We Trade Our Night for Someone Else's Day

a pause of only three years, would be won by a coalition of right-wing parties. At the same time a major drama was brewing among the representatives of the minorities, because the founders of ethnobusiness who’d reigned supreme for many, many years were finding themselves, for the first time, on unsure footing. Velimirović was still thriving at the national level, inching his way gradually toward the Croatian parliament on Saint Mark’s Square in Zagreb, but among the locals there was growing discontent with the way in which he had represented their interests. The vast wealth he’d amassed over the last years was in inverse proportion to the despair and neglect of the surrounding, mainly Serbian, villages. Feelings ran especially high after rumors circulated that at his new wife’s insistence he’d signed his own daughter up for school to follow the Croatian instead of the Serbian curriculum. Better that the kid had two hours extra every week of French and piano, instead of Serbian language and culture classes. And besides, once Dad won his mandate as a deputy to the national assembly, she’d be attending secondary school and university in Zagreb. And it wouldn’t do for her to be so far behind her peers in school. What was the point of learning about the Battle of Kosovo, anyway? Velimirović could only agree, while in public he continued fiercely to defend the model of ghetto schooling by which the children of Serbian nationality were taught according to the curriculum used in Serbia. He was constantly raising a ruckus about how parents, under threat to do so or by taking the easy way out, were forcing their children to assimilate as if they were the new kids on the block. Privately, he knew full well that children who’d gone through the Serbian school system while living in Croatia would not have equal opportunities, but he successfully bartered with peoples’ emotions, drives, and myths, as much as the situation allowed. The voices against him were growing more determined, and he had his eye on Councillor Arsovska more often now, greeting her with courtesy in the hallways. He was waiting for the right moment to approach her.

“No need to feel awkward,” he said softly after the final session, approaching her from behind and brushing her elbow in passing.

“Pardon?” Sincerely surprised, Brigita turned to Velimirović.

“Oh, you know, I meant about all this.” He knew she was a savvy woman, but he was wondering whether she’d feign ineptitude, and to what degree. Many eyes were on her; the mayor’s dizzying plummet had followed after her report, and word had it that she’d destroyed the man’s life by recording him, when all the rest of them were doing the same things, the only difference being that there were no recordings of their dealings.

“I’m not feeling awkward at all, don’t worry; I feel sorry for him, like everybody else does. That I reported him for bribery has nothing to do with all this,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes.

“Of course it doesn’t; I didn’t mean to insinuate, I just want you to know you have my support.” He was being discreet and equivocal.

“Thank you for that.” Her first thought was to shrug him off politely, but then suddenly this didn’t seem so useless and pointless, the support he was allegedly offering. Even if her party were to win the election, their victory would probably be a close one, and every hand would be welcome. Far too fresh in memory was the way her party had been savaged for its transformation into a criminal organization brandishing the red-and-white checkerboard flag, its far-reaching devastation of the economy, the thefts of unheard-of magnitude under the banner of social welfare. On the other hand, also fresh in her memory was the former prime minister, currently in prison, who, the Christmas before last, when he found the special coin in his mouthful of the traditional bread served at Serbian Christmas, shouted the Serbian Christmas greeting, “Christ is born!”—a rare move of his that was not a disgrace. And if he could make that concession, maybe this here wasn’t so unimaginable.

“Now there will be chaos; who knows how long this situation will last . . .”

“Yes, I hope everyone will be reasonable; that would be in everyone’s interest.” They uttered these hollow phrases while looking at each other, eyes shining. At that moment, in the spheres of the unsaid a new coalition was born, formed based on a pure, unsullied hunger for power. While wrapping up the formalities, Brigita spotted a young woman who was staring at her intently, standing by the door. She assumed this must be the journalist she’d said she’d meet. She’d have to walk right by her; no longer could this be avoided. She went over to her, and before Nora had a chance to say a word, Brigita said:

“Please don’t be offended; I know I promised to talk with you, but as you can see, so much has happened in the meanwhile, that simply isn’t possible now.” The decisive tone in her voice was firm.

“So I thought,” nodded Nora, looking deep into her and unsettling Brigita’s poise.

“Sorry, I’m really in a hurry.” She tried to slip by Nora, who hadn’t budged. “Will you let me pass?” Brigita was getting nervous.

“Will you tell me what you know?” She answered the question with a question.

“Young lady, I know what everyone else knows; please, find someone else,” she almost snapped at her. At that moment Velimirović came over, introducing even denser and more suffocating air to the space among the three.

“Oh, you’re here, too,” he said to Nora. She merely nodded, clutching her cell phone in hand.

“Come now, no need for this to be awkward; you are very unprofessional.” Brigita was visibly irate at Nora’s stubborn blocking of the door, keeping her from passing.

“Well, I guess you all are professionals.” Nora enunciated slowly, looking at Brigita and then at Velimirović. “You’ve always been professionals,” she said.

“Hey, get Zvonko; we have a