I.
It’d been three days since James cheated on Branka, and his hands still had the shakes. He lifted a cup of tea to his lips and the china trembled against itself as he awkwardly set it back down. He thought of the woman at the pub with her torrid red hair and green eyes. The way she’d laughed too loud and kept brushing his hand with hers. He remembered thinking that her loneliness was not so easily hidden under so many layers of make-up, but she’d liked him, and after finding the letter he couldn’t make sense of, James had found her interest in him comforting. And after thinking how nice it was to feel wanted and a few too many pints, he’d slept with her, even though he knew it would only make him emptier.
James listened to the familiar movements of Branka in the kitchen as the sun warmed the garden outside. He knew she was making his favorite raspberry scones. He ran his fingers through his hair and slumped back defeated in his chair. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. Perhaps it was that he loved her too much. James thought of the letter she’d kept from him; the one he’d found last Tuesday, at the bottom of her bureau. He wondered again if he had misread everything. If even after all this time, her affections had always lain with someone else. If he had mistaken comfort for intimacy, security for affection, friendship for love. He poured a bit of bourbon into his tea and took a harsh swallow as his thoughts consumed him.
“Weren’t the horrors they escaped from together enough?”
“Or had he always been nothing more than someone to hold the door after so much grief?”
“Did he really want to know?”
The sound of Branka humming in the kitchen broke upon him and he sank farther in his chair. He knew she was unaware of his betrayal and he hated himself for having been so childish. That instead of confronting her about the letter, he’d made himself a coward in the worst way, and for a brief moment, the combination of his anger and guilt gave him the urge to throw something.
When most people think of Branka and James, they do so with a sort of sad fondness. Both are likable enough but the difference between them is to understand the way the way the war left them. Despite a slight limp in her left leg, somehow, Branka had retained her softness, and learned to harness the strength of kindness like energy from the sun. James did not understand this because seeing the genocide of the Yugoslav Wars up close had made him cynical. And yet, it was precisely Branka’s resolve to see the good in people that made him love her most. No matter how hard he tried, he could not do the same.
In James’ eyes, optimistic people are simply those who’ve yet to be touched by the kind of suffering that seeps into your skin like a wet blanket. Sometimes James wished he’d remained ignorant of the evil that men can do. He’d often envy those people, so bright eyed and bushy tailed, that they hadn’t had to see the souls of men twisted. Deep down, he knew it was nobody’s fault but his. Deep down, he knew that had he not been that stubborn British journalist, eager for a good story, he wouldn’t have gone to Sarajevo, he wouldn’t have witnessed the murders of hundreds of people, and he might still have a heart wide open.
During the Yugoslav wars, bloodlust was everywhere. Fear overtook the hearts of rich and poor alike, and each day was an agony of waiting. Waiting to die. Waiting to live. Waiting to hear that your family members had been killed. Waiting to be displaced, or bombed out. Waiting to be without food or even worse, without hope that the terror would come to an end.
In those times, no one thought about anything but surviving. There were no thoughts of warm meals shared with relatives and neighbors that over time had come to be family. Simple pleasures such as reading a book, taking a walk, or talking with a friend, were done in secret, or not at all. In those days, no one remembered to make love, nor dared speak his mind, except perhaps to his God when he found himself alone. The danger hung in the air like thick clouds of smoke that refused to clear and everyone could feel it. The Bosniaks. The Croats. And yes, even the Serbs.
In those days, if you were still alive when evening fell, or better yet, when morning came; this was enough to be grateful. Survivors of the war would later say that they’d learned to be more patient, because they’d seen what it is to wait for God to decide whether they’d be ones to leave more behind than their blood seeping thick on the ground.
Sometimes, James would remember the gunshots and bombs, and could feel the hand of fear creep around his throat, taking him there once more, to the terror that at any moment his body, warm with life, could be split open. He was only in Sarajevo for just under a year, but the ghosts stayed with him well after. During these times, he would go into the bathroom, close the door, and turn on the shower so that Branka would not hear him cry. Then he would let the steam grow thick around him, and breathe deeply, reassured that those days were behind him.
Branka came into the warm sunroom and found that James had nodded off. She quietly collected his tea tray and tidied some books on the table. She went back in the kitchen and was hit with a wave of sugary heat as she opened the oven to grab the tray of raspberry scones. She set them on the counter to cool and filled up the blue watering can under the sink. Then she took off her apron, covered in small clouds of flour, and went out to tend to her garden. In Sarajevo, Branka had worked as a gardener, before the war came and turned everything to rubble and ash. She loved the tenderness of flowers and the way they needed to be nurtured to have the confidence to bloom. She once told James that she “missed the way the flowers swayed when the air was quiet.” James had looked around at the carnage then, and tried to remember what quiet sounded like. The best he could imagine was the sound of hushed whispers behind a closed door.
Branka started along the garden path, watering the allium, daffodils, and petunias. When James had first brought her to England, they’d lived in a small flat in east London near a park for young children. It was cozy enough, but the loud city noises soon proved to be too disquieting for both of them after the war, so they moved to a quaint house in the quiet of the English countryside. The house itself wasn’t very big, but it had a beautiful sunroom where James could write, and a large garden for Branka to tend, which made it fit like a glove for the both of them. Branka pulled some weeds up from her bed of tulips and thought of Javor. Just the thought of him put a rock in her gut and yet, she was surprised at the affection he still held in her heart.
James suddenly appeared on the garden path behind her. “Looks like your impatiens got the lurgy.” He pinched one of the wilting petals gently between his fingers.
Branka spun around, startled from her thoughts. She had not told James about the letter yet, and wasn’t sure she even wanted to. The past was a graveyard as far as she was concerned, which was also part of the problem. A graveyard always has ghosts. “I just can’t get them to perk up,” she replied.
James watched her face as she tended to some wildflowers. He was sure she wasn’t aware of the aloof and far away look she wore, but he’d seen it too many times to count and it told him, that perhaps she, like him, was still lost in the war. He knew there were too many unspoken things between them from that horrible time in their lives, but he also knew that long ago, they’d agreed to leave the past behind. So, however far he felt his wife was drifting from him, he let the chasm grow wider.
In the beginning, before Branka had meant anything to James, he’d come across her in a half-demolished Orthodox church just on the outskirts of the city. The church no longer had a ceiling and only parts of the walls were left standing. Painted on the jagged stone, one could barely make out parts of what were once glorious frescoes and icons, the sadness of destruction echoing inside. As James was passing by on the street outside, he heard the most beautiful singing drifting on the wind. It was a haunting hymn, sung in Slavic, and pregnant with lamentation.
When James entered the church, he saw three women standing in the center of the sanctuary, holding candles and singing, tears streaming down their cheeks. The sound chilled James to the bone as the notes echoed off the remaining stone walls. He took particular notice of one woman, who wore a mustard yellow scarf over her hair and who had deep grey eyes; striking, but empty. As if she had lost everything she’d ever loved. He would remember her face, so etched with sorrow, when he’d find her after a routine blast two weeks later.
Some bees buzzed lazily among the blooms, and James felt the urge bubble up in his chest to ask Branka about the letter. Surely, it would be better to know once and for all if her heart belonged to another. Even if it would kill him to let her go. But before he could make the words fall off his tongue, Branka wiped her hands and said, “Come inside, love. I know you’ve been waiting for my scones and I could use a cup of tea.”
James let his eyes follow her towards the house, willing himself to say something. But all he could manage was, “I’ll just be a minute.”
He watched the rainbow of colors that was her artistry sway in the breeze, and wondered why God had given them a corner of such beauty when so many others had perished. Then he took the letter from his pocket and read over the words that had stripped his confidence bare.
Branka,
I don’t know if this letter will reach you. And I know I have no right to your ear,
but the truth is, I still love you. I want to tell you how deeply sorry I am, for everything.
I was so lost back then and didn’t know who I was. It’s no excuse.
I guess I was just desperate to belong to something.
I know that you have been hurt enough and I don’t deserve you now.
I’m not sure I deserve much of anything. You loved me more than anyone ever did
and I wish I could be back in the warmth of your arms. It seems a lifetime ago
that you would kiss my cheeks and run your fingers through my hair
in the special way only you could.
Please say you still love me.
I know that you’ve rebuilt your life and left Sarajevo behind you. I am glad you survived
and I’m glad you found some peace. I was sure they killed you too. I don’t ask your forgiveness,
but please know that I will carry the shame of my weakness forever. I understand if you
buried me in the past, but please let me come home. You are the only good thing in my life.
-Javor
James read the letter twice, hoping desperately to uncover something he’d missed before. Some hint that this letter was not what it seemed. He knew this was not a secret that could stay lost in their ocean of unsaid things, because left alone it would fester like a wound infected, poisoning what good was left between them. With his infidelity, it had already begun. James looked down at his hands; still unsteady, like paper fluttering in a nervous fist. He looked at the sky, a pristine blue, and wondered if he would survive the truth. “I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow,” he thought. “Just one more evening together, before I’m made to look a fool.”
II.
When night had sufficiently hushed the day, Branka could not sleep. Every bone in her body screamed at her to forget Javor, but she found herself trying to remember the details of his face. His serious eyes and strong forehead; the dimple in his left cheek and the handsome coat of stubble across them both. She thought of the days when he would cuddle in next to her, his touch making her heart like a dam burst open in love. Branka knew if she saw him, there was no turning back. The past would be cracked wide open, spilling out all the things she’d tried to keep buried.
She took a sip of water from the glass on her nightstand and glanced over at her dear husband, asleep in a dream.
“He would not be able to handle it,” she thought.
Branka wondered if she’d be able to live with herself, knowing she’d turned her back on Javor for good. Her conscience told her, perhaps not. But then, could she open the door to him knowing it would break James’ heart? She looked at the clock, watching the seconds tick by like the slow march of a snail. She thought back to that time six years ago and the blessing she’d found in James, as a flood of memories consumed her.
How he’d found her amidst the rubble, when a bomb had blasted its way into her building by way of her bedroom, two rooms from where she’d been sitting.
How she’d been in a state of shock, unable to speak; her leg badly maimed.
How he’d carried her for three blocks to his hotel room and made a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.
She remembered the nights there, waking up in feverish sweats, and James always nearby with cool rags and a calm voice.
The way his kind eyes remembered her.
The way he tended to her wounds day after day, night after night.
The way he would tell her stories, not knowing if she could understand, as her speech had not yet returned.
Branka turned and stroked the back of her husband gently. What had started as a simple act of kindness, had turned to a quiet affection, before blossoming a beautiful love. He once asked her if she had any family. She told him there was no one left. He didn’t pry any further, and she never said any more. Once the war was over, he had stayed with her, waiting patiently through all the paperwork before she could get a refugee visa to make England her new home.
Her heart sat heavy, like a stone in her chest.
She didn’t know what to do.
The next morning, James awoke to a pounding headache. He had not slept well and it showed in dark moons beneath his eyes. He sighed at the empty space next to him; disappointed to see that Branka had already emerged from the early fog of sleep to start her day. He did not know that she had risen hours before, spending the early hours of the morning writing to Javor. James put on his bathrobe and chased down two aspirin with a warm swallow of bourbon. The day had only just begun but his body already felt utterly knackered.
At that precise moment, Branka was slipping a letter in the post, after having bought some vegetables at the market. She had lain awake for the better part of the night, before finally getting up to put to paper what she knew was right. Still, before Branka sent off her reply to Javor, she hesitated. She thought of James. And she remembered for a moment, the beautiful English day they got married.
After exchanging the rings, James had pulled from his pocket a single light green pear. During the war, fruit was a memory. One morning, soon after recovering her speech, Branka and James had looked out the window at the cold stillness outside, and she told him what she really wished for was a ripe, juicy pear. Such a simple thing, both ordinary and sweet. He’d known it was unattainable but James had understood her perfectly.
Branka took a deep breath, and dropped the letter in the post, knowing that for better or worse, she didn’t want to lie to James anymore.
When Branka returned, James was sitting at the kitchen table spreading some marmalade on a piece of toast. He had spent the better part of the morning watching the telly as his mind went round in circles about all the things he didn’t know. First he would find out if Branka still loved him. Then he would confess his betrayal. His hands trembled, as though ashamed of what they’d done. Of the woman they’d touched that was not her. James knew left alone, the chasm in their marriage would grow so wide that they’d become two beings on distant shores, waving to each other occasionally. At least with the truth, they could have a clean break.
Branka set the vegetables on the counter and James walked up, wrapped his arms round her from behind and breathed in the smell of her hair. If he was about to lose her, he wanted to remember this last embrace.
Branka could feel the heaviness in his touch and turned to face him. “What is it?”
James looked into her eyes, so grey. They were no longer empty, just full of unsaid things. “Do you love me, Branka?”
Branka laughed and pushed him back playfully. “Of course I do. What sort of question is that?”
James took Javor’s letter from his pocket, and slid it onto the counter.
A look of surprise pushed up Branka’s eyebrows slightly, but she said nothing.
James pointed at the name scrawled at the bottom, “This Javor. Do you love him?”
Branka began to cry.
James’ heart sank.
They stood there in the sunlit kitchen as some moments passed. Their shoulders were nearly touching, but neither one of them had words to bridge the distance.
After some time, James sat down and said, “Why didn’t you tell me there was someone else?”
At this Branka looked up, eyes still swimming with tears. “You don’t understand.”
James scoffed. “Rubbish.”
She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress.
Then she let out a deep breath and in a tired voice said, “Javor, is my son.”
to be continued . . .