nobody goes up there. It is empty—just as advertised, yes?”

  “Yes,” I say, coming to grips with what’s happening. Well, this is turning into even more of an adventure than I thought. “I couldn’t help but notice, there are no lights. Do you have electricity?”

  “Yes. You can get electricity in the market square.”

  Branka is trying to be helpful, but I’m not sure what use there is in knowing there’s electricity back at the market. It’s not like we can take a bucket there to collect it. I’ve got a backup battery for the phone. I guess I could leave that charging overnight down there, if that’s what people do around here. Who pays for the electricity if it’s not metered to each home?

  “Okay,” I say, turning and looking at Jimmy. He frowns.

  “But there’s wifi, right?” he asks, already having pulled out his iPad.

  “Honey,” I say. “If there are no lights, there’s probably no wifi either.”

  “How can there be no wifi?” he asks. “Wifi is everywhere. Everyone has wifi.”

  “Why fly?” Branka asks, confused. “What fly?” And she looks around for something buzzing through the air. I laugh. I can’t help myself. I don’t mean to be rude, and I hope she doesn’t take it the wrong way, but somehow the 21st century has taken a detour around Zepa.

  Jimmy is incredulous. “So, no YouTube?”

  “No YouTube,” I say.

  “But there’s like a TV somewhere, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “How do people here survive?” Jimmy asks. For him, it’s a serious question.

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Your bags?” Branka asks.

  “Oh,” I reply, pointing at the car. I’m still taking in the cottage, and somewhat in a daze like Jimmy. It’s as though we’ve been sucked into a time warp and dragged back fifty years. Jilly finds a doll on the coffee table, only it’s handmade. A tiny wooden face has been painted in bright colors like a clown at the circus. Coarse stitching holds the doll together, but Jilly doesn’t seem to mind. A doll is a doll.

  “No wifi, Jilly,” Jimmy says, looking for support from his sister, but she doesn’t care. She’s already found something to play with.

  “I’ll get your bags,” Branka says. “Please, look around. Make yourself at home.”

  The inside of the cottage is dark, but once my eyes adjust to the soft light, I realize it has a unique charm. Tiny black and white photos of long lost relatives sit on the mantel. In a few places, the plaster on the walls has come away, revealing the rough-hewn stone beneath. The carpets are ornate, with Turkish, or perhaps Arabian styles hand-woven into the fabric—I can tell they’re hand-woven because the shapes aren’t perfectly symmetrical. The flaws seem to make the carpet more valuable, rather than less.

  The kitchen is small and narrow, with a window over the sink looking out on the empty field behind the house. In the distance, a river winds through lush green trees. Birds dance on the branches of an apple tree in the courtyard. Sunflowers grow in a pot outside the window, looking every bit as rustic as the cottage itself. The stove is wood-fired and blackened with age. Pots and pans hang from hooks on the ceiling along with cloves of garlic and lengths of salami. There’s a wheel of cheese on the counter, only it’s unlike any cheese I’ve ever seen. It’s easily a foot in diameter and half a foot thick, with a yellowish tinge t
hat becomes more pronounced toward the edge. I break off a bit and it crumbles in my hand. The cheese is dry, but pungent, causing me to salivate as I slip some on my tongue.

  “Come on, kids. Let’s check out the bedrooms.”

  We walk through the living room with two wooden rocking chairs neatly arranged before an open fireplace. Large timber beams run through the ceiling, supporting the upper floor. The wood is old and splintered in places. Unlike the machined pine I’m used to in the US, this wood is dark and knotted. The beams twist and curve slightly, and I’m unsure whether that’s the way they were cut or if they have warped with age.

  The stairs are narrow and creak with each step.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” I say, holding Jilly’s hand as we creep up the staircase on a grand adventure of exploration. Jimmy’s sullen and quiet, but following along. Each of the upstairs rooms has a single bed. A towel has been neatly folded and placed on the bedspread along with a bar of soap. I was expecting chocolate, but I’ll take soap. Practical, I guess. The furniture is old, and finished with a dark stain.

  “Which room do you want?”

  Jimmy looks at me with a less than cheerful disposition, as if to say, does it really matter? I sit on one of the beds, testing the springs. They squeak.

  “This one,” Jilly says, picking the room with stuffed toys piled in the corner.

  “I’ll take this one,” Jimmy says, dragging his heels as he wanders into the far bedroom overlooking the dusty road. He flops face first on the mattress. Given all we’ve been through, his reaction is understandable.

  I walk back out into the narrow hallway and there he is—the man of my dreams. Six foot two, dark hair hanging just off his broad shoulders, muscular arms, chiseled jaw, prominent nose, penetrating dark eyes, and drop-dead Hollywood good looks. His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing a light smattering of hair on his firm pecs.

  “Oh,” I say, taken off guard, and expecting this strange man to stop where he is, but he squeezes past me sideways, sticking his chest out as he works with two of our bags, one in front and the other behind him.