The little house on the outskirts of Belgrade was almost too full of human bodies. Children, some as young as four and five, darted back and forth between the cramped corridors, playing games and only through some peculiar magic managing to avoid knocking down the many spindly tables and glass cupboards, filled with framed photographs and hand-embroidered doilies and fancifully painted dishes.
This was the house of Mirko's grandmother: the matriarch of a very large extended family, much of which gathered here every year for the Christmas holidays. An important observation: almost everyone present was a child, or a woman. The men in the family had not weathered so well the test of time, or of their society. Many were in jail currently- these were the fathers of the young children who played so freely- living lives of perpetual crime and incarceration, in and out, in and out again, just like Mirko and Dimitri had. Many more were already dead, including Mirko's father and grandfather- some killed in the war, and others afterwards, from the bad luck of a life of crime or the memory-pain that affected all soldiers, that led them into drink and darkness. The last time Mirko had come here, Dimitri had still been alive. Now, there was again one more absence.
(He wouldn't say this, even to himself- wouldn't form this thought in full, in case it hurt him irreperably- but perhaps this was why he had run away to exotic Argentina with Nairobi, after the first heist. It was too much to return here, to have them look at him knowing he had failed to protect his cousin, his war-brother, his closest companion.)
Still, everyone seemed happy to see him now, and Mirko unreservedly felt the same way. The children had all grown, and it was a joy to play with them. The women thanked him for the money he sent- the money he always sent, every month, even in his absence, to give them food and shelter and good education in a place that didn't want them to have such things- and embraced him warmly. He found himself more than once overwhelmed by these old scents and sensations, to the point where heat pricked behind his eyelids. The house smelled of rich food being cooked, another nostalgia to fill his senses, and the people moving back and forth from the kitchen to converse- all of them familiar faces, speaking in his native tongue- created a lively bustle. The years between them all fell away, as such things always did with family.
Mirko was happy to be home.
