If the hotel were a fridge, Rachel’s room was the icebox. Instead of glass in the window, there was UN polythene sheeting. Instinctively, stupidly, she checked the radiator, praying for a miracle of creeping warmth that never came. No power, no heat, and only sporadic water. A lot of nothing to pay good money for, thought Rachel, I might as well be sleeping in the street.
On the other hand, the room could boast at least some of the trappings of a real hotel. There was a flat yellow phone with a brown receiver. The sheets of her bed were white and clean, and in the bathroom there was even a small, but brand-new, bar of soap, and a toilet sealed with a strip of paper claiming it was sanitised. What was missing, Rachel realised, were the towels. Of course she hadn’t brought any and perhaps because of this, or because she felt as though she was getting frostbite, or because Danny had made her feel so inadequate, or because she was alone for the first time since her arrival, she began quite unexpectedly to cry.
It was a raucous voice in the corridor outside that woke her. Rachel was groggily confused: at first she thought she was back in her bedroom on Lakeside Drive, but this was a different place altogether. She was surprised how long it took her to remember—four or five long, perplexing seconds. The voice got louder, until it was followed by a determined knock. Still disorientated, she swung her legs off the bed and staggered over to answer it.
It was Becky, who had just managed to wash her hair.
‘There was only a bloody trickle, and so cold I thought it might freeze on my scalp!’
Rachel was unsure if it had been worth the ordeal: Becky hardly looked any different, except that now her curls were damp and limp.
‘Just brought you a little present to say hello. You know, welcome to Sarajevo and all that.’ She was carrying a bottle of Ballantine’s whisky, a Vranac red wine and a Swiss Army knife. From the array of blades, she pulled out a miniature corkscrew: like a good girl guide she was prepared for anything. Rachel made a mental note to buy one next time she was at a duty-free.
Over the Vranac, they talked. Rachel told Becky about her soporific life in America and Becky described hers, on a sheep farm near a place called Piety, three hours from Perth, or as she put it, ‘three hours from Earth’.
‘Arse-end of the universe. Nothing and no one for a hundred miles, except sheep, of course. I spent months dreaming of going to the nearest town, let alone the nearest city, let alone the nearest country.’
Rachel felt bad for thinking Arlington was boring.
‘Dad was an alcoholic and mum was on the way there and, to be honest, I couldn’t blame them. I’d have been the same if I’d stayed. Look at me—probably am anyway.’
Piety was where she’d fallen in love with photography. An uncle had given her a camera for her fourteenth birthday.
‘I remember the day I took my very first picture. It was just a sunset—the same one I’d seen a million times and never even noticed—and suddenly it was beautiful. And when I got the print, I was hooked forever. I took pictures of anything that moved, which wasn’t very much in Piety’
Becky had left for England as soon as her parents would allow it, but even London hadn’t been enough for her. After all those years in Piety, she needed a bigger buzz. She traipsed around a few war zones and then turned up in Bosnia.
‘I wasn’t bored any more, but lonely as I ever was.’
Becky moved on to the Ballantine’s while Rachel, who was drinking almost nothing, started to feel uncomfortable. This woman she barely knew was opening her heart to her. She was an old hand in Sarajevo, brash and domineering, but she seemed to need a friend here. Almost as much as Rachel did.
‘Really? But you’re beautiful.’
‘Not the view of too many men, unfortunately. Reckon the job intimidates them—war-zone headbanger and all that. Maybe they think I’ll end up dying on them and they can’t be bothered with all the hassle of a funeral.’
They both laughed, but Becky was serious. For too long she had been unloved, unsexed, uncoupled. The only man who was in her life—or who she’d like to be—was here but out of reach.
‘Anyway, more mundanely: I forgot to mention there is one other thing you’ll be needing…’With that she took off back to her room along the corridor, returning moments later with a Marks & Spencer carrier bag. ‘We call it the water baby. If you’re planning on having any hot baths here—or even lukewarm ones—you’ll be needing one of these—’
Like a magician, she delved into the bag and produced a large metal contraption that looked like some sort of engine part. It was the element of an immersion heater to warm up bath water, if and when the power came on.
‘Usually takes about two hours, but for best results, leave it in all day. Don’t get in when you’re pissed though, else you’ll end up electrocuting yourself. And that, as dear Danny would say, would be a very fucking stupid way to die.’
‘Thanks so much.’
‘Oh, I’m only lending it to you for tonight. After that you’ll have to trade stuff for it—like everyone else does.’
‘Trade?’
‘You know, medicine, make-up, batteries, coffee—any little goodies you’ve got stashed away in that great big rucksack of yours.’
‘And what happens when there’s no water to heat up?’
Becky took a last hefty swig of Ballantine’s. ‘Horde it. When it’s running—which is not too often—you make sure you fill the bath, and the toilet, and any other bowl or bucket you can lay your hands on. Mind you, it’s not drinking water here, not unless you’re desperate. It’s browny yellow, a bit like pee.’
‘Yuk. Not cleaning my teeth in that.’
‘I’ve done mine with Coca Cola, even whisky. Oh, and one other thing…’
Rachel was growing weary of her endless list of tips, and feeling slightly patronised. She sensed they would be friends—maybe even good friends—but Becky was trying too hard.
‘Next time, bring your own plugs. This is the one hotel where they don’t exist. Big one for the bath, small one for the sink. Here you go, I’ve got a spare.’ Becky threw it to her as she left.
‘Good night, Rachel—nice to know you.’
Rachel supposed it was nice to know her too: she felt relieved to have met her, but daunted too.
Glad to be alone again, Rachel climbed into bed. She’d slept naked ever since she was a girl, but she quickly realised that in wintertime Sarajevo, nudity was not an option. The pile of discarded clothing was hastily reprieved and she dressed all over again, with the addition of a large woolly sweater. A bedspring dug hard into her back and she knew at once it would be an enemy.
In the narrow glow of her Maglite, Rachel opened up Daniel Lowenstein at page 108. It had been good to meet him, and yet—if she were honest with herself—slightly disappointing, too. He was not as she’d imagined. Like Becky, he seemed jovial enough, but she sensed a darkness in him. He hadn’t liked her, she was sure about that now.
She began a chapter about ethnic cleansing in Prijedor in 1992, and for the first time she could hear what he’d written in his voice, as though he were reading it aloud to her.
When the Chetniks came to the village, they had a wolf’s head stuck to the bonnet of one of their cars, and a refrigerated meat truck following on behind. Nermina, who was 12, had seen them coming and she was old enough to understand. She shouted out to her father Kemal, and he understood as well. He was the village doctor. He led Nermina and the rest of his family to the basement: his wife Reima, and their