Belgrade in 1936-38.
“A newcomer had arrived at the bar; the stocky little men were now greeting with cries of love and trust another of the kind who would have betrayed them for about the sum that would have made them betray him, lifting their glasses to him and slapping him on the back with the exaggeration of children playing the game “In the Manner of the Word”. That I might have seen in London or Paris or New York. But in none of those great cities have I seen hotel doors slowly swing open to admit unhurried and at ease, a peasant holding a black lamb in his arms. He took up his place beside the news-stand where they sold Pravda and Politika, the Continental Daily Mail, Paris Soir, the New York Herald Tribune. He was a well-built young man with straight fair hair, high cheekbones, and a look of clear sight. His shirt was in the Western fashion, but he wore also a sheepskin jacket, a round black cap, and leather sandals with upturned toes; and to his ready-made shirt his mother had added some embroidery. He looked about him as if in seach of someone. Twice he went to the door of the bar and peered at the faces of the stocky little men, so it was plain that he was waiting for one of their kind; and indeed the middle class in Yugoslavia is so near to its peasant origin that any of them might have had such a cousin or nephew. But the one he sought was not there, so he went back to his place by the news-stand. He stood still as a Byzantine king in a fresco, while the black lamb twisted and writhed in the firm cradle of his arms, its eyes sometimes catching the light as it turned and shining like small luminous plates.”
Rebecca West: Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, 1941.