Kiss of the Butterfly

by James Lyon

  ‘Sylvester? What’s that?’

  ‘The day of St. Sylvester…New Year’s Eve. You must come with me. Some colleagues and I are having a get-together to celebrate the New Year. Meet me here at 9:00 PM.’

  Steven froze as he thought back twenty four months, when he sat in a wheelchair on New Year’s Eve, keeping vigil at a hospital bedside, holding her pale hand as her life slipped away.

  ‘Steven?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ll come. Thank you.’

  Steven arrived the next evening at Professor Nagy’s apartment to find him wearing a brown suit with a red waistcoat and a completely inappropriate broad green tie that had somehow survived the 1970s and now lay on top of his waistcoat.

  ‘Welcome,’ Nagy said, the smell of alcohol already strong on his breath. He wrapped himself against the cold, and led Steven several blocks away where they entered a dark doorway, descended stairs, knocked, a small panel slid open, words were exchanged, and a metal door swung open, hitting them with a cacophony of sound and tobacco smoke.

  Steven entered a dimly-lit cellar of vaulted brick with paper decorations – stars, moons, suns, posters with unintelligible phrases he assumed meant ‘Happy New Year’ in Hungarian. At the far end a small jazz combo tried to follow a skinny blonde singing ‘It’s only a paper moon.’

  Nagy pulled him to a table in an alcove, around which sat a group of elderly men and women.

  ‘Great,’ thought Steven. ‘New Year’s Eve with Hungarian retirees.’

  Nagy said something to them in Hungarian by way of greeting and they all stood up and hugged and kissed him. He then changed to English. ‘I would like you to meet Mr. Steven Roberts,’ he was very formal. ‘He is a student of Marko Slatina’s at the university in California.’ At the mention of Slatina’s name those present smiled. Nagy made introductions all around…a professor from the Sociology Department, another from Anthropology, Chemistry, History, and their spouses. Some spoke battered English, others German.

  As the evening wore on Steven attempted to match them glass for glass, but gave up after it became apparent the Hungarians had learned a few tricks about holding their liquor from the Russians during 45 years of occupation. All present knew Marko Slatina and had fond memories of him. One very nice lady, a retired professor of something-or-other with a butcher’s command of English, insisted on monopolizing him for most of the evening. At one point she asked: ‘has Marko found anyone yet? You know he was quite a catch…’ The rest of the evening passed in an alcohol-fuelled daze, and the only thing Steven remembered was everybody joyously shouting ‘Boldog Új Évet – Happy New Year’. Steven had absolutely no recollection of how he returned to the hotel.

  * * *

  As he thought back to Budapest’s massive Keléti Pályaudvar train station, Steven decided the Hungarians could teach Pavlov a thing or two about behavioral control. The enormous glass-roofed main hall built during the 19th century imperial heyday was crowded, and announcements were only in Hungarian. His head clouded by a hangover, it took Steven some time to find a train schedule, and when he did it appeared erratic, as though similar to the suspension of flights into Belgrade, Serbia’s very existence now depended on the whim of the Hungarian state railway. He met a Serb who understood Hungarian and discovered that the next train was to leave at 12:10 PM.

  Steven dragged his suitcases to the platform and joined a large crowd of people sitting on their bags, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together for warmth. By 12:30 the train hadn’t arrived, but a series of announcements in rapid-fire Hungarian caused the passengers to pick up their bags and run first to one platform, then to another, and then back again, until the announcer decided she had derived enough sadistic pleasure for one day and permitted the train to arrive. Steven found a compartment with the only other non-smoker in Eastern Europe and the train finally departed, an hour late.

  ‘I’ve gotta stop drinking’ he murmured as he gingerly rested his head against the back of the train seat, stretched out his legs and placed them on the seat opposite him.

  The trip south was slow and uneventful, but by the time the train reached the border most of the seats had filled up with Yugoslavs, all of whom carried large boxes or overstuffed suitcases. From their conversations Steven assumed most were petty smugglers crossing into Yugoslavia with black market goods. Somewhere in southern Hungary the train’s motion had lulled Steven to sleep, but a change in movement woke him as it slowed at the border. Green uniformed border police with the red white and green Hungarian tricolor, some carrying Kalashnikovs, customs agents searching compartments; it all passed quickly and the blast of a conductor’s whistle sent the train moving forward.

  In Subotica – the first station in Yugoslavia – a wild peasant mob was held restlessly at bay behind metal barriers, with police standing watch. The border guards, wearing bluish purple and black camouflage, were followed by green uniformed customs officers. One customs officer opened the compartment door and greeted the passengers, all of whom recognized him. He asked what they had in their luggage, and they all answered openly. ‘I have 30 kilos of coffee and 20 kilos of laundry detergent,’ said one. ‘I have 10 liters of alcohol and 15 cartons of cigarettes,’ offered another. ‘I have nylons and chocolate,’ chimed in yet a third. ‘Everyone give me a little something. I’ll be back in five minutes…and make sure you put it in a bag,’ the customs officer said. Five minutes later he collected his tribute. Steven watched the events, shocked at the flagrant corruption.

  When the customs check was completed the police pulled back the metal barriers and a wave of humanity flooded the train carrying bags, sacks, and boxes of black market goods. Steven’s second class compartment – which had seating for eight – ended up with ten people on the seats and two sitting on boxes. Overhead luggage racks were stuffed full of every imaginable item, and people stood packed together in the hallway. Another whistle blast sent the train slowly lurching forward as Steven assessed his new traveling companions. Three old peasant women with skin the texture of rhinoceros-hide bundled in heavy woolen knit sweaters, three middle-aged men who immediately began smoking, and a mother with two children, who alternated between the boxes and the mother’s lap.

  The travelers were all Serbs returning from Hungary with black market goods, or from family plots and farms in the countryside. They shared methods of smuggling, close calls with the authorities, where they had purchased their goods, where they expected to sell them and for what price.

  Two small children were told to come in and sit on laps, while their grandmother remained outside in the hall. The grandmother looked tired and tragically proud, almost heroic, with a strong and noble face that was creased, leathery, and sadly beautiful, reminiscent of a bust by the famous Croat sculptor Ivan Mestrovic. She seemed used to standing.

  Someone pulled out a newspaper with an article saying Belgrade had run out of milk, dairy products and gasoline. Someone else mentioned that the government was going to revalue the Dinar by removing several zeros. All the problems, the paper’s headline said, were due to “unprovoked and unjust sanctions against the Serbian people and state.” Now, for the first time Steven felt he was entering a country at war.

  Between Subotica and Novi Sad more people managed to board the train, even though the corridor was so crowded that the conductor never passed through to collect tickets. Steven realized only later that he could have ridden from Subotica all the way to Belgrade for free. The train crossed the Danube at Novi Sad, past the Baroque fortress of Petrovaradin, then the skeletal-frame steeples of the Sremski Karlovci cathedral, dark farmland, the outskirts of New Belgrade, and the Sava River.

  The train arrived in Belgrade an hour before midnight and was immediately mobbed by an enormous crowd. People lined the tracks well outside the station and began climbing aboard the slowly moving train before it reached the platform, preventing passengers from disembarking. Even though Steven was in the compartment closest to the door, he needed almost five minutes of
rough pushing and shoving to get off the train. He then ran around to the outside of his compartment where his fellow passengers handed down his luggage.

  Late at night the Belgrade train station was a mélange of shadows and human bodies. Steven looked for a place to change money, but the only exchange office was closed and he changed money with a cab driver hustling passengers on the platform, receiving twenty times the official rate. Unable to find a working pay phone, Steven walked into a smoke-filled police station located on the platform, where he was met by a tired-looking policeman in blue and black camouflage, armed with a Marlboro and a Kalashnikov. He gruffly agreed to let Steven use the phone, and Steven dialed the number Slatina had given him.

  ‘Hello, Dusan? Steven Roberts here,’ he said in Serbo-Croatian. Even though it was a local call the connection was bad and he had to speak loudly, his accent attracting stares from everyone in the room. ‘Yes, I am here in Belgrade. Yes, Belgrade,’ he repeated, louder. ‘Yes, the train station. Yes, the Belgrade train station.’ He listened for a few moments. ‘Okay, I am waiting here at the police station.’ He hung up the phone, only to notice that he had attracted a crowd of policemen. A suspicious duty officer asked: ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘From America,’ Steven answered.

  ‘America? Which part?’ asked the officer.

  ‘All over, but I go to school in California,’ said Steven. ‘San Diego.’

  ‘I have a cousin in America. He lives in Chicago. Is San Diego close to Chicago?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Perhaps you know my cousin? He sells real estate in Chicago,’ asked another policeman. All the officers had either family members or friends in Chicago.

  ‘Don’t you think our women are beautiful?’ asked yet another.

  ‘What are you doing here in Yugoslavia? You know there’s a war on? It’s not a good time to be here.’ The tone was belligerent.

  ‘I’m here to research ethnography, folklore, folk tales, etc. Serbia is famous for its folklore and poems.’ Steven’s response seemed to placate the policeman somewhat. The door swung open as another passenger came in and asked to use the telephone.

  ‘Why do Americans hate Yugoslavia? I’m not a policeman. I’m a civil engineer, but the war makes me be a reserve policeman. It’s because of you that Yugoslavia is falling apart and that we have a civil war.’

  Steven looked blankly at him, trying to feign interest, yet unable to believe that the man believed what he had just said. ‘Really?’ he asked. The jet lag was killing him and it was all he could do to bite his tongue and refrain from telling the cop to go to hell.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ the policeman asked, suddenly polite.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Steven. The duty officer sent one of the police officers scurrying to fetch Steven a cup.

  ‘It’s the fault of America and the Germans that Croatia and Slovenia want to destroy Yugoslavia. The CIA worked with the German government. Also, the Free Masons are responsible. Did you know it was the Masons working together with the Croatian fascist Ustase that killed King Aleksandar Karadjordjevic in Marseilles in 1934? We’re trying to protect our country against Islamic fundamentalism. Do you like the Ayatollah? Do you want the world to be over-run by Islamic terrorists? Don’t you in the West know that Serbia is the last bulwark against the Turks and that we saved Christianity? If it wasn’t for Prince Lazar and the Battle of Kosovo in 1389 you would all be Muslims today. We have fought to defend you against the Turks, and now you’re turning your backs on us and are supporting the Albanians in Kosovo and the Muslims in Bosnia. The Masons and CIA and Vatican want to create a ‘Green Corridor’ of Islam through the Balkans. It’s all there in Alija Izetbegovic’s book.’

  The coffee arrived: black, strong, sludgy Turkish coffee. Steven sipped silently, watching and listening, too tired to follow the policeman’s convoluted train of thought, knowing that if he did he’d lose his temper.

  ‘The CIA is working together with the Vatican to destroy Yugoslavia. You are helping the Croat Ustase, and we are simply trying to defend ourselves against this aggression. The only salvation for Serbia is Slobodan Milosevic. He knows what we have to do to them. He’ll take care of them and save Serbia. Remember: “Only Unity Saves Serbs”.’ The policeman’s discourse won approving nods from his chain-smoking colleagues.

  The policeman continued his monologue, while his colleagues chipped in their comments. ‘You know that the Muslims are all Serbs who left Christianity and joined Islam?’ said one. ‘You should read Bridge on the Drina by Ivo Andric, the famous Serb Nobel Prize author.’

  ‘The Muslims have all become Turks, they have become vampires who want to suck our Christian blood,’ said another.

  ‘Did you know they impale people on stakes while they’re still alive. They did it to poor Martinovic in Kosovo with a beer bottle, and they burnt Serbian haystacks and barns and destroyed our graveyards. They won’t even leave our dead in peace. They’re vampires,’ added another.

  ‘And now they want to take Bosnia from us,’ said the duty officer. ‘But we won’t let them. Vuk Draskovic and Vojislav Seselj will stop them. They’ve organized the Cetniks to fight against the Turks and Croat Ustase fascists. Do you know what Cetniks are?’

  Steven nodded his head, knowing it wasn’t wise to argue late at night with Kalashnikov-armed police in a foreign country at war. By now the conversation had deteriorated into a free-for-all of competing voices, as each policeman offered his take on news of the latest atrocities from the front lines and the character of Yugoslavia’s other national groups. He simply sat nodding his head, waiting for it all to end.

  After another 20 minutes of this harangue, the door of the police station swung open and a tall, dark-haired college-age male dressed in a cheap winter parka, jeans and woolen cap entered and inquired: ‘Is there an American here?’

  Salvation – in the form of Dusan – had arrived.

  * * *

  Interlude II: Grosswardein, Wasserstadt: Friday, 28 February 1733

  The Austrian Imperial Grenadiers assembled on the fortress’ frozen parade ground in the twilight of the short winter day, their dress uniforms concealed by the bulk of their greatcoats, heads swallowed by bearskin hats, muskets at parade rest in thickly-gloved hands. Snow crunched under the Captain’s riding boots as he made his way down the ranks. He scented the air as he walked: it was crisp with a twinge of wood smoke. He stepped onto a wooden crate, steam billowing from his nostrils and rubbed his freshly shaven chin, his face far too young for a Grenadier officer. ‘What shall I do without them?’ he thought. ‘How shall I find the twelfth?’

  ‘My dearly beloved brethren,’ he began, his Italian accent more pronounced. ‘For you are truly my brethren, as you have proven time and again these past years in the most difficult of circumstances, where only God, the Devil and the Emperor knew we existed.’ He wiped a tear from his eye with a handkerchief. ‘I placed my trust in you, and you have been ever true. I asked you to follow and you followed, even when the very jaws of hell gaped open after us, and all the elements combined to hedge up our way. When we were encircled about with darkness and destruction, you stood fast. You have been true and faithful,’ he said, his voice choked with emotion. ‘Like unto Saint George of old you have fought against the Dragon. For this service, only God can give you the reward you so richly deserve. My heart, however, I pledge to you. I give you my most solemn oath that henceforth and forever, I shall be at your service, for you are my brothers.’ The men stood silently, some with tears running down their face.

  The Captain signaled to his Lieutenant, who handed him a large parchment with an official wax seal attached to a ribbon at the bottom. He cleared his throat with a deep rumbling sound. ‘A message from his Imperial Majesty. Hats off!’ They removed their bear-skin hats. ‘Attention!’ The entire company snapped ramrod straight in a well-drilled movement.

  The Captain read the document out loud.

  ‘We, Charle
s, by the grace of God, Holy Apostolic Roman Emperor, King of Hungary and Bohemia, Archduke of Austria, do hereby declare Our greetings to Our most loyal and trusted soldiers of Our Fourth Imperial Grenadier Company. You have served Us and the Holy Church with great devotion and sacrifice. You have engaged in the most perilous of duties in the service of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and have defended the Holy Cross against the Dragon as did all the holy saints and apostles. To reward your faithful service, We have sought from His Excellency the Holy Father in Rome, complete and full pardon of all your sins, which the Holy Father, in His mercy, has chosen to grant you as a reward for your service to the Holy Church.’

  The Captain paused to observe the reaction of the men. All stood expectantly. He continued.

  ‘By Imperial decree We hereby release you and your posterity from your military obligations to the Emperor in perpetuity. We do hereby grant each of you the status of a freeman and declare null and void any bonds of serfdom or obligations which you, your wives or children may have to any person or institution in Our Imperial lands. We do also grant each of you a full state pension befitting the rank of lieutenant. We…’

  ‘Long live the Emperor; Long Live Charles; God save His Majesty;’ the cries broke forth spontaneously from the lips of the jubilant Grenadiers.

  The Captain once again cleared his throat with a deep rumbling and resumed reading.

  ‘We have endeavored to grant you that which each man holds dearest: his own land.’

  A gasp went up from the Grenadiers.

  ‘In agreement with His Majesty George I, King of England, We have arranged for the entire company and their families to travel to the British colonies of North America, where you shall be awarded a generous grant of land. His Majesty King George has agreed to give you a charter to establish your own free town in the colony of Pennsylvania, and there you shall live as free men, with all the rights and privileges of landowners.