We drive for nearly three hours and he talks ninety-five percent of the time. I don’t mind; he’s very interesting and entertaining.
He talks about politics, Putin and the war with Ukraine, the drama with Trump, the politics of Serbia, how the Serbian president tries to appease everyone but has recently given Putin a slap in the face by refusing a leaders’ visit, the history and future of relations with Kosovo, even Canadian politics. “What do you think of Trudeau?” he asks me.
He was a young man when bombs were dropped on Belgrade and he worried for his family. But nobody he knew personally was killed. Many of his friends and family, some of whom were very political, keying his car and smashing the windows of his house after he took a much-needed job with the United States Embassy in Belgrade, have now migrated to other countries, primarily the United States. He finds this ironic and laughs. He was offered a job in Canada last year, but when he did the math, he didn’t think he and his family would actually be ahead financially, so he decided to stay in Serbia, even though the housing prices are so high, he may never be able to buy a home, not even a small apartment. “Besides”, he tells me, “there are benefits to living in Belgrade. We have the most beautiful women in the world.” Out of courtesy, I don’t argue on behalf of our French-Canadian women.
My driver tells me the story of one of his passengers, a story that made him cry, about a young man from Russia, whose father, who had never been in trouble with the law, was arrested and given a ten-year sentence for complaining about the uselessness of the Ukraine war. The young man, just seventeen years of age, was told that if he joined the army, his father would be released, so he agreed. But then three days later, his father died in prison. His mother took their savings to help the young man get to Belgrade, where it was safer. The young man had never traveled before outside his country and was frightened. His mother was also sad because she had just lost a husband and now she has lost a son, who she feels she will never see again but who she feels is at least safe. The young man now hates his country and has no idea what his future has in store for him.
My driver tells me about the history of Serbia, about the architecture that is strange and weird and influenced by so many different governments and cultures. He tells me the name and location of his favourite Serbian restaurant. He tells me the best meal to order – “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” – a great meat-based traditional Serbian recipe that sounds delicious.
He tells me about his first wife, who gave birth to their daughter and then decided she didn’t want that life after all and left him to be a single dad, and how he had to learn to do everything, to cook, to shop for clothes, to change diapers, even how to comb and curl a little girl’s hair, and how he was ostracized for being a single father at a time when “people had stone-aged thinking”. His first wife just died recently during some kind of surgery. He shows me pictures of his daughter, who is now in her twenties and I see that she is a stunner. He tells me about a problem his daughter had with an aggressive young rich man who wanted her for his woman and how it scared her. He tells me about her boyfriend who lives over in Romania.
My driver tells me about his current wife and his young son, not yet even nine years old. He shows me pictures of them together on a beach in southern Turkey, everyone smiling. He and his son have easy dispositions and laugh easily and he says that can drive his wife crazy sometimes, all the laughter, always playing games, never a moment of quiet. We laugh. While he is driving, he calls his wife three times and she calls him once. I wonder what it would be like to have a relationship like that.
When we arrive at my destination, I’m sad to say goodbye to my new friend. I have enjoyed his company immensely. But we do not have time for a long farewell. The Belgrade traffic is such that at a red light, he hops out of the car, pops the trunk, I grab my pack, pay him a tip, and run off between the cars before the light changes.