He was referring, of course, to his studio portraits. They were the money-spinners which allowed him to buy his flat on Ferhadija Street and to send his elder son away to be educated in Belgrade and the younger one in Paris. He showed me his backdrops: the Gazi Husrev-beg mosque, the Miljacka River running through the centre of the city, the bridge at Mostar, the walled city of Dubrovnik, the islands of the Adriatic rising up through those calm blue waters. In front of these scenes he had positioned and photographed countless families from Sarajevo, Travnik, Mostar.

He jabbed a finger at the photograph of the Sephardic Jewish women.

‘But my art is the pictures I take in the street.’

He pulled out another picture from a box. A young woman: dark hair, dark eyes. ‘My daughter-in-law,’ he said. ‘Spanish blood, like you. Her grandmother still speaks the old language.’

I shook my head; I looked nothing like his daughter-in-law.

JUDGE: How well known a photographer was Mevludin?

LUCIJA: Well known before the war outside our country. Famous, within Bosnia. Then came the war, and it inflated the value. By the time peace was declared, Mevludin’s photographs were being bought for ready money by rich expatriate Yugoslavs and a clique of foreign collectors. His scenes of the countryside around Sarajevo, of the old quarters of the city, of the most beautiful daughters of Sarajevo without their headscarves; you could say it turned from an outdated craft, at the time of Mevludin’s death, a forgotten trade packed away in a cupboard, to a hoard of gold later. But his grandson, Omer, even when he was a schoolboy planned on becoming the chronicler of his grandfather’s career.

Lucija was homesick.

She had known this for sure, ever since she found herself singing Bosnian songs down the phone to her old schoolfriend, Omer. She would sign out of her internet account, pay for the hour she had used, and walk outside, into the sun, to sit on the harbour wall and sing. She sang Omer Bosnian sevdah, into his voicemail – the ones they’d both loved, which his grandfather Mevludin had loved before them, as made famous by the voices of Silvana and Himzo Polovina. The songs went into the air, and all the way to Sarajevo, where Omer was, accompanied by the sound of waves and seagulls.

LUCIJA: She wrote about the music, also. I copied that for you too.

SOLICITOR: Submission 21b.

JUDGE: Thank you, I will read it later. You knew of Eva Levi, of course, before meeting her?

LUCIJA: Yes, everybody mentioned her. The woman who wrote about your country. It didn’t take long to work it out. And she knew about me. She was supporting our convent. She knew there was a nun from the former Yugoslavia.