‘It was difficult to get away,’ he says, frowning hard. ‘Everyone was trying to flee Kosovo but I didn’t have papers or money. And if you were a man and you weren’t fighting it was difficult to escape. People asked questions.’
He looks at me and I nod for him to go on.
‘I could have stayed. Perhaps I should have but I was tired of the killing, of all the death. And it wasn’t safe. I knew a man. I’d helped save his brother’s life when he was brought in to the hospital where I worked. I gave him blood from my own arm because the hospital had none left. And I knew this man, the brother, was powerful, rich. Before the war he’d been a criminal. Everyone knew who he was. Here, they would call him mafia. But to me he was a ticket out of that place. Out of hell.’
I nod to show him I understand. And who am I to judge, anyway?
‘I went to him,’ he says, his voice quiet, like the tide rushing out over gravel stones. ‘He remembered me and what I’d done for his brother. His name was Goran. He gave me the money and the means to get to Europe. He helped me get to Lisbon. He had contacts here.’ He stops and takes a breath. ‘I didn’t have any money. I didn’t speak the language. I couldn’t find work. It was difficult. I didn’t want to beg so after three months of trying to find work and sleeping in the park and down by the river I went to Goran’s friends who lived here and I asked them for work. It was the only thing I could think of if I wanted to stay alive and not starve to death. A man must work.’ He pauses, shaking his head as though he regrets the choice he made. ‘They took me on as a driver.’
He glances at me, and I see a nervousness in his eyes, as though he’s afraid I’m judging him. I nod for him to continue, wanting to hear the rest of the story.
‘I told them I wouldn’t do anything illegal for them,’ he continues, speaking faster now. ‘I didn’t want to jeopardise my asylum claim. But these people, it’s true, they are not, how do you say? Squeaky clean?’
I nod. I guess that’s one word to describe the mafia.
‘I drove for them at first,’ he explains. ‘Then they discovered I had trained to be a doctor. So that’s what I became for them.’
I frown, not understanding.
‘They would come to me when they needed help to fix things. When they could not have the police asking questions.’
Oh. The penny drops. He must mean beatings or gunshots or stab wounds: injuries that would arouse suspicion and maybe police interest.
‘I did not want to keep working for them, but there are not many choices for a man like me and the more helpful I was to them the harder it was to get out. And then, if I’m honest, it felt good to be using my medical training for something. And to be able to help people.’
‘So you’re not a hitman, then?’ I ask, laughing despite myself.
He pulls a face, not sure if I’m joking with him, but then laughs. ‘No. Is that what you thought?’
It’s my turn to shrug. ‘They told me you had criminal associates. I assumed …’ I break off. I can’t trust any of my assumptions these days.
Konstandin shakes his head ruefully. ‘Is it the stubble? Does it make me look criminal? Do I need to shave?’
I smile. ‘No, I think it’s the fact you make threatening people look like the easiest thing in the world.’
He gives a half smile but then his expression turns serious. ‘I never killed anyone. Not even for revenge,’ he tells me. ‘I had the chance. It was offered to me. Revenge on the neighbour who led the soldiers to my house. Goran brought him to me as a gift for saving his brother. Killing him wasn’t going to bring my family or Milla back though. Whatever was left of my life, I wanted to live it well. So instead I asked him to help me escape from Kosovo.’
‘Do you still work for them?’ I ask.
‘Sometimes. But most of the time I drive an Uber. But the police, they do not know this. It is why they suspect me,’ Konstandin says. ‘And