‘You know, they will try to split us,’ says Rugova to his co-delegate and rival Rexhep Qosja.
‘Shouldn’t be difficult.’
Various self-deprecatory remarks are made on the subject of the Kosovar tendency to disputatiousness. These are quite touching to hear, in such chronically disputatious company.
‘This time we must stand together. Else they’ll just pick us off.’
Hashim Thaçi arrives and at last we depart for Paris; only to endure a further interval of terminal-time at Orly Airport, waiting for the motorcade, as Rugova’s aide insists on calling it. All motorcades in the vicinity of Paris are already spoken for, and we have to make do with a fleet of taxis. At the cordon round the Château de Rambouillet a surly French policeman searches my bags and takes away my cellphone.
‘I need it. I’m expecting to hear from my daughter. She’s gone missing.’
‘Protocol,’ says the policeman.
‘What protocol? Give me back my phone or I’m not going in.’
Rugova’s aide steps over. ‘Anna,’ he says to me while smiling at the policeman, ‘no one is allowed to take phones into the conference. It was all in the pack we sent you.’
The aide’s manner is unctuous, but in fact he is cross that the arrival of the Kosovar delegation has been undignified by this outburst – and from a translator! Making a fuss, he believes, is a privilege strictly reserved for heads of state.
‘And if my daughter calls over the next two weeks?’
‘If it’s an emergency,’ says the aide, ‘then I’m sure we can sort something out.’
‘It’s an emergency,’ I tell him, my face reddening. ‘Sort something out or I’m going home.’
The threat is empty and everyone knows it.
‘Right now, Anna, we need to get into the chateau. I’ll deal with this, I promise.’
‘You do that,’ I tell him, repacking my bag and thinking that if he doesn’t, I can always leave in the morning.
We pass through the cordon sanitaire and wait in the reception hall to be shown to our rooms. In the ladies, I meet a frisky blonde girl in her early twenties, refreshing various aspects of her deeply textured maquillage. Noticing the official translator’s badge pinned to her bosom, I address her first in Albanian, then in English, and finally in Serbian – which draws a heavily scented sigh of relief, a becomingly wide smile and an offer of chewing gum. Her name is Marta.
‘And you’re here to translate?’ I ask.
‘Ooh, I hope not,’ she says, giving a little flourish of her round bottom. ‘I’m helping to look after them, mostly.’
And I’m here to persuade powerful men to help me find my daughter, I think, which makes both of us frauds. The powerful men have already been shown to their quarters, but it is another hour before we underlings are directed to our far-flung rooms. Mine is a wedge-shaped space excavated from an area of attic formerly set aside for roosting bats and now mainly occupied by a wardrobe so weary that it is leaning against the wall beside it. I unpack, then can’t sleep for wishing I hadn’t come.
20
The Rambouillet Peace Conference is billed as the last chance to end the persecution of Kosovo’s majority Albanian population by the Serbian government of Slobodan Milošević, neutralise the Kosovo Liberation Army, and bring peace to the people of the region. Our gracious hosts, the Contact Group of ministers from France, Germany, Italy, Russia, the UK and the USA, have declared their intention to arrive at a political settlement that will offer ‘substantial autonomy for Kosovo’ while simultaneously respecting ‘the territorial integrity and sovereignty of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia’.
There is barely a single word of this mercifully brief declaration that is not violently disputed by either or both parties to the negotiation.
Daylight reveals that the Château de Rambouillet consists of two four-storey wings, a pair of slim towers with steep conical roofs, and an ancient turreted citadel of the kind traditionally used for the ill-treatment of downfallen kings. As you descend from the attic, the ceilings become higher, the windows larger, the carpets thicker, the decor more swirly, the portraits more ghoulish, and the light fittings more likely to work. But even on the ground floor, it is a shabby chateau which no one loves. A leaflet available in the entrance hall explains that Marie Antoinette called it a crapaudière gothique, a gothic toadhouse, and refused to live there. The ceilings sway with strands of blackened cobweb that may once have threatened the coiffures of the court of Louis XVI. The whole building is not much bigger than a village school.
Breakfasting Serbs and breakfasting Kosovars occupy different rooms, because these are proximity talks: the delegates do not actually have to speak to each other. To require these saintly politicians to sit around a table together would place an unbearable strain on their tempers and their self-esteem. Anyone would think we paid them to sort these things out! I chew on a Kosovar-allocated croissant and wait for the moment to collar Rugova’s aide. When I do, he is pleased to inform me that I cannot leave Rambouillet. It’s in the protocol pack I didn’t read: For reasons of security and to protect the confidentiality of the negotiations, attendees are required to remain within the confines of the Château de Rambouillet for the duration of the conference.
Panic balloons in my stomach. My eyes film over but I’m too shocked even to blink the tears away.
‘I’m doing my best, Anna,’ says Rugova’s aide. ‘Be patient. Work with the team today, then hopefully we’ll get you your phone call.’
He hands me a spare copy of the protocols and hurries away. This can’t be right – is France no longer a free country? I’m a translator, and already sworn to secrecy. I’ll leave when I please! I would say this to the aide, but he’s now on the far side of the room, being obsequious to Hashim Thaçi. After spending the last few weeks with Eleni, it’s disorienting to be among people for whom the loss of my child is just an unhelpful distraction. Folded into the back of the protocols is a sheet of paper I don’t think he meant to leave there, with photographs and contact details for all the Kosovar delegates. What’s the point of this, I’d like to know, since our phones have been confiscated?
We have been assigned the ground-floor ballroom, while the Serbian delegates occupy a salon on the floor above (the symbolic import of this arrangement has been discussed at length). Our chairs are undersized and upholstered in a lobster-coloured velvet which clashes with everything, and our conference table is so elderly and over-polished that it creaks at the merest touch of a Kosovar elbow. A set of French doors gives access to the Allée de Cyprès chauves de Louisiane, along which it might be pleasant to stroll for a moment of statesmanlike contemplation. However, the doors are misaligned and can only be opened by a trained servant.
Proceedings commence with a visit from our co-host, the British Foreign Secretary, accompanied by an adviser who is not introduced. The BFS is a curious, pointy little fellow, all clipped ginger bristles and bulgy eyes. He starts by thanking us for coming and asking if we are quite comfortable, before suggesting that we make time to admire Rambouillet’s cultural treasures (making particular reference to the splendid Pierre Julien sculpture of Amalthea with Jupiter’s Goat to be found in the Dairy), and observing that he himself finds the historic surroundings quite inspiring at this, ahem, historic juncture.
‘We are here to fight for an independent Kosovo, not wander round looking at old statues and soaking up the atmosphere,’ says Hashim Thaçi.
The BFS receives my translation of this pronouncement with a goaty expression on his face. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘And the dedication and integrity you bring to these proceedings is highly valued by the Contact Group, I do assure you. I have here a preliminary draft, which I invite you to consider. The issues are familiar, of course, but we need to look at them with fresh eyes and open minds.’
Next we are treated to a homily on the limitations of the Rambouillet Conference. There are matters of agreement in principle, and then there are matters of
execution. The two are not to be allowed near each other. In fact, all contentious issues are forthwith to be defined as matters of execution, and as such debarred from scaring off the matters of agreement in principle, should any of these shy creatures be spotted during the course of our sojourn at the chateau. The question of the democratic will of the people of Kosovo, for instance, is the sine qua non of matters of execution, since it can only be determined by execution of a referendum.
‘Not so,’ says Rugova mildly. ‘The outcome of a properly conducted vote on independence may be safely assumed. If that were not the case, it would already have been held.’
‘Well put, Ibrahim,’ says Thaçi.
‘Let’s be realistic, gentlemen,’ says the BFS. ‘We’re not going to sort out everything here. It’s too much to expect. But we can set out the ground rules, negotiate in good faith, see where it takes us, yes?’
His affable tone arouses the ire of Hashim Thaçi.
‘No, it is not too much to expect,’ shouts the Snake, as soon as the words are out of my mouth. ‘The democratic will of the people must be respected or the conference is a sham.’
‘Our first duty is to negotiate a peace for the people of Kosovo,’ the BFS replies. ‘If we fail to reach an agreement here at Rambouillet, war may be inevitable.’
I translate, replacing may be with is, for both semantic and political reasons.
‘Better war than slavery,’ Thaçi declares. ‘Kosovo for the Kosovars!’
The delegation breaks into spontaneous applause. The British Foreign Secretary hides his bewilderment behind a fixed smile, then pushes back his chair and scuttles from the room.
We take up our coloured pens (green for yes, red for no, blue for discuss further) and pore over the future of our beloved Kosovo, as defined by the preliminary draft. But first, speeches must be made, stands must be taken, hands must be placed on hearts or thumped on the creaky table. I want to go home.
The speeches end and the delegates make a preliminary stab at drafting their response to the preliminary draft. A few carefully chosen words of Albanian appear on paper. We have begun! Now I must translate them, then translate them again in several different ways so the meaning of each version can be weighed in the balance – and the counter-balance, too. The words must be picked over until exhausted, examined for nuance, interrogated for evidence of hidden agendas, and finally challenged over their constitutional rigour and linguistic immutability. Even definite and indefinite articles are not spared, for who can say that a stray ‘a’ will not cause a catastrophe?
Hashim Thaçi’s attention is drawn to the word disarm. He taps it disapprovingly.
‘Is there perhaps any ambiguity here?’ asks Ibrahim Rugova, the most experienced diplomat among us, and a poet of some repute.
I explain that disarm has the subsidiary meaning overcome objection by means of charm, but that in the context of a series of clauses about the notoriously charm-averse fighting men of the Kosovo Liberation Army it can safely be taken to indicate that they must hand over their guns. There is a shaking of heads, a drumming of fingers, a hiss from Hashim Thaçi. It’s a peace conference, duh? I would have said, had I not been instructed to speak only when specifically requested to do so. Out comes the red pen to perform a ceremonial dismissal of the word disarm.
It is now observed that the actual phrase is disarm immediately and that the word immediately could perhaps be substituted with a phrase (suggestions please, Anna) such as in the medium term or, better still, when [certain conditions to be confirmed] regarding [insert later] have been met. There follows a debate about what certain conditions might be later inserted, led by one of our advisers, Colonel V. Adjani, whose career in the Albanian secret police apparently entitles him to claim expertise in the matter of the security of the people. Expertise in wielding electric batons in the matter of the security of the Communist Party of Albania, you mean, I would have commented, if specifically requested to do so.
‘Never come between an Albanian and his gun,’ Hashim Thaçi announces.
Everyone nods. Colonel Adjani lights a thin cigar and places it in the centre of the oval of greasy bristle which surrounds his creased, tar-brown lips. One side of his mouth is lumpy and there’s a patch of red under the bristle, as if he’s been punched. While the delegates debate the question of security, I run through possible reasons for punching Colonel Adjani. This train of thought occupies me for some time.
Eventually it is agreed to dispense with disarm immediately in favour of lay down their arms on a timetable to be agreed. The delegates congratulate themselves on appearing to have made a concession while in fact giving nothing away. This tremendous coup has taken three hours to devise and we are weary. Shadows incline like dozing sentries along the unreachable allée. I should like to walk along it with Katya. I take her hand, her fingers are warm in my palm. A child’s touch is not only gentle, it lacks expectation – and so, clumsiness. She considers herself too old for hand-holding, but the setting lends the gesture a formal air and I have my treat. How beautiful she looks, pale as a spring flower among the stiff old cypress trees.
The day’s work ends but the phone call is not forthcoming. Rugova’s aide wears a sympathetic face, but his eyes say the request is an affront which has caused him extra work. It’s distasteful and, yes, embarrassing! Did we have to invite this mousy woman along, and why is she not being mousy?
I leave him and go in search of President Rugova, tiptoeing among the huddle and crush of men-who-will-not-talk-directly-to-each-other-even-though-they-should. I find him outside the dining room.
‘Mr President, may I talk to you about my daughter, Katarina?’
‘Anna,’ he says gravely, ‘you must remind me of this again when the conference closes.’
‘Is there anything you could do right now?’
He sees my red eyes and unarranged hair. It’s not enough. He fears I will make a spectacle of myself, and of him. He steps back.
‘This is really not the time, Anna. You understand that.’
This really is the time, I want to shout at his dapper little form as he joins an eddy of people near the main entrance. The likelihood of finding a missing person lessens with every passing day.
I repair to the bat-loft and put on lipstick and perfume, a tight skirt and the cream cashmere cardigan Franz stole from the MiniMax department store. You’re just fulfilling the Roma stereotype, I told him. That’s not why I took it. I took it so I can feel your soft, furry breasts, he replied, feeling my soft, furry breasts. Like little bunny rabbits, he decided, reaching for the hem of my skirt. I was sexy, then. Today, nothing is further from my mind.
I go back downstairs to wander the salons and corridors in search of Hashim Thaçi, and eventually spy him drinking brandy with Colonel Adjani. I lurk behind the folds of a brocade curtain until the Colonel goes off somewhere, then walk quickly over. Thaçi listens to me with cold curiosity.
‘These Bura shits deserved everything they got,’ he says.
‘Do you know how to contact them?’
‘I’ll ask around, but they’ve probably moved her on by now.’
I stand there, too shocked to ask what he means and terrified that, given how I have dolled myself up for him, the KLA leader may demand a sexual favour in return for helping me find Katya. The bunny rabbits pose without enthusiasm or abandon. I am not sexy now. Thaçi gives me a quizzical look, then takes a mouthful of brandy and waves me away.
21
Next morning, Rugova’s aide reports that the Serbian delegates have succeeded in inspecting the cover page of the draft agreement. Greatly dismayed, they are demanding that the title be changed from Interim Agreement for Peace and Self-Government in Kosovo to Agreement for Self-Government in Kosmet. Their intentions could not have been more bluntly put: first, Kosovo is hereinafter to be known by its Serbian appellation Kosmet, in recognition of the fact that it is, always has been and always will be Serbian; second, they are not interested in peace. Unable
to continue their deliberations until the offensive cover page has been amended, they spent the rest of the day getting drunk and singing patriotic songs.
The Kosovars debate this outrage until interrupted by delivery of a formal note from the British Foreign Secretary, to the effect that an unnamed Englishman has arrived at Rambouillet for a private interview with Colonel Adjani. This note causes both awe and irritation among the Kosovar delegation – in the hierarchy of Rambouillet, the Colonel is of rather lowly status. But this must be an intelligence matter, a spy-on-spy encounter, they speculate, noting that, immediately prior to the conference, diplomatic pressure was applied to have Colonel Adjani removed from the list of Kosovar advisers. The man himself listens to the discussion with monumental impassivity and declares himself mystified. He does not look mystified, he looks smug and lights a cheroot. He smokes so many of these things that his nose has narrowed and his eyes have sunk back into his skull.
The interview/meeting/spy-on-spy encounter takes place at eleven sharp. I am to play the role of interpreter. The English spy is a disappointment. The word prim is usually reserved for women, but this man, who does not give his name, is prim. He has thin lips and waxy cheeks. We shake hands and his grip is clammy. He has a buff folder under his arm and an eager, pink-faced woman a few years younger than me in his wake.
The anonymous English spy approaches the table. Colonel Adjani is already seated, and gestures for his adversary to sit beside him. The spy takes the chair opposite instead. Ha! The game has begun. I wonder if I should translate: The English spy declines your courteous gesture, which he judges disingenuous, and asserts his superiority by sitting where he pleases. Having negotiated this moment of hazard, the English spy nods at his assistant and arranges his folder on the table in front of him.
Say A Little Prayer (A James Palatine Novel Book 2) Page 15
