I wanted to place the story in its true historical context because it's interesting how the consequences of events of the size and importance of the Yugoslavian civil war are not just the geo-political but personal and individual. One way or another, the ramifications spill over the borders and seep into the lives of people who probable don"t know the difference between Bosnia-Herzegocina and mad cow disease.
The point is not a profound one and indeed I would be incapable of making one, but it really struck me like a slap in the face when I became acquainted, both as actor/observer and raconteur, with the events in this story .....
Anyway, all of this tangential at best and irrelevant at worst, as far as my story is concerned I mean. My broad and woolly conclusion is that there are obviously not more nasty Serbs than nasty Albanians or Muslim Bosnians or Englishmen for that matter. Or Germans. Bung the wrong bloke in at the op and you move from peace to war in no time at all. There are always a few murderous and manipulative bastards ready and able to stir up that latent barbarity lurking somewhere in the inner recesses of us decent, loving, civilized and law-abiding citizens. N'est-ce pas?
I reckon we can all metamorphose into Frankensteins and then switch back to "normal", wondering how on earth we could have done what we did and then wiping it off our memory altogether.
Enough. I'm going to tell you the story .....
As he stood on the terrace of the "Ruban Bleu" bar-restaraunt, he looked out to sea and considered that the Cote d'Avur was at its best. The bay of Juan-les-Pins was sparkling, unclad female youth abounded despite the early season, a waft of garlic, scampi, rouget, vinaigrette and suntan lotion gently assailed the nostrils. A light breeze rolled in from the Iles des Lerin opposite and, as Lucas reflected, everyone deserved a dose of all this. At some time in his life. The nuance was, this was his life. He chuckled to himself. The second seven o'clock beer flowed down his throat, accentuating his complacence.
It was the British colonials who had invented the ritual, the satisfaction of a rosy, alcoholic tint to be added to the magic of sunbleached foreign climes. Twelve years in the South of France. Better than the underground, the city with its jostling wine-bars, the fetish of real estate investment, the scramble for theatre tickets. And, of course, the weather .....
As Lucas sat absorbed in his global contemplation of life in general and his in particular, about nince hundred kilometers away Vuk sat on the prow of the fishing boat, watching the Italian coastline approach from the horizon. He drained the last of his drink, an inch or two of neat vodka, and threw the empty bottle in a high arc into the sea. He wiped his wide, stubbly jaw, farted, and lay back against the coiled ropes on the deck.
In a weird pastiche of involuntary imitation, Lucas drained his beer, put his glasses on the table, stretched, let a bit of middle aged flatulence out of his system and straightened his tie as he looked at the horizon. A mall and ominously black cloud could just be seen to the East. Nothing close enough to spoil the balmy perfection of the evening. He got up, somewhat heavily, and walked to his car ......
At about the same time that Vuk Racik and Thomas were chuffing out of the fishing village of Bluxkj in a south westerly direction, sniffing appreciatively the fresh, salty air, London was undergoing a vague semblance of dawn breaking. The mist that had settled in the city throughout the spring night was reluctantly peeling back, like a dirty, wet bandage. The silence was only disturbed by the occasional passing throb of a taxi's diesel and the streets were empty. Nobody stirred. The megalopolis was still asleep.
Rylett Road, one of the streets situated in the area between Fulham and Chelsea, parallel to Gunters Grove, was as silent and empty as the rest of London. But a light shone down from a second floor window catching, bizarrely, the tail end some unwanted rodent nightlife which scurried, stopped, looked around with the wariness and assurance of a loner, and then scaled a wall and disappeared .....
George sat on the steps at the front of the station , vowing to take his plaster off himself. Ten days early, too bad. His leg stuck out in front of him and he cringed every time a passer-by stepped over it. His bags were assembled next to him and he puffed at his Gauloise. Bit of a tradition that, buying black tobacco when he came to France. He preferred them after a meal but a virtually smokeless journey had left him in need of a stronger shot of nicotine and taste.
The warmth of the evening contrasted pleasantly with the damp cold of London. It had been a long day. Nice station was grubby and busy. It fronted onto Avenue Tiers which was equally grubby and busy, every inch taken up by sandwich bars, squalid hotels, "Babali", the cheapest retailer in France. He noticed a number of North Africans - Moroccans and Algerians, probably. The older ones looked poor, living on the margin of society, but dignified.
It was 6:50 am, exactly a week after Vuk Tacik and George had sett off from their different starting points for the Cote d' Azur. Lucas always took the Promenade des Anlglais on his way to the tennis club. The sea was flat in the morning and the sun rose from behindCap Ferrat to the east, casting a soft, pink light over the cliffs above the port, the fishermen pulling in their nets and the buildings on the front. Sometimes he stopped his car and meditated quietly on the beach for a few minutes. It was all part of his routine, the need for peace, recharging the batteries after hectic days in the office followed by late nights as he juggled his time between old and new mistresses and the inevitable dinner parties with clients. .....
"Well'" said Jerome "What's next on the list? What about the western world in general? What about China, what about the Msulims? Do you think they're working actively for our benefit? No way. One of them is going to finish us off economically and the other is going to blow us up. And our people at the top are going to make it so easy for them with their arrogant competency that it's all going to be over in two decades."
Lucas took a wise contemplative walk round his office.
"In two decades young man," he said. "I'm oging to sixty fucking three and that's a bloody good time to go. Tou can still get it up, you can still eat, drink and be merry, you can still travel and play tennis and all that shit but you have this shadow hanging over you: you're beginning to stess out about old age, icipient incotinency and swollen prostate glands, inadequate pensions and death. So if you pop off before the shadow starts eating you up and making you morbid you're a lucky man." .....\
The girl emerged alone from the club, freshly coiffed and with renewed lipstick and makeup. She walked towards a now slightly impatient Josef. he took the back of her neck in his strong tanned hand and guided her, like a child, along the Croisette in the direction of his car.
The traffic had thinned now and Cannes' nightlife was definitely drawing to a close. A group of four youths drove past with a surreal blast of techno music emanating from their car which seemed to shake the palm trees. They look stoned and bored. On the other side of the road some American tourists staggered and swayed towards the Carlton, the sea beautifully calm on their left, reflecting the lights of the town and those of the yachts moored in the bay. ......
Vitorio hated trouble and he hated anything that reminded him of death. At first his instinct told him to avoid the body and pretend that he hadn't seen it. But there was a tiny, subcutaneous glow from behind the terrifying pallor of the man's face. Something in the body's position which signaled life, a residual vital tautness which denied both the initial slackness of death and it's subsequent frozen immobility.