MARCH 16, 2022 – Upon entering the apartment in an old-style residential building, I knew that the Jovanović family was among the cultural elite—of Serbia, Yugoslavia . . . Europe. On display: Eastern rugs, antique furnishings, exotic collectibles, an array of artwork, thousands of books, and . . . a Bluthner grand piano.
As I marveled at these surroundings, Sonja’s older sister, Ana, and father appeared. My letter home captured my impressions: “[Her] charm and beauty were stunning. Next entered the father, Dr. Arsen Jovanović, a brilliant scholar, humorist, and passionate lover of art. He’s a retired economics professor who spent a year lecturing at Harvard and another five months touring America (in a ’55 Chevy!). He loved his time in the U.S. and showered me with kindness, generosity, and hospitality.
“But we’d come to hear Sonja perform . . . She started off with Bach advanced to Beethoven, slipped in a Mozart sonata, and finished with a couple of Chopin nocturnes. Oh yes—a bit of Mendelssohn too . . . Her impeccable technique was matched by remarkably mature musicality.
“When the recital ended, Arsen invited [Sonja’s friends and me] to stay for a ‘light meal.’”
By this time, the charming Mrs. Jovanović had arrived at the apartment—with groceries that would be contributed, she soon realized, to the ‘light meal.’ She was Arsen’s intellectual and cultural equal and came from a long line of Serbian diplomats.
The couple assembled “the finest Serbian gastronomical experience one could imagine,” as I described it in my letter home. “First came fine Yugoslavian wines and hors d’oeuvres; next, salad and cheese, followed by the main course—Serbian steak—and finally, an exquisite custard dessert.”
The letter continued: “[We] talked politics long and hard, but my eyes often drifted to Ana’s corner of the table, and much to my distraction, her eyes were always waiting. I think she should be an actress, as well as a director.” (She’d studied filmmaking abroad.) As I’d learn over the course of my extended time with the family, Ana could out-dive, out-swim anyone—including her father—who dared plunge into the deep intellectual waters under her command. Over the ‘light meal,’ however, she was an attentive observer.
“[Arsen’s] brilliant,” I wrote, “and his analyses are mixed with a healthy sense of humor. He’s a revisionist Marxist who [. . .] hates the Russians [an anti-traditionalist disposition, since historically, Serbia and Russia had enjoyed close political and cultural ties], and who understands the Americans better than we ourselves . . . Though a ‘Marxist,’ he recognizes the benefits of free enterprise (a defiant sign of revisionism).”
After dessert, the family invited me to join them for a week or two at their villa in Medulin, a small town at the tip of Istria at the top of the Adriatic.
By mid-afternoon, my letter reported, Sonja, and her friends, Asoa, Ratsko, and Biljana, and I left Ana, Arsen, and Mrs. Jovanović and walked to the railroad station to see my hostel friends off. For another five hours, the young Serbians led me on a guided tour of Belgrade.
That day: a traveler’s “Bingo!”
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
