Travnik // It’s Hella Sensitive
© John Bills
Andrić wrote about it at the start of Travnički Hronika. If it is good enough for Ivo, it is good enough for me, but I’m not entirely sure if it is interested in my business. Lutvina Kahva has a spectacular location, directly next to the Plava Voda spring that transports you from the centre of Travnik to the wilds of central Bosnia, from town to village, from now to then. A cube building, looking no different to countless other pieces of architecture across the country, from Bihać to Stolac. I can easily imagine sitting outside in the early hours of the morning, resisting the urge to source and light a cigarette that will do nothing more than remind me to commit to quitting. That and loosen my bowels. Inducing bowel movements is the only net positive about smoking.
Everybody inside Lutvina Kahva is smoking. That amounts to three people (not including me, I am not smoking). Two customers, one member of staff. The waiter, young, mid-20s maybe, with a meticulously styled quiff, meticulously styled stubble, small ears and a perpetual look of disinterest on his face. The customers, both north of 50, both chain smoking. Sat as far away from each other as they possibly could be. One to my left, in the southwest of the cafe, the bar due north. Padded vest jacket. Hair that might as well be stubble. Light, smoke, stub, light, smoke, stub, light, smoke, stub. Coughing too, although the coughs are less metronomic. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look like he has words to say. In the northeast of the cafe, we have his mirror image. They go toe for toe, smoke for smoke. Neither has touched the small cups of coffee in front of them. It could be a long day for all, the customers, the lungs, and the waiter.
© John Bills
Lutvina Kahva has its own coffee, a drink I was almost certain to order as I walked in its direction. Named ‘Lutvo’s Cooffe’ (no, no typo from me), the menu listing notes it contains coffee, water, sugar, lokum, tobacco and a match. It sounds glorious, but my sweet tooth has been permanently numbed, and the thought of sugar makes me wretch. I stick to espresso. Easier to order, easier to drink, easier to enjoy.
For a while, Lutvina Kahva was called Rudolfova Kahva, Rudolf’s Cafe, not Lutvo’s. Why Rudolf’s? Well, because Rudolf came here once. Just the once, but that’s all it takes when you’re the son of the Emperor. Rudolf was the heir to the Austrian throne, the Austro-Hungarian throne, the son of ol’ meat chops himself, Franz Josef I, and Rudolf passed through these parts in June 1887. He stopped for coffee at Lutvo’s and, as the story goes, was so impressed that he decided to pay for his coffee with a ducat, a solid gold ducat. The tavern's name was subsequently changed, although only in official terms. Everyone still referred to it as Lutko’s. Besides, less than two years had passed when Rudolf was found dead in a situation so damaging it inspired its own international affair.
Yes, the use of the word ‘affair’ is intentional. Rudolf was a curious boy, interested in the sciences and a somewhat liberal politician for his time, but he was also prone to romantic excess and, well, libellous affairs. He married Princess Stéphanie of Belgium, but the marriage was unhappy. He wanted to write to the Pope to get it annulled, but his father wouldn’t allow it. Rudolf decided to temper his frustrations by boozing and sleeping around, which he did with vigour. People who veer to such a lifestyle need vigour. The problem with drinking and boning in the late 19th century was that hygiene wasn’t a big deal, so sexually-transmitted diseases were commonplace. Rudolf was riddled with the things, to the point where he infected his wife with gonorrhoea, ending her desire for more children.
© John Bills
Rudolf had two famous lovers. The first was Mizzi Kaspar, an actress-slash-prostitute who was the supposed love of his life. She eventually died of syphilis. The other, Baroness Mary Vetsera, was just 15 years old when the affair that ended her life began and just 17 when it came to its grisly conclusion in a hunting lodge at Mayerling. Rudolf, riddled simultaneously with disease and guilt, proposed a suicide pact (it is believed he initially proposed this to Kaspar). It isn’t entirely clear if Mary agreed, but what is clear is that they were found dead in the lodge in January 1889. There are plenty of theories, but what good are theories when death has left the building? Prognosticate all you like, the facts do not change.
‘Sparsely’ is the best way to describe the decorations of Lutvina Kahva. A painting of the springs sits proudly on the northeast wall, next to three shelves containing all manner of copperware, most of which was created for use in enjoying coffee. Behind the bar are the requisite legal notices, a printout of the Bosnian coat of arms in a frame, a panoramic photo of Travnik at night, and the disinterested glare of the waiter, who is slowly gaining years as the morning moves on. The southeast wall has corresponding shelves full of telephones and an assortment of wooden creations that are about as jumbled as it gets.
On the eastern wall of the cafe sits a proclamation, a historical text proclaiming the rule of Fatih Sultan Mehmet Han Fermani. It was the man known as Mehmed the Conqueror who ruled the Ottoman Empire when it swallowed Bosnia in 1463, the man who conquered Constantinople when he was just 21 years old, the man who became the first sultan to codify the law in the Ottoman lands, the man known as a bloodthirsty tyrant who had a bit of a thing for younger blokes. He had a tumultuous affair with Wallachian Prince Radu cel Frumos, the son of Vlad II Dracul. Radu resisted Mehmed, even stabbing him in an attempt to escape the lecherous hands of the tyrant, although he eventually acquiesced.
© John Bills
Mehmed also pursued (never a positive word when sexual desire is being discussed) the young son (Jacob) of the last Grand Duke of Byzantium, sending the Duke a eunuch in exchange for his son. The Duke wasn’t enthralled with the prospect of eventually selling his young son into sexual slavery, so he resisted, resistance that led only to the beheading of himself, his son and his son-in-law. Not the son that Mehmed wanted, of course, Jacob soon found himself in the harem of the sultan. The heads of his family? Placed on Mehmed’s dinner table. Jacob escaped the Ottomans in 1460, seven years after the beheading of his family.
The man to my left now has his head in his hands, although I’d wager that that is where the similarities with Jacob end. Maybe he is asleep. No, he can’t be asleep, he is still smoking. Bosnians might be able to smoke in their sleep, it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. Espresso finished, my time at Lutvo’s is over.
