Meeting Boris.

I had not really seen him before, because he had been sitting behind my back, while I was reading my book, and sipping my brandy, suckling on my pipe. This was my way of rewarding myself for the achievement of, finally, having mastered the pile of administrative paperasse on my desk. A work dreadful enough, for somebody like me, to pay oneself a modest dinner afterwards in the little restaurant across the road, instead of shopping and cooking for one.
Then he came over, approaching me from the side, with a little bow, pretending shyness, and with a smile.

His name was Boris, I learned when I invited him to sit down at my table. His original question, about the book I was reading, had only been a pretext for talking with me. And he turned out to be a Serb, what made it understandable that he had chosen me instead of the rednecks at the other tables. For them he would have been just another Yugoslav. And this kind of table rounds is not famous for welcoming the "Yougos".

Even though Boris did not, in any way, fit into the cliché. His hair dark, short and sparse in the front. In his fifties, not tall, but muscular. A square head on a strong neck, with a roundish face. Eyes a little squinted, like for observing me closer. He wore a green checked shirt with a matching green sweater. The kind of a little bit daring combination of colours you see with Mediterranean men of his age. He said he had studied law in Belgrade, and was an ex-pat since many years.

"Are you sad about what happened yesterday in your country?", I asked him.
He gave me a sharp glance. Yesterday Kosovo had declared its independence. And Boris was a Serb.
"It is a crime against international law", he said.
"But isn't it understandable, after what happened in the years of war between the groups of the population", I wanted to know.
"Couldn't it be a chance for both sides to overcome the past?"
And I added: "Or is it because they make their claim on historical Serbian grounds?"

That was when he began to talk about the Thirty Years War, starting from 1618 till 1648. Apparently a passionate reader of everything concerning history. Not such a safe ground for myself in a discussion. And not my favorite epoch as well, with its blood drenched struggles between the confessions and the terrible suffering of half of Europe's population for thirty years. But they had cast three of what he considered to be his compatriots out of some window in Prague, in the beginning of this war. And that was, where the heroism and the struggle of his kin had one of its origins, if I understood him well. I tried to shift to safer and less gruesome grounds in our discussion.

"I'd rather like to base today's political discussions on what happened after the French Revolution", I tried.
He seemed not very convinced, but accepted the topic. The ideas of the epoch of the Enlightment and what came out of them, politically and socially, are what I personally consider a more valid ground for the discussion of today's political themes in Europe, than what happened in the Thirty Years War. There was certainly still plenty of struggling for power in Rousseau's epoch, and Europe was far from being pacified by the victory of reason. But if, two centuries later, we are almost there, with the European Union, the ideals of the Enlightment draw a straight line, through all the wars since then, to this pact of reason against nationalism and religious conflicts. I must admit though, that not to see that these evils are still empoisoning our societies, would be naïve.

"I am terribly sorry to have to say that you are very naïve."
Boris said, when I told him that I saw no reason why the Balkans should not try to follow the same direction of political appeasement that was such a success in the rest of Europe since World War Two.
"Being a Serb, I will never be able to be close in understanding to the people from Montenegro. I can't help it, I just hate them. We'll always hate each other. "
He ordered another round of beers for the two of us and, maybe the influence of the alcohol made his mood more somber. It turned out that he hated the Kosovars as well.
"They produce too many children", he said "That's how they made it to the majority of the population on the holy Serbian territory, they are now stealing from us."
He stared at his beer, sadly.

That was when the waitress came over to ask, whether we would not want to end our discussion on wars for today. She was in her overcoat, ready to leave, because it was midnight and they wanted to close the restaurant. We paid, mumbling an excuse and put on our coats as well. I stepped out first, through the two doors, of the restaurant. When I stood outside, in the fresh air, I turned around to say goodnight to Boris.The door was closed and locked already. And there was no Boris. I waited a few moments, puzzled.

Had I spoken with a ghost? Boris had certainly brought up some of the ghosts I would wish so much to be banned forever from our living together on this planet.

That's how I met Boris. And I went home, musing.