Sarajevo Taxi 108 was auspicious, a wink, if not a bow, from my benefactors, and my temperament lightened.
My chauffeur could have been a cab driver anywhere in the Western Hemisphere. Medium height, medium build, generic jeans and nylon jacket, slight paunch, and three-day stubble on his cheeks. His shaved head couldn’t hide the V-shaped receding hairline, and his 40-year-old frame had been weathered by too many cigarettes and not enough fresh air. Still, he was amiable enough as he stubbed out a filtered butt and stuck out a hand.
“I am Petar,” he said. “Petar Kovacevic. Welcome to our beautiful city.” His smile revealed a gap between his front teeth big enough to drive a truck through.
“Tenzing Norbu.”
“You come for working?”
“Visiting a friend.”
“Ah. You stay for long?”
I was experiencing déjà vu. “Just a few days, thanks.”
“I give you my number. You want see this beautiful city, you call me. Also Dubrovnik. My brother live there. I drive you one day. Beautiful beaches.”
He started his meter and squealed out of the airport, merging onto a major thoroughfare without checking left or right. My seatmate on the last flight of the trip, a retired journalist and seasoned traveler, had warned that Sarajevo Taxi drivers were insane, and the fares were overpriced and nonnegotiable for the seven-mile drive into town. He explained in detail how to take a taxi to the nearby tram station in Ilidža and then ride the tram into town, but I couldn’t be bothered.
My billfold was now fat with the local currency, Bosnia-Herzegovina convertible marks, or known by the natives, according to my guide, as KMs. Eight American $100 bills translated into a variety of paper money ranging from 20 to 200 mark notes, each one a different pastel color and displaying a different stern-looking luminary from a different party, all with surnames ending in ic.
Apparently there were a lot of principalities to keep happy in postwar Bosnia-Herzegovina.
“What this name you said? Tanzing Norbu?” Petar asked.
“Ten-zing,” I said. “My father was Tibetan.”
“Ahh. Here, you would then be Tenzing Norbuvic, I am thinking. Always, we take our name from the father. Sometimes his name, sometimes his work. Like me. Kovacevic. Long ago, we work with the iron. We are kovac, how you say, smit?”
“Smiths? Like blacksmiths?”
“Yes! Kovacevic. Son of the smith. In English, Smithson! You see how it works?” He craned his head completely around to look at me, and I nodded, surreptitiously checking that my seat belt was fastened. “Long time ago, father’s name is everything. It tells other tribe who you are, where you live. Whose sheep you can steal. Who you can marry.” He turned back, and fished a half-smoked cigarette out of an overflowing ashtray. “Now, everyone just use Facebook.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “What your father do?”
“He was a Buddhist monk.”
Petar grunted, temporarily silenced by this. He lowered his window and lit up, sucking in a lungful of smoke before dangling his left arm outside, thoughtfully.
L.A. traffic karma must have somehow attached itself to my heels. All the brake lights ahead of us broke out in red, and an array of vehicles, old and new, many of them studded with Sarajevo Taxi signs, started to stack up end to end. A black-and-white, with Policija stenciled on its side, screamed past us, lights flashing.
“Pah!” Petar said. “Probably late for his woman.”
“You don’t approve of your police force?”
“What force? Is more like police mess. Everything for politics, nothing for the people. At the top, they take the money and turn the head. At bottom, they just take the money.” Again, he twisted to meet my eyes. At least we were barely moving. “Ever since we have peace, too many presidents, no one in charge. Is like this with everything! Make committee for reforming police, write report, talk, talk, talk, draft law, and then Croats say no, not fair to Croats, and Serbs say no, too fair for Bosnians, and Slovenes say no, because everyone else say no. Nothing happen! They try to fix police for twenty years now, but nothing change. Only more confusion!”
I thought about the two cops in Van Nuys, and my suspicions. “It’s a little like that everywhere in law enforcement,” I said. “The right hand never seems to know what the left hand is doing.”
“But here? Here we have one hundred hands.”
He was very well informed, for a taxi driver.
A bright-blue tram that was attached to an overhead energy source by some sort of triangular leash zipped past us on its designated track. Our progress slowed to the pace of a drugged tortoise. I sighed, but Petar seemed to perk up at the potential for more uninterrupted time to talk. He waved his cigarette toward a series of rough-edged pockmarks, deep divots repaired with a kind of hardened, pink resin filling. Like blemishes, they spotted the road to our left.
“Sarajevo roses,” Petar said. “From mortar shells.”
I noticed several more. “Wow. Look at them all.”
“You see on walls, too. We leave them to remember.” Petar’s voice grew indignant. “Every hour, every day, the shelling and the sniping. We have nowhere to go, nothing to eat. We cannot work. And other Bosnians, from outside the siege, they cannot use airport for helping us. Your UN say so!”
I had the feeling he’d spoken these words many times before.
“Many people die trying to cross tarmac with guns and food. And so we make tunnel, wheel in the food underground. I remember one time, old man and his granddaughter riding on wheeling cart holding sack of potatoes, big box of chewing gum for making bubbles, and bullets.” He shook his head. “But I tell you this, if we not stop the Serbians, no one stop them!”
“It must have been terrible for you.”
He grunted, temporarily placated. “You want, I show you tunnel, too. For four years, we hiding, living underground. Like rats. We are rat people.”
He lapsed into silence. I closed my eyes for a moment, wishing him peace and freedom from these old wounds. Then I concentrated more on observation, and less on conversation.
Our final descent revealed a surprisingly lush, hilly terrain dissected with twisting roads. A river wound through the valley like a silver ribbon, with smaller streams branching off. The city itself had staked its claim in a hilly valley surrounded by Himalaya-like alps. Any area of flat appeared heavily industrialized, with sparser development spreading outward and upward into the hills, like a reverse flow of lava. From above, I could clearly see how civilization, here as everywhere, had marred nature with manmade evidence of ever-expanding human need.
We crawled past miles of overgrown fields bordered by small groves of trees interspersed with ugly, graffiti-splotched walls and run-down industrial plants: a typical airport-adjacent landscape.
The sky was a deep blue, but dark thunderclouds were collecting on the horizon, as if convening for a storm convention. The traffic, however, decided to clear, and we picked up speed. As we entered the outskirts of Sarajevo itself, I realized here, too, my expectations had painted reality with inaccurate brushstrokes.
In my mind, Sarajevo was still a bombed-out shell of a city. In reality, it was more like a woman who had undergone a series of cosmetic reconstructions, from a somewhat clumsy surgeon, perhaps, but with relative success. You could see the scars here and there, but the overall effect was far from unattractive.
The wide thoroughfare leading into the city proper was tree-lined and sported grassy sidewalk avenues and ubiquitous tram tracks.
“Bosnia Street,” Petar commented. “Further up, we call it Snajper, sorry, ‘Sniper Alley.’ Back then, you walk, you die. You ride bicycle, you die. Children, womans, they don’t care. Bang!”
The numerous high-rise buildings overlooking the street explained why. Snipers had any number of perfect aerial sites for their deadly hobby. I noted several Soviet-era apartment houses, badly damaged, I assumed, during the siege, but for the most part reconstructed. Unfortunately, they retained
their earlier squat, unappealing form, every floor crowded with rows of windows, the multiple stories stacked like grimy egg crates.
Up ahead, the cityscape revealed more blocky apartment complexes, but also gleaming new skyscrapers, old-style brick buildings, numerous elegant spires, and the occasional globular mosque. One startling building, of blue glass, spiraled upward, as if a giant hand had wound its frame into a twist for fun. On both sides, sprawling hillsides were almost completely covered with optimistic, white stucco homes under slanted, terra-cotta-colored roofs.
Petar pulled to a stop.
“Your hotel,” he said.
I tried not to wince at the hideous multistoried structure, the color of rancid yellow topped with an unmentionable shade of brown. Sarajevo’s Holiday Inn, the only functioning hotel left partially standing during the Bosnian War, had also been renovated, and inexplicably returned to its former state of garish glory.
What were they thinking?
As if reading my mind, Petar provided me with an explanation so weird, it had to be true.
“Used to be famous circus here. Big, big tent, yellow and brown.”
Another tram trundled past.
“Twenty-two KMs,” Petar now stated, pointing a nicotine-stained thumb at his meter for confirmation. “Sorry. Bad traffic.”
I handed over a 50-mark bill—pastel pink, “Jovan Dučić”—and asked for a 20 back—light tan, “Filip Višnjić.” An eight-dollar tip seemed about right, given his wealth of knowledge.
Petar seemed astonished, and flashed me a gap-toothed grin. He passed over a Sarajevo Taxi card, stained with coffee, his number hand-scrawled on the back.
“So, you call, you need driver, yes?”
“I will.”
“Okay, Ten-zing Monkevic. I see you soon then.”
The air smelled slightly of electricity, and the mid-afternoon sky suddenly darkened, as if the sun decided to quit early. As Petar hastily unloaded my roller-bag from the trunk, I thought of Agvan Supply’s website. I had a final question.
“Petar, can you talk to me about the name Zarko Stasic?”
He frowned. “Zarko is Serb name. Why you ask?”
I tucked that piece of information away. “No reason. What about Stasic? What does a Stasic do?”
His initial answer was tentative. “Stas mean strong, I think, or, no, more like important.” He thought longer, and nodded, his voice definite. “Important. Long ago, first father rich. Very good at stealing sheep.”
CHAPTER 17
The skies opened, and I was pelted with a Bosnian summer downpour worthy of the title “monsoon.” A sharp gust of wind blew the rain sideways. I wheeled my bag straight past the doorman and pulled up, dripping, inside a huge atrium that comprised most of the hotel’s lobby. The pattern on the carpet made me queasy. A central glass elevator rose up through a bizarre series of circular floors. Continuing with the circus theme, the interior bar regaled its customers with strips of yellow and brown fabric overhead, still trying to duplicate a tent, I supposed.
I checked in, using the credit card attached to my Julius Rosen account, and was given a third-floor room. The female desk clerk was young, blonde, and bored. She yawned, checking her watch before handing me a keycard. I elected to wheel my own bag. I would ask about Bill’s room number upstairs—for whatever reason, front desks were much more likely to give out that kind of information to registered guests over the phone. Maybe they felt protected by the anonymity of a voice exchange.
Two of the four elevators were broken.
Upstairs, the corridor was gloomy and dank, and smelled of chlorine and stale cigarette smoke. My room was more of the same—the curtains were faded and full of small holes, and hung lopsided, half-off their rods. Stained carpet, dangling drawer handles, and mysterious burn marks in the lampshades. The sheets, at least, looked clean, but the queen-size mattress sagged in the middle like the spine of an old workhorse. Rain beat against the glass as I tried, unsuccessfully, to crack open the window. A small half-filled pool lay below, as well as a thick lock and chain to keep out any guest foolish enough to attempt a swim.
I missed my cat.
I went into the bathroom to relieve myself and noticed three curly black hairs clinging to the bathtub drain. A homicide detective’s forensic jackpot, but the only crime here was charging anyone to stay in this dump.
Back in the bedroom, the hotel telephone was dead.
“Okay. I’m done.”
I wheeled my bag back down the dim corridor, and took the same elevator to the lobby.
In my fairly limited experience, desk clerks all over the world have two qualities that endear them to detectives: a wealth of inside information, and a chronic lack of funds. According to his nametag, Tomas Duvic was now on duty; he was lean and tall, blue-eyed with a bleached-blond buzz cut. Younger than me, maybe 25.
Our conversation was quick and to the point.
“Could you call Mr. Bohannon’s room and let him know Mr. Norbu has arrived?”
He pecked at a keyboard. “I am sorry, Mr. Norbu, but Mr. Bohannon, he check out last night.”
I wanted to weep with gratitude, but managed to stay calm. “Do you know where he went, Tomas?”
“No. I cannot say.”
Every rookie cop quickly learns the big difference between “no” and “I cannot say.” He was giving me something to work with.
“Please. This is very important to me.” I accompanied my heartfelt plea with a heartwarming gift of a 50-mark note. The bill disappeared into his pocket, a little circus magic.
“Mr. Bohannon, he leave word that if anyone come looking for him, they can talk to Detective Josip Tomic at Sarajevo Centar Police Station.”
I wrote the name in my notebook: Josip Tomic. Maybe not 35 dollars’ worth of information, but at least I had a starting point. “Okay. Where’s the police station?”
“Next to St. Joseph’s Church, across from city center. Not far from here. About two kilometers.”
“Good. Also, I’d like you to cancel my reservation, please, and refund my card.” Another bill, this one a 20, evaporated into thin air.
“I am sorry you are leaving,” Tomas said, his voice smooth. “You are not liking the hotel?”
“Let me put it this way,” I said. “If it turns out Detective Josip Tomic decides to keep me in a cell overnight, I’ll consider it an upgrade.”
Outside, a different doorman helped an elderly passenger into another Sarajevo Taxi, just beyond the jutting entrance, which was painted a different, also sickly shade of yellow. I waited, as rain dripped off both sides of the overhang.
The doorman came back up the walkway and smiled at me. His nametag identified him as Faruk Rosevic. Son of a florist, maybe?
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
“Leetle bit,” he said, holding his index finger a half-inch from his thumb. Some language is universal. As are some shortcuts. I palmed another magic bill from my wallet.
“Were you on duty last night?”
“No, Jurg is night bellman.”
“Can you call him?”
He frowned. “Maybe not. He will be sleeping.”
Another 50-mark barrier. I used my superpowers to make the bill disappear from my hand and reappear in his. He pulled a flip-top cell phone from his coat pocket.
“Here’s what I need to know, Faruk. A tall American man left here last night. His name is Bill Bohannon.”
He bobbed his head. “Yes. I remember him. Policija. From California.”
“I need to find out where he went.”
Faruk returned his cell phone to his pocket. “No need for Jurg. I know where he go.”
I whipped out a final 50 and raised my eyebrows. Faruk’s face, already mournful, took on the look of a heartbroken hound.
“Only one?” he said, his tone bewildered.
He and his countrymen might be newcomers to capitalism, but they seemed to be catching on fast. I was running low on 50s, and had no intention
of moving up the pay ladder. I toughened my expression, and firmed my shoulders.
He understood perfectly.
“He went to different hotel.” Now he rubbed finger and thumb together. “Very expensive.”
“How do you know that?”
“Jurg tell me, after finish work.”
“Why would he tell you a thing like that?”
“We talk about guests all the time. Is our only pleasure. This job is hard and lonely; we cannot even watch shows on television, like maids do. You like football?”
Not being able to watch TV while you work—that’s really scraping by.
Faruk pointed to the bill in my hand. “Please I have one more? For my friend Jurg?”
He was walking a thin tightrope between capitalist and con artist, but I added a 20. The money might not find its way to Jurg, but that fell into the gigantic category called Not My Business. He seemed satisfied with his take, and wrote Hotel Europe in the margin of my tour book.
He began the process of finding and flagging a cab, but I had spotted one idling in the shadows of an alley just past the hotel, as if on a break. I followed a hunch. Sure enough, when I got close, the driver of Sarajevo Taxi 108 jumped out of his dusty green Mercedes.
“Monkevic! You don’t like our Holiday Hotel?”
Into the trunk went my rolling suitcase and I slid into the backseat feeling as overjoyed as if I’d reunited with an old friend.
“Hotel Europe,” I said.
Petar whistled. “Very fancy,” he said. “You bring suit and tie with you, Monkevic?”
Our new destination was a 15-minute crawl along slick streets crowded with vehicles. I could have probably walked faster, but my description of the Holiday Inn made Petar laugh so hard the fare was worth it.
“You like this one much better,” he said. “Right next to Baščaršija, marketplace in Stari Grad, Old Town. Very beautiful. I take you around, you like. Walking, I not charge, okay? Catholic Church. Orthodox Church. Synagogue for Jew, mosque for Muslim. Everything but Buddha temple for you, Monkevic. Maybe you stay, build one! Make father proud!”
The Fourth Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (A Tenzing Norbu Mystery series Book 4) Page 14
