One Day in Sarajevo
A little before 10 o’clock on Sunday, June 28, 1914, Mr. Martel strolled along the Appel Quay in Sarajevo. The day was already warm and promised to be hot, and Mr. Martel felt a tad uncomfortable in his dark woolen suit and fedora. He wondered why the people of this era over-dressed so! Nevertheless he tolerated the discomfort for he knew he would not be here long; in fact, he would be gone from Sarajevo before noon.
He stopped for a moment and looked back at the Miljacka River where it flowed under the Cumurija Bridge. The water in the river was quite low for the summer so far had been hot and dry. The sky was cloudless and blue. Dimly, he remembered reading once that this day had been overcast, but here he was and not a cloud in sight. He smiled slightly and wondered if this day’s events had colored that writer’s recollections.
He turned to stroll onward towards the Latin Bridge and Schiller’s Delicatessen. As he turned he saw a pleasant looking woman in a white dress and hat with a white parasol walking towards him. She smiled as she saw the recognition on his face and offered her hand. Bowing and briefly touching her hand to his lips, Mr. Martel said, “My dear Mrs. Bringsyellow! What a pleasant surprise to find you here.”
Mrs. Bringsyellow laughed, a sound Mr. Martel found to be most delightful. “Mr. Martel, I am not at all surprised to meet you here.” She hooked her arm into his and they strolled together down the quay.
“If I might enquire, Mrs. Bringsyellow, when are you?”
“Oh, I have just returned from 1865. Ford’s Theater in the District of Columbia. Quite an exciting time! I recall our conversation there quite vividly.”
“Ah, that is my next scheduled excursion so I am afraid I have no memory of our encounter. My apologies.”
“Well, then, I shan’t spoil the surprise, shall I?” laughed Mrs. Bringsyellow.
Behind them they heard an explosion back past the Cumurija Bridge. They turned to see smoke rising in the distance. Mr. Martel checked a pocket watch. “Ten after ten. That would be the first attempt.”
Mrs. Bringsyellow nodded. “It shan’t be long now.” A few minutes passed before they saw five sedans speed down the Appel Quay in the direction they had been walking.
“The third car. That was him, wasn’t it?” asked Mrs. Bringsyellow.
“Yes,” said Mr. Martel. “And his wife.”
“So tragic,” sighed Mrs. Bringsyellow. “She was quite lovely.”
“Is, Mrs. Bringsyellow,” said Mr. Martel. “It hasn’t happened yet.”
“Of course!” said Mrs. Bringsyellow with a laugh. “Let us not get ahead of time!”
They reached the Latin Bridge and crossed to the other side of the Apple Quay. They stopped in front of Schiller’s Delicatessen at the corner of Franz Joseph Street and peered in at the meats and cheeses. “Remarkable that they eat these things!” said Mrs. Bringsyellow. “Have you ever tried any of this?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Martel. “I’m very fond of something they call ‘salami.’ It’s quite savory.”
Mrs. Bringsyellow shuddered. “How marvelously barbaric of you, Mr. Martel!”
Arm in arm they strolled up Franz Joseph Street. Mrs. Bringsyellow chattered gaily, remarking on the dress, habits, and architecture of this era. Mr. Martel listened intently, rarely interjecting and for the most part allowing himself to enjoy the sound of her lovely voice. They stopped just before Franz Joseph Street turned left to parallel the Appel Quay.
“From what I have been told, this is one of the best spots to observe the events,” said Mr. Martel. A voice from behind him said, “Indeed, I have had the same related to me.” Mr. Martel and Mrs. Bringsyellow turned to see a tall, thin man dressed similarly to Mr. Martel standing behind them. “The Duke of Absinthe told me he’d wished he’d been down here, instead of taking an apartment above the incident.”
“Lord Wrenmarsh,” said Mrs. Bringsyellow, extending her hand. “What a pleasant surprise. Is Lady Wrenmarsh to join us?”
Lord Wrenmarsh bowed and kissed Mrs. Bringsyellow’s proffered hand. “Charmed, Mrs. Bringsyellow, Mr. Martel. Unfortunately her ladyship had no desire to attend this particular historical event; her tastes run to the more, shall we say, extreme?”
Mr. Martel extended his hand and Lord Wrenmarsh shook it heartily. “I understand. Which event is she planning on attending next?”
“We both will be attending the crucifixion of the gladiators along the Appian Way. You know, the whole Spartacus Rebellion and all that. Apparently they lined the road for miles!”
Mrs. Bringsyellow shuddered. “How delightfully barbaric!”
Just then a car turned from the Appel Quay onto Franz Joseph Street, followed closely by a second and then a third car. The first two cars turned left to continue on Franz Joseph Street, but the third car stopped. The driver tried to reverse but stalled the engine. A man standing on the driver’s side running board was yelling at the driver. The three spectators could clearly see the man and woman in the backseat when a figure emerged from the crowd, stepped on the running board of the sedan, and fired two shots point blank into the back seat.
Immediately a group of men grabbed the assassin and started beating him. The driver at long last got the car started and sped down Franz Joseph Street. Mr. Martel clearly saw the man and woman slumped over in the back seat as it passed. Mr. Martel, Mrs. Bringsyellow, and Lord Wrenmarsh began walking down Franz Joseph away from the commotion.
“Did they die instantly?” asked Mrs. Bringsyellow.
“I believe the Duchess did, but I think the Archduke died on the way to the hospital,” replied Mr. Martel.
They walked in silence for a time. “I say, that was an extraordinary show, though. what?” said Lord Wrenmarsh.
“Oh, yes, quite exciting!” said Mrs. Bringsyellow. “To think that was the cause of all that trouble later.”
“A entire continent at war because of it,” said Mr. Martel.
They reached the Cumurija Road. Lord Wrenmarsh stopped and indicated he was turning off Franz Joseph Street. Mr. Martel again shook hands with Lord Wrenmarsh. “Give my regards to Lady Wrenmarsh, and enjoy ancient Rome,” he said. “I’ve not been myself.”
Lord Wrenmarsh bowed to Mrs. Bringsyellow. “I find it quite invigorating, and her ladyship enjoys the spectacles immensely. She loves the gladiatorial games! What, pray tell, are your next excursions, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Mrs. Bringsyellow smiled. “I’m off to twentieth century New Jersey, the Hindenburg disaster, as it’s called. And Mr. Martel is off to Ford’s Theater in 1865.”
“Splendid! I shall see you both there as I have planned those events as part of my future itinerary!” said Lord Wrenmarsh, and took his leave.
“I, too, must be going,” said Mr. Martel, “but I look forward to our conversation at Ford’s Theater. And look for me in New Jersey as well. It is always a delight to have your company, no matter when.”
“Oh, Mr. Martel, you do flatter me so!” laughed Mrs. Bringsyellow. “Until next time, then.”
Mr. Martel strolled off to his rendezvous site, his thoughts full of how pleasant it will be to see Mrs. Bringsyellow in the District of Columbia. He would also start making arrangements for an excursion to New Jersey in 1937. Such wonderful times we live in, he thought. Such marvelous times.