‘Car’s not far.’ He’s got no hat or gloves and his coat isn’t a padded, insulated thing but simply a black wool Crombie.
‘So it’s true about Geordies, that you don’t feel the cold,’ I say.
‘But I’m wearing a scarf, like. Been down south too long, gone soft. Here’s the car.’
We’re guided out of the airport by his phone’s Google Maps and, in a head-spinningly short time, we’re on the road south.
‘According to this, we’ll be in Jagodina at two thirty-three,’ he says. Then, ‘You okay?’
‘Mmm. Just, this is weird, right?’
‘It’s coming in waves.’
Okay. That meant there would be spells of normality.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘On the plane.’
‘There’s a bag of stuff, crisps and things. And garages on the way. If you want to stop, just say.’
I smile. He’s been warned about my faulty bladder.
He’s made a mix tape of Serbian music, and as we drive, I stare out of the window. This is proper winter and proper countryside: silent fields under blankets of white; far-off farmhouses, their roofs covered with snow; almost no advertising and what there is is in Cyrillic.
I’m in yet another movie, this time an experimental European one, perhaps about the disintegration of Yugoslavia.
From the outside the museum looks like a ‘real’ museum but shrunken. It’s small, pretty, pale yellow, and reminds me of a beautiful cake. As Josh parks the car I’m frozen with how momentous this is. ‘I can’t believe I’m here. Josh, I’ve looked at the photo of this building for years and yearned to visit and now I’m actually here.’
‘But you’ve got to get out,’ he chides gently. ‘Won’t do much good if you’re just sat looking at it.’
Josh’s Serbian-speaking colleague had rung ahead so Marja, a woman who speaks some English, is expecting us. I don’t know exactly what Josh’s colleague said to her but it must have been something good because a viewing room has been set aside for me. And, oh, the beauty of the paintings in real life!
‘I wish I could climb inside and live in one.’
‘What is it about them you love so much?’ Josh asks.
‘Partly the colour.’ They’re nearly all variations on blue. ‘Posh Petra says that’s déclassé but the heart wants what the heart wants, right?’
‘Right.’ His look is meaningful.
‘I love the subject matter.’ They’re rural scenes, often with blue trees and blue flowers – there’s a mild hallucinogenic feel to most of them. ‘I dunno, Josh, it’s about the way they make me feel.’
‘And that is?’
‘Happy and safe.’ God, to own one … But maybe I can buy a print in the gift shop.
However, all the gift shop contains is a desultory collection of cards, none by my lady.
I don’t know if this is an insulting question but I’ve come all this way and it would be lunacy not to enquire. ‘Marja, is it possible … to buy one of Du?anka’s paintings from the museum?’
A regretful shake of the head. ‘Property of nation.’
Of course. Shite.
‘But gallery in Belgrade have.’
Oh, sweet Jesus! The adrenalin rush! It’s like being told that Selfridges is giving away all their Tom Ford products. ‘Address? Do you have?’ (To my shame, when I’m around people who not speak so good the English, I accidentally copy their syntax.) ‘And the cost? Do you know?’
‘Address, I know. The cost?’ A sorrowful shrug. ‘I do not know.’
But all the same! I turn to Josh, bursting with excitement. ‘If they’re for sale in a Belgrade gallery, maybe ordinary people can afford them. Not like the Van Goghs that cost more than a country and live in an underground vault in Japan.’
He laughs softly. ‘Aye.’ Then to Marja, ‘Can you give us the address of the gallery?’
If I literally buy nothing else for all of next year and get three more clients on retainer … I’m already doing calculations, wondering how much I can let myself spend.
Gratefully I press a giant box of Butler’s chocolates on Marja, then Josh and I leave for Belgrade.
91
It’s only half four in the afternoon but the light is almost gone and it’s different driving in the dark. There are no lights on the road north and I don’t like the speed Josh is going at but I can’t yelp, ‘Slow down!’ the way I would with Hugh. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him.
‘Josh, maybe a bit slower?’
He hits the brakes dramatically. But, within moments, the speed creeps up again and this time I say nothing.
And then we crest a hill and get our first sight of Belgrade, which strikes drear into my heart: grey, decrepit apartment blocks.
Josh reads my thoughts. ‘They say the middle of town is attractive.’
As we approach the centre, the traffic becomes heavy and slow, not helped by rows of cars parked on both sides of the street. Trams run alongside the cars, spooking me.
Josh’s phone is talking us towards the hotel, but something goes wrong and we’re suddenly caught in a one-way system that the satnav lady knows nothing about.
‘How do we get out of this?’ Josh mutters, trying to look at his phone, as well as the road, which makes me really nervous.
‘Maybe if you …’ I’m downloading Google Maps, but it’s only for form’s sake – I’m useless with directions. ‘Could you go right earlier?’
We go around again, which takes ages, about fifteen minutes and, despite taking a different turn, we end up being funnelled right back into the same one-way thing.
‘The hell am I meant to do?’ Josh asks.
I really don’t know and we aren’t helped by being unable to read the Cyrillic street signs.
‘Why can’t I take this turn?’ Josh demands – and promptly takes it.
I’m not expected to know the answer, but realize I do. ‘It’s just for taxis and trams.’
He mutters, ‘Oh, for fuck’s …’
My stomach starts to hurt. This really does remind me of childhood journeys with Pop. Are we breaking the law? What if the police stop us? We’re in an unfamiliar country, we can’t speak the language, we know no one …
This is actual hell, isn’t it? We’re going to be stuck here, condemned to drive in the streets of Belgrade, for all eternity.
I look at Josh. Who is this man? What am I doing here, in this alien place, with an angry stranger? Momentarily I’m cold with fear. ‘We could ask someone,’ is my tentative suggestion.
‘We can’t speak Serbian!’
‘Maybe they speak English.’
‘Oh, go on, then!’ Josh screeches to a halt, setting off a cacophony of beeping behind us. ‘Ask him.’
Out of the window, I call to a young studenty-looking bloke and – thank you, God! – he speaks English. He knows the hotel and launches into detailed instructions. Then, because the beeping is still carrying on, he says, ‘Is easier if I show,’ and promptly gets into the back seat of the car.
Josh and I exchange a look. What have we unleashed?
But the man is perfectly lovely and gets us to the hotel in literally three minutes –
I’m astonished when he says, ‘Is here. Hotel car park.’
‘Already?’
‘Yes. Near. I hope you have excellent time in Belgrade.’
‘Thank you, but how will you get back to where you were?’
‘Is near,’ he says. ‘More near walking than by driving.’
‘Well, thank you.’
‘Yeah, thanks, mate,’ Josh says.
We park the car, get our bags from the boot and make our way to Reception. We’re doing ‘Wow, we’re here’ noises, but we’re not making eye contact.
It’ll be a while before the tension disperses.
Hotel Zaga is a pretty five-storey delight, with curlicued balconettes and embellished windows. Stepping over the threshold into the lobby is like stepping into a beautifully illustrated storybook. A bit happy-spendy, I’d booked a small suite, which had seemed sensible: not only has it a small sitting room but two bathrooms.
We’re high up in the eaves, and when the hotel lady opens our door, the blue, violet, white and black colours of the sitting room explode out at us. Everything, the rugs, the paintings, the fabrics, the accessories, has been assembled with verve and care.
It’s not girly and it’s not twee. In my opinion, it’s a work of art.