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‘Your dad liked to say that he liked Brčko best from his
window. From afar.’
Mediha stood by the window and, as a diehard busybody,
scanned the street below, and therefore missed the
astonishing effect her words had on me. I didn’t know
which aspect of them I found creepier. That she referred to
Tomislav Zdravković as ‘your dad,’ or that this same
Tomislav Zdravković had an identical aesthetics theory on
Bosnian towns as I did. This was a trivial thought, of course,
the sort that would occur to anyone, but all the same, it
revealed another secret link between us that I’d have
preferred remain obscure.
To calm myself down, I looked once more to the Sudoku
puzzles, which were just the right unfamiliar form of
entertainment for me, since maths and I never got along.
When it came to numbers, I was Dusha’s son – she had
trouble with simple multiplication.
‘There, Yelena’s off to the farmer’s market. And I was just
about to go see her and ask if she could bring me back
some cucumbers and... what did I say I needed? Carrots,
parsley, potatoes and... I can’t remember. I should check.
My brain’s turned off. Nothing. I think I’ve got everything
for the soup... I also have Filo pastry... I’ll ask her tomorrow.
That’s right... When I go see Nada tonight, I can stop by her
place... ’