“Have you had anything to eat in the last five minutes?” they want to know after we’ve ran up the stairs of their five story building, daubed lollipop pink with a statue of a voluptuous lady balancing on a ledge. They’re on the top floor, in what used to be an unused attic.
Wooden beams cut through every room, against the ceiling and on the floor as well. Beyond the windows bustles a gleaming town, varnished in drizzle.
“…no…?” I carefully reply.
“Wonderful!” they exclaim. “We just cooked up a horse, so start at the tail end and work your way up from there. How come your bags are so heavy?”
“… I brought some books…?”
“You don’t need books on a holiday in Belgrade! You need to travel light.”
“No! Leave me my Brysons! Unhand the Peterson!”
“Calm down and have another hunk a horse.”
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