Chapter 1
North Italy, late April 1997
This was probably going to be the worst day in Bogdan’s life since he arrived in Italy at eleven, only five years earlier. Long gone were the days of the Balkan Wars, when his main concern was staying alive, hiding from snipers and the surprise shelling in the semi destroyed streets of central Dubrovnik while queueing up for food and water. Despite the sore, lingering effects still plaguing his occasional nightmares, Bogdan had almost completely forgotten the tribulations he had endured during his evacuation to the safety of Rijeka by ferry. All those months spent sleeping in freezing, temporary huts, creeping around to avoid the bullies who would accuse him of being a Serbian for wearing an orthodox cross necklace. All were but distant memories.
Although his plight was now more mundane, it certainly did not seem any less daunting. The long awaited lounge at the refurbished cruise terminal in Trieste was due to open the very next day.
Bogdan dragged his feet as he walked towards his workplace and turned the key to open the grille for what would surely be the last time. He looked around with a twinge of sadness, dusted off the old bottles of bitter in the bar cabinet, wiped the worn wooden counter to make it shine and arranged the tables and chairs on the terrace. They had been stacked up quite neatly inside by his colleague Vito the previous night. He would miss the short, fatty man who almost ran the place by himself. And Leo, the thin, ugly boy who was always flirting with girls and inviting them for a ride in his Vespino. Not to mention Alessia. How was he going to keep in touch with her now that he had left school? It hurt him to think that they would probably drift apart once she started university in Milan the following year. But most of all, he would miss Mrs Bolcatto, the kind- faced, middle aged owner’s wife who had been like a second mother to him. Who was going to scold him on a daily basis, with the kind of tough love that Bogdan had now become so fond of? And where would Bogdan get his next homemade meal from? Not at his current place of residence, the flat he shared with three other teenage refugees. Not even a mouldy, half eaten carrot would last more than a few minutes in the fridge there.
It was another busy morning, something he had grown used to, but today, he could not find the motivation to stay on top of things. In fact, he was struggling to keep up, knowing that all his efforts would prove pointless. Not even a miracle could save the Caffe from closure now, judging by the conversations he managed to overhear as he cleared the tables. Everyone was looking forward to the grand opening. Balloons were being placed to decorate the cruise terminal. All the surrounding roads had been closed to allow the delivery trucks to unload the sleek new bar furniture. Even the mayor of Trieste was rumoured to be attending to cut the ribbon at the inauguration party. Although he was turned down due to his age, Bogdan himself had been foolish enough to apply for a job there. Not because he was unloyal to Mr Bolcatto, but rather to make him proud. To show him that all he had taught Bogdan had not been in vain. He didn’t want the man to feel obliged to sustain him forever. He wanted to be able to fend for himself and become independent. But apparently, it was not to be. At least, not yet.
A few hours later, the hustle and bustle of the early morning rush gave way to the usual mid-morning slump. Once all the workers had clocked into their offices and the school children were sat at their desks, Bogdan was finally able to sit down at the bar for a few minutes with his coffee and a slice of prosciutto on a crusty piece of bread. It was such a beautiful, bright morning, with the sunlight beaming down on the sea by the pier, but he was unable to enjoy the view. His whole future was at stake, and not even the most amazing sight could distract him from his worries. He gave a hopeless sigh, his chin perched in his palms as his elbows rested on the bar.
When he saw a young man he recognised walking in, he quickly straightened up, unwittingly stretching his clothes as though trying to look more presentable.
James was quite obviously not a local, with his auburn hair with golden undertones, his pale, freckled skin and blushing cheeks and his light brown eyes tinged red with eternal fatigue. He always carried himself with a certain modesty, like he was unaware of his own merits and appeal. And what a surprise it was to see him. Bogdan had not been expecting James to return from his job at sea for at least another month. Hopefully, everything was going fine for him, at least.
Always considerate of others, James grabbed a few coffee cups piled up on a table and brought them inside for Bogdan, who was already leaning by the sink, ready to wash them.
“Good morning. How’s everything?” James jumped onto the stool by the counter where Bogdan was standing.
“Not bad. Yourself?” He immediately began washing the cups.
“Could I have a double ristretto with a slice of onion focaccia, please?” James ordered in his customary polite and pleasant manner.
“Bogdan! What on earth are you doing there? Can’t you see all those tables need clearing?” Mrs Bolcatto rushed out of the kitchen to reprimand him. “How many times do I have to tell you to keep an eye on the cups?” She pushed him out of his favourite spot and began to wash the cups herself, while Bogdan picked up the rest of the dirty crockery lying around on the empty tables. “Make sure we don’t run out of clean cups, understood?” she glared at him when he returned before disappearing into the kitchen once more.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble,” James apologised to Bogdan when he returned.
“It’s OK. She was right.” Bogdan sighed again as he began to prepare James’ order. This time tomorrow, he thought to himself, he would be wishing he were here, listening to Mrs Bolcatto’s complaints and making James’ coffee. And now, on top of all his other concerns, Bogdan realised that once the Caffe doors were closed for good, he would probably never see James again. “Are you still working on the cruises?” he decided to ask, stepping outside his comfort zone. “Do you think you could find me a job on one of them?” He placed the plate of food and the saucer with the cup in front of James, looking at him with sweet, begging eyes.
“Have the owners actually decided to close? I think it would be a real shame if they did,” James commented without actually answering his pleas. But Bogdan was too ashamed to ask again. After all, despite his helpfulness and friendliness, James was still a customer, and he did not want to disturb him. Especially not when he heard a car beep from across the road. “I’ve got to go now. This should cover it.” James drank the rest of his coffee in one swift go, tossing down a large bank note that amounted to far more than his bill. Then he grabbed his warm focaccia with a few napkins, tearing off bites with his teeth as he walked out. And Bogdan was bemused to the point that he forgot his earlier disappointment.
What a crazy fellow he was, Bogdan thought as he pocketed James’ generous tip. It was bad to stereotype him, but apart from being the only customer who ever left him any change, Bogdan had never seen anyone eating on the street like that, the way only British tourists did. He wondered idly where James was going in Guido’s car. Maybe Alessia could fill him in later. She had only started dating Guido a few weeks back and was already proving her worth by sharing all the juicy details with Bogdan. But apart from being James’ flatmate, Guido also worked for Bogdan’s social worker, and he knew he would have to be mindful of what he shared with Alessia from now on. He didn’t want his gossip to end up being spread around Guido’s office. They would certainly not be pleased to know that Bogdan had smoked marijuana, even though he only did it once and had not liked it one bit. Or that he had been involved in a fight while trying to access a nightclub without proper ID. It would not look good on his file when the time came to apply for his permanent residence permit, as soon as he turned eighteen. And he was terrified of being deported to the former Yugoslavia.
He didn’t know the fate of his family, nor whether his house in Knin was even still standing. Being homeless in Italy wasn’t easy, but at least there was a network of government agencies and Catholic charities who always stepped in to help. Would he have access to the same kind of support in his homeland? Bogdan had been following the Balkan news with interest, watching his home country just starting to recover from the devastating war that had ended only two years prior. He had seen reporters on TV showing entire towns being wiped out and talking extensively about how the economy was completely ruined. However much Bogdan would have liked to return, it was not in his best interest. He would have to continue fighting to stay in Trieste for as long as possible.
