My relatives warned me against visiting her. “She was always different,” they said. “But you should see her now. We ran into her near Travnicka Kapija the other day. She looked like a real witch.”

I was undeterred. About a week before leaving town, I climbed up the Volijak hill to her house. As I opened Grandma Marija’s gate, the wooden entrance creaked against the pavement. I looked around. The garden facing the street used to be Grandpa Ante’s pet project. Whenever he was not out drinking, he trimmed the flowers and weeded the grass. He worked there even while intoxicated, singing old sevdalinkas while pruning the tulips. Once I saw him tangoing all by himself surrounded by the plants, his elephant ears and red nose visible from afar. I watched him tango with an imaginary partner and a blissful smile. “Join me!” he yelled out to passersby. Nobody did. Grandpa Ante died in 1992, only months after the war started. His absence was evident in the garden as I walked through it. Some of the rosebushes were broken. Tulips were growing outside their designated rows. Nobody had mowed the grass in a while. The grape leaves were no longer neatly tucked into the metal support structure. They were hanging wildly, and I had to bend to avoid them hitting my face. Gray bird feathers were strewn around – a testimony to the cat’s latest prey. When the fat Siemese cat noticed me, she sauntered towards me with a feather in her mouth. She meowed and brushed against my leg. I pushed her away and rang the bell. There was no response. I waited for a while, then climbed the stairs and opened the door. The cat followed behind.

Her gray eyes watched me. I could not decide if the glimmer I saw in them was curiosity or madness.

Grandma Marija was sprawled on a couch in her living room. She was watching a Mexican soap opera. She hadn’t heard the doorbell or noticed me standing behind her.

“Hello,” I said. She did not respond. I came closer and tapped her on the shoulder.

She jumped up, startled. “It’s you. You came to see me. Good.”

“I’m leaving town. I came to say goodbye.”

I could tell she was straining to hear me. She looked at my mouth. I repeated my words more loudly. I wondered if she was losing her hearing. Grandma Marija nodded absentmindedly. She stood up and straightened her black skirt. She touched her disheveled hair and smoothed it back. In the old days she’d always been meticulous about her makeup. She’d worn red lipstick. Her hair had been dyed red and styled into a curly bob. Her roots were completely gray now. Only the ends had some evidence of faded henna dye.

“You catch me unprepared. You should have warned me you were coming.”

“I’m sorry. I was just passing through.”

“Are you hungry? Now that Ante isn’t around anymore, I don’t cook. Why bother just for one person? But I experiment with some recipes here and there. There’s all that condensed milk in the Red Cross packets. I made chocolate with it,” she said and headed to the kitchen. The cat followed her and jumped up on the sink filled with dirty dishes. Grandma Marija pushed the cat aside. She cut a piece of chocolate from a large shapeless block.

“Try it.”

She handed me a piece. Her gray eyes watched me. I could not decide if the glimmer I saw in them was curiosity or madness. I took a bite. The chocolate was hard and bitter. Grandma Marija must have forgotten to add sugar to the recipe. I spit it into my hand when she turned away. As we walked back to the living room, I hid the rest of the chocolate in my jeans pocket.