Chapter 3

Sarajevo is such a beautiful city - a real blend of Eastern and Western influences in its architecture and people. Much of the city had been repaired by 2001 from the time between 1993 and 1995 when the Serbs fired nearly 350 shells daily into it. Shell casings can be bought from the open flea markets, polished, and beautifully inscribed with floral and mountain scenes. Memorials there are aplenty - to the thousands of men and boys taken from areas under Serb control by the VSB and murdered in places such as Srebenica.

Another memorial had particular significance for me. On the Latin Bridge stands a stone commemorating the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria-Hungary and his wife, Sofia, in 1914. In my opinion, this act, more than anything, came to define the History of the West till the present day.

From the river, I looked up at the hills from whence Serb artillery poured fire into the city during the siege, hitting schools, hospitals, market places as well as some 35,000 homes. I viewed the famous 'Sarajevo tunnel' that was the only lifeline for a spell, providing a means of escape for a few and a conduit for Croatian arms and ammunition. This tragedy was stopped by the UN - following the 2nd shelling of the Markale - when US planes took out Serb ammunition dumps and forced them to withdraw. 2 years too late, perhaps, but decisive in the finish.

The EU High Representative Authority has the ultimate say in Bosnian affairs. The glass tower building, opposite the Government administrative centre, was staffed by a range of Brussels 'aparachniks' and local employees. The office for visa applications was headed by a Briton, called 'Samuel'.

Samuel embodied for me all that was frustrating in petty, form filling, fussy bureaucracy. In fact, I later found out he was a policeman seconded from the branch dealing with immigration fraud. I had no sooner finished handing over the filled out forms when he asked me where the applicant was. I explained she was in the village of Biljanovic and he insisted she be presented for examination in three days.

"Examined for what?" I asked, in English. There was a German interpreter present, but I chose not to use her. My English wasn't that bad.

"The woman will need to be interviewed, Lieutenant."

Samuel spat out my rank as if he looked down on me from a great height. He didn't like Germans, I concluded, or soldiers - I wasn't sure. He then quizzed me about my friends, enemies, acquaintances, family, Berlin, Ingolstadt, clubs, bars and brothels. I was given a list of names and asked if I recognised any of them. He asked me about how I met Almira, for how long and whether I'd slept with her.

As part of our training for Bosnia, we had classes on how we should handle ourselves if captured by terrorists. We were told not to risk our lives by telling lies. As we had a low security clearance, it wasn't supposed we had much of value to tell them and our duty was to keep ourselves safe. Samuel interrogated me in much the same way and I found my training was very useful.

After an hour an a half, I went back to the hotel and called the Dutch at Biljanovic. I asked them to tell Almira she needed to come to Sarajevo to be interviewed. 2 hours later, they told me she would come with her mother.

Naturally Toli would come with her - what respectable single Moslem girl would come into a city such as Sarajevo unaccompanied by family? Nevertheless, I was a little disappointed. I had a fantasy of having her to myself for a few days.

I was staying at the Hotel Bosna - an elegant, albeit faded, establishment not far from the Markale. Like most of the buildings in the heart of the city, it had been damaged by Serb shells and repaired. On the South wall, however, by the service alley, the rebuilders had left a series of pockmarks from sniper fire and shrapnel as a grim memorial.

Two days later, they appeared, draped in long scarves and shawls. They arrived in a taxi from the train station - I paid the driver. Toli gave me the usual kiss on each cheek and complained I was developing a paunch. I wasn't, of course, but future mother's in law always say such things. I moved towards Almira, but Toli told me sharply I couldn't touch a Moslem woman in public - even if she was my fiance. Upstairs, in the room I'd reserved for them, it was a different story - though barely so. I got to hold her for half a minute - Almira cried - while Toli looked on warily.

"You say she must be interviewed?" Toli asked. "She has filled in their forms - why is this so?"

"Because they are British?" I suggested. "Then she must apply to the German embassy for a visa."

"So many forms," Toli shook her head. "It's worse than when Tito ruled."

"When you are ready, I'll take you shopping," I told them.

"You mustn't spend your money," Toli objected - but, not vehemently.

We later cruised among the throngs at the Markale, where Chinese knock offs of well known European brands jostled with the genuine articles - CDs, DVDs, clothes, perfume, pots and pans, pets, tapestry, handcrafts, fruit and vegetables and canned, pressed lamb made in America. Virtually everything could be had there - even prostitutes, in the narrow alleys. I bought Almira some French perfume and a red dress that Toli complained was 'immodest.' For her mother, some cushions she liked and a bed. Alijan would receive tins of Turkish tobacco, a carved calabash made from Tanzanian meerschaum and a coat. The women returned to the Bosna in high spirits while I lamented the absence of Bosnian marka notes in my wallet.

The women had rarely seen television, let alone the multiplicity of channels available at the Bosna. I found Toli flicking happily through the remote and asked her for permission to take Almira for lunch. She was due to see Samuel at two and I thought I'd take the opportunity to prepare her a little.Toli reluctantly agreed - no doubt she was distracted by some subtitled American soap opera. Regardless, Almira ran to her room and slipped on the red dress I'd bought her. She joined me, flushed and excited, having sneaked past her mother while she was glued to the screen.

Although tame by Western standards, the dress displayed a fair bit of leg and molded itself to her body. A vee neck betrayed a hint of cleavage, that Almira tried to hide with her shawl. She looked like any beautiful Western woman you might meet on the streets of Berlin, Paris or London. A strong scent about her betrayed the fact she'd been a little too liberal and my head swam - reminiscent, perhaps, of a swanky Paris club rather than a Sarajevo hotel corridor. I put my arm around her waist to guide her to the elevator and she giggled, resting her head on my shoulders.

I recall she gave me a little kiss on the cheek - perhaps in joy - but, the discretionary part of brain was shutting down. My raging hormones were waiting for the go ahead. I brought her face in for a proper kiss.

All I could think of was, now, I had Almira alone. I kissed and kissed her, growing increasingly passionate and my hand ran down her back to press her bottom closer. Up for air, she was flushed and panting heavily. I noticed a look of surprise or confusion, but that didn't stop my desire for her. I looked down the corridor and found a cleaning cupboard with the door ajar. Tactically, I should have thought there ought to be a cleaner nearby, but that didn't enter into the calculation. I drew her down the hall and pulled her into the cupboard, kicking the door closed.

In the West, such antics would've been commonplace - particularly between an engaged couple. My sister frequently spent the night with her American officer well before the engagement, let alone the wedding. Even so, I don't remember using that as a justification - I simply wanted her then and there - in the cleaning cupboard of a hotel - it made little difference.

Almira said nothing, I remember, but looked at me with those startled, dark eyes. Only a little light entered that tiny room, but it was enough. I continued to kiss her while I sought access to her body. Her dress buttoned down the front and they were hard to get to without pushing her away a little. Instead, I felt her breast - she had large and prominent nipples and they were evident in the palm of my hand. With my other hand, I found the hem of her dress and lifted. That's when she gasped.

"No!" she breathed.

I took little notice, and continued to inch up her dress. Eventually, I managed to insinuate my hand between her legs until I cupped her sex.

"No!" she gasped again. "Not here, not yet!" I stopped and looked in her face. It appeared she was about to cry and her confusion had been replaced by fear. "I want wedding night," she said. "My wedding night..." she trailed off.

Just then came a booming voice. The door was thrown open and a large woman in headscarf and apron shouted at me in Bosnian. Almira looked stricken and buried her face. Like thieves, we scuttled out with the cleaner speeding us on our way. My last glimpse of her was through the rapidly closing elevator door. I believe she was smiling.

Almira was quiet as we ate in a small Turkish cafe off the Markela, in Stari Grad. I looked out across the river to Centar, and the glass towers that had sprung up since the war. I played with my kepab, awhile, and sipped the sweet, black, gritty coffee. She watched me anxiously - aware, perhaps, of my feelings of shame. Almira could always read my moods like a book.

"I'm sorry," she told me.

I was startled out of my mood. "Why?" I asked.

"I not want, ah ... I, ah, disappoint."

"Almira," I replied. "I didn't treat you with respect. You understand this word?" She nodded, slowly. Her face broke out in a grin - I was confused. "What's funny?" I asked.

"Huh? Oh, ah, I don't have the words."

"Try?"

"Ah, after wedding, we do such things - on big bed with, ah, dim light, yes? Petal of roses - all over. I come to you with, ah, sexy night, ah, um..."

"With 'a sexy nightie'?" I suggested.

"Da, da!" she blushed. "It will be red, yes, or pink? You like pink? And you may do those things."

"Yes, we will," I told her, holding her hand.

During our two years of marriage I have often reminded her of that promise.

I was not allowed to accompany her into the interview. She had but a woman translator who would also be her chaperone. Moslem girls can't be interviewed by a man alone, according to the strict rules governing the High Representative Authority. I waited impatiently outside in the waiting room, leafing through a stack of magazines in various languages. The newest of them was two months old, except for 'Time, ' but it was the Serbian language edition. Georgi W Bush had been elected President of the United States, I remember reading, even though the words were in Cyrillic. I wondered how a Republican administration would affect our mission here in Bosnia. Accusations had been flying about how the Americans and their British allies had not pressed the Serbians very hard in turning over war criminals. I hoped this situation would change - Almira and her people deserved justice.