Chapter 24
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route
August 15, 1992
Paris, France
Dear Kate,
Can you believe I’m leaving in a week!? My visa is for two weeks, but who knows if I’ll end up staying longer. If I do I’ll send an address but for now keep writing to the hotel. I’m racing to get supplies. Niko says people don’t have enough to eat in Sarajevo so I’m taking some basic clothes and filling the rest of my suitcase with as much food as I can carry. This is serious business, Fair Kate. There are concentration camps like during WWII. From what I can tell so far they’re run by Chetniks and other Serbian nationalist groups who don’t want an independent Bosnia or any Bosnian Muslims – aka Bosniaks – at all. I’ve been thinking about your confusion and I wonder if I should try to write a primer to help the average person untangle what’s going on and care even though they should care anyway since an entire city is under siege and the Serb forces are bombing maternity hospitals and shooting people in the streets.
I know it’s trivial compared to what’s happening in Sarajevo but between you, me, and the sublime hot dog smothered in melted Gruyère and wrapped in a baguette that I’m scarfing down from the cart up the street, I’m upset about the situation with Kirby. Right before the shops shut down for August I went to the fromagerie by myself and tried the next cheese on our list – a bouton de culotte from Burgundy. I jotted a few descriptions in a notebook – peppery, goaty – but what’s the point without Kirby to argue with? He hates it when I say goaty. Obviously goat cheese is goaty. And it’s not just cheeses. I didn’t realize how much we discuss every single thing. Street magicians versus street mimes. The Love Bug versus The Apple Dumpling Gang . Plus when I’m with him I don’t get hit on. Not that I need a protector, but it can get annoying. This city is Wolf Whistle Central!
I wish I hadn’t made him so mad at me. I’m starting to get a little scared too. Since I can’t hang out with him, when I got your last letters I went out and bought two of my favorite crêpes – one for me and one for you. I set them on my desk and pretended we were having a meal together while I read your letters. You enjoyed them very much by the way – you told me the sweetness of the onion confit was a perfect complement to the Comté cheese. And you laughed when I read you the riot act. You are not Eliza Doolittle! Just because Old Sven has the market cornered on eloquence – you ARE smart enough for him! You have plenty to teach him too and don’t let some Middle-Aged Caftan-Wearing Wannabe Adulteress make you think otherwise.
Adieu from the next great – fingers, toes, and etc. extremities crossed – War Journo Dame,
Frida