SOLZA GRCEVA’s face curdles into a sneer as she traces the betrayal of her nation. Over coffee in Skopje, the capital of the country that may soon no longer officially be known as the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, Ms Grceva outlines her grievances. The government’s “illegal” agreement with Greece last month to rebrand the country North Macedonia, she says, was a “gesture of weakness and capitulation”. What Macedonians call themselves will now be judged in Athens, forging an “Orwellian” state. Ms Grceva, a former MP now running a new centrist party, is far from alone in her anger. When your columnist asks for the bill, it turns out to have been settled by a sympathetic eavesdropper.

The name issue is one of the sillier disputes in a region hardly lacking them. The Greeks believe that plain “Macedonia” implies a claim on their northern regions of the same name; a suggestion the (ex-Yugoslav) Macedonians consider offensive and absurd. To say that passions run deep on this is like saying Brazilians have a passing interest in football. Merely to discuss it is to enter a dizzyingly Balkan blend of history, geography, linguistics, psychology, archaeology and even musicology. After 27 years of this row, it was heartening that Zoran Zaev and Alexis Tsipras, respectively the Macedonian and Greek prime ministers, were able to find a mutually acceptable formula. But the deal has sparked violent nationalist protests and political upheaval in both countries. Its passage into law is assured in neither.

Greek vetoes have long kept Macedonia out of NATO and the European Union. Their lifting means an offer to join NATO should be forthcoming at the club’s summit in mid-July. But the real prize remains further out of reach. This week, after a tortuous ten-hour debate, the EU’s governments agreed to offer Macedonia (and Albania) a faint green light, proposing a start to membership talks in June 2019 if judicial and other reforms are carried out. It was better than some had feared, but after the Greek deal some Macedonians had dared to hope for more encouraging language, with fewer conditions and a quicker start to talks. “Our drive towards European democracy could have been more openly embraced,” says Nikola Dimitrov, Macedonia’s foreign minister.

If there is frustration, it is because tiny Macedonia offers a rare good-news story in the Balkans. For years it was run into the ground by a rotten regime that intimidated opponents, hollowed out the state and populated Skopje with kitsch statues of Alexander the Great simply to annoy the Greeks. It took a political crisis, culminating in nationalists storming parliament and beating up MPs, including Mr Zaev, in April 2017, to bring decisive change. Mr Zaev’s government, which took office soon afterwards, has started well, soothing quarrels with neighbours and beginning reforms. Relations between Macedonians and the large Albanian minority, once close to war, are smoother than ever. Yet corruption and clientelism remain rife, and the history of Mr Zaev’s Social Democrats is less than spotless. The government’s reformers need the anchor of EU accession talks, says Mr Dimitrov.

This is where a thoughtful EU would step in. In the autumn Mr Zaev must win a referendum on his name deal. That should be enough to convince the parliament to make the relevant constitutional changes. Yet without a better prospect of EU talks Mr Zaev is exposed to charges from Ms Grceva and her allies that Macedonia has humiliated itself for nothing. If the opposition parties all urge a boycott, the referendum may struggle to reach the required 50% turnout. Mr Zaev has vowed to resign if that happens.

So why the European reluctance to help? Corruption and regional rows have hardly helped the case of the Balkan states. But they have also fallen victim to the EU’s fatigue with earlier enlargement. Look at Poland and Hungary, say sceptics, steadily dismantling the rule of law from inside the club. Turkey began membership talks in 2005, and has only turned more illiberal since.

The counterargument is that the Macedonians threw off an authoritarian regime, solved what seemed like an impossible regional dispute and now deserve European help to bury the past. Other powers are sniffing around: Turkey is funding mosques and civil society, and Russian flags have been flown at recent protests. Full EU membership is perhaps a decade away. But simply starting talks could reassure investors, blunt the arguments of nationalists and help convince young Macedonians, who have quit the country in droves, that there is a future at home.

Tidying Europe’s courtyard

The debate highlights Europe’s conflicted approach to its Balkan courtyard. The strongest opposition to opening membership talks came from Emmanuel Macron, France’s president, along with the Dutch. Mr Macron says the EU must reform before growing. But such opponents of enlargement are just “wetting their pants”, fearing that the prospect of migration from the Balkans will be a gift to populists, says an irritated Eurocrat; so much for Mr Macron’s grand ideas for a Europe that lives up to its potential.

Germany takes the opposite tack, seeing Balkan expansion as a strategic necessity. It is not an outlandish view. Macedonian officials have taken to comparing their detente with Greece to the post-war Franco-German reconciliation, conducted through and for Europe. If that is overblown, fixing one Balkan problem does at least make the others more visible, notes Florian Bieber, an expert on the region. Hashim Thaci, Kosovo’s president, says the next step could include the talks between his country and Serbia—a dispute over people and borders that retains the potential for violence.

If the notion that enlargement can solve as well as create problems seems eccentric in parts of Europe, Macedonia’s reformers offer a corrective. This week may not have delivered the warm welcome they sought from the EU, but Mr Dimitrov is hopeful. “The bigger the obstacles,” he says, “the grander the success.”