'Bad for Business', a short historical fiction story
Luke Smith | May 2025
Dear History Writers,
Those who are active on Notes, the social media side of the Substack app, know that I am passionate about historical fiction that is based on true events. Not everyone will come to history through fiction, but it is the gateway drug for a lot of history enthusiasts and when done well can teach a lot that straight up nonfiction can’t. There’s just something about fiction that brings the individuals and worlds of the past to life!
Our guest author today is one of those who takes true events and adds a little creative sparkle to imagine their broader context. This is definitely fiction - so don’t take this as an educational essay on the weeks leading up to one of the most iconic periods of the 20th century! But it is so engaging that I just had to share it with you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
All the best as always,
Holly
Editor,
The Society of History Writers is a wholly collaborative, submission-based project designed to showcase the work of emerging and established history writers on Substack. To receive new posts and support its work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Though currently based in Vancouver, Canada, today’s guest author Luke is from the UK. He is married with two children under the age of ten and for his day job he works in sales for a healthcare startup. On Substack, Luke writes historical fiction short stories which he shares monthly. You can read more of his work on and off Substack at the links below.
Bad for Business
Luke Smith
Walking through the great glass doors, Vedad looked around. Two children crossed the bridge. They begged to be hoisted up on their father’s shoulders so they could see the spectacle downriver. Seeing the father’s reluctance, he wanted to run over and seize him by the shoulders.
“Pick them up, you fool! Carry them until your muscles burn!” A knot contorted his stomach and his limbs felt heavy as he dabbed at his eyes. When he had recovered, the family had disappeared into the scrum on the opposite bank. He fiddled with his shirtsleeves, felt his ears turn red, and turned his attention to the customers.
Twenty tables sat out there, each with a spotless white tablecloth and wicker chairs, basking in the June sunshine. Each table had four people seated, except for the writers. Many had dressed in their best. Everyone ate slowly and sipped their tea and coffee. The city's entire history could be seen with a turn of the head. Buildings in the Ottoman style and newer ones in the architectural style of the occupiers. Carriages bustled by and the occasional car, all slowed down by the crowds who clustered around the riverbank hoping to catch a glimpse. Bunting had been hung and flags waved. Cafes and restaurants flanked the business and more across the bridge but only this shared the name of the Latin Bridge. Fisherman’s poles could be seen, greenery alongside the banks and far away, villages in the lush hills that ringed the city. The view gave no pleasure today. A day like this was bad for business. Vedad adjusted his bow tie and went back in.
His wife, Karima, sat behind the drinks counter reading the paper. She smiled at him. Her smile took years off her and it had drawn him across the room, the day they met. The years had been kinder to her in some ways than him. He placed a hand over his stomach and adjusted the wisps of hair that somehow clung to his head. She beckoned him forward.
“He’s been sat there for a few minutes.” She motioned with her head and he looked over. Pulling his sleeve, she attempted to draw him away, and jerking his hand away he looked over towards the slender young man seated at the counter.
“So?” What did she mean, wasting his time with trifles?
“I have a bad feeling,” she insisted, eyes wide. “What is he doing here?” Vedad squinted towards him. He didn’t recognise the young man. One thing couldn’t be denied, he hadn’t ordered anything. He squared his shoulders.
Short as well as slight, more of a boy than a man, the patron dressed in a jacket with a wide collar. He had a wispy moustache that didn’t meet in the middle. The patron seemed lost in a world of his own. Vedad rapped on the counter to get his attention.
“Young man,” he said. “This is not a library.”
The patron looked up with a start, revealing a great shock of hair and small-close-set eyes.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll have a coffee.” He spoke in a thick accent and Vedad didn’t know his face. Karima walked out to the front. Vedad looked sideways at the young man as he made the coffee. The newcomer resumed daydreaming. Vedad frowned. Karima walked back in as Vedad finished brewing the coffee and kissed him. A wave of relief blossomed in his chest. The kiss felt like an elixir.
“Full house,” she remarked. This reminded him of the crowds and he frowned.
“It’s bad for business,” he said aloud, spilling the coffee on his hand. The cup fell on the saucer, almost breaking it.
“What is?’ she said, drawing closer. She tried to take the coffee and he held up his other hand, drawing it towards him.
“This whole day,” he said, squeezing past her with the coffee. “Why come to Sarajevo? Why can’t they stay there?”
“They’ve come to inspect the army,” she said.
“That’s not what I meant!” he snapped, spots of colour entering his cheeks. He’d stopped following current events since his discharge. Why bother, when decisions had been wrested from their hands? Yet she always did seem to seize upon his ignorance.
“You did ask,” she said with a shrug.”Don’t worry so much. It’s just a day.” She pulled up a chair and patted the seat. “I’ll bring it out. Take a seat. Your back bothering you again?”
He shook his head and sighed heavily. He straightened his back as he walked, despite the jarring pain. The young man didn’t acknowledge him. Maybe Karima had been onto something.
After he’d served the coffee he did a circuit of the inside, checking all the tables and flicking at dust before it had the chance to come out. A good business could be likened to driving a horse and a trap. You couldn’t afford to let go of the reins or you’d lose control. The cafe didn’t boast the best food in town, it didn’t have the most tables or even the finest decor. But it was his. Theirs, he corrected himself with a twinge of guilt. The first day he walked through as co-owner, he kept waiting to be called back to serve his tables. A glance outside only revealed crowds growing by the bridge.
Turning, he found Karima standing by his side, biting her lips.
“I’ve been looking over the accounts,” she said hesitantly. “There’s a resort about twenty-five kilometers to the south. We’ve been making good money but we never make time to enjoy it. I know you don’t trust anyone else so maybe we could close for the day. You could choose the day.”
His chest tingled. Had she not heard a single word he’d been saying?
“Watch the register,” he spluttered at last, walking to the front, avoiding eye contact with the young man. Solving this mystery would get her off his back but it made him wonder too.
His customers toasted him as he approached.
“Do you know the young fellow seated inside?” he greeted them.
They looked over.
“Never seen him before in my life,” said Miroslav, one of the regulars. He had taken his hat, a fez, and tie off in surrender to the heat. Although he wore a three-piece suit, he sported the hat as a show of defiance
“Maybe he’s a spy,” said Vladimir, seated at the same table. He wore a tweed suit and a bowler.
“Why would a spy be here?” scoffed Miroslav, draining his cup.
“To root out the black hand,” said Vladmiir.
Vedad flushed.
“Gentleman,” he said. “Let’s not throw out a word like “spy” with the police around.” He cast a look over his shoulder.
“What language does he speak?” Vladimir insisted. “A spy would only speak German. Or maybe, he would speak Bosnian, Croatian, and Serbian.” He seemed struck by this and drew on his pipe.
“I think he’s a fairy,” said Goran, who never paid his tab on time.
“A fairy!” Vedad cleared his throat. “What gives you that idea?”
“That’s why he’s got your back up,” said Goran with a sly wink. “He’s come cruising.”
“Pay no attention to Goran,” said Vladimir. “His vile poetry had curdled his mind. He thinks everyone is as rotten as him.”
“At least I write for the people,” roared Goran. “I don’t suck up by writing in German.” He spat on the ground.
“Not all the people are perverts,” Vladimir shot back. “My conscience is clear and my books are read.” He finished his coffee and dumped the grounds like a gauntlet being thrown down.
“Nevad would know a spy if he saw one,” said Miroslav. “He’s ex-army Not those bastards,” he said, pointing with his cup downriver. He meant Nevad had served prior to the occupation.
“Best years of my life,” said Nevad, happy to change the subject. “Made a man of me. Wasn’t easy. Had us out with pickaxes maintaining the road.” He’d left the service, worked in a few restaurant jobs until he landed here, and then ended up buying the place. Now he thought about it, the young man had the look of a student. Certainly the right age and no military bearing. He found the idea of him being a spy ludicrous but then again, spies could be recruited from universities and intellectuals. If the young man was a student that seemed unusual. They didn’t usually come here. So why had he come?
Nevad bustled back inside. The young man sat looking down at his hands, his lips moving as if in prayer. Nevad tilted his head from side to side. The young man looked up, startling him.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked the young man who fidgeted slightly. His coffee sat steaming, untouched.
“No,” said the young man blinking. He had a haunted far-away look on his face.
“Have you eaten?” said Nevad squinting.
“No, but thank you,” said the young man, raising the cup to his lips. His eyes darted back and forth.
Karima hovered, trying to catch his eye. He ignored her. She came over and plucked at his sleeve.
“Can you come and help me with something?” He came away with a snort. A small alcove between the kitchen and drink section gave them privacy. They couldn’t go into the kitchen and disturb the cook. It proved a tight space for them but his embarrassment at this reminder of his weight removed any intimacy.
“Well?”
“Why can’t you sit with me for a while?” she whispered. The chef clattered, breaking their focus for a moment. His chest felt tight and he fought to calm himself.
“I’m trying to keep us afloat. I wish you would take things a little more seriously.”
“Can’t we just sit and watch with everyone else? When was the last time they came here? It’s something to do.” She reached out and then withdrew her hand, folding her arms instead.
The sound of a coughing fit made them both turn. The young man’s body wracked with such violence, husband and wife drew back in alarm. Pulling a handkerchief from his greatcoat, the young man clamped it to his face and muffled his coughs. When they finally ceased, he pulled his handkerchief away to reveal blood. Tightness seized Nevad’s throat. He exchanged a look with his wife and she stared back, agony etched on her face. Seeing her like that, he wished he could grab the pain that lived inside her and drive it out like an exorcised demon. She ran for a chair and pulled it over. The young man sat down, his breath ragged, face pale. Her brow puckered as she looked back at her husband.
“It is on the house,” said Karima. The young man refused the drink at first but eventually managed a few sips.
“You are very kind,” he said.
“I shall pray for you,” said Karima. The young man flinched at this but composed himself.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “I am sorry to trouble you.” He’d recovered from the coughing fit but something else seemed to preoccupy him. His eyes strained towards the front door.
A loud bang made everyone jump. Everyone, the young man included, rushed forward. A column of smoke rose from downriver. Pandemonium reigned. Policemen shouted orders. Children shrieked. The cafe owner pulled his wife close and held her tight. The young man seemed overcome by what had happened. Sinking into a vacated chair, he put his hands over his ears. Shouting and the blaring of car horns could be heard from further up the river. Nobody seemed to know what to do. Everyone stared at each other as if waiting for something to happen. What, though?
“The terrorists,” she whispered, her breath hot on his face. He could feel her pulse racing through her arm. Heat flushed through his body. Placing himself in front of her, he braced himself and glared toward the danger. Would there be another explosion? Maybe gunfire. It didn’t matter, they would have to go through him first. She looked forward and he moved, shielding her.
The smoke still plumed up. Minutes crawled by and a great roar from the crowd erupted. The procession of cars had passed by towards the town hall as planned. The terrorists had failed.
As if a spell had been broken, the crowd began to disperse. Nevad relaxed his shoulders and released his wife. His hands felt sore from gripping her. Rule of law had been preserved. Although the aftermath would be ugly it would be preferable to the horrific scenario playing through his head. In it, gangs of men bearing a skull and crossbones banner marched through streets slick with blood, shooting into windows at random.
“You shouldn’t be giving away things like that. It’ll give people ideas,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Did you think of Hana too? Don’t pretend you didn’t.” She stroked the side of his arm
“Yes. But I wish you would not leave it all to me. It is all we have now.” He put his hands over hers.
“We have each other. How long do you think he has?” The thought made her weep. Hana had taken two years to die from consumption, only three years after a son, Besim had been born sleeping. The losses had crippled him and rather than devastate himself through drink, he’d thrown himself into work. At least that would produce some positive results and a legacy. Feeling her hand on him reminded him of how little intimacy remained. Most nights he went to bed after her. They barely paused for breath during the day and meals were conducted when they had a spare moment, never together. Customers began to sit back down, discussing what had just happened, looking into empty cups.
“We will talk about this later,” he said, brusquely. Ten vacant tables. Perfect timing for the lunch rush. The car wouldn’t be passing by here now. Why couldn’t everyone just leave them alone?
Despite the late morning heat, the young man huddled in his greatcoat although he had relocated under an awning. He pulled out some coins from an outside pocket, his eyes dull.
“I’ll have a cevapi, please.” Nevad took the money.
“I’ve not seen you here before,” he said, slowly.
“I’m a student,” said the young man, looking at the ground. “I came here to see the motorcade.” Nevad opened his mouth and then closed it. Poor young fellow. Probably traveled a long way just for this. He hurried inside to complete the order.
Sitting by the register, Karima dabbed her eyes. Her cheeks burned as he entered and she avoided his eyes. Putting the money in the register he mentally searched for the right words. He wouldn’t apologize for running a business but the hardness in his stomach wouldn’t stop.
“Perhaps we could try for dinner,” he said, eyes watering.
“What?” The idea repulsed her. Who could blame her after what he said? But he had to try. The waking nightmare from earlier returned but this time the men with the banner fired into the cafe window, killing her, chanting “unification or death” as they did so, the slogan he’d seen around the city.
“We can’t be away for days at a time but we should go for dinner. It’s our least busy time. If you’ll have me.” He said the last words as a mea culpa but she threw her arms around him before he could finish it. As she drew back to look him in the eyes, her own eyes shone. He drew his shoulders up, realising how long it had been since she looked like that. Then he remembered the order and after a kiss on her cheek, bustled off to take care of it. A quick glance back, as he made his way out with the order, showed her gazing after, her hands clasped. He felt light-headed and weightless, completing every step of the order with a flourish.
When he returned, the young man stood chatting with an acquaintance. As Nevad watched, he turned to wave to a young woman sitting in a doorway, the friend's wife. Recovered from his coughing fit, he spoke animatedly, the air of mystery had dissipated. Vedad placed the order on the table and felt still more tension leaving his body. The young man had obviously just been shy among strangers. He had friends. The thought of spending so much time brooding over such a minor thing made him chuckle. Some familiar faces began to take their seats and some of the spectators who had lined the river began to make their way over also. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad for business after all. The tables filled out and Karima came out to help with the bustle. They exchanged smiles. Time, which had drawn out, flew by pleasantly. He began to think of where they would go and what day. Maybe even today to surprise her.
All at once a roar made him look up. The motorcade appeared bearing the guests of honour. Many of the patrons got to their feet and doffed their hats. A few gesticulated, their words lost by the sound of the car engines. Vedad felt rooted to the spot. The guest of honour sat in the car, almost close enough to touch. Resplendid in a magnificent blue dress uniform, his medals glittered in the sunlight. Topped by a plumed hat, his great square head had a bristling moustache and his heavily lidded eyes looked irritable. Cold spread inside Vedad’s core. There he sat. The oppressor who had come to inspect the army that lorded over them. Then he became aware of the lady seated next to the guest. Rumours abounded about the woman who had prompted her husband to give up his birthright. The woman sitting there looked like a matron, peering out from under a great sun hat. But then shouting erupted. Confusion and annoyance filled the faces of the passengers. A man dressed as an official berated the driver and the car vehicle slowed. Two loud bangs rang out, one after another. The car reversed and a thin streak of blood shot out from the guest of honour’s mouth. A man standing on the running board turned with a handkerchief and clamped it to the wound. The wife shouted out and then doubled over, falling out of sight. Her husband bent over her, his coat splattered with blood. His face had contorted with anguish, the mental agony startling in its intensity. He seemed utterly heedless to his own wounds, crying out to her before sinking to the ground in turn, his plumed hat fallen from his head. A retainer pulled him up by his collar and shouted into his face. The stricken man’s eyes had turned dull in the blink of an eye. He muttered something over and over again as more blood pooled down his chest.
Vedad swiveled his eyes to see the young student standing, holding up a gun. The gun that had been concealed in his coat. The greatcoat seemed so out of place on such a lovely warm, June day. The car thundered down the street, bearing its dying passengers and the soldiers that had accompanied the procession sprang forward to seize the murderer. As they did voices rang out to cheer him as a hero. The newspapers printed that the dying man had said “Sophie dear, Sophie dear, don't die! Stay alive for our children.”
It had certainly been a day to remember. Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, had been murdered right in front of them.
Thank you Luke for sharing this short story with readers of the Society of History Writers.
If you are not yet ready to upgrade to a paid membership, you can support my work by making a one-off donation at the link below. The Society of History Writers is completely free to read but as this work pays for my PhD expenses, any gesture of support is warmly appreciated!
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 | A guest post by
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When I saw this post, I thought "finally, someone writing about Bosnia, yay!"
I appreciate the intention of the author but I would be a bad historian if I didn't point out the things he neglected in this story, even if it is only fiction. And many of us love well researched fiction (Hilary Mantel, etc.).
I'm going to risk sounding like the proverbial "powder keg" here but this is a badly researched point of view of a writer about a context he is unfamiliar with.
The main character's name is unclear: is it Vedad (which is likely) or Nevad (highly unlikely)? I'm guessing this is just a detail the author forgot to edit. He's Muslim so Vedad is a good choice. Nevad is a name I only heard once, I still have no idea where it comes from and I lived in Sarajevo for twenty years. People in Bosnia have names that reflect their religious background and heritage, very eye-catching in writing.
His wife, Karima, as a married Muslim woman, would never appear in front of men without a peča/veil over her face. Her presence in a public sphere that is a café would be very unusual (unless she works in the secluded background which is more plausible) and since you want to portray her in that manner you would have to elaborate on this political question. Why is she without? Are they a rebellious family/couple, etc.? The law which abolished the veil was brought in 1945 with Tito's Yugoslavia. The Vedad character would have to be extremely progressive to have allowed his wife to move around publicly uncovered. However, unmarried girls were allowed to have their faces revealed, but not their hair. So perhaps that is the point of confusion here.
Gavrilo Princip contracted tuberculosis in Theresienstatd prison, not prior to the assassination. Also, he could not have had "a thick accent" since he was Bosnian, born in northwestern part of the country and educated in Sarajevo (high school; although in Belgrade as well, but that would not have altered his speech).
The reference to the three languages: Bosnian, Croatian and Serbian reflects contemporary language politics, rather than what happened back then. Yes, there were issues about standardization of the language but it would have been unlikely to hear common people from that period in a café in the old city refer to the "mother tongue - materinji jezik" anything other than that.
And lastly, you never order "a ćevapi", only at least half a dozen. :) (sing. ćevap; plur. ćevapi).