Searching for Stolen Love, Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Yelena awakened. Her last conscious thought flashed through her mind. She remembered Keith was hurt, and she struggled to breathe as blackness blanketed her thoughts.

  Now, she was awake. She stood up, but the walls held their ground. She hit a wall with her right hand, and the wall did not bulge. She turned and hit the next wall. Then the next. Finally, she struck a thick, wooden door. She looked down and saw a line of light, illuminating the bottom of the door.

  Her kidnappers had locked her inside a dark, dank closet. She felt for her watch, but it was gone. Then she reached into her jeans pocket for her cell phone, but felt nothing there.

  Yelena reached across empty space, moving her hand up and down the door. Finally, her trembling hand brushed against the doorknob. Then she gripped the doorknob and slowly turned the knob back and forth, but it remained lock.

  Yelena clenched her hands into fists and pounded on the door. She struck the door with the bottom parts of her fists while she screamed, “Let me out of here. Let me out of here….”

  After several minutes of pounding, someone kicked the bottom of the door, and the door shivered in its frame. Then he shouted, “Shut up bitch. I can hurt you real bad.”

  “Please, don’t hurt me. Please let me go.”

  She put her ear against the door, but she heard only the TV in the background.

  Yelena started pounding on the door again, screaming, “Let me go! Let me go…”

  “I said, “Shut the fuck up.”

  Then a muffled explosion penetrated through the door as a bullet whizzed above her head and buried itself into the wall.

  Yelena quieted and slid down the back wall to sit down. After fifteen minutes, she heard several Bosnian men talking outside the closet door, but the thick wooden door muffled their loud voices.

  Then a small stream of tears flowed down Yelena’s face as she cradled her head in her hands. She knew what it meant for a poor girl in Bosnia to be kidnapped. Her kidnappers will sell her in the sex trade. She heard many stories of girls kidnapped from the villages. These stories were old and only happened after the Bosnian War, but she had heard of some poor families selling their daughters to the traffickers, because poverty could not satisfy their hunger.

  Yelena remembered her last thoughts before being kidnapped. She had planned to meet Keith at the large water fountain at the city’s center at 9 o'clock after work.

  Yelena was excited all day long, and she couldn’t wait to see Keith. Her boss noticed her excitement and let her leave early from work. She smiled deeply and rushed out the door, and sat on the bench to wait for him. She shivered as she waited on the cold bench as the bitter cold reddened her cheeks and nose, turning them a rosy red.

  Yelena glanced at her watch. It was five minutes before nine. She noticed two large Bosnian men approaching her. She scanned the courtyard but saw no one else. She positioned herself, ready to spring up and make a run for it.

  Then Yelena noticed the men wore dark brown uniforms with the university’s logos on the upper left sleeves, Keith’s university. One man neared his 60s with all gray hair while the other one was in his 20s who appeared to be a muscular, dumb village boy.

  The younger stranger stated, “Oh, you must be Yelena. We have bad news for you. Keith was hurt. He’s in the hospital. He needs your help.”

  Yelena leaped up from the bench while her eyes widened and the creases deepened across her forehead. Her voice shrieked, “Is he al-”

  Before Yelena realized what happened, she felt strong arms grab her from behind as a moist cloth covered her mouth. She struggled and twisted and kicked the grabber’s shins while her thoughts started fading and darkness swallowed her. Then she awakened in this dark closet.

  Then Yelena began crying, softly at first, but the stream of tears began gushing as she thought about her predicament. She wished Keith would show up and rescue her.

  Then Yelena remembered the first time she met Keith and had their first conversation…

  …Yelena had a day off from work on a Thursday night. She usually stayed at her work to socialize because her boss gave her a discount, stretching her meager monthly salary. Sometimes, when the other workers were not looking and busy with the customers, her boss would slip her a free drink or two.

  She met Keith in late September as the nights stretched longer, and cold winter snuck closer by the day. The trees transformed into a canopy of browns, reds, oranges, and yellows as nature’s artist threw paint onto a green canvas. Vibrant colors filled the surrounding mountainsides. Then a Bosnian winter would add the final brush strokes and cover everything with a brilliant white.

  That Thursday night was typical as patrons smoked their cigarettes. As one smoker extinguished a cigarette, he or she would immediately like up another one. Bosnians refused to give their lungs any breaks, and the cafe quickly filled up with a thick, choking haze. If a nonsmoker happened to pop in the place and drink a beer or coffee, he or she would develop lung cancer after several hours of exposure or at least a severe case of bronchitis.

  Yelena sat across from her friend, Teah. Teah had long, blonde curly hair with a voluptuous body. Her Slavic features attracted many male suitors.

  Yelena saw the door open, and Keith and his old friend, Karl walked into the cafe. They sat at a free table near the entrance, and Keith scooted his chair and partially blocked the entrance. One patron stumbled and almost tripped over the chair’s leg, but he grabbed and steadied himself by holding the doorknob. He squinted at Keith and clenched his fists.

  Keith said, “Sorry, but I’m not looking for trouble.” Then Keith stared at the man.

  The patron turned and stumbled out the door.

  Teah noticed Yelena's sly eye movement and turned to study the new guests and the tiny confrontation. After a minute, Teah blurted, “They’re definitely not from around here. They’re certainly not Bosnian,” as her voice shrieked across the room. If her voice were slightly higher, everyone’s glass mug would shatter.

  Several Bosnian men sitting at the next table turned to glance at Teah, curious at first, and then their molesting stares probed Teah's feminine features.

  Teah, at first, smiled at them and then her smile contorted into a frown. If Teah were a traffic light, wreaked cars would litter the intersection. The men quickly returned to their guy chat.

  “No, I think they’re American. They come to the café often and speak English,” Yelena replied while looking down at the table.

  Teah glanced at Karl and Keith again and snapped, “Are you interested in one of them?”

  Yelena reddened slightly and then sheepishly replied, “No, I’m just curious.”

  “Curious, huh! C’mon. Tell me the truth.”

  “Well. Well, I don't know.”

  “Let me guess. You like the older one, huh?”

  Yelena laughed and almost dropped her cigarette onto the floor. Then she snapped, “I don’t think so.”

  “Ah, it must be the younger one, then.”

  Yelena looked down at the table.

  Teah added, “Aren't you going to find yourself a good Bosnian man?”

  Yelena picked at a loose thread, pulling it from her blue jeans, and dropping it on the floor.

  “Well answer me. Aren’t you going to find yourself a good Bosnian man?”

  Then Yelena lifted her face and stared at Teah, squinting her eyes, clamping her lips. Then she shrieked, “Are you serious? I’m Serbian. Bosnians don’t marry Serbian women. Besides, I don’t like Bosnian men. They don’t work, and they’re lazy. They’re always bumming cigarettes and money. What would I do with a Bosnian man? I would become his servant and work twice as hard in this café to support him.”

  Teah began laughing, nodding her head up and down, “I don’t like Bosnian men either.” She took another puff of her cigarette and exhaled, “If he’s an American, you can always get yourself a green card. Then you could go to America.”

  Yelena's face contorted in
to a frown, and she snapped, “Teah! I would never marry a man for a green card! I must love him first.”

  Then the women began exchanging giggles.

  Afterwards, Teah picked up her pack of cigarettes and tapped the pack lightly. They both smoked 'drina jedina zlatna,' the Drina River brand is the one of gold, which only sophisticated Bosnian ladies smoked. Both Yelena and Teah grabbed a loose cigarette.

  Yelena lit up her cigarette and passed the lighter to Teah.

  While they smoked, they sipped their espressos – a Bosnian tradition, where everyone drank copious amounts of coffee, even before bedtime.

  “Well, I would marry any man if he would take me to Florida!” Teah replied with a beaming fake smile.

  “Teah! You're bad,” Yelena scolded in an exaggerated, motherly voice.

  “Well. What can I say? I know what I want. I love the white sandy beaches around Miami and Tampa. Warm winters with no snow. Plus, I wouldn’t be in Bosnia!”

  Yelena’s smile deepened as she tilted her head towards Karl and added. “Well, he has a friend, an older friend, I might add.”

  Teah turned and glanced at Karl again. Then her eyes bulged out and her mouth opened wide, “Yelena! Pleeease! He’s old enough to be my grandfather!”

  They began giggling again.

  Then Teah added, “Well if he has a nice mansion on Miami Beach, then it could be a possibility. By the way he looks, I doubt he’ll survive another 10 years.”

  “If he has a mansion on Miami Beach, why would he be here in Bosnia?” Yelena added while jerking her head up and down sarcastically.

  Ladies smoked another cigarette and ordered another round of espressos.

  Teah sipped her espresso and followed it with another drag on her cigarette. Then she stated, “Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. When I finish this cigarette and coffee, I’ll leave. Then maybe your boyfriend will come over and sit down. I’ll even bump into his chair as I walk out. Then I’ll wait outside by the fountain for you for fifteen minutes. If I don’t see you in fifteen minutes, I'm going home.”

  Yelena just sat there. She wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say. Then she glanced at Keith again.

  True to her word, Teah did exactly what she said she would do. She slowly walked to the front door, and then she veered left and bumped into Keith’s chair hard. She replied, “Sorry,” in a thick Slavic accent and stumbled through the door. Before the door closed, she had looked at Yelena and had nodded her head slightly.

  Keith looked up at Teah, and then turned his head to glance at Yelena.

  Sitting alone, Yelena crossed her legs, tilted her arm that held the cigarette, looking sophisticated, and smiled when Keith looked in her direction.

  After several minutes, Yelena saw Karl and Keith huddled together as they moved their chairs together and whispered into each other ears. Then Karl quickly pointed in Yelena’s direction and nodded his head. After an eternity, Keith rose out of his chair and slowly strolled to Yelena's table, dragging his feet across the floor. He swiveled his head left and right, and avoided looking directly at Yelena. Approaching Yelena’s table, he looked confused, like a stray animal ready to dart in the bushes from the slightest sound.

  Of course, if he were Bosnian, she would have fun toying with his emotions, but Keith wasn't. He was different. Keith was interesting. He approached her table and asked politely, “Is this seat taken?”

  “No.” Yelena took another puff from her cigarette. Then she turned her head away from Keith and exhaled her plumb of smoke. She knew he didn’t smoke, and she didn’t want to blow her pollution into his face.

  Keith slowly sat in the chair and scooted the chair closer to the table. Yelena sat still and wondered if she should be mean or nice. Keith grinned and asked, “Do you come here often?”

  Yelena knew Keith was joking because he came to her cafe almost every day and always left a nice tip. “Sometimes,” Yelena giggled. Although it was a corny pickup line, his line was much better than what the Bosnian men tossed out. Usual the Bosnian icebreaker was, 'Could you spare a cigarette?'

  “I come here regularly and wanted to say hi. You make a good cup of cappuccino.”

  “Thank you.” Then Yelena asked kindly, “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a professor. I teach finance at the university here.”

  Yelena raised her eyebrows and scooted her chair close to the table.

  Educated men were difficult to find in Bosnia. Many Bosnian men skipped school and refused to do their homework. An educated man in Bosnia was like finding a pair of diamond earrings lying on a sink in a public bathroom.

  Then Keith asked, “At which college do you study?”

  “I’m not in college yet. I must work here at this café. Once I save enough, then I plan to go to college.”

  “I can relate. The university, where I teach, is very expensive.”

  “How expensive?”

  “I think they charge around 7,000 euros each year for tuition, but some students get scholarships.”

  Yelena opened her eyes wide while her mouth widened into a large oval.

  Yelena shook her head back and forth. Seven thousand euros were a godly sum of money, a king's ransom in Bosnia. Yelena felt her stomach squirm while stomach acid bubbled up to the back of her throat. During Yelena's lifetime, she rarely saw any money and doubted her long hours toiling at the café would add up to 1,000 euros per year.

  Yelena quickly changed the topic away from money, “So what do you think of Bosnia?”

  “Bosnia is a little different. The Bosnians seem a little distant. They’re polite, but they don’t form friendships very easily. That’s why I’m so surprised you are so friendly.”

  “Perhaps I’m not Bosnian,” Yelena mumbled, raising her eyebrows for emphasis.

  “Huh?” Keith uttered while his hands trembled.

  “I’m Serbian,” and as Yelena said this, she studied Keith's face to see if his expression had changed. However, it didn’t. Keith didn’t care about her nationality.

  This was the irony of dating in Bosnia. Many Bosnian males would be disgusted to discover a truth like this even though Bosnians, Croats, and Serbs shared the same ethnic origin. They refused to mix their races. They wanted to keep their races pure and pristine.

  “What’s your race?”

  “I’m American. I’m half-German and half-Irish. The German in me likes to work hard during the day, and then the Irish part likes to come out to party at night.”

  Keith laughed, and Yelena joined him.

  Keith added, “Sorry, bad joke. We don’t really care about this in America. I’m just a plain ole white guy. I imagine I would encounter problems if I traveled to Ireland or Germany. They would hate me in both countries,” Keith replied with a smirk.

  “Which university do you teach at?” Yelena asked while her left leg twitched up and down. She took the last drag on her cigarette and then smashed the cigarette butt into the ashtray as the red coals lost their fire. Then she looked up and studied Keith’s face.

  “I teach at the Bosnian University of Management.”

  Yelena saw the university many times as she walked by it on her way to work, but she never went inside. Yelena knew wealthy Bosnians studied there.

  She asked, “Do you plan to stay in Bosnia for a while?”

  Keith smirked and looked downward.

  Yelena persisted, “You don’t like Bosnia?”

  Keith looked at Yelena, “It has nothing to do with Bosnia. It’s just I am always looking for new opportunities. I plan to stay here for a year or two.”

  “I understand. I know Bosnia was not your first choice. Don’t worry Keith. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t pick Bosnia either.”

  Then they exchanged laughter.

  Then Keith asked, “What are your dreams if you permit me to ask?”

  Yelena’s smile deepened because no one showed any interest in her future. Unfortunately, the extreme poverty in Bosnia chased he
r dreams away, “I always wanted to own my own business.”

  “Really. What kind of business?”

  “I don’t really know. I thought about owning a hair salon or restaurant.”

  “I gotcha. You want to be your own boss, to control your own destiny.”

  “Exactly.”

  Then, Teah stuck her face in the front window and looked at Yelena, shaking her head back and forth, and sticking her tongue out at her.

  Yelena uttered, “It was good talking to you, Keith, but I must go. My friend is waiting for me.”

  Yelena stood up, grabbed her jacket, and began slipping her jacket on.

  Keith looked at her and asked, “May I call you, sometime?”

  Yelena hesitated with one arm in the jacket and the other arm dangling freely.

  Normally Yelena would never give her number out so quickly, but Tuzla rarely had any interesting men in it or even visiting it. She did not love Keith nor would she marry him, at least not at his time, but he seemed interesting. She needed something interesting in her rather dull life, something different, something not Bosnian.

  After Yelena slipped her coat on and brushed back her hair, she grabbed a pen and a small piece of paper from her purse and scribbled her phone number on it. She raised her head and glanced at him while she slid the paper across the table to Keith.

  Yelena reddened, smirked, and lowered her face. This was unorthodox to give out her number so quickly. She turned and fled out the front door.

  “Bye,” Keith replied in a loud and confident voice with a sly smile across his face.

  Perhaps she could fall in love with Keith, and he could take her away from here, far away from Bosnia. Then she could leave the 500-year conflict between the Bosnians and Serbs behind. They could continue to fight their stupid wars without her…

  A large slamming door had shaken Yelena out of her dream. Her tears moistened the front of her dress. Then she heard a new voice speak to her captors outside the door. She placed her ear against the door to hear what they were saying, scheming, but she only heard muffled voices.

  She thought about Keith. She wished she could be with him, and he would hold and caress her, and make hot passionate love to her one last time. Then she could leave the world with no worries, no regrets, and she would be at peace with herself. Then she could see her dead father again and run to her father's outstretched hands. She already paid for the Bosnian War, a war that was not hers, a war that took her father.

  She dropped her hand to the side and brushed against a board that wobbled. She shifted her position and worked her fingers under the bottom of the board. As she pulled on the board, the board screeched softly and gave away.