Chapter 7: Evening Lights in the Bela Ladja, white ship.

We had dinner at a restaurant perched above the Danube, the windows open to the river’s slow breath and the fortress across the water glowing, unreal and golden, like something conjured from a childhood story.

The air was thick with the scents of grilled peppers, wood smoke, and the faint mineral tang of the river.

I settled into the twilight hush: the clink of cutlery, the low hum of voices, the way the tablecloth felt slightly rough beneath my fingers.

I heard myself talk too much about my work. About conferences, articles, and the way everything seemed to drift further from the lives I was supposed to be studying.

“The cards are different,” I said, swirling the wine. It was sharp and earthy, Kardas Red from the Aleksić Winery, a taste that lingered on my tongue.

“They’re supposed to connect people to places, not just catalogue them.”

Marko watched the river, his face unreadable in the shifting light.

“But you’re still the one defining what matters.”

His words came quietly, but I felt their edge.

I tried to laugh.

“Fair point. What would you choose, then? If you were making cards for your own city?”

He was silent, tracing a drop of condensation down his glass. The air outside had cooled, and I could hear the distant call of a riverboat’s horn.

“As I mentioned, I wasn’t born here,” he said finally. “Novi Sad was… a new start.”

I waited, not pushing. The fortress lights flickered on the water.

“I met someone here. An older woman, no family left. She let me stay. Made me study. Sometimes you end up somewhere because someone else lets you.”

He paused, then continued.

“The sound of the fortress clock at midnight, when the city is quiet enough to hear it properly.

The way Liberty Square smells in October when the leaves are falling.

My neighbour Milica, who survived the 1942 raids and still makes the best Sarma in Vojvodina.”

I nodded, feeling the shape of a story he wasn’t telling. The wine warmed my throat; the glass a shield against the darkness of history.

“Those aren’t tourist attractions,” I said.

He almost smiled.

“No. Those are the things that make this place home.”

We finished our meal quietly, the city lights flickering on, the river carrying away the things left unsaid.

Chapter 8: The Family Monument

On Sunday morning, we visited the Family Monument—those gaunt, reaching figures commemorating the 1942 massacre. I’d read the history. Hungarian forces had driven Serbian, Roma, and Jewish civilians onto the frozen Danube, then fired on them until the ice broke and everyone drowned.

Standing before the sculpture, I felt the inadequacy of my camera. How do you photograph grief that has crystallised into art? How do you make a card from tragedy?

Marko’s gaze lingered on the monument, his voice barely above a whisper.

“My great-grandfather was here that day. He survived because he could swim, but he lost his brother.”

He hesitated, then continued quietly,

“Afterwards, he left with the girl he’d fallen in love with—another survivor. Later, when they heard Crna Trava was offering houses to construction workers, that’s how my family ended up in that little town.”

I lowered my camera, suddenly aware of its weight in my hands.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, eyes on the river.

“It’s not your fault. But it’s part of why I do what I do—help people understand this place. Not just the beautiful parts.”

The park around the monument was beautiful, as my research had noted. Families picnicked, children played. Life continues in the shadow of remembered death.

“The cards should include this,” I said, almost to myself.

“Will tourists want to buy cards about a massacre?”He asked.

“I don’t know. But maybe that’s the wrong question.”

He didn’t react, and I didn’t press the issue.

We stood in silence, the river moving past, the monument casting its long shadow over the grass and over us, a reminder that memory, like love, can be both wound and anchor.

Chapter 9: The Gallery of Matica Srpska

Monday brought us to Serbia’s oldest art gallery, founded in 1847.

The air inside was cool and faintly sweet, tinged with the scent of old varnish and something floral—perhaps the cleaning soap, or maybe the scent of bouquets left by visitors.

My shoes clicked softly on the polished parquet, echoing in the hush that always settles around art.

I moved from painting to painting, camera in hand, trying to capture the way history pressed itself onto the canvas with colour.

Marko walked beside me, sometimes a step ahead, sometimes a step behind, always attentive but never intrusive. I was aware of the subtle warmth of his presence, the way his jacket brushed my sleeve when we stopped too close together.

He explained things I would have otherwise missed: how certain paintings had been spirited away during occupations, how artists had smuggled meaning into their brushstrokes, and how the gallery itself had become a kind of memory palace for the city.

His voice was low, almost reverent, and I found myself listening more to the spaces between his words than to the words themselves. I watched the way the light caught in his raven hair, the way his hand hovered near a frame but never touched.

We stopped in front of a 19th-century painting of peasants at harvest. The faces were individual and specific, sunburned and weary, but also timeless. I could almost smell the dust and cut grass, feel the heat of late summer pressing down on their shoulders.

I imagined those same faces in the China Quarter, at Strand Beach, anywhere people worked and lived and found moments of joy despite everything.

“This is what your cards are trying to do,” Marko said. “Preserve something. Make it portable.”

I studied the painting, with its thick sweep of ochre and green, and the way the artist had captured the slant of the late summer sun.

“But these paintings aren’t portable,” I said. “They live here.”

“True.” His gaze lingered on the canvas, then flicked to me.

We both leaned in to read the placard, and for a moment our hands brushed.

The contact was brief—his fingers warm, mine still chilled from the gallery air—but it sent a jolt up my arm. He pulled his hand away, almost imperceptibly, and tucked it into his pocket.

Did he feel that, too? I reminded myself: he’s here because I’m paying him. I’m his client, not his friend. Not anything else.

Still, the skin on my hand tingled where we’d touched. My pulse quickened in the gallery’s silence.

I pretended not to notice, but the air between us felt charged, as if something had shifted. I glanced at him, searching for a sign that he’d felt it too, but he was already pointing out a detail in the painting, his voice steady, his expression unreadable.

As we moved on, I found myself watching him more closely—the way he stood just close enough to share a view, but never quite close enough to touch.

He’s always holding something back.

I reminded myself, I’m paying for his knowledge, not his trust.

May history be a present, though, as with most gifts, we’ll probably ignore the instructions and break it anyway.

Irena Phaedra

© 2026 I.Ph. de Lange All rights reserved. Published by CYcrds OÜ.