by Don Fredd

Kumanovo is ten kilometers northeast of Skopje in Macedonia. As the crow flies it is less than one hundred kilometers to the Montenegrin coast and another hundred over water, give or take, to the Italian seaport of Bari. It took Magda Vanevic four years to make the trip. One could also calculate her journey by the number of men she laid as she bartered sex for food, transportation and life itself.

She survived the trek between1998-2002. She was a chameleon. Whether she was with Serbs, Albanians, Orthodox Church or Muslims she managed to adapt. The key was to believe in nothing while embracing everything of everyone around you. She could make the sign of the cross as easily as finding Mecca. There was a dash of luck involved, and she used her quick wit several times. She discovered early on that lorry drivers were survival targets of opportunity. A quick shag with anyone who had a vehicle usually bought her food and a few more miles closer to the western coast where escape to Italy might be possible. She began at nineteen, an attractive, dark-haired young woman whose sex appeal was not totally dulled by years without decent shampoo, food and lack of hygiene.

She was holed up in Kragujevac, Serbia for eighteen months, the concubine of a guerrilla army major. It was probably an error on her part, but she made the most of the time between his brutish sexual attacks by adding a decent vocabulary to her near fluent Italian. She gained ten pounds which added to her physical value. This was a blessing and a curse given the number of times she was accosted or raped. When Major Kralj was killed in an internecine dispute over the largesse from a plundered Moslem village, it took twenty minutes for her to see the handwriting on the wall and trade a series of blow jobs for midnight transportation to a refuge encampment outside Belgrade. From there she traveled a circuitous route to the seaport of Dubrovnik, arriving in June of 2001. Within six months she had sold herself or stolen enough money to afford a decent, forged Italian passport and ferry passage to Bari, Italy.

She was transformed into Maria Cosenza, an Italian student trapped in the Balkans while traveling on holiday. New Year’s Day 2002 found her just outside a major lorry lay-by area north of Naples. It took a day and a half before the right van came along. Her mark was Pierre Wegimont, a forty-eight year old Belgian. He was a “piggybacker.” He hauled Belgian beer to Strasbourg, cheeses and wines from Strasbourg to Basel and picked up whatever the Swiss wanted delivered to Milan. From there, load after load, he hop-scotched down to Rome and Naples where he had just loaded up a cargo of “knockoff” shoes and purses in from India which were destined for the tourist shops in his native Bruges.

Magda/Maria had scouted him since he pulled in for fuel and a few hours sleep. Her experience had given her built-in radar with respect to men. It was a gamble that he was single, but he was clean and had a pleasant, open way about him. She overheard his poor Italian and mistook his good French for his being a native. He did not have that leer of older men when she approached him for a ride. She spoke Italian and, when he faltered and brushed her off rather brusquely in that language, she switched to her best accented French, and it was then that he began to listen to her tale of woe. She was Italian. She and her French boyfriend had volunteered to do aid work in the Balkans. He was killed three months ago. She needed to visit his family in France for closure. She blindly picked a location, Lyon, where she was to meet the grieving parents for a day or two. Then she would be coming back to Italy to attend university and finish her art history degree.

He countered that no passengers were allowed; it was a strict rule. Hijackings were as common as cathedral pigeons in Europe. It was usually at this point that she played the sex card. But instinct told her not to. She did cry however, and her tears of disappointment were genuine. He refused again, apologizing as he did. She turned in defeat and began stepping away when he heard him ask her something. She waved her hand thinking he was wishing her luck, but he repeated it. He asked her if she would mind riding in the back with his cargo. He was going over the Swiss Alps to Bern and then on to Basel. He’d let her out there, and she’d be on her own to get further west to Lyon. She flew back to him and hugged him in gratitude. He was embarrassed and asked her when she had last eaten.

At a table in the self-serve café he dabbed at a salty onion soup and fresh bread while he talked about himself. He made this run twice a month. It took him close to a week to make all his stops. He was an independent, the truck almost paid for. He had over a dozen customers and could barely handle their shipping needs. His father had done the same sort of thing, but he’d expanded the route. He waxed poetic about the beauty of his hometown of Bruges save for the summer tourists, especially the Japanese who photographed everything in sight. He had a garden, a small house and enjoyed fixing up motorbikes. When he was younger, he fancied himself a competitive racer. He even entered a big event on the Isle of Man once.

It became her turn for details. Her entire family was dead. That’s why she found it easy to leave Southern Italy and volunteer to help in the Balkans. She told of the horrors she’d seen in that ravaged country and confessed that she had been kidnapped by Bosnians as well as other groups and forced to have sex with them. That’s when her boyfriend was killed. He was trying to protect her. Some United Nations people had come along later, freed her and sent her back to Italy.

When she finished her story, he patted her hand sympathetically and remarked how tough she was to have gone through so much. He went over to the souvenir counter and bought an American baseball style cap with the logo of a local Italian soccer team and came back to the table. If she would push her hair up and wear this, she could sit up front pretending to be his helper. With the number of trips he’d made across the Italian, Swiss and French borders he had gotten to know most of the staff, although it might be better if she climbed in the back or hid in the sleeper when they got close to the French border.

They had their first sex outside Milan. He had driven fourteen hours before pulling over. He volunteered to sleep in the driver’s seat. He had done it thousands of times. She could use the alcove behind the cab. She refused unless he used the bed also, and he begrudgingly climbed up, squeezing his bulk next to hers.  They were both asleep in minutes, but she was awakened a few hours later by the distant sounds of other truckers pulling in or, having rested, pulling out.

He was kind to her. She had long ago given up any guilt for lies she told to survive. She had to invent a way to stay with him. They would be near Basel within the next twenty-four hours. She knew nothing about Belgium except that she wanted to take her chances there. Near 5:00AM he began to stir. It was then that she snuggled closer, kissed him lightly on the cheek and began rubbing his shoulders and back. She had seen a nature video in school when she was very young which showed a ferocious crocodile lashing out at its handler. It was then flipped over on its back, its stomach petted.  Within seconds the creature was as docile as could be. Men, she felt, were the same way. Within a few moments Pierre reacted the way males in the Balkans and probably the world always would to her stroking and ministrations. A few minutes later he groaned in pleasure while she signed contentedly knowing she was well on her way to Bruges.

Twelve hours later and thirty miles south of Basel, in Solothurn, he pulled off the main road and parked at a motel. He was exhausted. He paid for their deluxe meal. They checked into a room and showered together before succumbing to groggy passion on an oversized bed. He slept for eight hours. She was awake after four. She went through his pockets and wallet. There was a plentiful mixture of credit cards and euros. She thought long and hard about taking the money but decided against it. He was not good looking by any means. He had bad teeth, was balding and beginning a paunch. He seemed older than his mid forties. But he was a polite, decent man. As a lover, he was less than accomplished, but she could care less about that. He was not rich, but he was the only man she had ever been with recently who had a chance to die of old age.

When they crossed the Swiss border into France, he never said a word. They both stared straight ahead. It wasn’t until they passed Nancy in France, one hundred miles north and west of Switzerland that she spoke up, wondering if they would make Bruges by daylight. He reached over and patted her thigh saying it would probably be late evening. He began a history lesson of two world wars as they went by Verdun and through the Ardennes. She had never seen such beautiful, rolling country in her life. As they neared Lille, the variegated yellows of the mustard fields swayed in the breeze mile after mile just as the sun began to set. She felt an inner calm when they crossed over into Belgium and whopped a genuine surprise when she saw her first windmill just as she had seen them in idyllic picture books.

His home was a small affair, living room, kitchen and two tiny bedrooms. It had been his grandparents followed by his parents. He had recently added a new bathroom and turned the old one into a laundry and storage space. He had plans for more expansion as well, particularly for a shed in the back of the property which he was about to electrify and convert to a small workshop.

The next afternoon he took her shopping and was peacock proud as she took his advice on what looked good on her. At home he made her learn to use the washing machine and run the clothes she bought through the cycles twice. He claimed he knew where many of the clothes came from and saw what infestations were in his truck after he unloaded. Within a week they had settled in as a couple. They watched the telly until late at night, slept past noon and prepared meals together, often getting a bit tipsy on lukewarm bottles of Stella Artrois before having sex.

The following week he had to leave.  There was a brief debate as to whether she should go with him. She talked him into letting her stay, explaining she was due to have her period, and it was always an uncomfortable time for her. The morning after seeing him off, she went back into the house and collapsed on the sofa in relief. She indulged in the happiness of her good fortune for an hour or so and then began to calculate how it could come crashing down on her. Some time, sooner or later, she would make a mistake, a slip up. Her forged passport had yet to be put to the acid test. She had visions of him being killed in an accident and the police coming to his house and finding her there. In her daydream she mapped out an escape route back to France and possibly Paris where she could make a living on the streets. Her reverie was interrupted by the phone. She picked it up as if it were a dead animal by the roadside. It was Pierre. He had just crossed into France and missed her so much already. He could turn around and come back for her if she really wanted him to.       

* * *

During the next year they settled into a routine of his one week on, one week off work schedule. She met some of the neighbors. He bought her a ring which she wore to avoid questions. She cooked as best she could and he ate it as politely as he could. He invited his friends over while she acted the enthusiastic hostess. They were truckers. They drank beer, talked engines and created a list of injustices incurred because of various corrupt agencies and governments. As the night wore on she withdrew to the bedroom and waited it out as she might a summer storm.

When she said she was bored he suggested part-time work, maybe something every other week to fit his schedule. There was always need for  shop assistants and she could speak several languages. The issue was that German and most particularly English were in demand. She had no knowledge of the former and was just beginning to scratch the surface of the latter using TV programs. She did enjoy shopping by herself on the weeks he was gone. He always left her money and encouraged her to buy things. At times she did, selecting the cheapest goods and keeping the change in a hiding place.

One afternoon as she sat along the canal indulging in an ice cream, she heard people go by speaking her childhood, Macedonian language. They looked like a married couple with a young daughter and a set of grandparents on holiday. She felt a touch of homesickness then revulsion as she watched how they behaved. The old woman in black from head to toe was spitting out orders, warnings to the grandchild non-stop. She got up and followed them as they criticized the landscape and people in it thinking their words were safe from censure. After ten minutes she gave up the chase. They were what she had run from. When she got home she looked at what she had gained in the course of her year with Pierre. Later that night she called him and had him pull over while they held a prolonged phone sex session. The next morning, however, as she looked around and tried to plan her day, she suffered from the same ennui that had troubled her the past months.             

When he came home she was distant.  He wanted to know what was wrong. Was it something he had done? She remained silent. They went the rest of the week without a word. When he left on Monday morning he slammed the door after suggesting that she get over whatever was ailing her.

She used the week to plan. She was half his age. She had blossomed. His friends teased him. How could he have such a woman. She thought she might offer to go with him the next time, and when he got to Italy, escape. Maybe try to make it back to Balkans now that there was more order. Or she could leave Bruges and be in Paris in an hour by train. There she wouldn’t be tied down. She could go out, enjoy the evenings rather than sit with him watching boring Dutch or English Premiership soccer. Trains left every two hours. She looked at the calendar in the kitchen to check what the optimum date to leave might be and then noticed that it had been two weeks since her last period.

At first she thought she’d made a mistake so she rechecked the dates. She quietly sat down, brewed a cup of tea laced with brandy in an ironic toast to her defeat. She was trapped, probably for a least a year. But, as with Major Kralj, she wouldn’t waste it. She’d learn more English, and she’d have ample opportunity to sneak more money from him for her nest egg. She needed to be patient. The escape to Paris, even London, would come eventually. She shuddered when she thought of how he would take the news. How he would gloat to his friends. If it was a boy he probably couldn’t wait to take him on his first truck ride, buy him a soccer kit or tinker with those stupid motorbikes. And he’d undoubtedly want to get married! How pathetic.

<<>>