The Way It Must Be

ALL ALONG THE PROMENADE, the crowd, roused, ebullient and unsatisfied, like at any mass gathering, moved buoyantly like a school of fish, anxious about what had recently transpired that Sunday morning, barely moments ago. Smoke had yet to settle, but news disseminated quickly among the townspeople, either making their way home, or going about their daily business. Some folks were dumbstruck, and ambulated about carelessly, like lost lambs, herding and gawking. Others still, shrieked in fear after having seen such a grisly event fulminate before them, and resoundingly so; or cried out in distress, and limped, or were carried hurriedly away from the scene, bloodied and bent. While whistles echoed and sounded down the broadest boulevards and the slenderest streets, as police shepherded the host of onlookers away from the origin of chaos, and corralled a handful of those whom they felt had felonious faces. How such a joyous mood in the city could so swiftly turn dark-hearted was to the young man… illuminating.

Blood aboil, and thoughts aswirl, he too, like so many, was aimless. Only he was dejected, not scared or scarred. He had been shot down. He had failed. He and his comrades had all failed. Although, where they were now he knew not. All hope of completing his mission had evaporated. Up the thoroughfare, he drifted languidly, apparently unaware of how close he was to the head of the buzzing coterie, as he tried to focus on one solitary thing: Where do I go now?

Unexpectedly, even to him, he found his feet veering left at an intersection, for he had allowed his nose to navigate. The savoury aroma of freshly-baked moussaka, and rich, simmering tarhana filled his nostrils, and directed him to an inviting cafeteria.

The tall, arched windows, of which there were several, gave way to the edges of alabaster pillars of one small crossroads of the city. It was not unlike other, old places therein, other diners, but behind a tiny beech tree on the edge of the road, was the unmistakable poster of a wine bottle plastered on the corner of the building. And of course, the marquis had the name Schiller’s written clearly for all to see.

Breathing deeply again, the man could now smell the stuffed grape leaves, and the sweet baklava. He swore, there was a cloud in the air that had hands and fingers, beckoning him over with the pure delight that was authentic deli food. And it had occurred to him that he hadn’t had a decent hot meal in over a month. With each passing second, it seemed more and more obvious, whatever comfort a brief respite could provide, was the only cure to his melancholy.

He maintained his heading. Not taking heed of obstacles, inconsiderate of pedestrians as their paths would invariably converge, the man marched headlong into the flow of people. Hungry, and substantially so. He brushed well over a dozen elbows, and incurred twice as many calls of insult, and derision, and a fair amount of blasphemy too, all of which was deserved. Until at last, he stood outside the eatery, and peered into one of the windows, so that he might see what food they were serving. Alas, a thick grey cloud blotted out the sun, and thus all the young man could glean was his reflection.

In his mirror image, the man could see for himself how small and scrawny he had become. He took a moment and awed at the starved, hollow figure staring back at him. Hung from his bones like a skeleton in a closet would wear, was a filthy, over-sized, second-hand charcoal suit. And to match, he had second-foot shoes, steps away from falling off his feet. His hair was muddy brown, short and ruffled, while his beard and moustache were as light and as patchy as the facial hair of any awkward, budding adolescent. He had thin lips that hadn’t spread a smile in years; A nose both fat and crooked, perhaps even broken and never truly healed. While his slight, square face was so gaunt and ashen, it accentuated his cheekbones to a point where they could cut glass, and his eyes appeared sunken in the skull, grey and cracked like slate. Only then did he realise that he had lost his hat. He lifted a paw to scratch and ponder when he might have lost the cap, but needed not ponder long.

Standing over his shoulder, he espied someone in an overcoat, regarding him as one would a prospective piece of fruit — ripe, dangling from a tree — while in the stranger's hand, was his hat. So great and voluminous was the cloak the hem and train grazed the ground and was soiled with dirt, the hide was jet and black, and its buttons were unfastened, so the fabric billowed to obscure their figure. Even their countenance was hidden, standing in the umbrage of the tree at the edge of the curb. Within seconds, he lost his appetite. Whatever colour the man still had, vanished from his cheeks completely, as he suddenly felt faint, and came to believe that he was in the presence of the shadow of Death.

Lip aquiver, he slowly wheeled around to meet the stranger properly. No matter how frightened he was, he intended to confront the reaper directly. He was wise enough to know he could not escape it, nor even outrun it for long. However intimidating they were, the man soon learned this being was not an angel. This person did not escort souls to the afterlife. They were human. They were a woman. Albeit, one who was most mysterious and formidable. Passersby moved to avoid him, as well as the stranger, who breathed, and sighed, and was very much flesh and blood.

Lean and lofty, the stranger did not belong in the city. Foreign even to the country. She was peculiar in every way. She wore large spectacles with black frames and black lenses, though they rested acute, on the end of the bridge of her petite nose. Her leather gloves on dainty hands were black and dull and there were holes in the fingertips. A small wristwatch with a silver dial and a silver strap dug deep into the skin of her arm, and the tissue surrounding it was red and inflamed. While her own hat, a blacked peaked cap, was very well-worn, and the regimental badge had been ripped off of the front, leaving the fabric frayed. Underneath her coat, the garments she wore — black denim trousers, and an amber-coloured, cropped vinyl shirt — were exceedingly out of place, and out of time. Her skin was coarse and dark. Her hair was shorter even than his own, and filled with tight black curls. And her eyes were brown as an oak, and deep as the rings of the oldest oaks are numerous.

“Good morning, Gavrilo. I believe this hat belongs to you.”

“Thank you.” The man accepted his hat reluctantly. He didn’t know what to do. Everything about the woman terrified him; made his skin tingle, made his bones tremble. From her omnipotent gaze, to her bitter iron and phosphorus perfume. She knew him. But he didn’t know her. He didn’t want to know her.

She flashed a spurious smile, and said, “Let’s go inside, hmm? You can thank me properly over a meal. I could kill for some ćevapi right about now.”

He didn’t reply, or even make a gesture, but the stranger placed a hand on the back of his neck, and she escorted him into the deli.

“I must admit, you’re taller than I expected,” said the woman chewing. They had found an empty table and were sitting across from one another. “More handsome than I expected too.”

“You’re not from here. Who are you?” asked Gavrilo.

“Oh, where are my manners!? My name is Iskra. I am… a concerned third party. I’m very interested in your cause. I realise that my Serbian isn’t perfect, and I have a strange accent. That’s because I’m with British intelligence. My government and I want you to succeed at all costs. Which reminds me…” the woman calling herself Iskra let her words trail off, as she fished a handgun from the inside pocket of her coat, before casually sliding it over the table to Gavrilo.

Gavrilo’s eyes widened; shocked by the stanger’s flagrant breach of the law, and he abruptly threw his hat on the weapon. He scanned the perimeter to see if some law-abiding citizen had seen what the woman had just done, and fortunately for both of them, it didn’t appear as though anyone had. But what troubled him most of all was the gun itself. It happened to be a Browning FN Model 1910 semi-automatic handgun loaded with .380 ACP ammunition. The same as the gun he had been given by Milan Ciganović two days prior. In fact, it was the exact same gun that he had thrown into the river when he found out that the mission had failed. After he watched in shame, as the royal motorcade raced past him, and he personally, failed to act. He knew this, because it had the same little marks he made in the handle after he had dropped it.

“To answer your question, it is your gun. Pulled out of the Miljacka River. You and Mister Grabež aren’t too bright. But you have courage. And you still have a chance to kill the archduke.”

“Keep your voice down!” Gavrilo whispered.

“Relax, Gav, no one is listening. Everyone is still focused on the explosion.”

“If you know that the mission failed, then you should also know that the royal couple will have taken precautions. They will have added security. Before long, they will be returning to Vienna.”

“What I know is that within the next five minutes, the motorcade will return the way they came because the old archduke, and his lovely wife want to look in on those who were injured at the hospital. I also know that the driver will turn down Franz Joseph Street here, but Governor Potiorek will have him stop the car, and tell him to turn around. All you have to do then, is step outside, and shoot them.”

Gavrilo stared at the stranger. He couldn’t believe what she was saying. He had abandoned the plan. He had failed definitively. He had all but given up on his dreams of a united state in the Balkans. Then he shook his head and said exactly what he was thinking, “You’re crazy, lady.”

“Well, I’ve been called much worse. Think about it, Gav. Think about what this would mean for you, and all Serbs. Think about how proud your brother Jovan would be. But don’t think about it too long.” She looked at her wrist watch, and finally added, “Four minutes. Ciao, darling.”

The stranger left the delicatessen, and left her ćevapi on the table. A bell chimed as the door opened then closed behind her. She turned a corner, and was about to pass by the wine bottle poster when she disappeared. As surely as the way tendrils of smoke, and floating burning embers of a camp fire disapate into the ether. In one second, a gossamer steam surrounded her body, and provident, energetic pinpricks of blue light buzzed around her in a rhythmic display. In the next, the stranger ceased to exist. Not simply lost in the throng, but gone from the world before Gavrilo's very eyes. Forever.

Gavrilo palmed the handle of the gun from under his hat for a few minutes. The more he thought about the bizarre conversation he just had, the more confused he became. He was about to leave, still not feeling hungry any longer, when without warning, he heard the buzz of a car speeding along the road, the river to its left. He watched as it began to turn right at the intersection. And he saw quite clearly, the royal passengers in the car.