“Before that,” Burke said.
“You mean here? In Beograd?”
Burke nodded.
Ivo shrugged. “Every morning, I find a cab for him. He goes same place.”
“Where’s that?” Burke asked.
Ivo shivered. Then he stamped his feet in the cold, and looked away in the direction of the river.
Burke reached deeply into his pocket, and came up with a handful of dinars. “It’s all there is,” he said, and tucked the money into the doorman’s coat.
“He goes to the Tesla Museum,” Ivo told him. “More than this, I don’t know.”
Burke paid the entrance fee to the pale man at the ticket desk, and grabbed one of the English-language brochures. He was about to tell the pale man that it wasn’t really the collection he wanted to see, but then decided it might put him in a better light to take a turn around the place.
So he spent half an hour wandering around the museum, and the truth was, he could have spent hours. Knowing what he did about Tesla, the displays – working models, photographs, correspondence, patents and drawings, even the personal effects – were fascinating. The inventor really had been a genius. It was hard to believe his name wasn’t a household word.
Eventually, Burke got back to the pale man at the desk. “Someone said there was a symposium here. A while ago.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone I could talk to about that?”
“Yes,” the pale man said in a whisper. After carefully moving the hands on a cardboard clock to indicate that he’d return in five minutes, he led Burke up the stairs and down a corridor to a small office.
“Here is Dragoslav Novakovic,” he announced, nodding to a man behind a desk. “He is director.”
Novakovic looked up.
“This gentleman is interested in symposium,” the pale man said. With a courtly bow, he stepped back, turned on his heel, and withdrew.
Novakovic gestured to a wingback chair that had seen better days. He was a tall man with a carefully trimmed Vandyke beard, horn-rimmed spectacles, and graying sideburns. “Please,” he said, exposing a gold-toothed grin. “I am Drago.”
“Mike Burke.” They shook hands, and Burke sat down. Behind the desk, a computer clicked and whirred.
“I’m defragging the hard drive,” Novakovic told him, with a gesture toward the clicking CPU. “This piece of shit – you’ll forgive me – he’s on his last leg.”
Burke smiled in a polite and understanding way, but the truth was he was nervous. He hadn’t thought ahead about what he was going to say. And this was d’Anconia’s turf. They spoke his language, and he spoke theirs. He’d even given a speech.
Novakovic saved him. “So! you’re interested in the symposium…”
“Yeah, well… yeah!”
“We have abstracts, of course, but I’m afraid they’re what you call ‘sold out’! Even my copy, he is sold out. But no worries. We have more coming, two weeks’ time.”
“Great.”
“I can send you a copy. But we have expenses.” He gave Burke a regretful smile. “I think it’s four hundred dinars – with postage – unless you wish express mailing. This is one hundred eighty dinars more.”
“By all means, send it express,” Burke said and, reaching into his pocket, removed a business card from his wallet. Pushing the card across the desk, he counted out the money and tried to think of a way to jumpstart the conversation.
Novakovic saved him again. “So how did you learn about the maestro?”
Burke blinked. “Well…,” he said. And then it came to him in a rush of inspiration. “I was flying to London, and I got to talking with the guy next to me – an American, like me. Turns out, he was on his way to Belgrade. Said he had to give a speech. I told him I was coming to Belgrade in a month or so, and he said, well, in that case, I should visit the Tesla Museum.” Burke laughed. “I said, ‘Who’s Tesla?’ And this guy, he couldn’t believe it. ‘The greatest inventor in history,’ he said. ‘That’s what my speech is about – there’s a symposium,’ he said, ‘and I’m speaking at it.’”
Novakovic nodded contentedly.
“Anyway,” Burke continued, “this guy fills me in about Tesla and-”
“Now you’re hooked!” Novakovic declared.
“Exactly! I am totally hooked.”
“And here you are!” Novakovic announced. “That’s wonderful!”
“The thing is,” Burke went on, “I was hoping to get in touch with him again, but… I lost his card.”
Novakovic winced in sympathy, then brightened. “But this is easy,” he said. “We have only a few Americans giving speeches, so…” He glanced at the monitor on his desk. “If you don’t mind – I think it’s almost done. Then I get list of participants.”
“That would be great,” Burke replied.
Novakovic put his fingers together in a sort of steeple. “So, what brings you here to Belgrade?”
“Oh,” Burke said. “That!” He paused. “I’m a photographer. I’m taking some pictures for Travel and Leisure.”
“Here? In Beograd?” Novakovic asked.
Burke nodded. “They’re calling it ‘the New Prague.’”
Novakovic chuckled. “Two years ago, Budapest was ‘the new Prague.’ Now, is our turn. Next year” – his hands flew into the air – “Skopje! After that, who knows – Tbilsi!” The Serb giggled merrily.
“It’s a beautiful city,” Burke said, running out of conversation.
“Yes, I think – ahhhhh! Now we cook with gasoline! I have liftoff.” The museum’s director hunched over the keyboard to his computer, and began to type. “I get participant list. We find your friend.” After a moment, he hit Return and the printer spewed out a list of speakers. Novakovic took a pen, and put a check beside half a dozen names. “These are the Americans,” he said, and handed the list to Burke.
Johnson
Dobkin
Wilson
Para
Federman
Schrager
Burke studied the names for a moment, then laid the page on the desk. Shrugged.
“You don’t recognize?” Novakovic asked.
“No,” he said. “One or two of them sound familiar, but… this was a young guy.”
It was Novakovic’s turn to shrug. “Dobkin and Schrager, they’re old men. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, and he wagged his forefinger back and forth. “I don’t give up!” He got to his feet, and crossed the room. Opening the door, he stuck his head into the hallway, and rattled off an order in a language Burke didn’t understand. Then he came back to his desk, and sat down with a smile. “This is what I am all about – to put together a Teslan from here and a Teslan from there. This is our mission – a part of our mission – at the International Tesla Society.” Once again, he folded his fingers into a steeple, and sat back in his chair.
A minute ticked by, and then there was a knock on the door. A young woman came in with a manila envelope. Handing the envelope to Novakovic, she smiled at Burke and left the room.
The museum director reached into the envelope, and extracted a handful of black-and-white photographs. “This is banquet, I don’t know if your friend comes, but…” He pushed the pictures across the desk.
Burke studied half a dozen pictures before he found what he was looking for: d’Anconia, standing with a drink in his hand, in earnest conversation with half a dozen others.
“There he is!” Burke said, pointing to the handsome face of the man who had stood in his office in Dublin.
Novakovic leaned over for a look. “Which one? Him? But that’s Jack! Jack Wilson!”
“Right!” Burke said. “Jack Wilson.”
“I can tell you, it was such pleasure to meet him. We’re in correspondence for years. And, finally, this year I meet. It’s like seeing old friend.”
“That’s great,” Burke told him, “but… do you know how I can get in touch with him?”
“Of course!” the museum director told him. “Everything is on computer.” He tapped a few keys, and scowled. “Telephone number, I’m sorry, I don’t have. But e-mail, yes! Address, yes!” He shook his head, chuckling. “Jack Wilson!” The printer clacked and whirred and a moment later, Novakovic handed the printout to Burke.