Branka’s volumptuous body dressed in leopard spots, pink lips, gel red nailes and long blond hair sung hearty tragic balakan lulabys to the accompaniment of a double bass, accordion, guitars and volines. “I loved you once” she sung and the young bus driwer mouthed looking in to my eyes kissing my hand across the table. She was the celbrity wife of the twice older and fatter owner, and we where thirty five filing all the seats in the restourant.
It was the driwer who started playing this dark Balkan tragedy on the bus a whole days driwe to baptize us into the atmosphere of Sarajevo. At first we could not understand why so many young girls filled the arena when the toad has concerts in the tv, but on passing the border into Bosnia every restaurant and bar in which we stopped played Halid Beslic. His voice deep, his words tragic, full of love lost and wanted and cheated off are the soundtrack to the only country in the world without a national anthem.
We where not going to eat again, and planed quite rigedley to escape into sarajevo night two, but seeing how the owners had awaited for us with salads on the tables, and treated us to soups and rakija it was far too rude to run away from ordering the famous broadway steaks, and when instruments walked in to the room and started playing the tunes we already knew all the words to, we simply put up our hands up, and let our bones and features groove to the tragedy.
The driver now inicated a ritual of placing money in between the grooves of the accordion and asking for a love song. Than the boy to my right bought me a little gypsy girl song. Than the boss bought his wife a song. And so each man felt obliged to not be tight and spent all the notes in their wallets on songs and alcohol until the rytham spun and players played at each corner of the room, for each woman, we where all on our feet, dancing, with hands in the air, pulling the hearts out, arms around each other, tables full of alcohol and food, feet hitting the wooden floor in rythm.
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