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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