Swallows of Mostar

Excerpt

Swallows of Mostar
Neira Fazlovic © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Čudna jada od Mosta grada

The morning sun was warm against Franka’s skin, and the pleasant summer wind ruffled her hair. Her lungs eagerly took in the first wisps of fresh air after weeks of being stuck inside with nothing but textbooks and math equations to keep her company. She leaned against the cold, stone wall of the ancient street that led to the Old Bridge, as the sweet and nutty taste of her ice cream caused her brain to produce some much-needed serotonin. With the River Neretva carrying away her worries, Franka looked up at the bright sun and smiled for the first time in weeks.

The scene in front of her was a common sight in this part of Mostar. The lanky guide was probably barely out of high school, with a subtle Slavic accent in his English and a vocabulary that could use a bit more work. Still, his flock of tourists (Canadian retirees, if Franka was correct) seemed interested in what he had to say about the city of Mostar, the often overlooked jewel of Southern Europe, as he called it, even if they probably could have read most of his speech on Wikipedia. Today, Franka didn’t mind because, only moments ago, a miracle happened: after two years of living in this city, she finally effortlessly understood a single sentence of the language.

The sentence was uttered, or to be more precise, yelled, through a thick accent by a tall young woman in a traditional Bosnian costume who sold trinkets to the tourists at the store closest to the Old Bridge. To be perfectly honest, the sentence wasn’t overly complex, but it was more than a hello or a plea to buy some souvenirs Franka would have recognized even before she was so cruelly punished by the gods and forced to live in Mostar. It wasn’t even directed to Franka or any other tourist, but to Ado, a short young man (at least, short for the land of giants that was Bosnia and Herzegovina) who was now running past Franka in only his bikini bathing suit, sporting a very smug grin on his youthful face. The sentence was simple, but it might as well have been poetry to Franka. “Ado, idiote, ne naginji se na ogradu, neki kreten ju je jučer razvalio!”

Some jerk busted the fence yesterday, and Ado was a fool for leaning against it. What a lovely statement!

Croatian was needlessly complicated, in Franka’s humble American opinion. So was Bosnian. And Serbian. Mostly because they were the same language with a few subtle differences, no matter what the native speakers would like to argue. Declinations, verb changes, and grammar cases, not to mention genders were all entirely unnecessary. Who decided “river” was female and “bridge” was male, and can their descendants pay for making Franka’s life in the city of Mostar somehow even more miserable?

But on this sunny summer morning, as she made her way to the Old Bridge, Franka at least got this one sentence correct. Maybe Mom was right. She really needed to leave the house.

*

“Franka, I just heard from a reputable source that it is summer outside. Can you believe it?” Mom had announced last night. She had walked into Franka’s, what could in the most generous terms be called “room,” without knocking and skipped over a pile of textbooks on the floor.

Franka sat behind her desk, a few days away from being completely taken over by the chaos that spread far and wide. Math, chemistry, and physics textbooks covered most of the available surfaces, other than the bed with messy covers that were probably supposed to be changed a few weeks ago. The seemingly endless quantity of mugs and bowls of cereal that kept appearing, but never disappearing, were very close to developing their own civilizations in this hot and moist environment. Franka didn’t have time to care. She had more important things to worry about.

She had finished studying chemistry for today (the urea cycle) and turned to math practice, littering her desk with scraps of paper filled with math formulas she understood perfectly. In English. Croatian was a different story.

“Really?” she asked, not even looking up at her mom, checking her result in the back of the textbook instead. It was correct, as was every single result she’d gotten for days had been. “I haven’t noticed,” she added in Croatian when she remembered this was her “no English summer.”

“Go out, please,” Mom said, switching back to English. “I beg of you. You have been in this house for a month! You will pass your exam.”

“I thought so last time, but here we are now!” Franka said. She was so lucky Bosnian colleges worked differently than the American ones, giving her an opportunity to retake her entrance exam in September and actually get in. The whole schooling system was unlike the one she was used to, where specialized colleges for pharmacology (as well as anything else) allowed her to skip undergrad studies and become a pharmacologist in just five short years. That was, if she could pass her exam.

“You have been stuck in this filth since June! That’s not healthy,” Mom continued, looking around as Franka suddenly became aware of the mess, the faint smell of stale air, and the boxes of stuff she should have unpacked two years ago. Still, she shook her head “no” and picked another math problem to focus on instead.

“Neither is not getting into college,” she said and tried to get back to her linear systems with two variables. Every list of questions from previous entrance exams for the Faculty of Pharmacy at the University of Mostar had at least one of those. If she wanted in, she had to be proficient, so god help her! “Very bad for the thyroid gland.”

“So, you want to cram two years’ worth of studying that you didn’t do into two months?” Mom asked, perfectly aware Franka might pull it off by any means necessary.

“That’s the plan,” Franka said and turned back to her math problem, but Mom wasn’t quitting.

“Go out. Please,” she begged again, but Franka wasn’t listening. “One hour?” she asked. “Can’t you spare one hour, so I don’t think you are losing your mind with all that science? One hour and you can get me off your back for at least a week.”

Franka paused for a moment. She was wasting time arguing right now, as she did for the past few days. It probably added up to an hour or so in total. Maybe this was the solution.

“You are in one of the most popular travel destinations in Eastern Europe. Enjoy it for an hour,” Mom continued. “Pretend to be a tourist. Grab some ice cream. Please. Mostar is a beautiful city. I promise you.”

“Very overrated,” Franka scoffed. When she was a kid, Franka had loved coming to Mostar for a few weeks every few years. Then she would go back home to Atlanta and tell her friends she went all the way to Europe and to this small country called Bosnia and Herzegovina in the Balkan Peninsula where her mom was born. Now that she was stuck here, it was hell. The city didn’t change, but everything else did. Mostar was a picturesque town, filled with history, world-famous for the sixteenth century Old Bridge that connected both sides over the gorgeous River Neretva that divided them. It was also too hot, too touristy, and too small (both in its size and the mentality of its people).

“Because our suburban hellhole in Atlanta was so much more fun,” Mom said, making Franka frown. If nothing else, Mostar was a living, breathing, organic city, even if half of the buildings were destroyed in the War and never fixed.

“I have to study. I don’t have time to mess around,” she continued. Tomorrow was the time to tackle the Krebs cycle again. Last time she lost at least ten points on that question. She knew it in English, but when she tried to explain it in Croatian, panic took the wheel of her brain and drove them both straight into a ditch.

“You want to practice the language? Go out, talk to an actual Herzegovinian other than me! It will do you wonders,” Mom continued, closing the textbook right in front of her.

That was the second argument that had given Franka pause. Coming to Mostar with barely any knowledge of the language despite her mom being born and raised here and then going to a school that was in English for two years really didn’t make any of this easier. Every time she thought she had the hang of it, someone would drop a new slang word or speak too fast and she would get lost again, so it was easier not to try at all.

“And you know, Isabella would love a selfie from the bridge. You know she loves bridges,” Mom added in her sweetest voice because she knew bringing up Aunt Bella would work.

And it did.

*

So, today, around eight, Franka put on her baggiest black T-shirt and jeans, smeared on some eyeliner, and finally left her house for the first time in weeks.

She could have gotten to the Old Town much faster if she came in from the west side of the city, but the morning was too nice for a shortcut. Mom’s assessment of how much Franka needed to leave the house was spot-on. That first whiff of fresh summer air caused her body to take one step after another without her input because it missed movement so much. She walked past the ancient trees of the Zrinjevac Park, and to the Spanish Square and the objectively gorgeous but undeniably bright orange Mostar Grammar School that so generously hosted her Unbounded High School that she would hopefully never have to enter again. She crossed the Neretva River and reached “their side of the town,” as Mom occasionally slipped up and called it privately. If anything, despite the few more mosques, the east side of Mostar didn’t belong to the Bosnians more than it did the Croats like her mom. It belonged to tourists and tourists alone.

For the next hour, she decided she wasn’t the Franka Garcia who lived here for two years and hated every minute of it. She was Franka Garcia, on vacation to her Mom’s hometown for a week or two, who would go back to her home in Atlanta, where she would get into a prestigious college because her life wasn’t in shambles. That Franka could enjoy the Old Town and pretend for a little while she was okay.

She turned right, past Musala Park, and made her way to the bridge, hyping herself up to be as excited as she was when she was a kid.

Her fellow tourists weren’t here yet. It was the middle of the week, but August was still the peak of the season, so they would probably swarm the city soon. For now, it was only Franka and a few stray cats.

As she got closer to the bridge itself, the street narrowed. The smooth white stones were replaced by aesthetically pleasing but very slippery and jagged cobblestone that made her feet ache through her sneakers. A rookie tourist mistake on her part. But that was okay. Today, she was a tourist.

The Mostar stores that had songs written about them lined the walls of the narrow, stone streets. Colorful trinkets awaited the mobs of tourists who would spend their hard-earned money on “made in China” magnets and babushka dolls (because any Slavic country is apparently Russia). Not wanting to waste her money on something she didn’t need, Franka filled her tourist quota with something sweet.

“Uživaj, sine,” the middle-aged lady said, handing Franka a scoop of walnuts and figs ice cream. “Enjoy, son.”

Franka smiled and said thanks, keeping the observation of how Balkan people always called you “son” regardless of gender to herself. Weird. She was still not used to it, even if she’d been hearing it her whole life from her family in Mostar. For such a gendered language and people who cared deeply about what constituted a girl or a boy, everyone could be a son.

The ice cream was creamy, sweet, and absolutely delicious. Despite her objections, she was still half Herzegovinian, so anything with figs was bound to taste great.

She took a few photos by the Old Bridge viewpoint, where the white stone arch that spanned both sides of the river was in full view. When a few more people tried to do the same, she moved on quickly. They were all too loud and cheerful for her taste.

The street that led to the bridge was narrow and crooked, filled with vibrant colors of the souvenirs. Salespeople beckoned her to buy their things with their friendly smiles and kind words. Well, except for the girl who chased away the half-naked Ado. She looked like she was forced to be here at gunpoint, glaring at Franka and a group of tourists she got swept up in.

“You chose a spooky day to visit,” the overly enthusiastic guide told his flock who followed him at the same pace Franka was walking. “It is said that on this day, the second of August, if you swim in the Neretva River, it will pull you into its depths and you will drown!” he said in an exaggerated creepy voice like it was Halloween. “But that is just an urban legend, right?” he asked to spook his captive audience.

“Three people died last year!” the same girl yelled from her storefront, making Franka chuckle, even if she wasn’t sure the story was true.

The girl glared at the tourists with a look usually reserved for finding a toenail in a perfectly decent slice of pizza, fixing the red fez hat that covered her golden hair like it was a nervous tick. Or she hated wearing it.

Her costume consisted of pale-pink harem pants that Franka was happy to know were called dimije, a white shirt, and a matching pink vest the same cultural class at her high school taught her was called jeleče.

For a second, their eyes met. Had Franka seen her before? A face that gorgeous was hard to forget. Full lips, straight nose, sun-kissed olive skin, and brown eyes carrying a look of rightful anger.

But Franka’s train of thought was derailed as she and “her group” finally reached the bridge itself.

Built in the sixteenth century, destroyed in 1993, and rebuilt again in the 2000s, as the guide so kindly pointed out, it towered over the cold river like an oasis in the middle of a desert. It should have been so simple to rebuild, as it was just one arch, but it was anything but. Two forts on each side were there to watch over it. Almost a hundred feet long, the bridge was made of large blocks of white stone carved by hand, the same way they were hundreds of years ago. The surface was covered in sparkling white cobblestone, slippery from the morning dew, surrounded on both sides by a stone fence. Designed and built by some guy named Mimar (weird name, probably Turkish), the bridge really was something special. No wonder this was one of the symbols of the whole country.

Franka reached the top of the arch, leaned over a stone wall at the top of the bridge, and stared at the green river flowing over sixty-six feet below them—Neretva, the coldest river in the world.

Some people jumped from here! On purpose! For fun! And they have been doing it for centuries.

People of Herzegovina had no chill. Maybe chill couldn’t grow on this harsh terrain.

If she stayed here long enough, she would probably see them perform their stunts sooner or later, as young guys would gather money from tourists who wanted to witness a dive, but Franka had no desire whatsoever to wait that long. What was the fun of jumping off a bridge and risking your life anyway?

Her wire-framed glasses threatened to fall into the abyss, so Franka returned to safety again. She barely needed them. Her prescription was tiny, but she liked them. They made her feel safe—another barrier between her and the world.

Leaning against the stone wall of the bridge that didn’t seem like it could even be busted to begin with, Franka finished her ice cream. The tour guide rambled about the history of the bridge with the undying passion of a true Mostarlija, a denizen of Mostar.

But Franka made a promise last night: a selfie for Isabella. It was one of the most photographed places in the country, and the hipster part of Franka had deemed it basic, but her aunt would like to see her smile. Besides, today, Franka was a tourist.

So she did a stupid thing.

She nudged herself up and sat on the stone fence, guarded by the dark metal spikes (added later by the Austro-Hungarians, as the guide noted). After two years of hibernation, she was out of shape, but she was still strong enough to lift herself up with no hassle.

She took her phone from her pocket and turned on the camera.

The selfie view revealed how desperate she was for a break. Her blue-green eyes were perfectly complemented by the giant dark bags underneath them and the pale, greenish tint in her usually light-brown skin. Every strand of her wavy, black hair declared independence from one another, making her resemble a feral, scared cat. But nothing a few hours of extra sleep couldn’t fix.

She would get them on the fifth of September, after her exam.

When she leaned back to get a good angle, an awful, screeching sound of metal breaking apart made it painfully obvious that what the shopkeeper girl was saying about the fence was true. But by that time, it was already too late.

Franka was falling from the Old Bridge.

The fall took less than three seconds. That is what they say, but it sure felt so much longer.

People had been seriously injured jumping from the bridge fully prepared, so for the first half second, Franka was sure she would die. She was falling backward; her spine would turn into mush from the strength of the impact if her heart didn’t give up when she hit the ice-cold water.

In the next half second, her years of gymnastics training kicked in, along with one undeniable fact: she had an exam to take!

What was the best way to land? Headfirst? No, that would cause her brain damage, and then she would definitely flunk. Swallow dive, with her chest out and arms spread? No, that was a thing for professionals. She couldn’t write if her arms were broken.

Feetfirst! That was the answer. Even if her tibia were smashed into minced meat, she could still hold a pen.

So, she rotated her body midair like she had done a thousand times before as the water below her came closer and closer.

And then it was over. Her feet hit the water surface like it was concrete, but she just kept going, deeper and deeper, until the blue surrounded her completely.