The road to Samarkand

That was that. I wasn't allowed to comment, and that was all she would say. I tried to be the same as before, but it wasn't easy, and I think I failed miserably. Dzenita was still cheerful, laughed and joked as if there wasn't a problem in the world, and maybe there wasn't for her, although I doubted that very much.

The last time we met before I moved to Gothenburg we sat and talked as usual, but it was hard for me to concentrate. I had given her my new phone-number and address, and when she left we hugged like all the other times we had parted. I tried to keep her longer in my arms, but she let go of me, so I relented and we said goodnight.

- - - - - -

I was lonely and felt even more so after I moved away. I called her almost every evening, but it wasn't the same. I had a part-time job on the side to get by, and couldn't go home for Christmas because of it.

I invited her to come and visit me instead, but she said she had to study as much as possible, her original language had to be refreshed before she left, and she aimed to get the highest grade in everything. It wasn't until that summer, after she had graduated, that she came to me for a visit, fully packed to continue to Sarajevo right after. For the first time in years we were to innocently sleep side by side again for a while.

That first evening she was there we went to a pub and had a few beers, continued to dance at another place and returned home early in the morning. After going to bed, dressed in t-shirts and underwear, she cuddled up against me.

"Peter, be serious now, because this is a serious question: do you love me?"

So, the moment had finally come to talk about our relationship in honest. We had been best friends for eight years, and left it at that. Now we had a few days left together, and she raised the question.

"More than you will ever understand Dzenita. If you had let me say what I wanted to say when we talked about Sarajevo -- after the first time when I thought you joked I mean -- you wouldn't have to ask. I was prepared to go with you, still am for that matter, but you don't want me to as I understand it."

She lay on her side, head poised in one hand to look at me, the other hand moving over my chest.

"That is true Peter, but not the whole truth. I won't accept that you come with me, but I would want you too. I love you too you know, as best friend, as honorary brother, but also more than that. There is only one love that is stronger, and that is my love for my home. But that is my love, my home, not yours. If you came with me you would be a stranger as much - or more - as I have been here, and I don't want to do that to you. Can't do that to you. One morning when you wake up I will be gone, and we will probably never meet again. I won't say when, and I won't let you say goodbye. It will be hard enough even without goodbye's, and I can't take more than that. Accept it, or I will leave right now. I want a favour from you before I leave, starting now, at this moment. I have never been with a man, and I want you to be my first. You won't be the last I sleep with, but you will be the only true love of mine. Will you do that for me?"

Tears flowed down my cheeks when I nodded, I was too choked up to get out any words.

"I won't bleed, I have seen to that, but please be gentle anyway." she pleaded as she took off what little clothing she was wearing.

I undressed too, and we lay down together, examining each other in a -- for us -- new way. For a long time we used only hands while we fought the tears, but when passion took over we advanced to new levels, kissing all over the others body. We were in no hurry and took our time, but eventually I entered her, making slow tender love with her. It was wonderful, she was wonderful, life was wonderful. When we were both sated and content we fell asleep in eachothers arms.

When I woke up the next morning she was gone.

- - - - - -

It was hell for me to cope with her leaving like that, and so soon. I had been so sure that we would have at least one week together, but it turned out to be less than a day. She had said it, that she would be gone when I woke up one day, and I had understood her reasons.

Still, I felt betrayed in some way that I couldn't explain even to myself. To be honest I spoke words I had never thought I would use about her, but at the same time I missed her, wished her the best of luck, assured her my eternal love and much more, but that was in my own mind. I would probably never get a chance to speak to her again after all.

Since it was summer break and I had freed my time to be with her, taking vacation from my part-time job, I found myself with nothing to do and too much time to think.

At one moment I cursed her, the next I was packing a bag to follow her to Sarajevo, then sat down on my bed and remembered her face when I woke up with her head on my arm so long ago. The memories and images moved on in time, and ended with her face, her body, when we made love. Had there been a hint that she would betray me, something in her eyes? Then the circle started over again.

I was going insane from grief, felt guilty for not taking her initial suggestion about Sarajevo seriously, hate, love and every other emotion possible, and it tore me apart.

After four days climbing the walls I landed in some strange way, packed a bag and went home to visit the only constant left in my chaotic universe: my parents.

For some reason mothers always know by a look when something is troubling their children, I don't know how they do it, but before the first evening had come to an end I had told mum everything. She was wise enough not to tell me the usual empty phrases: 'everything will be alright', 'time will heal the wounds' and 'you will get over her'.

Instead all she did was to listen to what I said, share my regrets and feelings, and let me cry while she stroked my hair. I went to bed after that, but had no hope of falling asleep. Eventually I did though, and I guess it was from emotional exhaustion.

- - - - - -

Dzenita had told me about the problems getting a phone-call through from Sarajevo. It was like winning the lottery, something you hoped for, but with no realism to support the hope. Still I jumped every time my phone rang, thinking it was her.

It wasn't. I looked through my mail with hopes of finding a letter from her, but no. The human mind is strange in that the hope never die, not entirely, but at the same time your intellect knows that it is fantasy only, and you are a fool to believe.

The following year was like that: the hopes and dreams were alive, but the logic said 'give it up'. Somehow -- I don't know how -- I managed to get through the classes and get fair grades, and at the end of the spring I was close to 'normal' again. Dzenita was still on my mind, but not all the time: it was kind of a distant ache in the background.

One thing that it caused was that I never dated. I slept with a few girls I met at parties, but the next morning I was guilt-ridden and stammered excuses until they left with a scared look, either thinking a girlfriend would show up at any moment and raise hell, or that I was a screwball. Rumours get around, and with time I guess my reputation ended any chance I had to get laid. I can't say that it bothered me too much.

I graduated as an architect in the end, and was about to start my career. It was three years since I had seen Dzenita by then, the ache was still there somewhere deep within, and I decided to make one last effort to get information about her and how she was doing. I owed both her and myself that much.

I didn't have any hopes that we would get together any more, after all she had probably married and started a family, but I needed to know she was alright. Bosnia wasn't the safest place on earth even though the war was over, that much I knew, and friends from way back that had turned into enemies more or less over night, had not necessarily forgotten the animosity.

I had saved as much as I could the last year, and a week after graduation I stood at the Sarajevo airport wondering how the hell I was to find her in this, to me, strange country. If she had married, her name wouldn't even be Ivisevich any more.

I got a taxi to a hotel near the university, telling the driver -- in his language -- that I wasn't stupid when he tried to make me pay ten times the usual rate. Yes, for two years I had studied the language, not least the curses, and also the culture, not to mention what I had learned from Dzenita earlier. My teacher had also come as a refugee from the war, and was realistic enough to know what would serve me best. The taxi driver gave me a delighted smile, said it was something they did to all foreigners, and we were suddenly the best of friends.

After checking in at the hotel and unpacking, I walked over to the university to start my search. I didn't get the impression that they wanted to help me really, but since I knew the language somewhat I was at least accepted. When I said I was looking for a girl, a woman, I got an ugly look saying 'ass-hole, coming here to screw our women and treat them like whores'. When I added her name the look softened a bit, I was after all looking for a specific woman, not just anyone.

It didn't help a lot though, there had been no-one with that name at the university the past year. I wasn't convinced that they told me the truth to be honest, so I asked them to look at the year before that. No, still no match.

Another year earlier? Yes, there was actually a Dzenita Ivisevich that year. Could they tell me anything about her, had she moved away, married, anything? No, except that she had only studied there that fall, until winter break. Other than that they had no information.

I thanked them and left in a bad mood: the easy way I had hoped for didn't work out. Well, I guessed there were other ways, so I checked for Ivisevich in Bosnia in general and was laughed at: there were thousands! Dzenita or Hasan Ivisevich? That got fewer hits, but was I aware that there had been a war not long ago? There could well be hundreds with those names that weren't registered.

Any of them in Tuzla or Sarajevo? Sure, several. At the same address? Not that was known, but then again that didn't mean all that much. I knew that Hasan, her dad, had moved back, or at least that he had left Sweden. That was why I added his name. Dzenita's brothers hadn't returned, and I cursed myself for not trying to find them back home. They would surely have known the address, and finding an Ivisevich in Sweden would have been easy. Damn!

I spoke to my new friend, the cab-driver Fuad, what he would do if he wanted to find a person in Bosnia after three years. He smiled from ear to ear.

"A woman? Someone who fled to Sweden during the war and is back here now? No problem! What is the name?"

I told him, and that her father might be back too, giving his name also. There was an odd glimmer in his eyes for a second, then he drove off with me holding on to his seat to not be thrown around. It wasn't a sports car in any way, but he drove as if it was.

When he stopped he told me to stay in the car while he talked to some people. We were surrounded by apartment blocks that still showed signs of the fighting that had been: a hole in the roof here, a line of bullet holes in the wall there, car-wrecks everywhere.

Fuad was gone for maybe half an hour, and I felt like a monkey at a zoo with all the stares from people passing. When he returned he told me that we could expect an answer tomorrow, but that it would cost me two hundred dollars if it was positive.

I grumbled inside until I realised that it was information not even the government could provide. God, or in this case Allah I guessed, only knew how many people were involved to get the information. We returned to the hotel and Fuad left with a promise to be back in the morning.

When I went down to eat breakfast the next day he was already there, sitting at a table with a glass of slivovitz in front of him. It didn't surprise me a bit since both Dzenita and Hasan had told me stories about the consumption of alcohol and driving here in the Balkans. His smile was wider than ever, and he insisted that I took a glass too to celebrate, refusing to say anything more until I had emptied it.

"Now then," he began "I have the information you want, so all you have to do is pay me 200 dollars. I trust you, please understand that, but the people who got the information don't and insist that you pay before I tell you. Okay?"

I passed over the money and he gave them to the waitress with a few fast words that I didn't pick up.

"She is in Tuzla, lives alone with a child that is three years old. No husband, no fiancé, no father there, only the boy and her. Here is the address."

"A boy?"

I guess the surprise was evident on my face without saying it, but I couldn't hold it back.

"Are you sure that it is her then? She only got back here three years ago, so how could she have a son that old?"

"It is her, there is no doubt about that. She came back here to study in Sarajevo, did so for half a year and then left again to move to Tuzla. She has relatives there, uncles and cousins, and her father lives on a farm just outside of town. It fits with everything you told me, and there has only been one girl with that name at the university since it reopened after the war."

I was a lot more sceptical than he was, but I had already paid so all I could really do was to follow it through.

"Okay, so how do I get there?" I asked him.

"There are several ways: take the train, a bus, hike, walk, bike..." he laughed "or you could hire me. Tell you what: I have family there, my old parents and a sister, and I guess I should have visited a long time ago. Pay for the fuel going there and we are quits, okay?"

So a day later we drove into Tuzla town in his old beat-up taxi. He insisted that I should go with him to his parents home first of all, and they in turn insisted on Slivovitz to greet us.

After that was taken care of I was ordered -- yes, that is the only word that is suitable -- to stay for dinner, and while waiting, there was another glass of slivo while Fuad's sister left to see to something or the other somewhere.

We were still sitting in the living-room when the sister returned with two more guests. One was a boy, about three years of age, blonde and blue-eyed. He held Dzenita's hand very tightly while he looked at me.

- - - - - -

It all became clear to me in that moment, but still it was hard to accept. A blonde and blue-eyed boy among dark haired people with brown eyes. I didn't know where to look myself. I wanted to look at Dzenita, but my eyes returned to the boy all the time anyway.

I could see that Dzenita was about as shocked to see me as I was to see the boy. We didn't speak, didn't move, for quite a while, and the boy looked more and more uncomfortable with it. Finally I made a Herculean effort to get hold of myself and held out my arms to him and said in Bosnian:

"Hi son, come and give daddy a hug!"

I might have imagined it, but I think there was a collective sigh of relief right then, but not from the boy. He looked scared and looked up at Dzenita as if to say 'take me away from here!', but she walked over to me with him and said:

"Yes Peter, it is your son and he shares your name as a reminder of that."

Then she lifted up the boy and hugged me. My arms held them both and if it hadn't been for Peter junior I think we would have crushed each over.

It was emotional for us, but not without effort. Her sudden departure, Peter junior: there were several reasons for us both to be nervous, and Fuad's family didn't make it any easier.

They were sympathetic and happy in every way, that wasn't the problem, but we had things to say in private, explanations and questions that only concerned the two - or maybe three - of us.

Dzenita solved that at least temporarily when she said in Swedish:

"I'm sorry about this Peter, both the way I left and keeping Peter a secret. I didn't have the courage to leave you face to face, and when I found out I was pregnant with your child it got even worse. I didn't want to force you to be a father like that, and anyway it would mean that I had to face you again if I contacted you. I never thought that you would come here looking for me until Amira came and said a visitor was waiting to see me, a Swedish visitor. Then I knew in my heart."

"Dzenita, I understand why you left the way you did, I felt the same way. It tore me apart and I hated you for it, but I understood. Little Peter makes it a lot harder though. Did you plan it, or was it an accident?"

"An accident I think, although I was aware of the possible outcome. I had mixed feeling when I realised I was pregnant. It pretty much ended my chances to go to university, get a good job, get married, everything, but at the same time I was so happy that I would have a part of you with me forever. Please don't take him with you when you leave!"

I let go of her at once and just stared. I guess even my blue eyes could show hatred pretty plainly, because Fuad and Amira stepped in between us as Dzenita backed away in a hurry.

"That was low even for you after what you have done. Do you really think that I would do that? Why the hell do you think I came here!?"

I started between clenched teeth's in Swedish, but ended up yelling. The result was immediate: both Dzenita and Peter burst into tears, and the others started to chatter none to kindly at me. That was when I realised that they hadn't understood a word of what we had said since we spoke Swedish, but I was too upset to explain it. Instead I turned around and left the room for the kitchen where I sat down at the table, burying my head in my hands. Some first meeting with my son, making him cry from fear of me. Damn!

After a while I felt a hand on my neck, stroking up and down.

"I'm sorry once again Peter. I can't think straight around you it seems." Dzenita's voice said behind me.

This time she spoke Bosnian, and I could feel that she wasn't alone "I told them why you reacted the way you did, and they agree with you that I'm a fool. So do I. So tell me, why are you here? To see me yes, I understand that, but why? I made it clear that this is not the place for you."

"And because you say so that is the ultimate truth, right? What I think is not important because I am a stupid Swedish guy who knows nothing about the world outside, is that it? It doesn't matter why I came here any more. I understand now that it was a mistake, and I will leave you alone to enjoy your little paradise."

"Please Peter. I said I was sorry. Tell me why you came. Please?"

"Peter, don't make any stupid mistakes now just because she insists on being foolish." Fuad added.

So he was the one that would keep the peace, or the truce at least.

"Tell me why I should say anything, give me a reason I can accept now when it no longer matters why I came here?" I spat out.

It wasn't fair to him, but he was meddling in things that didn't concern him.

"Okay, I'll give you a reason at once: because you love my cousin more than you love yourself. Is that good enough for you?" was his reply, and once again I was too shocked to speak.

His cousin? I had hooked up with a relative of hers from the start? What was the chance of that? And he knew how I felt. Did he also realise how much this was hurting me? What her words had done to me? I doubted that very much!

"Okay then," I finally managed to say "Since I am surrounded by enemies I might as well give up. I came here hoping to marry my true loved one if I could find her, and if she was still alone, to stay here with her if she would have me. The only one I thought I would ever love. The one that almost made me suicidal when she left me in Gothenburg after less than a day, without a word of goodbye. The one I thought had married down here, but who I had to see at least at a distance one more time. The one I thought understood me, and I was sure I understood. I was wrong in every single way and therefore it isn't relevant any more. I will leave as soon as I can get a seat on a flight back home. Happy now?"