Foreigners in Belgrade

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1) Although this story is an original work of fiction, it draws substantial inspiration from the novel Strangers in Budapest. Be aware that it pursues more of a 'slow burn,' character-driven approach than many of my pieces (basically, it engages in a lot of setup, before progressing to a lot of sex).

2) This is not a love story. It engages in themes of sexual blackmail, forced infidelity, and impregnation. If these things are not to your liking, you may want to move on to something else. It is a work of sheer fantasy in all respects, and is intended for the purposes of erotic entertainment only. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us--not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

3) All characters are over the age of 18.

4) I appreciate positive comments and constructive feedback.

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ONE

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The rubber soles under Annie's feet scraped grudgingly along the deck of Brankov bridge. Trying to ignore the smog of dilapidated buses and shabby Skalas passing by on her left, she gazed off to the right instead--toward the peaceful, green expanse of Priyatelstva park.

Belgrade was like that, she thought: islands of order and civility, set amidst a swirling sea of ugliness and chaos.

Tom had an important meeting at the Ministry of the Interior this morning. Before coming here, Annie wouldn't have dreamed that the Interior Ministry would be interested in her husband's commercial dealings. It hardly seemed logical. But Serbia hadn't turned out to be a logical place. To launch a new company, you needed permission from a dozen or more state agencies--Interior among them.

Months in Belgrade had tutored Annie in the fine art of cynicism; so that all this bureaucratic red tape, which once seemed absurd, now made a kind of sense to her. Her mistake had been to think they were dealing with a 'system'--whereas really, it was just a bunch of petty fiefdoms, each scrabbling for a piece of the pie.

Still, it put Tom in a real bind. At the beginning, he'd outlined the task ahead in optimistic terms: "I just need to work both ends--getting the government permits on the one hand, and securing the backers on the other. When we meet in the middle, we're in business." That had sounded simple enough. And in a way, neither of them wanted it to be too easy. After all, bringing the various parties together was how Tom was supposed to add value. It was how they justified the millions of dollars they hoped their Balkan venture would earn.

In practice, though, Annie was beginning to doubt whether this chicken-and-egg puzzle could ever be solved. Funders wanted to see the project approvals in place before forking over a dime; whereas flocks of state officials each wanted a touch of the money before relinquishing any leverage. That left Tom all alone in the middle, with no one eager to be the first to join him.

As she rounded a corner and came within sight of the Hyatt, Annie gave her ponytail a flip, hoping to put herself in a more upbeat mood. Tom was trying hard; she knew that. And anything was possible. Maybe today's meeting had done the trick--maybe he'd unstuck that bureaucratic logjam at last.

Snaking her way through the lobby, she gave the hostess at the Metropolitan Grill a familiar nod. The food was decent; but still, it was a bit mortifying how often the two of them ended up eating here. Going to hotel restaurants had certainly not been part of the plan when they'd moved to Serbia. Back then, she'd been excited at the prospect of immersing herself in a new and foreign culture.

The Met, however, loomed large in the life of the ragtag expat community. Sooner or later, newcomers always seemed to gravitate there, hungry for commiseration and a touch of normalcy amidst the bleak otherness of Belgrade. Tom and Annie had proved no exception.

She got a table for two. Waiting for Tom, sipping at her glass of warm, chlorinated water, Annie read and re-read the menu. Same as yesterday; same as everyday.

* * * * *

Eventually, her husband straggled in. The scowl on his face and the slump of his shoulders suggested that the logjam hadn't budged. Annie resolved to be sympathetic. "How'd it go, babe? Rough meeting?"

Tom was curt. "No progress today. Those bloodsuckers are going to need a taste before they'll sign off." Then, realizing how that sounded, he raised a weak smile. "But, you know, it's just how they do things here. It has to go step by step."

Ok--she wanted to say--but what if every step goes backwards or sideways, and never forward?

Instead, she bit her lip. Soon the waiter came over, and they both took the path of least resistance, ordering hamburgers and fries. Anything, Annie thought, so long as it wasn't the all-pervading sausages the Serbs ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Service at the Met Grill was reliably prompt, but Tom's eyes were accustomed to roaming the dining room. Before their plates could arrive, he'd already spotted someone 'significant' across the way. "I'll be damned, I could swear that's Ricardo. I'd better say hi." He bounded up and away without waiting for reply, wading between the tables with long strides.

Peering along his angle of motion, Annie thought he was right. It was extremely odd though. Ricardo had been Tom's old boss back in Philly, before they'd moved to Serbia. She couldn't imagine what he'd be doing here.

The food appeared, and she chewed a few bites of lackluster burger in silence. Before long, her husband returned, trailing Ricardo, along with another guy she didn't know. "Hon, look who's here. Small world, eh?"

Ricardo moved with the same boastful swagger she remembered, his booming baritone expressing a lavish self-regard. "Annie Parker, as I live and breathe. God, you're even more gorgeous than I remembered! Small world my ass, though. It was only when I heard you two were here, that I knew I should come check the place out. Sweetheart--between Tom's business savvy and your lights-out bod? I figured something good was bound to come of it."

Annie blushed, then hated herself for blushing. Ricardo was neither terribly tall nor terribly handsome, and inarguably crass. Yet, there was an attractive animal magnetism about him even so. He was strapping and barrel-chested, with warm caramel skin-tones. The full shock of glossy black hair on his head, together with the dense thatch visible at the V of his polo shirt, seemed to testify to a boundless energy, a natural vitality, that permeated any room he was in.

Ricardo made much of his Cuban extraction (though he hailed from Miami). And despite being married and thoroughly Americanized, he leaned hard into the macho stereotype of the Casanova. Back in Philly, he'd hit on every woman who crossed his path--Annie very much included--and supposedly bedded a good fraction of them.

Tom laughed it off, saying it was just the man's Latin roots; but Annie found the whole act smarmy and unprofessional. She knew she really ought to call him out for it. This was the '90s, not the '50s--men weren't supposed to act that way anymore. But in the end, she always backed down, ignoring his vulgarity as best she could without remark. Today, for Tom's sake, she even went one better, mustering up a grudging smile. "Hi Ricardo. What a nice surprise to see you here."

"And guess what else," her husband put in, a thirsty undertone to his voice, "Ricardo left Anders-Beaumont. He signed on with a big venture-fund that's branching into Eastern Europe."

Ricardo confirmed the news with a regal nod of condescension (she half expected him to hold out his ring for Tom to kiss). "As I always say, you gotta spend money to make money. So--I've come here with money to spend. And fucking-A, baby, there is some serious money to be made. I can feel it!"

Then he glanced down at his watch. "Shit, I got a meeting. Miloz, I'll see you tomorrow," nodding to his companion. "And Tom, gimme a call, we'll get together later. I'm at the Inter-Continental. Room 712." That last bit was delivered with a wink and a leer in Annie's direction.

Turning away, he tossed them a back-handed wave and bounced out the door.

* * * * *

All this time, the fourth person, the stranger, had stood slightly apart, watching the awkward reunion with interest. Now he leaned in to offer his hand to Annie, his blank face lighting up in a friendly smile. "I'm Miloz Katić," he said. "Happy to make your acquaintance." As their fingers touched, the intensity and focus of his ice-blue eyes seemed to pin her down there for a moment, spellbound.

He was a hard man to form a first-impression of. He talked so softly that Annie had to bend close to catch his words over the hum of the restaurant. Yet, in its quiet way, that voice of his carried real power. It conveyed not only intelligence and tenacity, but also the type of self-assurance that was grounded in substance, rather than bravado. And although his name seemed foreign, his accent sounded American, with perhaps only the faintest hint of something exotic.

"Miloz," she said hesitantly, "you're... Serbian then?"

He laughed good-naturedly. "I suppose you could say I don't belong anywhere. My parents escaped Yugoslavia years before the Berlin Wall came down, when I was small. So, I grew up in America. But there's still a good bit of Serb running through my veins too, you know? I came back recently to reconnect with that side of myself."

"Miloz is consulting for some of the expats," Tom cut in. "Translation, that sort of thing."

"Oh, so then you do speak Serbian?" Annie asked, a note of interest in her voice. "Tom studied up on it before we came, but it's beyond me, I'm afraid."

"It's all we ever spoke at home," Miloz replied affably. "My folks may have left the old country, but they never really left, if you know what I mean." Annie nodded understandingly.

"In fact," he went on, "seeing them struggle in a foreign land led straight to the work I do now. My entire portfolio aims at bridging the international divide. Translation is one example, as Tom said. But lots of other things as well. Anything that can help smooth over the gaps between two different cultural domains--two ways of doing business, two ways of seeing the world. Ricardo thought those talents might come in handy for his new venture."

"Wow, that's fascinating," she responded brightly. "In fact, I bet you could help Tom out too. Cutting through the administrative tangle here seems to be awfully difficult, and his Serbian is hardly what you'd call fluent."

Miloz began to say something, but Tom interrupted. "My business is well-enough in hand right now. But if Ricardo cooks up something big enough to tempt both of us, then maybe we'll end up working together. We'll see."

"Of course," Miloz volleyed smoothly, "I'm sure you're far beyond the need of my services." Then he turned his attention back to Annie. "But cultural disconnects don't only happen in the world of business. It's never easy to feel at home in a new country--my own family history is proof of that."

Pulling out a pen, he scratched something on a napkin and handed it to her. "Here's my number. I'd be happy to help sort out any hassles you may face in daily-life. As a friend, I mean, not a consultant. That goes for both of you," he added, expanding his gaze to take in Tom again.

"It's very generous," she said, folding the napkin and thrusting it into the pocket of her jogging-shorts.

"Well, it was good meeting you," Tom said, signaling that the conversation was over. "I'm sure we'll run into each other."

"The pleasure's been all mine," Miloz replied, nodding his sandy head at Tom, but locking eyes with Annie and clasping her slender hand between both of his. Then, taking his leave, he strolled toward the door. The soothing bubble of competence that surrounded the man evaporated in his absence.

* * * * *

A stony silence fell over the table as Tom set to work on his sandwich. After a bit Annie sounded the waters. "Miloz seems friendly. I don't know why you dismissed his help so quickly. It was nice of him to take an interest."

Tom snorted. "He took an interest in you, that's for sure."

She refused to dignify that with a response, and after a moment he went on. "Look, I'm just not sold on the guy. I've heard of him before, and it's true that he's done good work for some of the big players around here. But there are whispers, too, and those aren't nearly so flattering. Nothing very specific, but hints the guy is sketchy. Don't take him at face value--that's all I'm saying."

"Fine, I won't." She pushed the fries around on her plate for a while, and nibbled on the end of one. Then she tried again. "I can't believe Ricardo came here. You aren't really thinking of working with him, are you?"

Now Tom looked defensive. "I'm not sure. But I need to at least hear him out. You know how I've struggled to find investors ready to pull the trigger. Ricardo fronts some people with very deep pockets, and they've got a hard-on for this stuff. He may be the answer to our prayers."

To Annie, that sounded like the logic of desperation.

Finally the meal ground to a halt, neither of them able to stomach any more of the food congealing on their plates. "Let's get out of here," Tom said, standing and reaching into his pocket to pay the check.

Then, "God damn it!" he muttered, as he began rummaging in his briefcase, and peering down around his chair.

"What is it?" Annie asked, with a twinge of alarm.

"My wallet. The fucking thing's gone!"

"Are you sure? How much was in it?"

Tom looked nauseous. "Seven-hundred dollars." On the inside, Annie let out a groan. They had a cushion of savings, of course, but losing an amount like that would still be a big financial setback.

Fortunately, she could at least scrape together enough to cover lunch. Then the two of them stumbled out into the muggy, gray, late-summer afternoon.

For Annie, the first order of business was to reestablish a sense of control over the situation. The only way she could think to do that was by interrogating Tom. So, even though she knew it was poor form on her part, that's what she did. "Did you drop it at the ministry? Could it be at the apartment? Maybe you left it in a cab?"

"I don't know," he said miserably. "I'm sure I had it before the meeting. But after that...?"

They were so intent on the problem, that neither of them noticed Miloz, still loafing near the entrance to the hotel, smoking a cigarette. Seeing their agitation, he flipped the butt into a bush and strolled over to offer his assistance. "What's the trouble?"

"Tom lost his wallet," Annie said, grateful for a friendly face.

Miloz gave a whistle. "Too bad. Did anyone jostle you on the way over?"

Tom glowered at him, as if to hide his discomfort beneath a layer of hostility. "Maybe. The crowds were pretty thick."

"Yeah, definitely pickpockets," Miloz responded confidently. "They target foreign marks all the time. One gives a shove to distract you, while the other's robbing you blind. You need to report it to the police. I'll go with you--help guide you through the procedures."

"No need," Tom said, taking Annie's arm. "We're perfectly capable of making a statement and filling out a few forms."

"Are you sure? It's no bother. If your ID was in there, or your visa, then you need to get all the proper documentation. Otherwise you could really land in the soup."

"Everything's under control," Tom said. "Thanks for the offer." Then he hustled off with Annie in tow, leaving Miloz no opportunity to reply.

* * * * * * * * * *

TWO

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Later that afternoon, Annie was loping easily along the tree-lined promenades of the lower city and the wide ramparts of the Kalemegdan fortress, trying to make sense of things.

Their visit to the police station hadn't gone terribly well. She didn't know why Tom had dragged her along at all--she hadn't been a witness to the alleged crime, and could barely make out a word that was said. For a while, Tom had badgered the front-desk clerk, gesturing and raising his voice whenever things hit an impasse. Eventually they were shunted along to a broom-closet office in the back, where some detective or constable processed their complaint.

As the episode stretched on, time seemed to move slower and slower. It was a struggle for Tom to communicate with his halting Serbian; and his face took on a florid crimson shade that signaled an unpleasant mixture of irritation, frustration, and embarrassment.

At last, however, the task was complete. "Did you get the documents you needed?" she asked as they left the building.

"Yeah, I... think so," he replied. "There was a hell of a lot of paperwork, but... yeah, I think I figured it all out. And I guess Miloz was right too--cops seemed to agree it must be pickpockets. But even if it wasn't, I suppose we can kiss that money goodbye. The second guy laughed like crazy when I suggested a good-samaritan might turn it in."

The entire incident had put Annie on edge--and the debrief afterwards had hardly been reassuring. Tom, however, seemed to consider the matter settled. Now he was off again, doing whatever it was he did all the time, bending ears or pounding pavement, leaving her to her solitary jogging.

Annie found herself running a lot in Belgrade; and the thought of how she must look always brought a smile to her lips. The only jogger in a city of a million. A solitary creature running free amidst the teeming herds of plodders. An immaculate vision in tank-top and shorts, set off against an unending backdrop of lumpy gray babushkas...

She'd jogged in Philly too, of course, but she'd never been religious about it. Here in Serbia, though, it had proven essential as a way to pass the time.

Time... God, time just seemed to stretch on before her, dreary and uniform and endless. Annie wondered when they would leave this place--when she could get on with her life. She saw no finish-line up ahead of them, no arrow of progress, just endless cycles of pointlessness and falling short.

Oh, for the first couple of months it had been fun to play house in a foreign land. She'd found bits of communist-era kitsch to decorate their flat in Skadarliya, trolled the markets for edible foodstuffs, cooked meals for Tom on their archaic gas stove. But the glamor of it only went so far, and had long since faded.

Now, it was a challenge just to fill her days. For one thing, she no longer had tidying the apartment as an excuse for busywork. Instead, in exchange for a few coins (American coins), a grimly-efficient char-lady came in, scrubbing the threadbare rooms to within an inch of their lives. Annie did still go out to browse the shops now and then, and never failed to delight in how much purchasing power her US dollars brought her. But in truth there was hardly ever anything worth buying.

Other times, she'd while away the hours with the expat wives. Yet there, too, she felt like she was spinning her wheels. There weren't that many of the women, and they were a motley bunch. All they really seemed to have in common was a tendency to narcissism and a burning desire to be somewhere else. At least most of them had kids to obsess over and keep them occupied. Annie didn't even have that.

Yeah, she sighed, kids...

Things had gotten so bad, in fact, that she almost missed social-work. For Annie, one of the big draws when Tom suggested moving to Europe was the excuse to chuck a career she'd started to hate. The idea of helping people still struck her as noble, of course. But the endless stream of addicts and mental patients rotating through her office in Philly had burned out her belief that she could help, and she knew it wasn't coming back. Yet, for all its downsides, the job had at least kept her busy. Only now did she see the value in that.