The European Chronicles

Mrs H had already pulled up the platform before I’d finished my coffee.

“Upwork,” she said, sliding the laptop across the desk. “Filter by location. Novi Sad.”

I filtered by price first. No point pretending otherwise. I needed a local, not a professor — no historians, no certified translators with their footnotes and hourly rates. Someone who knew the streets, spoke the language, and wouldn’t try to impress me with credentials I hadn’t asked for.

I scrolled. Faces, ratings, the usual performance of competence. And then I stopped.

Light blue shirt, buttoned to the collar — except above the collar something dark crept upward toward his jaw. Hair combed precisely to one side. Light brown eyes, serious, looking directly at the camera with the mild impatience of someone who had better things to do than pose for a profile photo. And the tattoos — climbing out of the shirt collar toward his jawline, a different language running underneath the formal one.

The contrast made me click.

The next few days were logistics. Hours, rates, scope of work. He negotiated without fuss, no inflated proposals, no flattery. Mrs H wired the deposit. Done.

The evening before my flight to Belgrade I was going through my notes when I realised the mistake. The original meeting time put us at the fortress at noon. I’d be arriving from the train with a backpack and three borders’ worth of travel grime. I wasn’t walking into a working day like that.

Without thinking I dialled his number.

A bar. I could hear it behind him — voices, music, glasses. Hello? Slightly surprised.

“Marko, it’s Elena Delange. I’m sorry for the late hour—”

He stopped me. A brief apology to whoever was around him. Footsteps. Then quiet. Outside.

“Hi,” he said. “Tell me.”

Two words. Unhurried. Proportionate. The bar was closed, shall we continue at home.

I told him about the train, the timing, the hotel. He listened without filling the silence. Then:

“What are a few hours in a lifetime, if that makes a difference for the better.”

I wouldn’t mind, I thought. I genuinely wouldn’t mind.

I.Ph.

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