leatherwork and brass tea-sets, postcards of bombed-out buildings and pens to write on them made from spent .50 cal cases. I didn’t see any tourists haggling with the owners. Most customers, when there were any, seemed to be in uniform with SFOR flashes.
We turned a corner and the massive Gazi Husrev Bey mosque was suddenly there in front of us, pristine and white. They’d really gone to town on the renovation. Elevations had been re-rendered, strike marks in the stone had been removed, and there were brand new his’n’hers washrooms in the courtyard area.
The arched entrance was protected by a stone portico. Big carpets were laid out beneath it, perhaps for those who wanted a quick prayer without going inside, or to cater for overspill when the mosque was full.
There are different lengths of prayers for the different prayer times, and shorter prayers if you’re travelling or ill. They can be said alone, or in congregation. It’s pretty much a pick ’n’ mix affair to suit the individual. You can even combine a couple of prayer times, like some Catholics do on a Saturday night to save them having to get up early the following morning.
A lone man in his mid-sixties, wearing jeans and an Adidas windcheater, was kneeling and offering Salah [prayers]. His shoes were tucked into the racks provided. We made our way towards the side door, past a small shop window decked out with a lifetime’s supply of Qur’ans and other religious paraphernalia and two stone shrines to a couple of high-rankers in the Muslim world. Jerry couldn’t remember exactly who they were and actually blushed with embarrassment because he felt he should: after all, this was the most historic mosque in Europe.
We took off our shoes before going in. Non-Muslims are welcome in mosques; they don’t like you trying to take part if you’re not one of the faithful, but you can stand at the back and watch if you want, it’s no big deal. The two religions I had most time for, Judaism and Islam, both managed to create this sense of everyone being part of one big family.
The interior was cavernous, with a dome at least twenty-five metres high. Chandeliers hung down on cable and chain. The walls were decorated with beautiful framed quotes from the Qur’en. The entire floor was covered in intricately woven Oriental carpets.
Four old women had their backs against the wall to our right, heads covered and mumbling to themselves. I smiled, gesturing for their permission to enter. They smiled back and ushered me in. They gave Jerry a strange look, which made me smile: in a world of Muslims, he was clearly the weird-looking one.
The moment we stepped out of the hustle and bustle of the street, there was a sense of tranquillity I could almost touch. People seemed to glide across the carpets; voices were hushed.
I looked down and could see my socks were leaving sweat marks on the highly polished tiles. I shrugged an apology to the women.
They all smiled back.
Encouraged, I moved closer to them. ‘English? Speak English?’
They smiled even more, nodded and said nothing. I thought I might as well start asking about Salkic. I wanted as many people as possible to know we were looking for him. With luck, the bush telegraph would swing into operation. He’d either run for cover, or get curious and come looking.
‘Mr Salkic? Do you know him? Ramzi Salkic?’
They looked at each other and gobbed off, then just smiled and nodded again.
I had another go, but got exactly the same response.
I shrugged my shoulders and thanked them, then started to back out with Jerry. We put on our shoes and left.
‘You did well there, didn’t you?’ At least Jerry thought it was funny.
‘C’mon, then, we’ll go in the shop. Let’s see you do better.’
It turned out to be little more than a table covered with a jumbled selection of books and cassettes and other religious bric-a-brac. Maybe this was where the airport’s minibus driver had bought his greatest-hits collection. A guy with a grey beard stood behind the display, in a black tanktop over a white shirt buttoned all the way up his neck. He smiled at me and I smiled back.
Jerry tried his luck. ‘Speak English?’
He looked almost offended. ‘Of course!’
‘I’m looking for Ramzi Salkic. We were told he prays here. Do you know where we can find him?’
He didn’t even give it time for the name to sink in. ‘No, no. I’ve never heard that name. What does he look like?’
‘That’s the thing, we don’t really know.’
He opened his hands, palms upwards. ‘Then I am sorry.’
‘Never mind, thanks a lot.’
Dark clouds were scudding across the sky as we emerged from the mosque, and it had turned noticeably colder. ‘We’ve got thirty-five till Zuhr.’ I shoved my Baby-G under his nose. ‘Let’s get a brew. Pointless hanging around.’
We left the sanctuary of the courtyard and moved back into the hustle and bustle of the streets. A guy in a fluorescent vest was holding a fat hose over a blocked manhole while his truck sucked noisily. Paddy obviously hadn’t got round to sorting out the sewers yet. It probably wasn’t top of his list of priorities because, according to the waffle on its side, this shit-clearing vehicle was a gift from the German Red Cross. I wondered if they were being ironic.
72
There were cafes everywhere, and each one was a bigger lung-cancer factory than the last. Bosnians smoked like chimneys. Last time I’d been here the running gag was that if the Serbs didn’t finish you off, the Drinas certainly would. Health and safety probably worked in reverse here, like so much else. If they found out you had an extractor fan or a no-smoking policy, they’d probably shut you down.
We walked into one with lots of glass and chrome, cutting through a curtain of nicotine. We sat down and ordered a couple of cappuccinos. Apart from the smoke, we could have been in London or New York. The spectrum was the same, from teenagers sipping hot chocolate and obsessively checking for texts, to old boys on their own trying to make a small coffee last a lifetime.
The brew finally turned up just as Adhan, the call to prayer, sounded across the rooftops. Quite a few customers got up and headed for the till. We joined the queue, trying to get the hot liquid down us before we made the thirty-metre trek back to the mosque.
We walked through the wrought-iron gates, past men and women lining up in their separate, segregated areas. Little kids ran in and out of the legs of middle-aged men in business suits. Teenagers stood chatting to grannies.
Quite a few guys were already on mats in the drive-through outside, getting the prayers in early. Jerry and I mingled with the rest of the crowd, smiling at everyone as they waited in line at the washroom to perform Taharah, purification. You didn’t have to wash at the mosque: it could be done beforehand. Some just chatted as their kids ran riot. I’d decided we should split up to cover more ground.
Most of the people I asked about Salkic responded with a little English and a big smile, but they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – help me. Jerry worked another section of the crowd about fifteen metres away. He looked like a bad impression of Inspector Clouseau, and so did I, probably. I caught his eye and shook my head. He did the same.
The Qurran vendor was standing outside his premises, watching the crowd hopefully. Maybe he was anticipating a big run on his religious merchandise today. Then I looked at him more closely and realized he was actually studying faces. He was looking for someone.
I decided to up the ante. I stopped a young guy in a black-leather overcoat. When I asked him if he could help me, he replied in very good English.
‘I’m looking for a cleric, a man called Hasan Nuhanovic. Do you know what mosque he goes to? Is it this one?’
