We turned left and followed the river towards the city centre, but we hadn’t gone far when there was the dull thud of an explosion up on the high ground.
Everyone in the street looked up. A small plume of grey smoke floated above a square of trees, surrounded by rooftops. Two old women coming towards us, weighed down with carrier-bags, tutted to each other as if this was an everyday annoyance.
‘What do you reckon, Nick? A mine?’
‘Had to be.’
When the Serbs withdrew, they left hundreds of thousands of the little fuckers in their wake. There was no need for Keep Off the Grass signs in Bosnia.
70
There was some reconstruction in progress along the riverbank, but most buildings still hadn’t been patched up. A few of the places immediately facing the Miljacka had all but collapsed. Others had done so long since, their rubble cleared to make room for muddy car parks. At least the river was nice and picturesque these days. The last time I’d seen it, there’d been bodies floating downstream.
A tram stopped just ahead of us, brand new with a sign announcing it was a gift from the people of yet another guilt-ridden country that had done fuck-all to help when it was really needed. Passengers jostled to get on and off with their shopping, a very few in headscarves, some in grey raincoats, briefcases in their hands and cellphones to their ears.
Soon we couldn’t move for people and cafés. A coffee shop seemed to have sprung up every ten paces, but these were indigenous. George would have given Sarajevo the thumbs up: there wasn’t a Starbucks or skinny latte in sight. A lot of them had outside tables with canopies and butane heaters so the punters didn’t have to stem their nicotine and caffeine intake even when the temperature dropped.
Most of the buildings were still peppered with shrapnel and bullet scars, but at street level it was all plate glass and stainless steel, bright lights and rap. We even passed a Miss Selfridge, where women were holding up the new season’s collection against themselves, and teenage girls lounged around in Levi’s, smoking and listening to their Walkmans.
Our first stop was to buy us each a coat. We didn’t think that the Sunday Telegraph would stretch to Versace so we headed into one of the old local boys’ shops. I settled for a brown three-quarter-length number that didn’t look or feel remotely like leather, despite what the salesman said. But, then, what can you expect for about twelve dollars? Jerry spent about the same on a waterproof with a fleecy lining. We looked like dickheads, but at least we were warm.
Sarajevo isn’t big, but it’s teeming with different ethnic neighbourhoods. We moved into another Hungarian quarter. The pedestrian area, once cratered by mortar rounds, was now paved with flat stone.
The old black and red board was still where I remembered it, inviting us to visit the Café Bar Muppet. The Firm had had a room above it, which was very apt, I’d always thought. There was an archway through into a very small square, and the café was just off to the right. Even at the height of the war it had felt protected. A direct hit wouldn’t have been too healthy, although it would probably have been better than a bullet in the back. I’d preferred the Bodyguard Café up the road, for the simple reason that it was in a cellar. But you had to be quick, because every other fucker wanted to get in there too.
The smell of cevapcici, grilled sausages served with pitta bread, drifted through the streets, signalling that we were coming into the old Turkish area, Bascarsija. The Gazi Husrev Bey mosque, or ‘Gazzer something’ as Rob had called it, was the largest in the city, and now close enough to spit at.
71
When a mortar round explodes on a hard surface like a road or pavement, it creates a characteristic pattern. We came across a lot of strike marks that had been filled with red cement as a memorial to whoever had died on that spot. Bascarsija, a warren of narrow cobblestoned streets, alleyways and dead-ends, had more than its fair share of ‘Sarajevo roses’. The Serbs had been particularly fond of busy places like markets and shopping arcades.
The area was dotted with mosques and lined with tiny interconnected one-storey wooden shops, selling leatherwork and brass tea-sets, postcards of bombed-out buildings and pens to write on them made from spent .50 cal cases. I didn’t see any tourists haggling with the owners. Most customers, when there were any, seemed to be in uniform with SFOR flashes.
We turned a corner and the massive Gazi Husrev Bey mosque was suddenly there in front of us, pristine and white. They’d really gone to town on the renovation. Elevations had been re-rendered, strike marks in the stone had been removed, and there were brand new his’n’hers washrooms in the courtyard area.
The arched entrance was protected by a stone portico. Big carpets were laid out beneath it, perhaps for those who wanted a quick prayer without going inside, or to cater for overspill when the mosque was full.
There are different lengths of prayers for the different prayer times, and shorter prayers if you’re travelling or ill. They can be said alone, or in congregation. It’s pretty much a pick ’n’ mix affair to suit the individual. You can even combine a couple of prayer times, like some Catholics do on a Saturday night to save them having to get up early the following morning.
A lone man in his mid-sixties, wearing jeans and an Adidas windcheater, was kneeling and offering Salah [prayers]. His shoes were tucked into the racks provided. We made our way towards the side door, past a small shop window decked out with a lifetime’s supply of Qur’âns and other religious paraphernalia and two stone shrines to a couple of high-rankers in the Muslim world. Jerry couldn’t remember exactly who they were and actually blushed with embarrassment because he felt he should: after all, this was the most historic mosque in Europe.
We took off our shoes before going in. Non-Muslims are welcome in mosques; they don’t like you trying to take part if you’re not one of the faithful, but you can stand at the back and watch if you want, it’s no big deal. The two religions I had most time for, Judaism and Islam, both managed to create this sense of everyone being part of one big family.
The interior was cavernous, with a dome at least twenty-five metres high. Chandeliers hung down on cable and chain. The walls were decorated with beautiful framed quotes from the Qur’en. The entire floor was covered in intricately woven Oriental carpets.
Four old women had their backs against the wall to our right, heads covered and mumbling to themselves. I smiled, gesturing for their permission to enter. They smiled back and ushered me in. They gave Jerry a strange look, which made me smile: in a world of Muslims, he was clearly the weird-looking one.
The moment we stepped out of the hustle and bustle of the street, there was a sense of tranquillity I could almost touch. People seemed to glide across the carpets; voices were hushed.
I looked down and could see my socks were leaving sweat marks on the highly polished tiles. I shrugged an apology to the women.
They all smiled back.
Encouraged, I moved closer to them. ‘English? Speak English?’
They smiled even more, nodded and said nothing. I thought I might as well start asking about Salkic. I wanted as many people as possible to know we were looking for him. With luck, the bush telegraph would swing into operation. He’d either run for cover, or get curious and come looking.