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Chapter Eighteen

The bus had seen better days. It was old, rattling uncertainly on each knock and bend of the road, and the worn seats made riding the bus extremely uncomfortable. The windows still had several chips, not yet repaired, and the man found that they obscured his vision of the setting sun outside. He had wanted to watch the sunset, always enjoyed seeing it paint the sky orange and crimson through the nestling forest of buildings around him. But as the bus jolted, the man was pulled from his thoughts.

In his day, he thought, the buses had been better. The previous government had put money into them, heavily funding social projects like public transport and housing. The man missed those days, although he would not say so out loud. He missed buses that were heated, so that his breath did not pool in front of him in great wisps of steam. He was sure that the driver would, at very least, admit to missing working wing mirrors and indicator lighting, but that was no real concern of the man.

When they reached the roadblock, the bus shuddered to a halt. The driver stuck his head from the window and spoke in hurried quick syllables to the three soldiers stationed there. One of them, a man in dim grey military fatigues, stepped toward the bus, his rifle slung over his shoulder with all the casualness of an office worker carrying a clipboard. The man tried to hear their conversation over the tinny sound of the youth sitting next to him, listening to some electronic drumbeat through his earphones. Eventually the driver made a sweeping motion with his hand, and the soldier waved the bus on. The driver pushed down on the pedal again and the bus shuddered along the road once more.

By the time the bus reached the café, it was already dark. The man dismounted and walked his way across the pavement. It was an old café, one that he had visited in his childhood, but the passing of the years had dimmed it somewhat and left it looking worn. The owners, in the enthusiastic hopes of bringing a dash of colour to the café, had installed a large plastic tarpaulin curtain by the outside of the front, bright and cheerful in tone. The man slipped between the assembled spattering of plastic chairs and sat bedside another man, who turned his ragged face up to meet the newcomer. The two men stood, looking at one another for a moment. Then the newcomer said "By gods, Aleksi, your beard is a mess."

The rugged faced man laughed loudly. He stood up and embraced his friend. "At least I grow a beard, Volodya" he grinned. "You are still chestnut grey in the hair!"

The two men clapped one another on their backs, and slumped down heavily into the seats. The man with the rugged face turned, glancing into the dim yellow light that spilled from the café doorway. "You want a drink, yes?" he asked his companion.

Volodya nodded. "But something strong, Aleksi, not one of your week Yankee beers."

The man with the rugged face took a swig from his mug. "They are out."

Blinking, the younger man leaned forward, the leather of his coat creaking. "Out?"

"No beers" explained Aleksi, "not American ones, not even British ones. Import lines are closed."

"Cha" snorted Volodya, "what are you drinking then?"

The man with the beard picked up his glass and tipped it slightly, letting the liquid wash slightly against the rim of the mug. "They call it Ukrainian" he said, "but it does not taste Ukrainian to me. Tastes like Balkan."

"And how would you know the difference, eh?"

"I know" said the man. He reached into his coat, searching around, and eventually protruded a small metal hip flask. "Here then, if you will not drink the beer, have some vodka."

The younger man took the flask. He unscrewed the cap, and drank. The liquid burned on the way down, and as it hit his stomach he felt a surge of heat fill him, pushing back the autumn cold. The man lowered the flask and handed it back to his friend. He accepted it, sliding it back into his coat.

"The meeting?" asked the man with the rugged face.

Volodya shrugged his shoulders. "The same as any. We met the new divisional manager."

"And he is?"

"Young" said Volodya. "Too young, maybe. Smooth baby face, but you can hear his accent."

"Czech?" asked Aleksi.

Volodya nodded.

Aleksi took a sip from his mug. "You have won our bet, then."

The younger man chuckled. "He thinks that he can turn his division around, push a profit from it. He wants to licence a series of new buildings."

"Good" said Aleksi.

Volodya shook his head. "He will have to cut back. His plans are too big in scope and he does not have the manpower to finish them."

Aleksi shrugged, "Can he hire more workers?"

Volodya tapped his finger on the table, "There are not enough workers left, not young ones who can do the work. If he was smart, he would scale back. Less profit, but less risk." He leaned back, leaning comfortably against the chair. "But, ah who asks me?"

A waitress stepped from the door. She trudged from table to table, collecting discarded cups and plates. The younger man looked at her. She was young, he thought, but her face was lined heavily. She wore more than enough makeup to conceal it, but it did not hide it all, not fully. He smiled to her and ordered a mug of Ukranian beer.

As the waitress made her way back inside, Aleksi smiled to his friend. "She likes you, maybe."

"She likes the suit" he replied.

The bearded man waved his hand. "You are too conservative, Vlada."

The younger man winced at the nickname. "I did not get where I am by taking risks" he said.

"Ah!" sighed Aleksi. "You should ask for her phone number."

"She is just a girl."

"And you are still a boy" said Aleksi. "That is why you should grow your beard."

Volodya laughed. "The company is British, they would not want their head of resources for the whole country to wear a beard."

Leaning closer, Aleksi said "They are British. You are not. Remember that, Vlada. You are not your job." He turned, glancing toward the waitresses as she emerged from the doorway. She stepped closer, placing two fresh mugs down on the table. Aleksi smiled at the waitress. "Do you think" he said "that my friend here should grow his beard?"

The waitress chuckled.

"Do not listen to him" said Volodya. "My friend is too old, his mind is going."

The waitress laughed, louder this time. So did Aleksi. The waitress looked to Volodya and said "Yes, I think that maybe your friend is right. You should grow your beard."

He smiled to her. When the waitress had left and returned indoors, Volodya turned to Aleksi and said "I am hearing advice on dressing from a little girl and an old man!"

As his laughter gradually subsided, Aleksi said to the younger man "Did you hear her accent?"

Thinking for a moment, Volodya said "Croatian?"

Aleksi nodded. "She ran the blockade, I think."

The younger man's eyes turned downwards. He looked at his mug. Picking it up, he drank a mouthful. "You are right" he said, "It is not Ukrainian."

"Do you think they will come for her?" said Aleksi.

Volodya set his mug down. "I do not think so, no" he said. "The fighting is getting worse. One Croatian girl will not matter to anyone."

"It happened to Ramiza."

The younger man shook his head. "Who?"

"You know" said Aleksi. "He had the book shop in town, the one that was always full of those damn intellectuals."

"The Syrian?" asked Volodya.

The bearded man nodded, and motioned with his thumb, as if pointing out, away from the city. "Came for him. Threw him out."

Volodya looked down at his mug. "I liked that book shop" he said. "What is there now?"

"American shop" said Aleksi. "Sells coffee. Expensive coffee, almost as expensive as your toy soldiers."

Volodya made a dismissive gesture. "It is not toys. They are a game."

Aleksi took another drink, a large one. Lowering his mug, he looked his friend in the eye. "I do not understand the fun in those games. The battle games you play, the fighting on your computer. Have you not seen enough war already?"

Returning his gaze, Volodya said "It is not the same."

"Fighting is fighting" said Aleksi. "If you want to see fighting, you do not need to play a game. Just walk ten miles that way" he said, pointing in the direction away from the larger buildings, northwards away from the city. "There is all the fighting that a man could want there."

"It is not the same" reiterated Volodya. "There are heroes in my games."

Aleksi leaned back, draining the last of his mug as he did so. "Two weeks ago" he said, "one of the fighters fired a rocket above the city. It hit a road and tore the front of old lady Mishdha's flower shop open. She broke her leg and lost her pet dog. The man who fired that rocket, he thought he was a hero too."

Volodya picked up his mug, as if to take a drink. Without raising it to his lips, though, he set it down again. "You think I do not know this?" he asked, uncertainly.

"No" answered the bearded man. "What I think, I think you enjoy the battles, maybe. I think maybe you know that many boys your age are fighting and you wish you were with them."

Volodya shook his head. "I would not fight for them."

"Of course not!" said Aleksi, "not with them. No. Each of those boys, they fight and know why they are fighting. But each one, I think, still doubts that they are doing the right thing. They doubt. I think you, Vlada, you want to fight in a battle and know that you are the hero."

Volodya smiled. "You think I am that noble?"

The bearded man smirked. "I think you are that conservative" he replied.

The younger man forced a smile. "Maybe" he said. "Maybe. But I think that sometimes, if the battle is just a game and I know that it is a game, I am able to not be conservative at all."

The older man shrugged. "Maybe it is as you say" he said. "Finish your drink."

Glancing down at his mug, Volodya chuckled. "I can't drink this Balkan slop."

"You drink that," commented Aleksi, "it will put hair on your chin. In your games, does your soldier general have hair on his chin?"

Tentatively, Volodya took a drink. He grimaced. "This is mostly water" he said, setting the mug back down. "But no, he does not. One of my friends does."

"Is he one of those little Scottish people like the people in that movie you like?" asked Aleksi, "With the dragon, and the ring?"

Nodding, Volodya added, "He is called Gunnar. But he is not a dwarf, no."

Aleksi snorted, "Thinks he is a Viking, then. And what are you in this game, Vlada?"

He gave a laugh. "I am a man of stone!" he proclaimed, chuckling loudly. He clenched his fist, raising his upper arm as if to show a cartoonist exaggeration of strength.

Aleksi slapped his knee, laughing. "You are crazy, Vlada!" he said. "What you want to do is go to that waitress girl, show her your man of stone!"

Leaning forward, Volodya playfully slapped the older man's shoulder. "It would be too strong for her, she is just a girl!" he added. The two men laughed. Volodya sat back, his chuckling gradually easing, and took another swig of the beer. "And this," he said, "It still tastes of water. Are there rivers in the Balkans? Maybe they send us river water by mistake?"

Still laughing, Aleksi said "Next time, then, you find us good stuff to drink."

"Next time I will" said Volodya, just as a sound echoed. He glanced down. It was a small, chirpy musical tune. Volodya reached into his pocket, tugging free his mobile phone.

The older man peered closer. "What is that? Nokia?"

Volodya looked up and nodded.

"I have a friend who can get you a new one" he said. "Good quality too."

Tapping lightly at his phone, Volodya replied "Maybe."

"Who is that?" asked the older man. "Your new Czech colleague? Ask him who he thinks will live in all those new houses he wants to build."

"Maybe he thinks they will let in the refugees" said Volodya, staring down at his screen.

Aleksi tutted. "Another ten years, Vlada, it will be us who are the refugees."

With a swish of his fingers, the younger man closed the screen. "Maybe" he said as he pocketed the phone. "But no, it was not work. I do need to go, though."

"Ah" said the older man, "you have found a beautiful woman and she calls you to her bedchamber right now."

Volodya laughed. "And she offers to me better beer than this" he said, motioning towards his mug. "I will see you next week, then."

The bearded man nodded. Together they rose from their chairs and embraced, slapping one another on the back like good friends.

As Volodya waited for the bus, he thought about the waitress. He thought about his friend Aleksi and his new Czech colleague, and wondered if the heating in the board room would finally be fixed before the next departmental meeting.

But he also thought about the email he had received. "Biggie" it had said, "Exra has found something very important. Join us ASAP."