motorway path eventually helped me to sleep and, when I woke, it was dawn and our truck was parked in front of Belgrade’s Bristol Hotel.
Now I stood before the apartment building where, according to Dusha, General Borojević had last lived. It was typical socialist architecture; a large cube of the sort found all over the former Yugoslavia which, despite its lack of grace and cheap materials, for some reason inspired a sense of pride in me, for its opaque view of architecture and, through it, life. As I entered, a familiar smell greeted me. I had the impression that I had once been to a similar place, but I couldn’t recall where or when, and at that moment I didn’t have time for nostalgia. I reasoned that a war criminal at large wouldn’t use his real name, and so I had to search for other traces of his presence. The building was arranged with two apartments on each floor. From the Korač family apartment on the second floor, all the way to the entrance, I could hear children’s voices. On the doormat before the Mitrović’s door, sat a pair of patent-leather shoes far too small to be Nedelko’s.