Kiss Of The Butterfly Part 5

Rough men in camouflage uniforms sporting paramilitary insignias seemed omnipresent, and he avoided them, as did most Belgraders, terrified by their appearance and wild behavior. Students at the Philosophy Faculty whispered about horribly mutilated bodies floating down the Sava River. None of these stories appeared on state television, although RTS carried stories of horrible atrocities against Serbs by Croats, showing grotesquely disfigured bodies that were sometimes unrecognizable as human beings limbs torn apart, ears, eyes and noses missing. Steven watched one news clip in disgust at it showed what had once been a person, but now resembled little more than a large ma.s.s of red meat. He was witnessing firsthand the collapse of an entire society and all its norms, and he felt darkness press him from all sides, a darkness that grew with each pa.s.sing day.

As he read, Steven came across a case of vampirism on the Dalmatian island of Pasman, near Zadar, in 1403. Steven wanted to visit the Zadar archives in Croatia, but at the moment Zadar was besieged by Serbian forces, so he asked Professor Ljubovic if he knew of a facsimile that existed in Serbia. The professor said he'd look around, but a week later, Ljubovic told Steven that no one had heard of it. Then Steven came across an account of vampire trials held in Dubrovnik between 1736 and 1744. But Dubrovnik too was inaccessible, under siege by Serbian and Montenegrin forces, cut off by a blockade of steel and hatred.

The research was tedious, and his eyes grew tired easily because of the poor lighting. Sometimes he felt he could read no more. Gradually, he uncovered small pieces of what increasingly seemed to be a much larger puzzle. Some came from historical doc.u.ments, while others came from collections of folk tales recorded by ethnographers... Ducic, Novak, Zovko, Klaic, Liepopili, Karadzic...the names blurred together. Everywhere he turned he found Serbian newspaper accounts of people who were arrested and tried for opening up graves and driving stakes through the hearts of suspected vampires. He had particular problems with one 15th century doc.u.ment written in the Glagolitic alphabet, a precursor to Cyrillic that resembled mangled bicycles, trapezoids and triangles. It took him the better part of three days to read a two page doc.u.ment.

Steven had become the favorite of Gordana, the librarian at the Ethnography reading room, who had a son his age serving in the army in Croatia and a brother in Chicago. 'If I'd been smart I would've gone to America with him, but my parents weren't healthy so I stayed here to help them. Now they're dead and I'm too old to leave. But my brother has a big house and two cars and a swimming pool and an American wife, and his children are at the university.' She showed Steven photographs of her brother's family in suburbia. Once, when the military police came to the Ethnography reading room seeking draft dodgers, Gordana sprang to his defense and sent them packing.

As he read it became apparent that all the accounts had common elements, no matter whether they came from the furthest of the Dalmatian islands, the flat lands of the Pannonian Plain and Slavonija, or the wild mountains of Herzegovina, Bosnia, Pirot or Macedonia. But these vampires were unlike anything he had ever heard of and bore scant resemblance to film versions of Dracula.

One March morning, just when spring seemed to lurk around one of Belgrade's grimy street corners, Steven stood up from the table in the Ethnography reading room, stretched his arms, returned a book to Gordana, walked down the hall to Professor Ljubovic's office and knocked.

'Ah, Steven, how are you?' Ljubovic asked distractedly, staring out the window into s.p.a.ce. 'I didn't recognize you with that beard. And you've let your hair grow. You look like Che Guevara.'

'My hand's cramped from writing, my eyes hurt from reading and I can't wait for spring,' Steven replied.

'Well, it could be worse...at least you're not in Sarajevo...it looks as though these fools will carry their nationalist madness into Bosnia...it's starting all over again...but this time it'll be much worse...Croatia was only a warm-up,' Ljubovic spoke as if drained of all emotion. 'But tell me what you've been up to.'

'I finished the list you gave me.'

'Really,' Ljubovic turned and looked at Steven. 'You have been diligent. Would you care to share some of your findings with me? I've always wanted to know what Marko found so fascinating about that list and how it all fits together.'

'Well, I need some time to put it all together.'

'Come to my apartment tomorrow. I'm having a group of students over for dinner. Perhaps you could present your findings.'

When Steven arrived home he found a letter from Professor Slatina that had taken a month and a half to arrive and appeared to have been opened several times. As he opened it he sensed a faint scent of leather and mildew that somehow transported him halfway across the world to La Jolla. In his mind's eye he imagined Slatina, sitting upright at his desk, surrounded by old books and portraits, writing the letter. At once a sense of melancholy set in.

My Dear Steven, By now I am certain that you have arrived safely and have settled into your research. I wish you great success in all you do and feel confident you will find the necessary materials and arrive at the appropriate conclusions. I hope Professor Ljubovic is helping you.

I suspect that the direction your research is taking is somewhat different than what you expected.

Steven stopped reading and looked across the narrow room at his puzzled expression in the faded wall mirror. How did Slatina know what direction the research would take him? Did the professor know how much time he was spending reading about vampires? He continued with the letter.

Keep in mind that what you are doing is actually quite important, not only for the field of anthropology, but also for other related fields. And you should not underestimate its significance. It may well have results that you cannot foresee at this stage. And I am quite certain you will be able to use this material to publish several articles and perhaps even a book. Nonetheless, I would ask that you be very careful as you gather information and share it with no one, until such time as we see each other again.

What was this? He wasn't to share his information with anyone until he met Slatina? He shook his head in disbelief. Didn't the professor trust him? And why was Slatina acting so cryptic about the research topic? Did the professor think he was brain-dead? And now he had a presentation tomorrow at Ljubovic's place...he couldn't just back out. Steven grumbled under his breath as he returned to the letter.

Belgrade is a fun place for a university student. I would encourage you to socialize and enjoy your stay there. After all, you have adequate time for your research, and if you feel that you are falling behind schedule, then we can always speak with the Balkan Ethnographic Trust about extending your fellowship. Please, take time for yourself and enjoy student life. Remember, one must always think about continuing one's dynastic line, and Yugoslavia is full of beautiful and smart women.

I would encourage you to take the opportunity at your earliest convenience to visit Novi Sad.

I wish you a pleasant sojourn.

Your old professor Marko Slatina P.S. Katarina asked me to say h.e.l.lo and to ask how your Serbo-Croatian is coming. She likes you, you know.

Over the last few weeks Katarina had slipped further from his mind as he immersed himself completely in his research. He placed his hand on the cross around his neck and glanced at her photograph on the nightstand.

And then he penned a brief letter: Dear Katarina, I'm here in Belgrade, and the winter has been miserable. Cold, no heat, bad public transportation, and everyone is paranoid because of the war. Thank you for the help you gave me with the language: it's really been helpful, but I do miss our language sessions. You really helped me a lot and were very patient with me. Here it's easier to learn the language when everybody is speaking it, and I'm improving.

I hope you're enjoying life there in sunny southern California. It's certainly much different than Serbia. Be glad you're there and not here. Life here is crazy, as though the entire world has been turned upside down and all morals have ceased to exist. Right is wrong and wrong is right. Day is night, black is white, good is bad, virtue has become a vice.

Research is difficult but going well, and I'm making some progress. I won't bore you with the details, although I will say that one day I'll have enough material to write a screenplay for a really good Hollywood movie.

I hope you're doing well with your studies. Please give my best to Professor Slatina when you see him. If you visit here over the summer break, please let me know and we can meet up.

Once again, thank you for all the help you gave me. And thanks for your photograph. I'm wearing the cross you gave me and still have the pine cone. I think of you every time I see it.

Steven * * *

En route to Ljubovic's, Steven struggled with Slatina's admonition to share his research with no one. He rationalized his upcoming presentation, telling himself it was only academic research on ethnography and was of no danger to anyone. He told himself that the professor was probably paranoid someone would steal his research topic and information.

A power outage meant the trolleybusses weren't working and he had trouble finding the Ljubovic's address near the famous Zeleni Venac open market. The elevator didn't work, so he climbed the stairwell using the flame from a Zippo lighter to find the door. He brought a bottle of Macedonian red wine and a bag with two kilograms of tangerines as a gift.

'Come in, come in,' welcomed Ljubovic as he opened the door to his apartment. 'We were worried you might have changed your mind and decided not to share the fruits of your research with us,' he said taking the bag of tangerines. 'But at least you brought some other fruits. May I introduce my wife, Dragana?' He gestured towards a large woman, slightly taller than the professor, and then ushered him into a sitting room lit with candles and crowded with students, most of whom Steven recognized from the reading rooms and library. 'Our guest of honor has arrived.'

Steven looked around at the shadowy faces and said 'h.e.l.lo.'

Ljubovic made introductions all around, announced that dinner was ready, and invited them all to the adjoining room, where his wife a professor of musicology had set various dishes. They all helped themselves and took their plates back to the sitting room. Mrs. Ljubovic announced proudly: 'this is a sanctions meal. I've prepared everything here with food that is domestically available.' She looked around for approval, and then added: 'Actually, Slobo has screwed things up so badly that this is the only food at the green market. There's no cooking oil, so I had to do without. I'm also missing a few other crucial ingredients, including sugar, but hopefully you won't notice.' Everyone congratulated Mrs. Ljubovic on a wonderful meal, and Steven found it tasty.

After dinner some of the students helped with the washing up, while others rearranged the chairs. They then sat down, wine gla.s.ses in hand.

'As you all know, we have a guest with us this evening,' Ljubovic began. 'Steven Roberts is studying with my old friend Marko Slatina in California, and he's here doing research on mythical creatures in Balkan folklore. He's been researching vampires, and this evening he'll share some of his research with us.'

'Why in Serbia? Shouldn't he be in Transylvania?' asked one student, causing the others to laugh.

'Now, if we pay attention,' Ljubovic interrupted, 'we might all learn something. And without electricity the ambient will be appropriate. Steven, if you please,' Ljubovic gestured to indicate that Steven had the floor.

Steven prayed his Serbo-Croatian would rise to the occasion and cleared his throat.

'Vampires have a long history in the Balkans. One of the earliest mentions is in the 1349 Law Code of Serbian Emperor Stefan Dusan. Belief in vampires in his Empire was strong and people were digging up bodies and burning them, so he pa.s.sed a law to prevent it. I quote Article 20: "That village that would do so will pay the money price for killing a man and the priest who partic.i.p.ates will be defrocked." This indicates that priests were taking part, contrary to Church teachings.' Looking around he saw that everyone was listening raptly.

'That's the famous Law Code that formed the basis of Serbian law,' the professor interjected.

Steven continued. 'In addition to this law, I've found numerous other references to vampirism in Yugoslavia. There was a case on the Dalmatian island of Pasman, near Zadar, in 1403, when a woman named Priba became a vampire and terrorized the entire island. Eventually the mayor of Zadar authorized her exhumation and impalement, after which the problems stopped. There's a Glagolitic ma.n.u.script from the 15th century, where the Senj Bishopric recorded a curse to protect people against vampires. There's also an account from the first half of the 16th century by a priest Georgius Sirmiensis that discusses a vampire named Pavle Kinjizi, who terrified his village for nearly a year after his death until the local priest and monks killed him. In a 17th century Nomocanon the Serbian Orthodox Church forbade burning the bodies of suspected vampires, and banned anyone who did so from taking communion for six years. In 1666 in the town of Ston on the Adriatic coast, a man named Stjepan Nikolin went around digging up graves of vampires and driving stakes through their hearts. I guess he was sort of a medieval version of Van Helsing.' Steven smiled.

Professor Ljubovic nodded his approval.

Steven continued. 'I found another case of vampirism in 1672 in Kranjska, where the village priest saw a man named Djura Grado whom the priest had previously buried walking about, terrorizing the villagers. The dead man even visited his own wife and s.e.xually a.s.saulted her. The priest and others opened his coffin, to find that the corpse was entirely red. As they looked at the corpse it screamed and everybody fled. Finally the village elders and priest regrouped the people and returned to the grave, this time carrying a crucifix with Christ crucified in front of them. When the vampire saw the crucifix he stood in his coffin and cried. Then they impaled him with a stake, filling the coffin with blood.'

'My, my, my...s.e.x and impalement. I'm certain Sigmund Freud would have a field day,' Mrs. Ljubovic commented, evoking a slight blush from Steven and ribald whispers and snickers from the students.

Steven recovered his composure and continued. 'In 1716 Austria took control of large sections of what is today Serbia, including Belgrade. The Emperor Charles VI was a real nut about vampires and instructed Austrian officers and officials to report directly to the court about them, so a great deal of information exists.'

'In 1725 when Serbia was under Austrian rule, there was a famous incident in Kisiljevo, near Ram on the Danube that started a vampire sensation throughout Europe. It led to the publication of books on vampires in German and French. A man by the name of Petar Plogojowitz turned into a vampire and within two weeks ten people died. Each person suffered for 24 hours before death, and all declared that Plogojowitz had visited them in their dreams and strangled them. Plogojowitz's wife fled to a nearby village and claimed that her dead husband visited her and sought his shoes. The villagers convinced the Austrian district administrator to take action, and they also convinced two priests to partic.i.p.ate. When they got to the grave they found that it had already been opened. I'll read you what one eyewitness, the Austrian district administrator wrote: 'We didn't sense the slightest smell from the body, nor from the grave. Nor was there that usual smell of death. The body, with the exception of the nose which was slightly depressed, had remained completely fresh. The hair, nails and beard, instead of falling off, had continued to regenerate. The place where his old skin had been light blue was now renewed with fresh skin. The face, legs and arms were so well preserved that they couldn't have been better in life. In his mouth I noticed with the greatest surprise a little fresh blood, which according to the general thinking of those present he had sucked out of those he had killed. Since the priest and I saw all of this, the people, with greatest haste, sharpened a stake and impaled the corpse in the middle of the heart. Upon impalement completely fresh and red blood appeared that flowed through the ears and nose. Afterwards, as is the custom in these cases, they burned the body.'

Steven looked around to find the room completely silent. 'That's from the Vossiche Zeitung, Nr.98, from 1725. It was this well-doc.u.mented vampire case of 1725 that led to the widespread use of the word vampire which is a Serbo-Croatian word in the West.'

'So the word vampire originated in Serbia?' Ljubovic asked, curiosity on his face.

'Yes. That is correct. And in 1730 the Orthodox Church held a Bishops' Council in Belgrade to discourage people from believing in vampires and declared that anyone who investigated vampires was to be anathematized and turned over to the Austrian Imperial Court authorities.'

'Reports emerged of vampires in the Serbian village of Medvedja, so in the winter of 1731-32 the commander in Belgrade sent the field surgeon of the Alexandrian regiment, Johann Fluckinger, to investigate, along with a military escort. Fluckinger found that eighteen people had been killed by vampires and he attended the exhumation of numerous alleged vampires and performed autopsies on thirteen of them. He found them all to be full of blood, even though they had lain dead for several months. He said that one corpse was "complete and undecayed," and that another was "in good condition," and all were in a "state of vampirism".'

'Fluckinger wrote a bestseller ent.i.tled "Seen and Discovered" in 1732 that offered signed testimony by Austrian Army officers about the vampire phenomenon. His original notes were destroyed during World War Two, so we have to rely on his book and the report of a researcher who recorded this information prior to their destruction, one Stefan Novakovic. Fluckinger described how the villagers killed one vampire.'

'They found that he was quite complete and undecayed, and that fresh blood had flowed from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears; that the shirt, the covering, and the coffin were completely b.l.o.o.d.y; that the old nails on his hands and feet, along with the skin, had fallen off, and that new ones had grown; and since they saw from this that he was a true vampire, they drove a stake through his heart, according to their custom, whereby he gave an audible groan and bled copiously.'

'That same year in the village of Kukljin, also near Ram, a vampire killed two brothers.'

'All this happened in Serbia?' Ljubovic exclaimed with disbelief. 'That's absolutely amazing.'

'Wait, it gets better. Between 1736 and 1744, the Dubrovnik court conducted criminal investigations of people accused of digging up bodies and driving stakes through the hearts. All of them were from the island of Lastovo. Things were so bad that on 23 October 1748 the Austrian Imperial War Council in Vienna ordered all priests in the Empire to dissuade people from believing in vampires. This order was relayed to the Metropolitan Bishop of the Orthodox Church, Moses Putnik, by the Slavonija General Command in Osijek, Croatia, on 6 November 1748. The Austrian Empress Maria Theresa also sent out a physician, Gerard van Swieten, in 1755 to investigate and debunk vampires.'

'And finally, I've found quite a few references to vampires in Serbian newspapers, some quite recent. For example, in the village of Cickovi near Arilje there was a case recorded in 1933, and another in Smederevo in 1934. Right here near Belgrade there was a recorded case in the village of Knezevac in 1938.' Steven shuffled through his notes. 'Or at least that's what Politika reported,' he said, referring to Serbia's most prominent government-controlled daily. 'But the newspapers stopped reporting on vampires when the communists came to power.' He looked around the room. 'Any questions?'

Ljubovic arose. 'Steven, this is marvelous. You've done a very thorough job. I congratulate you. Although I must say that with all these vampires I wouldn't be surprised if Dracula himself visited Serbia,' he commented with a smile on his face.

'Actually, he did,' responded Steven. 'In February 1476, less than a year before his death, Dracula took part in the Battle of Sabac as a va.s.sal of the Hungarian King Matthius Corvinus. After defeating the Turks the King returned to Hungary, placed 5,000 of his troops under Dracula's command and sent him up the Drina River valley between Bosnia and Serbia. Dracula sacked Zvornik, Kuslat and Srebrenica and carried out horrible ma.s.sacres.' Steven rummaged through his notes. 'I copied this account by the Papal Legate, Gabriele Rangoni, of Dracula's ma.s.sacre in Srebrenica: "he tore the limbs off Turkish prisoners and placed their parts on stakes...and displayed parts of his victims so that when the Turks see these, they will run away in fear".'

'Well, that sounds quite a bit like what's going on now in Croatia,' Ljubovic commented. 'Perhaps Mr. Dracula has returned to Yugoslavia once more.' Several students laughed nervously. 'Perhaps we could open up the floor to discussion,' said Ljubovic. 'If there are so many references to vampirism in Serbia in particular, and in Yugoslavia in general, and if these references predate Dracula, then what does this tell us about the Dracula myth? After all, Dracula was a latecomer. Is it possible he became a vampire while he was here in Serbia? Did another vampire bite him?' He smiled at the students, all of whom sat absolutely silent. 'We know that myths and legends often are based on real historical events that are now lost to us. But if these stories continue up to the present, is it possible that there's substance behind the myth? Is there in fact some basis to the legends?'

A dark-haired female student crossed herself and spat three times. 'This is horrible. It's an unpleasant topic. Must we discuss it?'

Another student told her: 'Don't be superst.i.tious. There are no such things as vampires.'

'In my grandmother's village near Pirot they still talk about vampires, especially during the winter,' commented a large, bearded student with his hair in a ponytail, who bore a striking resemblance to the Russian monk Rasputin. 'They say that they're most active between Christmas and the Feast of the Ascension in June.'

'My parents have a weekend home on Mt. Zlatibor,' added a thin girl with long blonde hair. 'The peasants there still believe in vampires. A lot of times at night when the animals go crazy and start making noise they'll say there's a vampire nearby.'

'But why are vampire tales so specific to this area?' asked Ljubovic. 'And what keeps them alive in the folk traditions for 700 years. Steven, do you have anything else to share with us this evening?'

'That's all I've prepared for now. I'm still working on the characteristics and behavior of vampires. I'm also trying to understand why a person becomes a vampire.'

'Isn't that well known? Doesn't a person become a vampire when they're bitten by a vampire?' asked a female student.

'No, not at all. If a vampire bites you on the neck, you simply die. A vampire's bite won't turn you into a vampire, at least not according to the folk tales and historical doc.u.ments.'

'Well then how does one become a vampire?'

'I'm still working on that.'

'Steven, you've made an excellent presentation,' Ljubovic said. 'Thank you so much. Perhaps some other time, when you've been able to prepare some of your other materials, you'll be able to share these other things with us. Now let's adjourn to the other room where my wife has prepared an excellent "sanctions cake".'

And then the power came back on.

The next day Steven wrote Professor Slatina a long letter, describing his impressions, his progress with research, and the overall situation. At the end he wrote: Given the large number of references I'm finding in newspapers and historical doc.u.ments, as well as the similarity among recorded folk accounts from regions that are geographically separated, I suspect there might have once been some phenomenon that led to the establishment of these myths. In fact, there are days when I wonder if vampires might actually have once existed. Sounds silly, doesn't it, but after a while the sheer weight of the historical evidence makes one begin to wonder. How can there be so many consistent reports of a supposedly mythical phenomenon that keep occurring nearly up to the present day?

That Sat.u.r.day Dusan invited Steven to go out with him. Steven feeling he deserved a break from research accepted.

They met up with some of Dusan's friends at 10:30 PM and walked past a spray-painted Woody Woodp.e.c.k.e.r graffiti with a caption that read inanely: "it never would have come to this if Woody had gone to the police in time."

'That's the moral of our story,' Dusan said, pointing at it.

'Huh?'

'Yeah...none of this ever would have happened if somebody had gone to the police in time,' Dusan said.

'I don't get it,' Steven answered.

'You will, you will,' Dusan smiled. 'Just stay here long enough.' Then he added: 'It means that we're really not responsible for any of this. Someone else is to blame because they didn't report us to the police in time. That's the way it is with us. Someone else is always to blame... There's no sense of personal responsibility.'

They fought their way onto an overcrowded trolleybus that took them to the Square of the Republic. Even though it was past midnight and cold, the square was filled with young and old as though at mid-day.

Dusan led them to a non-descript door in the side of an old building with a small plaque that read INFERNO, down an unheated dirty white hallway, increasingly enveloped by the ever-louder thump of a deep ba.s.s beat that intensified as they approached the head of a stairway. Out of the stairway thick clouds of tobacco smoke billowed up into the hallway and out a nearby window, partly obscuring a sign in Italian that read Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate, urging those who entered to abandon every hope. And of course, they entered.

They descended into darkness and felt their way down through the smoke, groping at the flesh of shadowy bodies lining both sides of the crowded stairwell. The stairs felt slippery underfoot, and the farther they went, the warmer it became until Steven was sweating and gasping for air. An acrid ammonia-jolt of concentrated urine struck his nose and purged it of smoke as they pa.s.sed the lavatories, doors hanging askew from hinges, fluids dripping down the steps. At the bottom of the stairs, dim lighting cast h.e.l.lishly red shadows throughout a vaulted bas.e.m.e.nt as wraithlike figures writhed in and out of focus. Human forms crowded the corridors, forcing Steven and Dusan to swim against a tide of human flesh. Hauntingly beautiful women in black sucked nervously on cigarettes, glaring at Steven with the look of those d.a.m.ned to eternal boredom, while leather-clad men glared fiercely with sunken cheeks. The pa.s.sage reeked of sweat and cheap perfume.

The music overpowered and squeezed Steven's heart in a deep ba.s.s vice. Bodies everywhere, pushing, shoving, groping, squeezing...he could barely breathe as they fought their way forward like rugby players in a scrum. Unseen hands touched him, patted him, and some fondled him intimately. He couldn't see who the hands belonged to, and it wouldn't have mattered. A violent 10 minute journey took them 70 feet, until they halted in the middle of a crowded chamber, the ba.s.s vibrations penetrating his muscle, bone and skin. The amplified sounds of Yugoslav rock bombarded their senses. One song caught Steven's attention and he strained to make out the lyrics: One day I won't be here, And I won't ever come.

Friends that I know, I no longer recognize when I pa.s.s.

As if I was never in this world, As if her body didn't want me.

People wore the desperate smiles of drunks facing a firing squad, singing at the tops of their lungs. The men all appeared to have long ago lost hope in G.o.d and life, and were now seeking any possible escape from this world and the war, short perhaps of death. The women, the most beautiful Steven had ever seen, drifted as apparitions in and out of the light, ghostly and ghastly with unsmiling faces, flowing to the throbbing rhythm, glancing about furtively as the music continued to pound. Everybody shouted the song's refrain in unison: Balkans, Balkans, My Balkans, Be powerful and stay well.

Balkans, Balkans, My Balkans, Be powerful and stay well.

And they seemed to be finding escape, however temporary: the smell of marijuana and hashish mingled with the stench of tobacco, spilled beer and alcohol-rancid breath. Yet to find it they had imprisoned themselves in this dungeon, without light, air, sun, G.o.d or hope. In one voice of alienated desperation they all sang frenetically: We are people, Gypsies d.a.m.ned by Fate.

Someone around us always Comes and threatens us.

Not even the gangs Are what they used to be.

My people are amateurishly Preparing to play...

They were escaping from a h.e.l.l they had neither chosen nor sought, into one of their own making, if anything worse than what they were trying to escape. All were held captive by a power that encouraged physical and spiritual degradation as the only release. And here they found solace, after a fashion.

Balkans, Balkans, My Balkans, Be powerful and stay well.

Balkans, Balkans, My Balkans, Be powerful and stay well.

The music was too loud for conversation, so Dusan and his friends just stood rocking back and forth with beer bottles in their hands, the vaulted brick ceiling arching scant inches overhead, holding them tightly. Steven felt disembodied and estranged. After half an hour he put his mouth next to Dusan's ear and yelled: 'How long will we stay here?' Dusan smiled and yelled back: 'In just a little while it's gonna get really good.' So Steven waited. Fifteen minutes later he once again put his mouth next to Dusan's ear and yelled: 'When's it gonna get good? What's gonna happen?' Dusan once again yelled: 'Just a little...it's gonna be really good.' This continued for the next hour, and Steven finally realized that Dusan had now become like all the others...oblivious, feeling no pain. For him it was really good.