John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.” She tipped her glass back and downed the rest of her drink.

Burke turned to go.

“Oh,” she said. “Wait. One more thing. He spoke Serb.”

“No shit…”

“The night he was drunk. His accent was terrible. I asked him if he was with NATO – sometimes, the soldiers pick it up. He just shook his head. So I thought, maybe he has relatives here. But no. He said he learned it from books.”

“In school?”

Tooti shook her head. “No. He said he taught himself.”

Burke thanked her again and went up to his room, where he looked out the window at the snow. It was coming down harder now, turning headlights into opalescent beams as the cars crossed the city’s bridges.

He lay in bed, watching the lights of cars slide up the wall and across the ceiling. It was all so weird. Nikola Tesla and Ayn Rand, talking Serb and crazy dancing.

With a sigh, he rolled over and closed his eyes. Beyond the window, a car was stuck in the snow, spinning its wheels. Tell me about it, he thought.

Seeing Burke in the lobby the next morning, the desk clerk nodded toward the doorman, a little guy in a magenta uniform with gold braid and epaulets.

Burke walked up to him. “Ivo?”

The doorman turned, surprised that Burke knew his name. “Yes?”

“Mr. Milic said I should talk to you.”

“Yes?”

Burke gave a little wave to the desk clerk, who returned the gesture with a smile. “Yeah, he said you might be able to help me. I’m looking for a friend.” Burke handed him a folded ten-euro note. “An American guy. Stayed here a while ago. About my age. Black hair.”

“This is Frank.” Ivo buried the ten euros in his pocket.

“Right! Frank. You know what happened to him? You know where he went?”

“Sure, he goes to airport. Bye bye.” Ivo held the door open for an elderly woman in a fur coat. Touched his hat, and smiled.

“Before that,” Burke said.

“You mean here? In Beograd?”

Burke nodded.

Ivo shrugged. “Every morning, I find a cab for him. He goes same place.”

“Where’s that?” Burke asked.

Ivo shivered. Then he stamped his feet in the cold, and looked away in the direction of the river.

Burke reached deeply into his pocket, and came up with a handful of dinars. “It’s all there is,” he said, and tucked the money into the doorman’s coat.

“He goes to the Tesla Museum,” Ivo told him. “More than this, I don’t know.”

Burke paid the entrance fee to the pale man at the ticket desk, and grabbed one of the English-language brochures. He was about to tell the pale man that it wasn’t really the collection he wanted to see, but then decided it might put him in a better light to take a turn around the place.

So he spent half an hour wandering around the museum, and the truth was, he could have spent hours. Knowing what he did about Tesla, the displays – working models, photographs, correspondence, patents and drawings, even the personal effects – were fascinating. The inventor really had been a genius. It was hard to believe his name wasn’t a household word.

Eventually, Burke got back to the pale man at the desk. “Someone said there was a symposium here. A while ago.”

“Yes.”

“Is there anyone I could talk to about that?”

“Yes,” the pale man said in a whisper. After carefully moving the hands on a cardboard clock to indicate that he’d return in five minutes, he led Burke up the stairs and down a corridor to a small office.

“Here is Dragoslav Novakovic,” he announced, nodding to a man behind a desk. “He is director.”

Novakovic looked up.

“This gentleman is interested in symposium,” the pale man said. With a courtly bow, he stepped back, turned on his heel, and withdrew.

Novakovic gestured to a wingback chair that had seen better days. He was a tall man with a carefully trimmed Vandyke beard, horn-rimmed spectacles, and graying sideburns. “Please,” he said, exposing a gold-toothed grin. “I am Drago.”

“Mike Burke.” They shook hands, and Burke sat down. Behind the desk, a computer clicked and whirred.

“I’m defragging the hard drive,” Novakovic told him, with a gesture toward the clicking CPU. “This piece of shit – you’ll forgive me – he’s on his last leg.”

Burke smiled in a polite and understanding way, but the truth was he was nervous. He hadn’t thought ahead about what he was going to say. And this was d’Anconia’s turf. They spoke his language, and he spoke theirs. He’d even given a speech.

Novakovic saved him. “So! you’re interested in the symposium…”

“Yeah, well… yeah!”

“We have abstracts, of course, but I’m afraid they’re what you call ‘sold out’! Even my copy, he is sold out. But no worries. We have more coming, two weeks’ time.”

“Great.”

“I can send you a copy. But we have expenses.” He gave Burke a regretful smile. “I think it’s four hundred dinars – with postage – unless you wish express mailing. This is one hundred eighty dinars more.”

“By all means, send it express,” Burke said and, reaching into his pocket, removed a business card from his wallet. Pushing the card across the desk, he counted out the money and tried to think of a way to jumpstart the conversation.

Novakovic saved him again. “So how did you learn about the maestro?”

Burke blinked. “Well…,” he said. And then it came to him in a rush of inspiration. “I was flying to London, and I got to talking with the guy next to me – an American, like me. Turns out, he was on his way to Belgrade. Said he had to give a speech. I told him I was coming to Belgrade in a month or so, and he said, well, in that case, I should visit the Tesla Museum.” Burke laughed. “I said, ‘Who’s Tesla?’ And this guy, he couldn’t believe it. ‘The greatest inventor in history,’ he said. ‘That’s what my speech is about – there’s a symposium,’ he said, ‘and I’m speaking at it.’”

Novakovic nodded contentedly.

“Anyway,” Burke continued, “this guy fills me in about Tesla and-”

“Now you’re hooked!” Novakovic declared.

“Exactly! I am totally hooked.”

“And here you are!” Novakovic announced. “That’s wonderful!”

“The thing is,” Burke went on, “I was hoping to get in touch with him again, but… I lost his card.”

Novakovic winced in sympathy, then brightened. “But this is easy,” he said. “We have only a few Americans giving speeches, so…” He glanced at the monitor on his desk. “If you don’t mind – I think it’s almost done. Then I get list of participants.”

“That would be great,” Burke replied.

Novakovic put his fingers together in a sort of steeple. “So, what brings you here to Belgrade?”

“Oh,” Burke said. “That!” He paused. “I’m a photographer. I’m taking some pictures for Travel and Leisure. ”

“Here? In Beograd?” Novakovic asked.

Burke nodded. “They’re calling it ‘the New Prague.’”

Novakovic chuckled. “Two years ago, Budapest was ‘the new Prague.’ Now, is our turn. Next year” – his hands flew into the air – “Skopje! After that, who knows – Tbilsi!” The Serb giggled merrily.

“It’s a beautiful city,” Burke said, running out of conversation.

“Yes, I think – ahhhhh! Now we cook with gasoline! I have liftoff.” The museum’s director hunched over the keyboard to his computer, and began to type. “I get participant list. We find your friend.” After a moment, he hit Return and the printer spewed out a list of speakers. Novakovic took a pen, and put a check beside half a dozen names. “These are the Americans,” he said, and handed the list to Burke.