A Collision In Time

Only the dead have seen the end of war.

– George Santayana, 1922

June 25, 1914, Sarajevo, Austria-Hungarian Empire

Misko Jovanović stepped into the cobblestone courtyard and closed the red door behind him, blocking the sounds of muffled laughter and shouting. It had finished raining and the street shone as though hand polished. The fresh air was a pleasant change compared to the heat and stench of the crowded meeting room he’d just left.

In other times Misko would have enjoyed the atmosphere, appreciated the clean air and the lush courtyard garden. This evening, Misko was not in a mood to enjoy the occasion. He was worried. The meeting had been intense, and dangerous events accelerated like a slow-moving freight train gaining speed. Misko needed to reframe his thoughts and calm his mind. He was also hungry, which helped deteriorate his mood.

A small, child-like voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you almost done now?”

He hadn’t noticed the boy, who wore a flat cap much too large for his head, standing off in the corner of the courtyard next to the entrance of the church.

“What’s that?” he said, not sure he understood the question.

“Are you almost done? I’m waiting for my father. He’s in the basement.”

“Who is your father?”

“His name is Vaso.”

“Are you Vaso Čubrilović’s son?”

“Yes I am, sir.”

Misko extended his hand. “My name is Misko Jovanović. Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

The boy stretched his arm out to shake Misko’s extended hand. “I am Josip.”

“How old are you?”

“Seven.” The boy held up seven fingers.

“Well, Josip, you are lucky that I know Vaso. Listen to me. You shouldn’t speak to strange people around here, or mention your father and the basement.”

“But you came from there. I thought of that.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Misko considered. “You are a smart boy. I apologize. I think your father will be coming soon. Does he know you are waiting?”

“Yes, he said he would be finished at dark. We were going to walk home together.”

Misko had seen Vaso becoming drunk and decided that he had likely forgotten about meeting his son. Deciding to be frank with Josip, he said, “Listen, my little friend, your father will be late. You should probably go home. It must be your dinnertime anyhow.”

The boy considered Misko’s advice but stayed silent.

“Do you know how to get home?” Misko asked.

“Yes,” he responded and pointed north.

“Well, young man, it was nice to meet you, but it’s time for my dinner so I’ll wish you goodbye. Also, Josip, remember to please keep your father’s meetings private unless you obtain his permission.”

“I promise I will,” Josip said and turned and ran from the courtyard.

Misko watched Josip disappear from view and had a change of mind. Rather than head home for cold bread, dry sausage, and stale cheese, he decided he would instead treat himself to a hearty meal and a coffee from a favorite restaurant. He had earned it after the long afternoon.

With lightness in his step, he headed toward the city center, relieved that the streets were empty except for a few people who walked with their heads bowed, lost in their own thoughts and problems. He was thankful for this. Misko wished to remain anonymous. His head swam with details, maps, and plans and he wanted to leave those details behind and rest his mind. As his mood shifted he quietly admonished himself, perhaps for the tenth time that day, as he had done each day for weeks. “You are a fool, Misko.” He wanted to simply walk away from the plotting and disappear. But he knew he wouldn’t and so did his comrades.

Misko ambled past store and restaurant windows that glowed with warm orange light, the tap, tap, tap of his boots upon the cobblestones echoing in the dark and unusually quiet streets. Delicious scents wafting from kitchens increased his desire to eat. He arrived at his preferred café and looked through the windows to ensure it was tranquil.

The atmosphere of Bistro Serbia was cozy and dimly lit, with half a dozen round tables adorned with red and white tablecloths and painted floral vases holding small bouquets of yellow flowers. A polished, dark maplewood bar ran along the back wall, stocked with a full selection of scotch, French and Italian vermouth, vodkas, and locally produced rakias. A couple sat near the bar at the back of the café.

Misko entered and selected a table close to the window so he could watch people wander on the street and imagine the life story of each passing stranger, a game he had played since he’d been a child.

A young, well-dressed man in a crisp white shirt approached, the son of the proprietor. He handed Misko a small menu. “Good evening, Misko, how are you this evening?”

“I am well, thank you. Very hungry.”

The waiter chuckled. “Alright, I won’t waste time, then. Have you had a chance to decide?”

“What do you recommend today, my friend?”

“Well, the cevapi is delicious, and would be perfect with a beer.”

Misko nodded. “The cevapi, please. However, just a coffee this evening.”

The waiter left for the kitchen just as the other table of diners finished and departed the café. It left Misko staring out the window, alone with his thoughts.

He decided he would escape in the morning. His newfound comrades’ discussions had evolved to be frighteningly serious, from last year’s drunken jokes of peaceful rebellion to today’s plotting, gun-running, talk of assassination, and treason. It was time to leave, without delay. He would depart for Constantinople before sunrise.

Yet Misko had told himself the same lie each night before sleep. When morning arrived he would instead complete his assigned tasks to the letter, as a dutiful soldier would do. His comrades, as they did each day, would thank him for completing his responsibilities and then issue new directions. The cycle repeated day in and day out, intensifying in danger and risk.

Misko considered his plight. Indeed, I am a fool.

The cevapi and Turkish coffee arrived quickly. The meal was piping hot. A generous-sized kebab overflowed with tender beef, yogurt sauce, and onion. The size of the kebab made it difficult to eat delicately, though making a spectacle of oneself would not be a problem in an empty café. He ate with hunger.

Misko heard the door to the café open just as a dollop of beef juice mixed with yogurt sauce escaped the wrap and dripped onto his chin. Embarrassed, he grabbed a napkin to wipe any evidence of food from beside his mouth.

A stranger entered the bistro, stopped, and studied the room. Despite Misko being the only person in the café, the new man showed no evidence that he noticed Misko. He was tall and thin, his face pale and angular, his cold gray eyes stark below his short dark hair. He wore a dark blue overcoat and walked with a cane made of ivory, inset with gold and mother of pearl. He removed his hat and with a flourish hung it on the coat rack.

Misko frowned, disappointed he was no longer alone. He wanted an opportunity to be with his own company to collect his thoughts. He decided to ignore the gentleman, focus on his food to ensure he did not make contact with the stranger, then be on his way.

The man strolled past Misko and sat near the bar, a few tables away. His mannerisms and gestures seemed exaggerated, as if he were an actor performing on stage. He dramatically flipped open the menu, swung his head fluidly side-to-side as he consulted it, then closed it to indicate he was ready to order. Misko could not help but be drawn in by the performance. They caught each other’s eyes now and again, but Misko glanced away to focus instead on his kebab.

Finally the tall man broke the awkwardness between them. “I am terribly sorry to disturb your dinner, my friend.” Misko had just taken a large mouthful of kebab. “I regret, my timing is rather dreadful,” he said apologetically. “Please enjoy your cevapi.”

Misko could not place his accent. Not local, and not Serbian; neither was it Austrian, German, or Slavic in tone. He finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped his mouth. “No bother at all. I do recommend this; it’s the best cevapi in Sarajevo, especially the spiced beef. Most enjoyable.”

“Thank you, kind sir. I am famished. Do you know if it can be prepared with vegetables, perhaps chickpeas?”

The owner approached, having overheard the conversation. He addressed the tall, pale man. “Sir, I recommend another vegetable dish. A slow-cooked stew of tomatoes, onions, and peppers, served with fresh bread.”

“You’ve sold me, sir. And a beer, please. Also, let me treat my new friend to a beer—if you’ll permit me?” He waited for Misko to respond.

This was not what Misko wanted. He wanted only to return home after he ate. It was time for bed, and he wanted to be left alone. “You are generous,” Misko began, “but I cannot accept your offer. I have an early morning engagement tomorrow and must be off soon.”

“Very well,” the strange man said to the owner, “then I will buy his dinner for my intrusion.”

“Please, no—”

“I insist, and I will leave you in peace now; I’ve interfered enough.”

Misko lost the energy to argue with the tall man. “Thank you.” There was little point in prolonging the conversation, and why not enjoy more money in his pocket than anticipated? He turned back to face the window and ate the remainder of his dinner in peace. He finished the kebab and the Turkish coffee with one last gulp.

But the idea of a stranger paying for his dinner did not sit right. He hated the idea of being indebted to anyone, even to an unknown man over an inexpensive dinner. Misko changed his mind. “Thank you again for your kind offer of dinner, but I cannot let you be so generous.” Misko reached for his satchel to retrieve his money.

“Then at least let me buy your coffee?”

Misko considered it wasn’t worth arguing over coffee. “Fine. It’s most appreciated. Thank you, sir—”

“Asmodi, but please call me Modi.”

It was an odd name. “Thank you, sir.” He paused for perhaps a trifle too long. “Sir, Modi…?”

“No, just Modi.”

“Yes, my apologies. Thank you, Modi.” It was past time to leave. Misko sensed he was starting to lose control of the evening. It was a peculiar feeling.

Misko stood and donned his overcoat. “Well, I must be off. You have a good—”

“Did you hear the exciting news?” Modi interrupted.

“No,” said Misko, inching toward the exit.

“About the visit? You must know of the archduke’s visit to Sarajevo?”

Misko stopped. He thought the archduke’s visit was known by only a few. The information was supposed to be classified. “I am not sure what you are referring to.” He hardly sounded convincing.

“Sit, my friend.” Asmodi tapped the chair next to him with his cane. “Let me offer you an advantage, and perhaps we can strike a bargain.”

Misko wiped his eyes, confused by what he was seeing. Before him, Modi appeared to subtly transform. He appeared less imposing. His eyes became warm and brown and his skin shifted from pale and cold to a healthy rosy hue. His face shifted from angular to slightly plump, his expression joyful. In Misko’s mind he had become inviting, friendly, and empathetic.

Misko softened. He stopped moving toward the exit, now drawn toward the stranger. He decided he had judged the man harshly. With his mind more open, he saw Modi differently. Misko felt relaxed, relieved, as if a weight had been removed. “What sort of advantage?” Misko asked, enchanted.

“Come and join me, please; sit down. First, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Misko extended his hand. “Misko Jovanović.”

“Please sit down, Misko.” Asmodi pulled out the chair. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to share a beer? I will buy it.”

Misko smiled. “If you are sure, thank you.” He hesitated. “But where are you from? I cannot place your accent, and you don’t sound like you are from here. I hope you don’t mind me intruding?” Despite Modi’s charm, Misko still had enough suspicion to ask questions of strangers.

“No, I don’t mind, Misko. I lived all over Europe and Asia, and places of which you know not, so my accent is a universal variant. I hope it hasn’t proven too difficult to understand.”

“No, you are articulate. Again, I am sorry to infringe. What, then, brings you to Sarajevo?”

“I just arrived. I am on an important quest, and I need help and supporters. I want to change history, my friend.”

“It seems everyone in Sarajevo is on a quest to change history.” Misko laughed. “And they all want me to help. No, I am tired of those conversations. I apologize; I won’t be able to support you.”

Modi lowered his voice, forcing Misko to lean in. “But few will succeed as I will. Let me offer you an advantage.” Modi’s concentrated gaze penetrated Misko’s eyes with an intensity that bordered on insanity. He spoke slowly and raised his voice. “Over the years I have witnessed a thousand men and women; kings, emperors, and priests struggling in their journey to write history as they wish it to be written. Yet they accomplish little and notice less. Their journey to build nations and create empires is one-dimensional. Even as they conquer armies, pillage and plunder cities, and accumulate slaves and riches, the battles they should fight are against more delicate foes. What they don’t consider are philosophies, ideas, and strategy. They seek material conquests rather than moral outcomes. They only worry about what others perceive. I am not worried about simple human trivialities like this.

“My foresight and hindsight are timeless and thus I think of the end, not the means to the end. I care not about what historians teach about me. I care not what prophets warn when they write about me. I don’t fear battles that may last a thousand years. I’m not in a rush—time is of little concern. Those I defeat, and there will be many, will know of no other destiny.”

As Modi talked he raised his voice untl it echoed and boomed throughout the bistro. Misko fidgeted, wondering how the bistro staff would react, but for some reason no other person took notice of the conversation. The owner continued to polish the bar, impossibly yet blissfully unaware. Misko understood nothing. The discussion had become too abstract and philosophical.

“Rebellion and revolution, fear, heretics are weapons that I use…” Modi’s voice faded and his mood lightened. “I am getting ahead of myself. Misko, listen to me. New developments, recently introduced, can and will change history. Join me and let me help you and help your comrades. I do think a better Serbia can be had and with that a better world. Would you like to help me do this, Misko?”

“Is this the advantage?” Misko asked, recalling the earlier offer.

“Yes, Misko Jovanović. I can help you.”

Misko looked into Modi’s eyes. He was drawn in, as though looking into a grandfather’s soul. Misko took a swig of beer, then drank the entire glass without pausing. This conversation was different from his earlier plotting in the basement.

“Tell me more.”