Searching for Stolen Love Read online

Searching for Stolen Love

  Kenneth Szulczyk

  I want to thank an old college friend, John Daubenspeck, for editing my manuscript. He really polished and sharpened my writing. If this story ever becomes successful, then he played a critical role in its success.

  All characters, places, and situations that appear in this work are purely fictitious, created in the writer’s mind. Although the places in the novel do exist, any resemblance to real people – living or dead – are entirely coincidental.

  I re-wrote my story, The Big Adventure in Little Bosnia. I tried to enrich the characters, tell a better story, and remove blocks of information that hindered the flow of the story. Of course, I re-wrote this story, so I could enter the manuscript to Amazon’s 2015 Breakthrough Novel Award, but Amazon canceled the contest.

  Searching for Stolen Love

  Copyright Kenneth Szulczyk 2015

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Kenneth Szulczyk

  Chapter 1

  I sat in the armchair in my apartment, watching the swirling snow blow outside through the large bay window, with a 0.38 Smith and Wesson lying next to me. Reckless thoughts flashed through my mind, like a springtime thunderstorm. The icy, cold gun was sandwiched between my left leg and the chair, and I shivered a little from its coldness. I had never owned nor shot a gun before, but I planned to kill Damir and Adnan and Jasmin, maybe not in that order, but I knew the world would be a better place without those three living in it.

  The radiator clicked and clacked as it heated the apartment. The January snow covered the town in a fog of whiteness and pushed the people into their homes. The streets were deserted, like they were during the height of the Bosnian War in 1995.

  I looked down to study my muscular arm, flexing my muscle several times. I spent hours pumping iron in the gym. I remembered when I was in high school, the other kids always called me a nerd, among other names, and sometimes I would arrive home with a bloody nose, torn clothing, and scraped knuckles. Then I discovered the school’s weight room. Every repetition I did, I became bigger, and every insult and lost fight melted away. Then one day, the kids stopped calling me a nerd and left me alone. I’m not athletic, but I look threatening.

  I should be happy the semester had ended, because I had a whole month off before the spring semester would start. But I sat in this chair, thoughts swirling in my mind like the blowing snow outside.

  I lifted the beer can and guzzled my fourth beer. I rarely drank beer, but I needed to drown my troubled mind with alcohol. I needed to slow down the blizzard of thoughts and plot a course of action.

  I looked down at the gun with the cracked handle and observed several nicks and scratches on the metal. I traced the handle’s crack with my index finger and wondered about the gun’s journey through life. Did a soldier use this gun during the Bosnian War? How many people did this gun kill? Were any victims innocent? But those questions were irrelevant. This gun had one more mission in life before it could retire.

  I pointed the gun at the opposite wall. My hand trembled under the cold weight. Under my breath, I mumbled, “Bang! Bang!” as I pretended to shoot the wall, but didn’t pull the trigger.

  I had never killed anyone before. Maybe I bloodied a couple of noses or blackened someone’s eye or two, but I never started those fights. Then I had heard many stories about Damir and his drivers. They were war heroes who knew how to use guns and how to kill people.

  My hand trembled and shook as I held the cold gun. Coldness terrified me because death can only be cold, like someone who lay dying, as death circled the body, like a defeated army during a war. Death must be cold, as warmth scatters in all directions from a cooling dead body. I don’t want to be condemned to eternity in a freezing hell, but I have no choice. Damir, Adnan, and Jasmin must die!

  I always hid this gun behind the radiator under the window. Because I knew someone from the university searched my apartment weekly when I taught a class in another city.

  At first, I was confused and thought my mind was playing tricks on me, exhausted from teaching and the long hours traveling in the car between cities. My mind refused to accept the obvious. A soda bottle or a bag of chips would be missing here and there.

  Then one cool day in November, when I returned to the apartment, I noticed a cigarette butt right outside my apartment door, and I smelled the faint stench of its smoke in my apartment. Then I saw the brand name, Bosna, which was produced by the Sarajevo Cigarette Company and was Adnan’s and Jasmin’s favorite. Only proud Bosnians smoked their brand, Bosna.

  I continued sitting quietly in my chair as another beer had slowed down some of my thoughts. Outside, the snow kept falling while temperatures hovered below the freezing mark. Being oblivious to the falling snow, I began to recollect the time when I first came to Bosnia and Herzegovina, the time when I first met my friend Karl and first saw my soon-to-be serious girlfriend, Yelena.

  I remembered the first day I arrived at the Bosnian University of Management…

  … on a pleasant August day. The summer’s savage heat flew south, along with the birds. As I approached the building, I saw an old cinema marquee, painted a fresh white with a bright red trim. Incandescent red light bulbs outlined the marquee, flashing and flickering during the night. The large red letters spelled out the university’s name. Someone posted smaller signs along the front of the building, “Now accepting students, please inquire inside. University has 3 million euros in scholarship money to award to top students.”

  I should have known something was wrong. The university president, Damir Kovacev, remained aloof and distant from the faculty. He placed the professors as far away from him as much as possible and housed them across the street in a large community office. The president barricaded himself in a large office at the back of the university. His large drivers, Adnan and Jasmin, guarded his office door, stopping any unexpected visitors from popping in.

  I had never met the president, but on my first day I paused in the foyer, studying his large portrait that hung on the wall. He wore an Armani suit and a smile, sitting behind a large mahogany desk. He held a pen in his right hand and appeared to have just signed some important document. As I studied the picture carefully, the president's smile seemed slightly contorted, as if he had forced himself to smile. His eyes were black, like two dark caves filled with cobwebs, dust, and poisonous creatures.

  I found it odd that I had never met him, and yet planned to kill him. I thought this Damir Kovacev was doing well for his country, but during my first semester of teaching, I uncovered his mass grave site, filled with bodies and human misery. Damir Kovacev was an evil man, a wicked man, who owned a university and was educating the next generation of Bosnians, Croats, and Serbs.

  In the beginning, I didn’t know this. I was eager to start teaching and thought I could educate the future leaders of Bosnia. However, I found it odd that the university reeked of an invisible stench. This stench was not the stink of a decomposing body buried beneath the foundation, but more of a feeling. The stench reminded me when I walked into a deserted house when I was seven to prove my bravery to my classmates. Everything felt wrong, dead wrong. Something evil lurked in those places, but it could not be described with just an odor. It slapped you in the face when you walked through the front door.

  Every morning, when I walked through the front doors, I felt a cold, ghostly tingle caressing my shoulders and back. Sometimes, I would glance at the president's portrait and his two black eyes would stare back.

  I met Karl Carlson at the university, a sex-crazed political science professor from Oklahoma. He was nearing 60 years old and continued chasing young women in their 20s and 30s. Karl still had a full head of w
hite hair with a clean-shaven face. Although he was slim, age assaulted his body daily while the blows left permanent marks. Large deep wrinkles covered his face as they were connecting the dots to his grandfather’s portrait. On his cheeks and chin, skin hung down in flaps as gravity pulled and tugged his skin towards the ground.

  I met Karl for the first time at the faculty office. As I walked through the door, he turned around in his swivel chair, and extended his hand for a handshake, “How ya doin’, partner?”

  I grabbed his hand and vigorously shook it. “I’m doing well. My name’s Keith. I will be teaching finance here.”

  “Oh, a finance guy. Well, my name’s Karl and I’m a political science professor.” He swept his arms in a large circle, “As you can see, this is a community office.” Then he pointed at the empty desks, “Just grab a vacant desk, and write your name on a piece of paper and claim it. But watch out for those computers. These computers are ancient. I hope you brought your laptop with you.”

  “Alright, thanks for the info. I have my laptop right here,” I stated as I patted my black briefcase for emphasis.

  I sat at a corner desk with a window view of the courtyard. Then I moved the computer mouse and waited several minutes until the screensaver switched to the desktop.

  Veronika, the HR manager, popped into the office.

  Karl bellowed, “Did I ever tell you, Veronika, that you’re the most beautiful woman in this room?”

  Veronica stopped, laughed a second, and turned to face him. She replied in jest, “Well Karl, I’m the only woman in this room,” Then she carefully walked around Karl and his eager, pinching fingers.

  He continued, “How about I take you out for dinner tonight, babe?”

  Veronica turned to face him. “Karl, I know you are married. You have a Ukrainian wife living in Oklahoma.”

  “I won’t tell if you don't,” Then Karl winked at her and added, “I can keep a secret if you can.”

  Veronika shook her head no. Her cheeks reddened slightly, and she smiled a little. She was a traditional Bosnian woman. They craved attention from the men, as long as the men admired them from a distance.

  I liked Veronika immediately. Her soft smile with her ocean of wavy blonde hair flowing across her shoulders and back. I noticed her hips protruded slightly as old age cruelly re-sculpted her body.

  As Veronika approached me, she held her right hand for a handshake.

  I rose and shook her hand gently.

  She said, “Hi, Professor Swanson. I’m glad you could make it here. Did you have any troubles?”

  “Thank you for asking. Everything is okay. But I’m still getting used to my surroundings.”

  “Great! I just wanted to welcome you to the university. I would also like to schedule a meeting with you. Bosnian government requires many documents. I need your passport and official transcripts. Could we meet in my office on Friday at 10 o'clock?”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Professor,” then Veronika turned to leave the faculty office.

  Karl studied her ass, watching her apple-butt dance before his eyes. As she walked out the office, he began salivating a little.

  I sat down and caught Veronika sneak another glance at Karl. I did not know it at the time, but Bosnian women competed fiercely for single men with a job. Although Veronika was still attractive, age advanced across her orchard and hid all the available men. She had better odds catching a shark in the salt pond located on the northern side of the city than finding a single, employed man. The young, single women snatched and married the good men quickly.

  I looked at Karl and joked, “Could you make it a little more obvious?”

  “You know me; I enjoy fishing. I cast as many lines as I can. Then I sit back and reel them in,” Karl replied.

  “How good are you at fishing?”

  “I would say if I cast ten times, eight women would slap me across the face, but one always says maybe and the other a definitive yes.”

  We exchanged chuckles, and then I added, “In statistics, we call this the Law of Large Numbers. As the number of propositions you ask women approaches infinity, you’re bound to get several yeses.”

  Then both Karl and I burst into laughter again.

  “So, how are you adjusting to the place?” Karl asked seriously.

  “Bosnia is different. I think I’ll adjust just fine, but I don’t think I can learn their language. Bosnian is a Slavic language, and Slavic languages are the most difficult to learn. After I earned a C in Russian, I never stepped into a foreign language class again.”

  “Don't worry about learning Bosnian. If another university gives you an offer, just take it. Don't ask questions. Just take the offer and go.”

  I began frowning. I asked while my voice wavered in doubt, “I don’t understand. What’s so bad about this place?”

  “Not here! They may be listening,” Karl whispered in hushed tones, pointing at the ceiling as if listening devices were relaying critical information back to the university president.

  Then at a normal tone, Karl asked, “If you’re thirsty, we can go get coffee. I know this great little coffee shop in the center of town.” Then he winked and added, “Waitresses are cute there, too. As if you haven’t noticed, Bosnian women are beautiful.”

  “That sounds great. Let's go.”

  Karl and I walked the four blocks to the city’s center.

  I stared in awe, and I scanned my head back and forth to study the Hungarian architecture while we walked to the city’s center. Tuzla remained untouched from the commercialization of the west. I saw no drive-thru restaurants or large, neon signs to steal the night’s shadows. Tuzla was a beautiful European city with large, spacious plazas, water fountains, cafes, shops, and restaurants. Any Bosnian from the 19th century would still recognize all the streets and places.

  I loved walking along the cobblestone walkways, not seeing a single car anywhere. These plazas attracted the pedestrians at night, as Bosnians strolled up and down the sidewalks. Their eyes wandered along the endless stretch of storefronts, scanning the crowds for friends and family.

  I noticed a coffee shop on every street corner. These coffee shops attempted to satisfy the unquenchable thirst of the Bosnians love for coffee. Most coffee shops only displayed the name coffee shop. Bosnians didn’t worry about fancy names. Once they found a good spot, they would plant themselves there for hours with no care in the world, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and gossiping rampantly about everyone they knew.

  Karl and I walked pass the Grand Fountain that sprayed water six feet up into the air. Then we stopped at a coffee shop that had 20 tables and chairs outside in front of the White Palace. We sat at a table, closest to the water fountain, so we could enjoy the cool September air.

  The sun felt a little tired today. Although the sunlight struck our hands and back, the soft rays lacked any strength. I heard faint rumbling of thunder in the distance, as storm clouds gathered on the other side of the mountains.

  Then I noticed a waitress moving from table to table. Her dark hair dangled halfway down her back. Her face was creamy, smooth, youthful, and she had the brightest blue eyes. She wore faded blue jeans that outlined the shape of her legs. I was not attracted to her figure, but to her demeanor. She smiled radiantly, reflecting her enthusiasm for the world. She only had begun her travels down the tortuous road of life, and life’s onslaughts had not worn her down yet.

  Karl began, “I see you are enjoying the view.” Then he glanced at the waitress and added, “As I said, Bosnian women are beautiful. Unfortunately, the war messed them up a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Bosnian War was particular nasty. Every Bosnian has a relative or friend who was killed during the war. Bosnian women tend to be distant and a little neurotic, but I heard if you do marry one, she’ll be a loyal wife. Just remember, you’re never to talk about the war during your lectures. Topic of war is taboo,
especially for outsiders like us. We never experienced their pain, or what they went through.”

  “That’s so odd. When I walk around the city, I see no evidence of a terrible war. Bosnians seem to be peaceful people.”

  “Tuzla didn’t get hit that hard. In 1995, a Serbian platoon arrived at the northern edge of the city. They launched an artillery shell that landed a block over there. That artillery shell killed 79 people, including children walking to school.”

  “Damn! That’s terrible.”

  Then Karl pointed east and added, “The memorial for the people, killed that morning is two blocks that way. They named it, Kapija. You can’t miss it. If you go north, you run into the slums of Tuzla. You can still see the bullet holes in the buildings’ walls, where snipers shot down at the city from the mountaintops. Of course, if you need some drugs or a little female companionship, that’s where you go. I also know this magnificent brothel there.”

  “Please, like I’ll pick up a prostitute,” I whispered. I wanted to make sure patrons at the neighboring tables couldn’t hear our conversation.

  “I’m only making a suggestion. I probably could get you a first-time discount.”

  I snickered and replied, “Dude, are you crazy. No!” Then I noticed Yelena was approaching our table.” Subsequently, I added, “Come on man. Let's change the topic. So what were you saying about the university?”

  Then the waitress stood at our table. She asked with a slight Slavic accent, “Hi guys, what would you like to drink?”

  Karl began, “I'll take a light beer from the tap.”

  I glanced up at her and fumbled my words as they became glued to the back of my throat. Then in a quick succession, the words stumbled out, “I'llllll taaake a-a-a cappuccino.”

  She cracked a smile and stared at me for a moment. Then she returned to the café’s interior to prepare our orders.

  “You got a smile out of her. Nice!”

  “Will you grow up? I’m not trying to sleep with every woman whom I meet. So, what were you saying about the university?”

  “The university is fucked up. You’ll never meet the university president, and he has a wicked temper. He fires his employees at will. You met Veronika today. Well, I bet you $20 she’ll not be working at the university by the end of the semester. The president will fire her for something ridiculous.”

  “Really? Why does he do that?”

  “I really don’t know. Lucky for us, he never talks to us. Either we intimidate him or he gets angry and fires us, then he has trouble finding replacements. Twenty Bosnians aren’t lining up to take our job, at least not yet.”

  “WOW! I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Also,” Karl stopped.

  The waitress approached our table, carrying a tray with our drinks. Then she placed the mugs on the table and the receipt near Karl, placing the ashtray on top of receipt, so the breeze wouldn’t blow it away. Next, she disappeared into the interior of the cafe.

  Karl picked up the receipt and uttered, “See, I told you. She likes you. She charged me for my beer but didn’t list your cappuccino on the receipt.”

  I snatched the receipt and read it. Sure enough, the waitress didn’t charge me for that cappuccino.

  I replied guiltily, “It must be a mistake. I will flag her down and ask her. So what were you going to say?”

  Karl took a swig from his beer, returned it to the table and added, “I was saying, the president is a control freak. He has his drivers and employees monitor the professors. Whatever you say gets back to him.”

  I squinted my eyes and frowned. I snapped, “Oh come on! You mean the university president has so much free time, he forces his employees to spy on the professors?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Last year, we had an English professor. She sat in the car and complained about the computer information system. We must put all the attendance and grades into their system. She said the database was stupid and was designed by a fourth grader. The driver, Adnan, listened to every word, and, the next day, the employment director fired her. Of course, last year it was Selma and not Veronika. The director fired Selma two months ago. Like I said, the university goes through employees, like a baby going through clean diapers.”

  “Damn!” Then I sipped my cappuccino.

  The breeze cooled my coffee, so I raised my cup again and gulped half the contents down. I winced a little as the strong, bitter coffee hit my taste buds. I said, “Bosnians sure like their coffee strong.”

  “Just like their cigarettes too.”

  I spotted two little boys playing in the water fountain, jumping up and down, splashing each other.

  Karl continued, “I don’t know if the president installed listening devices in our office, but I do know he reads our emails. So at work, you should never log into your private email account. You should never use the university's email system for personal emails.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Then I saw the waitress again and waved at her, “Miss! Oh, Miss! Please come here,” as my voice found more confidence.

  As Yelena trotted to the table, her smile deepened.

  I picked up the receipt and showed it to Yelena, “I noticed you didn’t charge me for the cappuccino.”

  “Oh! I apologize. I had problems with the machine, sir. So please don’t worry about it.”

  Yelena started to turn, and I added, “May I ask what your name is?”

  Yelena turned to face me, and she blushed a little as if this stranger had asked a taboo question, such as how old are you? How much do you weigh? Will you run away with me to Mexico?

  Yelena quickly replied, “Yelena,” then she looked down, turned away, and returned to the interior of the café.

  “Congrats, buddy. Just as a side note, Bosnian women are very conservative. You got her name today, but it’ll probably take you another two months to get her phone number, and then a year for the first kiss.”

  In the distance, we saw Yelena place another receipt on the table surrounded by young Bosnians.

  Then Karl blurted, “Yeah, the machine is busted alright. I think she likes you, so you have a challenge facing you.”

  Then we exchanged chuckles again.

  “Well, I do like challenges. Anyway, I may be stuck in Bosnia for at least a decade. The U.S. job market sucks really bad. I have no intentions of returning for at least a year or two. So, I have plenty of time.”

  “If you want a challenge, then a challenge is what you'll get. If you want to speed things up, I know this great little brothel on the northern part of the city. You can condense a night of passion into 60 minutes, and it’ll only set you back a hundred euros.”

  “Come on Karl. Seriously. I don't go to places like that. I’ve never been to one. I am not interested in taking off my clothes in front of a strange woman, a woman whom I don’t know.”

  I reddened a little because I never went to those places, but I must admit the curious monkey was sitting on my shoulders, and he wanted to know. I finished my cappuccino and looked my friend in his eyes, “Since you keep bringing it up, what’s it like inside one of those places?”

  “I've been to many of them around the world. My favorite is the Russian brothel in Yekaterinburg. They’re always the same. A young cute girl grabs your hand and leads you into a large room, and the Madam lines up all the available women. Then you choose which one you want and how long you want her. Make sure you bring plenty of money.”

  “How do you find those places?”

  “You ask a taxi driver or a hotel bellhop. They always know where they are, but you must tip them. I liked Yekaterinburg because she was good, and super cheap. I bought a woman for two hours, rented the room, and had a taxi driver waiting outside for me. The whole adventure set me back forty dollars.”

  “Damn! That sounds cheap. That poor girl! Aren't you worried about diseases?”

  “Oh please, at my age. Of course, I always use protection. I definitely don’t want to br
ing any more children into the world especially from a prostitute. Besides, I helped that poor girl pay for her college tuition. She truly appreciated my financial aid.”

  “Ah, yeah! Forty dollars really pays a lot. She probably got ten dollars to help pay for her school.”

  I paused for a minute to collect my thoughts, and then I asked, “What’s the wildest time you ever had at a brothel?”

  “That’s hard to say. Middle East is the wildest because Muslims strictly follow the Koran. A rich sheik will walk into a brothel and enter into a marriage contract with a prostitute. Then he can make love to her for an hour or two. After he’s done with her, he divorces her, and she’s free to marry the next man. This is all legal under Sharia Law.”

  Both Karl and I erupted into laughter again.

  Then I continued, “That seems so unnecessary. Go through all the ritual to comply with a religious decree. Besides, I thought Muslims could have multiple wives. Why do they need to waste their time with prostitutes?”

  Karl raised his eyebrow in confusion and uttered, “I don't know. You’ve got me. I guess the sheiks get bored with their wives too!”

  I continued my probing, “What’s the weirdest time you ever had with a prostitute?”

  “Weirdest time I had with a prostitute was in Dubai. While I made love to her, she reached over to the bed stand and grabbed an apple. Then she started eating ...”

  “What the …! In the future, you probably want to keep that one nugget of information to yourself. She was so bored with you, she decided to eat during…”

  Karl interrupted, “Or she was really hunger because I took too long to finish.”

  Both Karl and I exchanged laughter again.

  Several Bosnian males, sitting at the next table stared at us.

  “Okay, let's change the topic.”

  I reddened a little because I spent too much time studying finance in the library and rarely thought about the opposite sex. Although I am attracted to women, I wasn’t completely sure what to do with one, because a woman doesn’t come with instructions. I can’t enter her parameters into a financial calculator and figure her out. But, I found Yelena attractive, likable, even though I had to be 10 years older than her. I am definitely old enough to be her older brother.

  Karl glanced at his watch and uttered, “Oh, I’ve got to go. I have a seminar next week, and I need to work on my presentation.”

  “Okay. I should work on my lecture notes and prepare for my class tomorrow. Thanks for showing me this nice coffee shop.”

  Karl and I finished our drinks, and Yelena returned to serve a new table of young, obnoxious Bosnian men.

  I stared at Yelena again, and Karl asked, “So, how do you like this coffee shop?”

  “This was a pretty good cappuccino. So I think I shall return.” Then I slapped a five-euro note onto the table, placing an ashtray over it, so the wind could not run away with it.

  “Wow! That’s a good tip. Just to let you know, this is a poor country. Bosnians never leave tips. That waitress may think you like her.”

  “Well then I’ll let you on a little secret. I do like her. Besides if she doesn't want to charge me for coffee, then I’ll give her the money as a tip. I have a feeling this will become my favorite coffee shop. Of course, it’s the only coffee shop I have been to, but I ranked this one at the top of my list.”

  Walking away from the cafe, I turned and glanced at Yelena. Then she noticed and turned to look at me. Like a lightning flash, she frowned at me facetiously and raised her eyebrows. Then her frown softened into a smile. She raised her hand to her chest and waved goodbye so the other patrons could not see her hand.

  I nodded my head forward and back slightly. Then I turned and walked away. I knew I had plenty of time to chase after Yelena. I didn’t plan to return to the bad U.S. economy anytime soon with empty job interviews and forgotten resumes …

  I came out of my daydream.

  I shivered from a cold draft that found its way through the cracks and crevices around the window, as the wind chased the coldness inside.

  I wanted to shed a tear for my new friend Karl. The police found him on a deserted street with a gunshot wound to the back of his head. Then my girlfriend, Yelena, was missing, and the police had no leads. Of course, I know who the culprits are – my boss and his henchmen.

  Then I reached for my gun…