5. CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER FIVE
I strolled through the same streets as last night, but the clear, golden morning sunlight transformed them. Gone was any air of foreboding, replaced with calm. The cobblestones were already warm underfoot as I bent over the low wall to peer down at the pristine river. I shifted my weight, pleased that my ankle seemed to have recouped well overnight with rest and a healthy dose of painkillers. A cool breeze billowed the baby hairs around my face as I gazed out over the canyon, and I closed my eyes, listening to the growing babble of noise.
The river water brushing the rocks clean.
Sounds of a mother and child hidden away above me somewhere making breakfast.
The tinkling of stalls as stores worked to put their wares out on display.
The smell of coffee.
I sniffed the air appreciatively and chased the scent to a small café. I gorged myself on burek, a flaky pastry filled with rich cheese and meat, and finished with a decadent coffee and baklava drizzled with honey and nuts to satisfy my sweet tooth. I’d be returning for a top-off of the latter every hour, I vowed.
As I left the café, I explored the narrow streets with Ivan’s map beneath my nose. Next to the circled bridge were his other recommendations, including a museum about Stari Most. Since I knew nothing about the town, it seemed as good a place to start as any.
I wandered to the tower holding the museum, which sat to one side of the bridge’s graceful arch. I bought my ticket and followed the path through the entrance. It was unlike anything I’d ever visited. First, I dove into the tower’s underground where glass showcased the original foundations, before heading upstairs to the historical displays. There, photographs documented the war and the rebuilding of the bridge, images which painted a grim picture threaded with hope.
I moved through the exhibits, growing more and more invested in this extraordinary town’s history the higher I climbed. The eastern and western sides were literally and symbolically connected by the bridge, which I looked down upon through the windows in a new light. Even the shattered glass and pockmarked buildings were reshaped from a disquieting, crumbling sight to one of strength and perseverance.
War seemed such a distant thing of the past back home, but here, the fresh scars were still healing. The river had been a physical divide between the two sides battling within their same town, now linked once more by a rebuilt Stari Most and its neighboring bridges. How far did that symbolism stretch these days? How deep had those wounds cut between the people who called this place home?
Dust motes danced in the sunlight through the windows rimmed by stone. I watched a crowd gathering atop the peak of Stari Most, two young men in nothing but swim trunks bantering away. One seemed to be the principal speaker, his sun-kissed hair tickling his wide shoulders, which screamed “swim team” along with his near-zero body fat. Even from this distance, his smile was charming, and I could easily see how his magnetic aura drew people in. He received a big laugh from the group, as well as a few coins accepted into a hat by his companion. I wondered what their skit was about to have drawn such a mob, but the rest of the story inside the museum was calling my name, and I gave in .
When I finally exited, I wandered down the cobbled streets with a profound sense of ease. I hadn’t felt this relaxed since I’d left home, which seemed odd given everything else. But each pair of eyes that met mine as I walked past followed with a friendly smile or a simple, “Zdravo,” which I’d gathered meant “Hello” in Bosnian.
One shop’s glittering metal display caught my attention, and I wandered in. Inside, it was dark except for the strip of light shining through the doors. It hit like a spotlight on a hunched figure at the back. Thin white hair rose in soft tufts around his head. Narrow shoulders bent toward the wood table, on top of which sat a bronze disk. Tap, tap, tap, went his hammer against a thin tool as he embossed a pattern I could not see. My shadow cast across him, and he raised just his eyes for a moment, gave a nod, and immediately returned to his work.
Rows upon rows of shelves held his immaculate creations—bowls, figurines, coffee sets, jewelry boxes, and more. One shelf, though, gave me pause. There, bullet shell casings lined up side by side, soldiers standing at attention. Each had decorative, inlaid designs and MOSTAR stamped across the bottom. I picked one up and flipped it on its end where the number fifty was engraved.
“Curious?”
I jumped at the voice, not having heard anyone approach. I tried to laugh off the scare as I turned, and my jaw dropped.
It was him, the man from last night. His eyebrows rose over those gorgeous hazel eyes, reshaping his teasing expression into one of pleasant surprise. He pushed back that same stubborn cascade of dark curls from his forehead as his head tilted down at me. “Hello again.”
“Zdravo,” I tried, certainly butchering it. If I did, he was generous with me.
“Very good,” he complimented me without a hint of mockery. “I see you’ve learned a lot in just a few hours.”
I blushed, my brief stint as a mime the other night in the store a memory I’d rather not relive. “Yes, I do try not to make a fool of myself, generally speaking.” It came out in a rush, one word tripping over the next. Whether it was my lack of diction or that he didn’t understand enough English, he simply nodded, then pointed toward the casing still in my hand.
“It must seem odd.”
“A little,” I admitted with an apologetic smile.
He closed the small distance between us, picking a different one from the shelf. “We call it trench art. The idea is, you take a thing meant for ugliness and turn it into something beautiful.” He set his back down among the rest, but I twisted mine between my fingers. Dark dots and slashes formed a decorative frame around the casing in sections, their centers bearing either a diamond or a fleur-de-lis.
It was strange—wrong, wicked—holding a thing in my hand that had possibly taken a life. But then someone else had come along, picked it up, and touched it with love. Now, it was a blend of both worlds, not forgetting what it had done, but accepting it and moving toward a better and brighter future. It was like a grave dotted with bright flowers.
“That’s incredible,” I whispered.
He nodded at the old man. “Amin lived through it. Lost both his sons to the war, but he stays. He works.”
I shook my head. “I can’t imagine. I think I’d want to crawl into a hole and forget.”
The man’s brow furrowed curiously. “I said something similar to him once.”
“What did he say?”
“‘But what good would that do?’”
My heart squeezed. “Is he a saint?”
“You might think so.”
Amin grunted from the back.
The man’s mouth turned into a teasing grimace as he tacked on, “Unless you know him.”
I chuckled, then grew quiet. “Thank you. For telling me,” I added when he gave me a questioning look. “It’s been a lot, everything I’ve seen today so far. I’m taking it all in.”
“You’re welcome.”
I admired all the meticulously crafted things and sighed. “I want so many of these, but none of them will fit in my bag.” The weight of the casing had become comfortable in my hand, the metal warmed by my skin. “But I think this will do just fine.”
He plucked it from my fingers with an approving nod, and I followed him to the small cash register. I waited until he finished wrapping it in paper to ask, “What’s your name?”
He handed me the souvenir tied with a bow of twine. “Emil.”
“Mallory,” I offered. “Thank you for this and for the other night. You saved me.”
“I suppose that means you owe me.” His voice was casual, but still I faltered a moment.
I turned the package over in my hands, considering it and his words. It was powerful for such a small object. Its symbol of perseverance had struck a strong chord in me, and I gripped it tightly as I raised my head with determination.
“Of course I do,” I said at last, fixing a smile on my face. “Did you have something in mind?” I didn’t intend for it to come out flirty, but I was glad to find a sliver of the old me still lurking in wait.
“I didn’t mean—” he floundered.
“But I did,” I cut him off, my resolve strengthening. This was my chance to get the trip back on track and refocus. I could—would—put this ugliness behind me. Experiences, people, out of my comfort zone, I reminded myself on repeat, then added out loud, “Plus, I could use your help again. I have no idea where to eat dinner tonight, so it’s my treat if you take me to your favorite spot.”
In mock-seriousness, I held out my hand with the solemnity of a blood oath.
Conflict fought what I hoped was desire as he carefully considered me and my terms.
“Nonnegotiable, I’m afraid,” I added, trusting my instinct, keeping my face unreadable as I toyed with him.
The gamble paid off. With a hesitant shrug, he took my hand gently and gave it a shake before letting go. “Meet me here at eight?”
I finally cracked, grinning like a cat, and said in my sweetest voice, “See you then.”
My stomach was so full of butterflies, I practically floated back to the street, only held down on earth by the tiny chink of heaviness in my heart that I obstinately ignored.