convinced that, in Tomislav’s life, the village of Višnjići never existed.
‘I heard all the stories of how he had taken you to Pula, to the seaside, and how he’d buy you toys from a Gypsy. The poor man, he grieved for you so, Vladan, my boy. I don’t know if it was because you were the only one left, but sometimes he wouldn’t even mention the rest of the family. Always – my Vladan this, my Vladan that. I think he was hurt because he’d let you leave Sarajevo without him, and because he hadn’t set off after you. But like he said, back then, who knew what was going to happen? Yeah, right. Even if he’d asked me, I’d have said that Milošević may rule longer than Tito, but he would never turn us against each other.’
‘We all thought so, but what can we do?’
‘Anyhow... would you like to see his apartment?’
The apartment of Tomislav Zdravković, the retired forest ranger from Sarajevo, who had moved here with his family from Vukovar, just before the war, was a mirror to that of Mediha Babić. The main difference was the feel of the place; a dull prison atmosphere that rolled through the air, like a gas leak. Maybe this was because of the rusty burner that was left on the kitchen floor, a red dish