Neil Randall is delighted
to announce that Alien Buddha Press will publish From Belgrade to Love,
the follow up to last year’s critically acclaimed The Belgrade School Shootings,
and the second part of The Belgrade Trilogy, in December of this year.
The main character of the second book is a
Ukrainian national and war refugee, a young academic called Sergei Bondarekno.
The only child of restaurant owners back in Kiev, his worried parents send him
to Belgrade to protect him from the horrors of war, possible conscription, and likely
death. Little do they know he is about to experience something far worse than
armed conflict in the Serbian capital. In the months prior to the school
shootings, he comes under the influence of renowned writer Issak Lazerevic. As
part of Sergei’s thesis on reading habits and the influence of social media dovetail
with Lazarevic’s own literacy campaign, they become unlikely colleagues and firm
friends.
After the shootings, Sergei is drawn into
a complex, twisted plot and turned into a potential scapegoat for the murders
themselves. On his return to Kiev, he learns of his parents' violent deaths and
sightings of Lazarevic (freshly escaped from prison) on the Romanian border. When
journalist Jelena Basturk receives two manuscripts in the post chronicling
cataclysmic world events before they even happened, not only Sergei’s fate but
that of the entire world hangs in the balance.
Told in a series of letters between father
and son, the readers get an insight into the horrors of war for ordinary,
everyday people being bombed each day, and an innocent young man’s mysterious betrayal.
Here are the opening chapters
to give you a flavour of the story:
1
Dearest Papa,
I write to you today
with much joy in my heart. After six weeks in my adoptive city of Belgrade, I
finally feel at home at last. Of course, I miss you, Mama, Andriy, the
restaurant, and Kiev terribly, but I have been made so welcome by my landlord
Milan, new boss Nemanja, and the rest of my colleagues at the office I’m no
longer burdened by homesickness and a sense of guilt and isolation. That said,
if I’m being completely honest, the primary source of my joy comes from meeting
someone special.
Let me explain.
Last week, we got a rush order for 300
articles – a big undertaking for a relatively small content-writing team like
ours. Needless to say, it was a hectic period. But we all pitched in and
managed to not only complete the task but receive glowing praise from the
client. Nemanja was so happy, he insisted on taking all office-based staff
(that’s me, Uros, Petar, and Jelena) out for a meal at one of the trendy
restaurants overlooking the Sava River. As it happened, I sat next to Jelena, a
pretty red-haired girl from a small town just outside of the city. She’s around
the same age as me and we have many common interests – she too is a big reader.
Once we established an admiration for the works of Nikolai Gogol, we didn’t
stop talking about books for the rest of the evening. It’s incredible. How a
great piece of art can affect people from different countries in the exact same
way. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed talking to somebody so much.
After the meal, we decided to go for a
walk along the banks of the river. It was a beautiful, still, if bracing
evening, and we pretty much took up from where we’d left off in the restaurant,
getting so wrapped up in our conversation, we completely lost track of time. It
was almost light before we realised just how long we’d been sitting there
talking. And ironies of all ironies, when I asked Jelena where she lived, she
said Mirijevo! We’re neighbours, Papa! Since we were both tired, we decided to
share a taxi back to our apartments. An unnecessary expense, I know, but it
felt justified considering how hard we’d both worked that week. Being
gentlemanly, I insisted on paying the fare. We laughed so hard when we said our
goodbyes, though. At the restaurant, we’d agreed to go book hunting in the
morning, in what constituted a few hours’ time now (Jelena insists I read The
Bridge on the Drina by Ivo Andrić in translation). But knowing we both
needed a little more sleep, we changed our plans and agreed to meet later in
the day. A sensible decision.
Still, I had trouble getting off to sleep
when I got back to my apartment. Maybe I was overtired, excited to have made a
connection with someone as nice as Jelena, or still slightly perturbed by an
unsettling encounter with a Russian national at the taxi rank. As I told you in
my last letter, around 150,000 war refugees have fled their home country. Which
leaves me in a quandary. I don’t rightly know how to act towards our bitter
enemy, as the vast majority of them left Russia in protest at the war. Should I
treat them with contempt or keep an open mind? After all, their hatred for
Putin is probably as intense as ours. I’m not sure, and await your advice on
the matter.
Back to the Russian in question.
On hearing my accent, he asked: ‘You are Ukrainian?’
Taken a little off-guard, I didn’t really know how to respond, other than nod
and say: ‘Yes, that’s correct’. Any attempt at denial would’ve been ridiculous
in the circumstances. But rather than get into a petty argument, or perhaps
something more serious – a physical altercation about the war – the Russian (a
well-dressed, swarthy man in his mid-thirties) embraced me, kissing me three
times in quick succession. ‘We were brothers before, and we will be brothers
again,’ he said. ‘Our past is inextricably linked, and so is our future.’ Then,
without so much as a goodbye, he turned and marched across the road. A strange
encounter, even now I’m not sure whether he was in earnest or mocking me in
some way, as if he considered me the worst kind of coward, hiding away in the
Serbian capital while my countrymen are defending our territories. I know we
have talked about this many times before; I know this is for the best. As your
only child and someone with lofty academic aims, it was sensible for me to
leave Kiev. And I’d like to take this opportunity to thank both you and Mama
again for everything you’ve done for me – getting me a job, arranging for
Andriy to drive me across the border, and setting me up with an apartment. I’m
no coward and would’ve proudly defended my country against the Russian
aggressors. By the same token, I understand your stance. I’m your only child.
You must do what’s best for the family. I just hope and pray you and Mama will
be safe and protected and remain far from the fighting.
Anyway, I better sign off now. I must
shower and change and meet Jelena at the bus stop soon. We plan to have lunch,
do a bit of shopping, and then see a film, a documentary about a Russian actor
who fell out with the Soviet authorities and ended up making a lot of movies in
Serbia. I can’t remember his name, but will fill you in with all the details in
my next letter.
Please do take care of yourself and give
Mama a big hug from me.
From Belgrade with
love,
Sergei
2
Dearest Sergei,
Thank you for your
last letter.
Your mother and I were glad to hear you
performed well and produced some fine articles during the unexpected busy
period at work. But you must beware of those war refugees, my son. Disregard
what that mysterious Russian said to you at the taxi rank. Times have changed.
We need to align ourselves with the political systems that will better our lot
in life. That’s all Zelenskyy is trying to say, all he’s trying to protect –
our right to determine our own future. We want to became part of the European
Union, have access to those markets and forge prosperous partnerships. But our
shared history with Russia is preventing us from doing so. And the fact we’re
being denied our right to severe ties with one nation and make new partnerships
with other nations will never go away. No matter how many bombs Moscow drops on
us.
Ah, I’m sorry, Sergei, my letter – even
though I’ve only just sat down and started to write – has turned into another
political rant! Let’s talk about far lighter matters.
Already you are reaping the rewards of
your hard work, as your meal at the restaurant by the river attests. And we’re
so glad to hear you’ve made friends. Jelena sounds like an interesting young
woman. And like I’ve told you many times before, a person can never have too
many interesting people in their lives. I do hope you had a pleasant day, a
fine lunch, managed to track down a copy of The Bridge on the Drina, and
enjoyed the documentary film. I’m certain the actor you referenced is called
Oleg Vidov. A strikingly handsome man, known in the press as the ‘Soviet Robert
Redford’. He led a colourful life, was a man of principal who was exiled from
his country, and who ended up in the United States. I don’t remember him making
any films in Serbia (or the old Yugoslavia) but it isn’t out of the realms of
possibility.
Years ago, I read Alexander
Solzhenitsyn’s memoir The Oak and the Calf (and forgive me, son, if I’ve
told you this story before). Like Vidov, the great writer had fallen foul of
the Soviet authorities, and was sent to the hard labour camps in the East. He
survived a bout of cancer, faced the utmost in privations and inhumane
treatment, yet he was adamant that there’s nothing any one man should ever lay
his life down for, no ultimate sacrifice he should make. And while I have no
doubt that Solzhenitsyn was the bravest of brave men, I think his words have
never been more relevant than they are today. You don’t need to grab a rifle
and rush to the frontlines to prove your love for your country or your own
personal valour. This illegal war has been foisted upon us. But it won’t last
forever, dearest Sergei. And after the last bullet has flown and last bomb been
dropped, we’ll need gifted, capable, and dedicated young men like yourself to
help build the country back up again. So, please, don’t question your own
integrity or feel any guilt about leaving your homeland. The best minds must be
preserved.
While you’re away from Kiev, cultivate
yourself, add to your skillset, work hard, read widely, and try and pick up as
much of the Serbian language as you possibly can. Assimilate all the good,
worthwhile things around you. Take full advantage of the situation; look upon
it as a golden opportunity to better yourself. All experiences, even if that
may not appear the case at the time, can be useful to us. They help us grow,
develop, mature. Treat your exile, if we can call it as such, as part of your
personal development.
Unfortunately, I do have some bad news to
report. A few nights ago, some youths, probably drunk, smashed the big plate
glass window at the front of the restaurant. Truth be told, it was a scary
moment; the shattering glass in the dead of night made us fear a bomb had
dropped on the premises. We even went so far as to shelter under the bed. After
a few minutes had passed, I realised we’d been mistaken. Clambering out from my
hiding place, I went downstairs and investigated. As soon as I switched on the
main lights, it was clear what had happened. There was broken glass everywhere.
I can’t tell you how colourfully I cursed the perpetrators under my breath. As
if we as a nation haven’t got enough to worry about without delinquents
wantonly vandalising business premises. After I’d swept up, I managed to
organise a replacement window in super quick time. You remember Stepan
Timoshenko, no doubt? A man with irons in many fires, if not a bit of rogue. I
gave him a call at the crack of dawn. By nine o’clock, the glass had been replaced.
We didn’t bother to report the incident to the police, or involve the insurance
company. Granted, the replacement glass wasn’t the cheapest (even if Stepan did
get us a good deal), but we didn’t think there was any way the police would be
able to catch the culprits now, and thought it was an expense we would simply
have to accept in the circumstances.
All in all, it was an unsavoury incident.
In all my years in the trade, I don’t think I’ve ever been the victim of such a
mindless act before. When talking things over with Stepan, however, I
discovered incidents of this nature were becoming more commonplace in and
around the city centre. With mandatory conscription a real possibility, the
younger people find themselves in an invidious position. The last thing any of
them envisaged doing in their early twenties was fighting in a war. But as the
conflict grinds on, it looks increasingly likely the country will need new
recruits. That, of course, is one of the reasons why we decided to send you to
Belgrade. Many of our regular customers are either facing up to the prospect of
going to the frontlines themselves, or fearing for a young son who’s had no
military training, and doesn’t know the first thing about combat or soldiering
in general.
But that’s a discussion for another day.
If the U.S. provides the military aid we so badly need, it may not come to that
– tens of thousands of young men may not be ripped from the bosom of their
families.
Well, I think that’s all I have to tell
you for the time being. Broken window aside, we’re ticking along nicely. Keep
up the good work. You’re already making your mother and I very proud of you.
But do write as often as you can. If you could see how your mother’s face
lights up when she sees one of your letters on the kitchen table in the
morning, you would know exactly how much word from you means to her – to both
of us.
We will keep the home fires burning, as
they say!
Lots of love,
Papa
If you like what you’ve
read so far, why not check out the first part of the trilogy – The BelgradeSchool Shootings.
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