Coming Home To Kotor

Part one of our new serial

PRESENT DAY

The early morning sun sparkled on the water in the bay; fishing and tourist boats bobbed gently as the sea slapped against the harbour walls. The town of Kotor shone golden in the sunlight.

A perfect day, Kristina thought as she waited, resting against the crumbling wall, wondering what it would bring.

The last few days had been frustrating to say the least. The search that had brought her to Montenegro was so far proving fruitless.

“Cao,” a voice said. “Good morning.” A woman joined Kristina. She was slim and elegant – in late middle age Kristina thought, her hair swept up and held in place by a pretty clasp. Sensible, given the breeze. Kristina pulled her own long, dark hair from across her face.

“Cao,” she replied, smiling, recalling words her father spoke to her as a child.

“You are here on holiday? Staying long?” The woman asked.

Kristina hesitated before replying.

“I’m visiting, yes, I’ve been here for a week. I only have a few days left. I’m not on holiday. I’m a journalist and need to get back in the office. Except today I’m taking a boat trip around the harbour. A bit of rest and recuperation.”

“I am sure you will love our beautiful city,” the woman said.

Kristina did. She’d wandered through the beautiful streets in the late evening, enticed into tiny shops selling jewellery, souvenirs and crafts.

“So you are a journalist,” the woman said politely. “Are you writing a travel article about our city?”

“My visit is more personal.”

Kristina hesitated before going on.

Her visit was very personal, but turning to the smiling stranger, she found herself compelled to confide in her. “I am searching. For my father.”

This wasn’t strictly true, she realised. Her father had died three months previously and she missed him terribly.

What she was searching for was her father’s past. But also her own past. She needed to find out what had happened to her mother …

“When BAD THINGS happen, people HIDE actions they are ASHAMED OF”

“We are all searching,” the woman said softly. Her words, almost lost on the summer breeze, were so heartfelt Kristina felt tears on her cheeks.

“My father passed away three months ago.” Kristina’s words spilt out in turn. “He was from Kotor. He left in 1993, during the war. He spoke often to me about his happy childhood, their house in the hills, the olive trees. But only about his childhood.

“There’s so much I don’t know, and so much I can’t find out. I’ve tried the museum. The archivist only told me facts I could read in a guidebook.”

Kristina indicated the beautiful museum further down the seafront. She’d had high hopes for the place revealing layers of the past when she went armed in with dates, names and addresses. But she’d drawn a complete blank.

Frustration met sadness and Kristina’s tears fell, comforted by the light touch of the woman’s arm on her shoulder.

“This town has many secrets, and our country also holds many secrets close to its heart. Many people feel shame. When bad things happen, people hide actions they are ashamed of.”

Kristina knew she was speaking the

truth. Under pressure, people acted out of character, and a time of war was pressure indeed. Some acted heroically, some far less so. They had their reasons, no doubt, but the collective post-war silence was unhelpful when, like Kristina, you wanted to find out about your family’s past.

Surely that wasn’t the reason for her father’s silence? Her stomach lurched. He’d always been her hero. Her rock.

He was a doctor, a surgeon. The man who saved lives at work, and encouraged her with homework, told stories about his childhood at bedtime. Had loved her as she’d loved him. There couldn’t be shame in his past, surely?

And yet, he had left Kotor without her mother, and never spoke of her, except to say that she was in all likelihood dead.

“If you want to find out more, there’s a man who might help.”

The woman’s voice interrupted Kristina’s thoughts.

“Vladan Kostic has a private collection. He is not open to tourists, but his knowledge and collection is extensive.” The woman tapped her head. “I will call him. Here is his address.”

She tore a scrap of paper from a notebook in her handbag and wrote an address on it with care, handing it to Kristina.

“I can’t thank you enough.” Kristina’s eyes filled with tears again as she expressed her gratitude. The address on the piece of paper meant nothing to her. She was about to ask for directions when the woman spoke again.

“Don’t cry, please,” she said. “Tears are so contagious. Look, I believe your captain is here to take you out to sea. Enjoy your trip.”

A tanned man in shorts and a T-shirt gave Kristina a nod and a smile as he unravelled the thick rope anchoring his boat to the harbour.

“Welcome,” he said, as he prepared his boat. All she knew about him was that his name was Luka.

He’s hand some, she thought, blushing. Curly black hair touched his collar and he had a small hoop earring in his left ear. His eyes were as dark as his hair.

She stepped towards the boat, turning at the last minute to say goodbye to the woman and thank her again, but she was disappearing into the crowds of tourists

disembarking from a cruise ship.

Three sisters sit at three separate windows in at all, narrow building with three roofs. Each day they watch these a as it leaves and returns. Their building is tall and narrow. They each face the same direction, their gaze never wavering.

Today they watch with three separate, equally heavy, hearts. Today the ship is sailing.

It moves grace fully across the calm seas within the harbour. Their hearts beat faster as the ship becomes as tiny as a ship trapped in a bottle. But this ship is not trapped. This ship is-free.

They watch as it disappears from view, each pretending to themselves that it is still there, they can see it; but, sadly, it is a mirage. The ship has sailed; they know not its destination, but what they do know is that at the helm is them an each of them loves. The dashing, roguish captain who has captured each of their hearts.

Eventually, when all hope is lost this time, they retreat from the windows into the cool, dark room behind. They never meet, these sisters. Not the shy one, nor the bold one, nor the one with the dry wit and intelligence. They live separately and alone but for one servant girl who tends to them all in their house with three windows and three roofs, watched by the towns people across the bay with wonder and, sometimes, derision.

Tomorrow they will each take their places again, at the windows and a wait his return, with hope in their hearts. For you have to have hope if you are in love.

And the first sister will …➙

And so the first sister…” Luka’s voice drifted away from his tale as he negotiated his way among the other boats.

Kristina blinked back to the present as his mesmeric, soft voice halted and they pulled alongside the harbour wall.

“You should be a writer,” she tells him, smiling, pulling her hat over her eyes to shade herself from the strength of the midday sun. “You’ve left your wonderful story on a perfect cliffhanger.”

He held her hand as she stepped onto the pathway that would lead her back into the town.

The last few hours had been idyllic. They’d visited the beautiful church, The Lady of the Rocks, that dominated the centre of the bay, drifted into the Blue Cave where she’d taken a dip into the cool, clear waters, and they’d both jumped from the heights above a World War II submarine station, her breath taken away as she hit the icy water.

He’d produced a lunch of ham, cheese and bread and she’d sipped at a glass of Montenegrin wine as he’d returned them to the harbour.

As he navigated, he told the tangled history of the place he clearly loved, culminating in the tale of the sisters as they passed a house with three roofs. It was hard to believe this was the first time they had met. She felt so at ease in Luka’s company and, she had to admit, attracted to the softly spoken, handsome boatman.

He secured his boat and joined Kristina on the pathway. She had a question.

“Do you mind directing me here?” she asked, showing him the slip of paper the woman had given her.

He peered at it, then nodded.

“You know the place?” There was hope in Kristina’s voice. “I’m trying to find…”

Her voice drifted away. Should she tell him? A stranger? But she had told the woman earlier, on lesser acquaintance. She felt she knew Luka, having spent the last few hours in his company. There was a connection between them, she was sure.

“I do. Vladan has a fascinating collection.”

“I’m hoping to find out about my parents,” Kristina explained. “You gave me such a wonderful history of the area today. I wish to find out about my father who lived in Kotor.”

Luka nodded intently. When she paused, he offered her directions. The house was situated above the town, nestled in the hills, he said. A short climb; quite achievable.

“I hope you find what you are looking for,” he said. “If you wish for another boat trip you can find me in Bokun bar most evenings. I live right by it and often eat there. If I’m not there, ask. They will show you where to find me.”

The clear directions on where to find him suggested to Kristina that their morning together had meant something more to him than a mere business transaction between a tourist and a local.

Saying her goodbyes, Kristina headed off into town. It had been a good morning in many ways. She felt more positive than she had during her trip so far.

Luka watched the English woman walk away. She was beautiful. Her long, dark hair bounced on her shoulders as she walked, her hips swayed and her cotton skirt flowed around her slim legs.

He was pleased about her reaction to the tale of the three sisters. Some tourists were bored by it, clearly believing he had made it up in the hope of a tip.

There were many more stories he could share with her. Many.

But would that be wise? He wasn’t sure. He returned to his boat and sat for a while, eyes closed, lulled into thought by the gentle waves.

1992

The knock at the door was rapid and hard. Not easily ignored, although Milos attempted to do so the first time.

He was tired. The day had been long. There had been a steady stream of casualties brought into the hospital in Dubrovnik since the combat had begun last year.

Elderly people, women, children. Some with superficial wounds that would heal, others with more serious, life-threatening injuries. Lost limbs; bleeding that were hard to staunch. Injuries that would result in lost lives and broken hearts.

And for what? he wondered.

The bombardment of the city had felt relentless. Milos needed rest. He knew what he would be faced with in the morning. Not that it was easy to rest. Distant gunfire kept one wakeful.

More knocking. Now a woman’s voice; a voice he knew. The voice of a woman he admired. No, more than that. Loved.

That was it – although this was the first time he had admitted that to himself, and he certainly hadn’t told her.

He had first met her when she, a teacher at a local school, had brought in a boy who had fallen and broken an arm. He’d thought her beautiful then.

It hadn’t been her last visit to the hospital at which she worked. He’d been embarrassed at his pleasure when she’d turned up with her brother, injured in a fight over politics in a café.

“Silly boy,” she’d said, but there was clear affection between brother and sister. Milos admired strong family ties. They were important, especially in these troubled times when communities were being torn apart.

After that he had bumped into her around town more than once.

“I’m coming,” he called. Please wait.” She almost fell into his home. She was almost unrecognisable. Her head was covered with a scarf, her face barely visible. Her skirt skimmed the floor.

Tears stained her cheeks; she breathed deeply, but unevenly.

“Follow me.”

He led her to the parlour and insisted she sat, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. She was in shock. He knew the signs well.

“Tell me,” he whispered, holding her hand in his.

“Father – my brothers. They have been taken,” she cried. “I think they will be killed – like the others have been.” ➙

“You can FIND ME in Bokun bar. I often EAT THERE. If I’m not, ASK”

The woman whose hand he held was originally from Bosnia, and in recent months Bosnians had been in danger. They were disappearing.

Milos believed her… and he, too, feared for their future. He despaired of man’s inhumanity to man.

As he held her hand – calming her, he hoped – his love for her now certain, he made a split-second decision. Maybe a rash one; maybe not. But he didn’t care. Sometimes you had to follow your heart.

That night he packed his bags, took her to her lodgings and helped her pack a bag of her own meagre belongings. She hadn’t accumulated much in Dubrovnik.

“I can’t endanger you too,” she said as he packed. “You can’t leave your work here. It is important. You are important.”

“You are, too,” Milos said, kissing her for the first time on the cheek. “We are going. There are other doctors; I can work elsewhere.” “Where will be go?” she asked. He had made that decision already. They would head for his family home, find safety in the mountains he hoped.

He knew, though, that once he had gone he would never return to Dubrovnik and his work there. He felt guilt and sadness; then he looked at her.

Her eyes were wide with fear; her hands trembled. She was looking to him for reassurance. He would provide that.

“Come,” he said with a smile. “We are going to Kotor.”

PRESENT DAY

“Welcome.” The elderly man with white hair and a stoop ushered Kristina into the stone house. “I was expecting you.”

It was late afternoon by the time she found the place, tucked away in the hills.

Kristina followed him down the dark, cool, cluttered hallway. Unlit lamps hung high on the wall, alongside paintings and mirrors. She eased past a table covered in figurines, squeezed by bookshelves, precarious under the weight of heavy hardbacks.

Eventually they reached a room at the back of the house that was an oasis of calm and order in comparison to the hallway that had led them there. Wall to ceiling shelves were chock full of books and clearly labelled wooden boxes.

“I am not responsible for all this.” The man swept his hand around the room. “It belongs to Vladan, my brother.

“He is unwell. His memory is disappearing, though he will be angry if he knows I told you. Few people know. I am Dmitar. Vladan collated much history about our beloved town, our wonderful country. What are you looking for, Miss?”

Kristina told him her father’s name – the name he had left behind when he came to England, determined that he would fit in to his new country. She had grown up as Kristina Newman, daughter of Mr Newman, the esteemed surgeon. “Milos Novak?” Dmitar repeated. Kristina held her breath as the man shook his head.

“I do not know that name. Like I say to you, this collection belongs to my brother.”

Kristina couldn’t hide her disappointment. The woman at the harbour had raised her hopes. She must be in the dark about Vladan’s memory loss.

“Please, sit.” The man indicated a high-backed chair next to a desk. “I will fetch us coffee. Please look wherever you wish. You may find something.”

Once he had left the room Kristina glanced round at the packed shelves in despair. She decided she would leave books. She was looking for documents. Maybe something about her father’s work, or that would lead her to her mother.

The first box yielded nothing. It looked like plans for buildings.

The second was law reports from the local court, as far as she could make out. Her understanding of the written language was sketchy. After the fourth box, she was about to give up.

“Try this one.”

Dmitar was back, placing small cups of strong coffee on the desk.

She riffled through the box he had shown her. Buried deep was a bundle of letters with handwritten envelopes. Someone’ s precious history, she thought, if not mine.

A name jumped out at her. DrNovak.

Her family name was all she could read in a Cyrillic script. It had to be addressed to him, didn’t it? Finally her father was reaching out to her. What might this letter tell her? Was it a key to his past?

“You have found something?” the man asked, his voice filled with curiosity.

Kristina nodded, taking her phone from her handbag. Her hands shook.

“May I take photos?” she asked.

The man hesitated, then assented. Kristina laid the thin sheets of paper on the desk. The faded Cyrillic writing was neat, but impenetrable to her. Her father had never taught her to read his language. There were two sheets.

She had troubled Dmitar enough, and she wished for privacy. She knew who could help her decipher them… a man she trusted despite their brief acquaintance… and she knew where to find him.

Thanking Dmitar profusely, she left the house and found her way to Bokun bar.

L“You have FOUND something?” His VOICE was filled with CURIOSITY

uka was alone at a table. “Please,” she said. “Help me read this. It’s addressed to my father. It’s the first thing I’ve found about his past.”

Luka took her phone. His smile faded as he read the screen. Handing it back, he drained his beer.

“I must go,” he said. “I am wanted somewhere.” With that he left the bar. Kristina watched him disappear.

Was it her? Was the attraction not mutual, as she had thought? Or was it what he had read? She was left with more questions than answers.

What should she do now?