I am not the runner, he would repeat over and over again in his head. But he did not believe it. And so he ran farther and still farther, propelling himself forward with an existential urgency that defied both space and time.
At first, Miša tried to run with his brother, but after only a week he found that even he, athletic as he was, could not keep up. Miroslav could run forever. He would run for whole days through the countryside, over mountains, across the frontier and into Serbia, even, drifting through alpine meadows and interrupting the deer and the bears in their slumber. Strangely, his incredible journeys did not increase his appetite. He would run fifty, sixty, seventy kilometers and then eat like a bird. It was remarkable. Energy was not being conserved. Or at least he was drawing upon some unseen source for his perpetual momentum. And still he could not run from himself.
After a while, Danilo and Stoja began to worry. All he did was run. He had no interest in taking part in races for his school; he simply wanted to run alone. His teachers had begun to notice. He no longer turned in work. He slept through class. He talked back. When forced to sit still for any length of time, he constantly tapped his foot in a heel-toe stutter step, as if signaling some kind of code. It didn’t matter how bright he was — at this rate he would not make it through his studies.
“I have this feeling,” said Stoja, “that one day he might start running and never come back.”
What she was noticing without being able to say as much was that with each kilometer covered, Miroslav was running further and further away from the polite little child who had bowed to the women and greeted the postman’s arrival every afternoon. With the end of his youth also came an apparent end of his interest in the well-being of others. He was, for lack of a better term, becoming mean.
Secretly, Stoja blamed herself. She had given up everything for her children, given up a life that may or may not have come to pass, and she had grown into and accepted this choice until the choice had become no choice at all. But watching her son slip away like this shook her to her core. Stoja, who had never been a true believer, who had grown up a modern secular woman, began stealing out to pray at St. Stephen’s alone. She would light a candle at the manoualia and stare into the burning wick. By both being and not being there at the same time, the flame’s flicker consoled her.
“We must do something,” she said finally to her husband one day. “He’s my Miro.”
“All right,” said Danilo. “I’ll handle it.”
After one of Miroslav’s long runs, Danilo met his son at the top of their road.
“Come,” he said. “We’re going to a place.”
“To what place?” Miroslav asked, breathless. “I need to stretch.”
“Come,” said Danilo.
“Where’s Miša?”
“He’s working.”
“Can’t you take him to this place?”
“No.”
They took a local grunt bus that hugged the long curve of the river northward and then disembarked at the beginning of an old dirt road, which they started following up into the hills. A thick forest surrounded them. To their left, a small creek bubbled, its waters green with algae.
“Where are we going, Tata?” asked Miroslav. Walking was making him more tired than running.
“Your mother’s worried about you.”
“She’s always worried.”
“She doesn’t want you to run so much.”
“I like running.”
“She worries about you. She cannot help herself.”
“I know. But that isn’t my fault,” said Miroslav. “Where are we going, Tata?”
“To the source,” said Danilo.
Finally, after about half an hour, they came upon a small, ancient domed building. Moss and a wash of mineral deposits spilled down its weathered sides. Steam rose gently from a broken window.
Danilo gestured at the building. “This is a hammam. Built by the Turks who lived here five hundred years ago. They understood the heat of the waters. It will calm your muscles.”
“My muscles feel calm.”
“It will calm your soul.”
“And what if I am soulless?”
Danilo looked at his son. “We’re going inside.”
“What’s up there?” Miroslav pointed above them, where they could see a large, modern building peeping through the trees.
“Ah! Don’t look at that. That’s a resort. They built an ugly hotel so the tourists could soak in the hot springs and then eat some sirnica in the cafeteria. But this isn’t how it’s meant to be done. They’re stupid. They’re only interested in making money. We’re going to the real place.”
They pushed open the rotting door and shed their clothes and then slid into the ancient, recessed pool. A small stone chute poured water in from the underground hot springs. They soaked. The steam rose around them like silent music, swirling against the arched ceiling above their heads. They breathed, letting the wet silence shift and settle into the pores of their skin.
“Where did you run today?” Danilo finally asked.
“Down to Rudo.” Only Miroslav’s face floated above the surface, as if the rest of him no longer existed. His voice echoed off the ceiling.
“Rudo?” Danilo raised his eyebrows. “That’s a long way.”
“Not so long.”
“Why do you run so much?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It makes me feel good.”
They were quiet, and then Danilo said, “When the Turks still ruled this area, that place was called Sokol.”
Miroslav made a slight groan that curled and ended in a gurgle of water. His father liked telling stories about old things, things that happened so long ago they did not matter anymore. How often had he heard the story about the first Danilo Danilovic, who had defeated the Turks and built a church on an island? One hundred times? Two hundred times? It was enough to drive a man insane.
“Did you know that once upon a time there were two brothers who lived in Sokol?” said Danilo.
“Tata!” said Miroslav. “Please. I really don’t want to hear about them. Let’s just enjoy ourselves.”
“I am enjoying myself,” said Danilo. “The brothers’ names were Makarije and Bajo.”
“Please, Tata. No one cares about them. They’re dead. They died a long time ago. Let’s talk about something real.”
“What is real? Soon we’ll all be dead. Don’t you want to be remembered?”
“I’m sure they’ll say the same thing about us—‘Why are you telling me this stupid story about Miroslav Danilovic? What does this have to do with me?’”
“Just listen to the story. Don’t be so critical all the time. It isn’t good for you.”
Miroslav ducked his head into the water and spat a thin stream across the pool. “Okay, go ahead, Tata. I’m listening. Tell me about Makarije and Milo.”
“Bajo. Makarije and Bajo,” said Danilo. “They came from a poor family. A family with nothing. And so their father, who was a true believer in the mercy of God, sent them away to study at the Mileševa Monastery. This monastery was famous — it was a great honor for them to be admitted there, and the father was rightfully proud. Maybe one day his sons would become priests.”
“That is usually why you go to live in a monastery.”
“Usually. But these were not usual times. While they were there, the Turks came on one of their devsirmeler. You know what a devsirme is?”
“Yes, Tata, I know.”