girl on the right of the group at the bar.
“She is from the Ukraine, but she speaks English. Many of the internationals like her.” The girl was a brunette, her hair cropped short. She was resting her head on the shoulder of the girl next to her.
“Okay,” said Solomon.
“Send her over.”
“You can go upstairs now,” said the waiter.
“There's a room free. Fifty marks for half an hour, everything included. We have condoms in the room.”
“Let me buy her a drink first,” said Solomon.
The waiter shrugged and went over to the bar. He spoke to the brunette, who looked over her shoulder at Solomon, then nodded. Seconds later she had sat down opposite him. Close up, Solomon could see that she was very young. Probably still in her teens.
“The waiter said you want girl who can speak English,” she said. She had a thick accent.
“Yeah. I'm Jack,” he said, and held out his hand.
She smiled, showing teeth that gleamed so brightly he thought they'd been cosmetically whitened. The fingers of her right hand were stained with nicotine.
“Lyudmilla,” she said.
“Pretty name,” said Solomon.
“You're from the Ukraine?”
“How do you know?” she said, nervous.
“You see me before?”
Solomon smiled, trying to put her at ease.
“The waiter said you were Ukrainian,” he said.
“He said you spoke very good English.”
“Not so good,” she said.
“I go school in Ukraine but not much.”
“You're a long way from home,” he said.
“Not really,” she said.
“What about you? You are American?”
“English.”
“But you like American cigarettes?” She reached across and pulled one from his packet, then gently scraped his skin with a bright red fingernail as he lit it for her with his Zippo.
“How did you end up in Sarajevo?” Solomon asked.
“I came to work.”
“The money's better here?” he said.
“Of course,” she said, and snorted contemptuously.
“There is nothing in the Ukraine. Here there are UN workers, charity workers, soldiers. All with money to spend.” She smiled coquettishly “What about you, Jack? Do you have money to spend?”
“How old are you, Lyudmilla?” Solomon asked.
“You think I'm too old?” she asked.
“I think I'm old enough to be your father,” he said.
“I like older men,” she said, reaching under the table and giving his leg a squeeze.
The waiter reappeared and Solomon asked him to bring over whatever Lyudmilla was drinking. She grinned.
“So, you like me?”
“Of course I like you,” he said.
“Do you want to go upstairs with me?”
“Lyudmilla, I just want a drink.”
“You don't want me?”
Solomon looked her up and down. Dark green eyes, soft, full lips, pale white skin that looked as if it had never seen the sun, firm breasts that seemed to be trying to push themselves out of her bikini top, and long silky legs. If she wasn't a prostitute who'd slept with God who knew how many men to get from the Ukraine to Sarajevo, and if she wasn't young enough to be his daughter, yes, he'd have wanted her.
She misunderstood his look and stroked his leg again, closer to the groin this time. She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“There's a room upstairs we can use,” she said.
“Only fifty marks for half an hour. The sheets are clean.”
Solomon put his hand on hers and moved it away from his groin.
“I'm married,” he lied.
“Most of the men who go with me are married,” she said. She batted her long eyelashes and Solomon laughed. She pouted and crossed her legs away from him.
“You are making fun of me,” she said crossly.
“I'm not. Really, I'm not.” The waiter brought over a glass of what looked like cola and placed it in front of her. She sipped it, then licked her upper lip. Solomon took out the photograph of Nicole the head and shoulders shot taken from the wedding photograph.
“Who's that? Your wife?” asked Lyudmilla, still pretending to be annoyed.
“Someone I'm looking for,” said Solomon,
“She is from the Ukraine, but she speaks English. Many of the internationals like her.” The girl was a brunette, her hair cropped short. She was resting her head on the shoulder of the girl next to her.
“Okay,” said Solomon.
“Send her over.”
“You can go upstairs now,” said the waiter.
“There's a room free. Fifty marks for half an hour, everything included. We have condoms in the room.”
“Let me buy her a drink first,” said Solomon.
The waiter shrugged and went over to the bar. He spoke to the brunette, who looked over her shoulder at Solomon, then nodded. Seconds later she had sat down opposite him. Close up, Solomon could see that she was very young. Probably still in her teens.
“The waiter said you want girl who can speak English,” she said. She had a thick accent.
“Yeah. I'm Jack,” he said, and held out his hand.
She smiled, showing teeth that gleamed so brightly he thought they'd been cosmetically whitened. The fingers of her right hand were stained with nicotine.
“Lyudmilla,” she said.
“Pretty name,” said Solomon.
“You're from the Ukraine?”
“How do you know?” she said, nervous.
“You see me before?”
Solomon smiled, trying to put her at ease.
“The waiter said you were Ukrainian,” he said.
“He said you spoke very good English.”
“Not so good,” she said.
“I go school in Ukraine but not much.”
“You're a long way from home,” he said.
“Not really,” she said.
“What about you? You are American?”
“English.”
“But you like American cigarettes?” She reached across and pulled one from his packet, then gently scraped his skin with a bright red fingernail as he lit it for her with his Zippo.
“How did you end up in Sarajevo?” Solomon asked.
“I came to work.”
“The money's better here?” he said.
“Of course,” she said, and snorted contemptuously.
“There is nothing in the Ukraine. Here there are UN workers, charity workers, soldiers. All with money to spend.” She smiled coquettishly “What about you, Jack? Do you have money to spend?”
“How old are you, Lyudmilla?” Solomon asked.
“You think I'm too old?” she asked.
“I think I'm old enough to be your father,” he said.
“I like older men,” she said, reaching under the table and giving his leg a squeeze.
The waiter reappeared and Solomon asked him to bring over whatever Lyudmilla was drinking. She grinned.
“So, you like me?”
“Of course I like you,” he said.
“Do you want to go upstairs with me?”
“Lyudmilla, I just want a drink.”
“You don't want me?”
Solomon looked her up and down. Dark green eyes, soft, full lips, pale white skin that looked as if it had never seen the sun, firm breasts that seemed to be trying to push themselves out of her bikini top, and long silky legs. If she wasn't a prostitute who'd slept with God who knew how many men to get from the Ukraine to Sarajevo, and if she wasn't young enough to be his daughter, yes, he'd have wanted her.
She misunderstood his look and stroked his leg again, closer to the groin this time. She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“There's a room upstairs we can use,” she said.
“Only fifty marks for half an hour. The sheets are clean.”
Solomon put his hand on hers and moved it away from his groin.
“I'm married,” he lied.
“Most of the men who go with me are married,” she said. She batted her long eyelashes and Solomon laughed. She pouted and crossed her legs away from him.
“You are making fun of me,” she said crossly.
“I'm not. Really, I'm not.” The waiter brought over a glass of what looked like cola and placed it in front of her. She sipped it, then licked her upper lip. Solomon took out the photograph of Nicole the head and shoulders shot taken from the wedding photograph.
“Who's that? Your wife?” asked Lyudmilla, still pretending to be annoyed.
“Someone I'm looking for,” said Solomon,
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