Springtime is death time in Belgrade. Statistics, at least, say so. In March and April,
the death rate goes up sharply. Unbearable alterations of air pressure, increased
humidity, unpredictable winds and drastic oscillation of temperature creep into your blood
vessels. We become irritable, alternately joyful and depressive. And we die, mainly the
elderly and the middle-aged among us. We enter the Belgrade springtime unprepared,
particularly in these last few years since the quality of our food went down. We worry a
lot too. Perhaps one of the reasons for our worries is the fact that, in spring. the
offensives begin. That is the time when self-appointed warlords, claiming to represent an
insane will of the nation, start drawing their maps and shouting about territories,
sovereignty, history, and dignity.
I am waiting to see whether Holbrooke and his collocutor will rescue us from one more
disaster this spring. A brief press conference begins exactly at 3.30 A.M. Holbrooke says
that the talks with the Yugoslav president produced no results, and that he, personally,
is not an optimist.
Perhaps this is just a diplomatic maneuver in the last seconds? That was how Holbrooke
and the President usually did the job. There is uncertainty and pessimism until the very
last moment, and then there are signatures, smiles, statements about how important the
deal is, a few sharp drinks, and a hint of some better future. Well, that's how it has to
be this time too, one would think; the amount at stake is exceptionally high—Kosovo on
one side, bombardment on another.
I decide that I will not yet go to sleep, not tonight. I will await the next news
bulletin, so that I can then rest assured that the inevitable breakthrough has occurred.
Through the window, I see groups of girls and lads returning from the "Bona
Fides" disco. The girls are very tall, dressed in the latest New York fashion: black
trousers or long black skirts with black jackets. They look like beautiful black herons.
The boys walk like John Wayne used to walk, a long time ago. I realize that my meditations
about death in the spring season are exaggerated.
Holbrooke is on my TV screen again. No turnaround. Now my senses are sharper: I see the
tired face, plastered hair, crumpled suit, the oldness of unslept nights. It is now clear
to me that Holbrooke is moving out of our neighborhood forever, and that he will never get
the leading character role.
My only hope is that all this is an illusion, and that we are a living example of
Plato's parable about the cave. Perhaps all these men whom I am seeing are only shadows on
the cave's wall. Maybe something else entirely is happening outside the cave. Perhaps a
bottle of good whiskey is being emptied right now. The President might be singing a little
something, or he is acting a cavalier, taking off his coat and putting it around the
shoulders of Holbrooke's wife, Kati Marton, to shelter her from cold, as he did in Dayton.
Maybe Kati Marton will arrive here with another little piece of paper. I remember how,
at a reception in the American Embassy in Belgrade a few years ago, she sat right next to
me by pure accident and said to me: "Here, you are going to be the first man to see
this important document." She gave me a photocopy of a page on which the President
had scribbled his signature, gallantly promising to respect freedom of press in Serbia. To
this very day, I keep that worthless scrap of paper.
The
spring of 1999 is upon us, and Richard Holbrooke is here. He has the face of an episodic
character actor, and energy of a businessman who enjoys his work. For us, he has long been
the symbol of both the crisis and of its solution. He enters into our lives frequently and
relaxedly. If, by some chance, I were to meet him in the street, I would probably greet
him as an old acquaintance or neighbor. As usual, he differs from us only by the quality
of his suit. His glasses are also very good; you can see they are some high-quality brand.