Miljenko Jergovic

Sarajevo Marlboro

Everyday History by Ammiel Alcalay

The circuitous routes traveled by literary texts across various borders, checkpoints, blockades and holding pens should finally, once and for all, lay to rest the romantic notion that such texts announce themselves and arrive simply by virtue of their inherent qualities as literature. Nothing could be farther from the truth: like any commodity, literary texts gain access through channels and furrows that are prepared by other means. Fashion, chance encounters, fortuitous circumstances, surrogate functions, political alliances and cataclysmic events such as war or genocide are much more certain and constant catalysts than judgment based on actual literary history or cultural importance. The texts that manage to sneak through the policing of our monolingual borders still only provide a mere taste — fragmented, out of context — of what such works might represent in their own cultures, languages, as well as historical and political contexts. One novel or book of poems by a single writer, removed from the cluster of other writers and artists from which it has emerged, unbuttressed by correspondence, biographies or critical studies — such a work of translation in America too often functions as a means of reinforcing the assumptions behind our uniquely military/industrial/new critical approach to the work of art as an object of contemplation rather than a call to arms, a cry for justice, an act of solidarity or a witness to history. The writer remains an individual, chosen by authorities as representative of a period or style, rather than one of many emerging from a densely textured and pluralistic scene. To fully contextualize the work of a writer like Miljenko Jergović in the Sarajevo of the late 1980s and early 1990s, for example, would take the kind of grounding that American scholars have only lately begun providing for our own scenes of the 1950s and 1960s, following the trajectories of little magazines, the relationships between performance spaces, galleries, visual artists, musicians and filmmakers, as well as a broad and specific account of social and political history.

The story of America’s relationship to a country like Yugoslavia, or the country that once was Yugoslavia, and the instrumental uses its successor states have been put to in more recent political debate, might begin to provide a context for considering the magnitude of our distance from the subject. While the US-led NATO attack on Yugoslavia has become the rubicon liberals need to cross in order to announce their support of “just” wars, the actual history and circumstances of American and European acquiescence in the genocidal attack against Bosnia is no longer pronounced anywhere. Like documents ordered under the Freedom of Information Act that are censored differently for each separate request, such disappearance represents only one layer of historical amnesia. In the 1970s, Yugoslavia represented the non-aligned movement, the third way between the Eastern block and the West. The works of Milovan Djilas circulated widely among left-leaning American intellectuals, while Yugoslavia’s geopolitical role in the world remained largely unexamined. Oddly enough, many coming of age in Yugoslavia in the late 1960s and 1970s who were not involved in the turbulent debates and nationalist politics of those years, succumbed, in a kind of intellectual surrender, to the illusion of stability created by Tito. Fed by heroic imagery of the partisans, stable to the point of amnesia, and possessed with an urbane irony regarding “truths” of any kind, this generation grew up curiously uninformed by a political consciousness. It is almost as if only the pomp, ceremony and cynical opportunism of the Non-Aligned Movement, with none of the real hope for change it engendered, had come to rest in the unconscious ideology of a whole generation.

Oblivious to this mental and political terrain, some of the more adventurous foreigners might have traversed the Adriatic coast and crossed a mountain range or two, in search of the folklore that, less than 20 years later, would provide the background music to genocide. American readers would have heard of Ivo Andrić, winner of the 1961 Nobel Prize for Literature, and maybe even read his Bridge on the River Drina, a text that would be misquoted most egregiously by well-meaning souls supporting Bosnia during the war of the 1990s. In another era, as the mortar in the Berlin wall began to be chipped away, Danilo Kiš would be championed as a dissident, a writer placed in the kind of potentially precarious and very public position some of our more prominent intellectuals kind of wished upon themselves, without really knowing what such a stance might entail. The films of Dušan Makavejev and later Emir Kusturica, without having much or, indeed, any relationship to each other, would blend, in the western viewer’s mind, into a drunken Balkan melange of mayhem, satire and sex — exotic indeed, but still apparently accessible. From 1981 to 1989, the same period that saw the Israeli invasion of Lebanon and the first Palestinian uprising, close to 600,000 Kosovars — half the adult population — were arrested, interrogated, interned or reprimanded by Serbian authorities; the future president of Bosnia, Alija Izetbegović, was put on trial (in 1983), along with 13 others, and charged with “hostile and counter-revolutionary acts derived from Muslim nationalism,” despite the fact that, as the historian Noel Malcolm notes, the Yugoslav state’s deeper fear seemed to derive from Izetbegović’s then unequivocal advocacy of “Western-style parliamentary democracy.”

During this turbulent period, journalism and literature played an enormous role. On the one hand, people whose mouths had been shut during Tito’s reign began rewriting the history of Yugoslavia through articles and interviews in widely circulated magazines; on the other hand, the Serbian Academy of Letters, its novelists and poets in particular, began manufacturing apocalyptic narratives and imagery to accompany Milošević’s very conscious designs to create the Greater Serbia. As a translator in those years, I found it impossible to interest editors in literature from Bosnia. It was only after the war, when Bosnia became “known,” that projects I had attempted to initiate could be carried out. But as Bosnia became known, the implications of European and American acquiescence in the cantonization (along ethnic and religious lines), of the democratically elected, multinational and pluralistic state government of Bosnia-Herzegovina, were completely internalized and made to seem like a logical outcome of the actions of people very unlike “us.” These experiences, and many others to follow, taught me a lot about our own structures of thought, and the domestic borders we inherit and police.

Given my own involvement in Middle Eastern politics and culture — another region dominated by mythological projections — I intuited certain similarities and patterns to this willful ignorance and reticence. This was embodied by what the Slovenian theorist Slavoj Žižek has called “postmodern” racism, a climate in which “Apartheid is legitimized as the ultimate form of anti-racism, as an endeavor to prevent racial tensions and conflicts.” Žižek goes on to write: “In former Yugoslavia, we are lost not because of our primitive dreams and myths preventing us from speaking the enlightened language of Europe, but because we pay in flesh the price for being the stuff the Other’s dreams are made of. . Far from being the Other of Europe, former Yugoslavia was rather Europe itself in its Otherness, the screen onto which Europe projected its own repressed reverse. . Against today’s journalistic commonplace about the Balkans as the madhouse of thriving nationalisms where rational rules of behavior are suspended, one must point out again and again that the moves of every political agent in former Yugoslavia, reprehensible as they may be, are totally rational within the goals they want to attain — the only exception, the only truly irrational factor in it, is the gaze of the West, babbling about archaic ethnic passions.” (Why Bosnia? eds. Rabia Ali and Lawrence Lifschultz)

This is the political and public world that Miljenko Jergović found himself an inhabitant of — born in Sarajevo in 1966, Jergović’s literary career began early. Poet, prose writer, novelist, and journalist, Jergović represented a very different approach to writing and public engagement than had been the case in Tito’s time. The Bosnian poet Semezdin Mehmedinović, six years older than Jergović and an editor at one of Sarajevo’s most important literary journals, describes the cultural scene of the 1980s there in the following terms: “There was a great interest in comic book art, rock music and film, that’s what me and my generation educated ourselves on. The same sources motivated artists, musicians, writers, photographers and performers — and this produced a common aesthetic.” One of the unique features of this common aesthetic, and one that has perhaps made facets of the culture of this period difficult to transfer out of its milieu, is the fact that it was produced right at the cusp of the full global assault of mass culture and consolidation of media outlets and access. At the same time, there is an operative intuition in this aesthetic pointing to precisely what may be coming up ahead. Because of this, the work emerging from Sarajevo during this period operates under its own conditions, without adhering to any dominant aesthetic practice or ideology coming from Europe or America. The war, if anything, heightened these conditions, at least for its duration.

In the late 1980s, Jergović’s work began appearing in all the newspapers, magazines and literary journals in Sarajevo, and his style ranged freely, mixing personal essays with journalism and journalism with fiction, in ways that were completely new and captivating to an audience that immediately recognized his qualities and energy. His first book, a book of poems called Warsaw Observatory, won two prestigious prizes in 1988; one of them, the Mak Dizdar Award, commemorates Bosnia’s greatest modern poet, and one of the least known major modern European poets of the 20th century. His second book of poems, Is There Someone In Town Tonight Studying Japanese came out in 1990. From 1989 to the beginning of the war in 1992, Jergović wrote as a columnist for the Sarajevo daily Oslobodjenje, and as the Sarajevo correspondent for Dalmatian Weekly, all the while providing lucid, engaged reporting on the effects and implications of Milošević’s policies. To get some sense of the epic nature of these policies and see how the sensibility of a novelist and poet might be a prerequisite for journalism in such a climate, one has only to remember Milošević’s famous declaration of June 28th, 1989: “Today it is difficult to say what is historically true and what is mythical about the Battle of Kosovo. But today it doesn’t really matter.” It is out of such contempt for historical truth that Miljenko Jergović has molded a writing of the quotidian, a writing of everyday history whose details interrogate myths and lacerate the heart.

During the first few months of the war in 1992, Jergović wrote for DANI, a weekly magazine that came to characterize the Bosnia of intellectuals who came of age in the 1980s. A third book of poems, Himmel Commando, came out in 1992, along with another wartime classic, Semezdin Mehmedinović’s Sarajevo Blues; these were some of the last books published by Svjetlost, one of Europe’s leading publishers before the war, under the stewardship of poet, novelist, essayist and historian Ivan Lovrenović, a major intellectual presence who nurtured and supported younger writers. Under the siege, those books were almost impossible to come by and I first encountered both Jergović and Mehmedinović’s work in the Biblioteka “egzil-abc” series. These were published and edited by Josip Osti in Ljubljana, and provided a forum for Bosnian writers and translators, either under siege or in exile, to continue publishing their work. Situated between an immensity of pain and the perverse abundance of resources the mass media had at their disposal, the books themselves were extremely “small” productions: 4 x 6 inches, they ran between twenty and seventy pages, and were printed in editions of between one hundred and two hundred copies.

When Jergović left Sarajevo in 1993, he went to Zagreb where he continued working as a journalist. It was there that he began publishing the texts that make up Sarajevo Marlboro, as war stories of a kind entirely other than the ones people were used to reading. Published in the UK in 1997, this masterpiece of precision, restraint and unending compassion has had to wait until now for an American publisher. This, unfortunately, is an all too typical story. Following the publication of Sarajevo Marlboro in Zagreb in 1994, Jergović has published nine books, while never ceasing to be an acute observer and critic of Croatian political and cultural life. Clearly, Miljenko Jergović represents a model of writing whose very terms have entirely different meanings in America. As a professional journalist, Jergović measures his professionalism according to an ethical code that considers the unmasking of power a duty; as an extremely popular novelist and prose writer, Jergović still measures his literary horizons along the same lines from which his early work as a poet emerged, the common aesthetic of a now inconceivable Sarajevo.

While many of the texts in Sarajevo Marlboro could be considered typically Jergović, the incident ending “A Diagnosis” seems to sum up his aesthetic as concisely as possible. Salih F., a man who “saw with his own eyes his wife and two daughters being cut up with an electric saw by the Chetniks,” moves from camp to camp until he is finally taken in to another camp, this time as a refugee and not a prisoner, in the Czech Republic. After fighting with everyone, he ends up in prison where the police conclude that the only real solution would be to send him back to a death camp. But they realize this would be “impossible in practice, because such a move would have contravened the international declaration of human rights.” Finally, a bureaucrat at the Bosnian Embassy in Prague finds a solution: dispatch Salih F. to a psychiatric hospital and have him declared insane. He is treated like a king, and the psychiatrists are “thrilled to have such an opportunity to study a human guinea pig who had witnessed his next of kin being cut to pieces.” Finally concluding that Salih F. was in a state of shock, the psychiatrists make him take up drawing as a form of therapy. The story ends with this:

The day finally came when a decision had to be made about the future of Salih F. The doctors had prepared only one question. “What would you do,” they said, “if you caught the murderers of your wife and daughters?” Salih F. replied that such a thing would be unlikely to happen. By now the Chetniks responsible were far away, across many borders and barbed-wire fences and lines of battle. But the doctors insisted, assuring him that many things were possible even if they seemed unlikely at first. And so, recognizing that his questioners were like small children, and that it was necessary for them only to imagine a situation in order to make it a reality, Salih F. replied, “I would kill them,” adding, “or I would give them a pen and paper and tell them, as you tell me, to DRAW!”

The doctors’ faces lit up. They took their pens and papers and pronounced Salih F. insane.

Here Kafka moves from the projected world to the real: the very terms of knowledge and justice are interrogated by experience and found more than wanting. The best of Jergović’s work operates at this level and the contradictions faced by the characters inhabiting his prose enact a historical reality that too often falls through the cracks of the blindered vision we have been made to think can apprehend the world. Throughout, with both gentleness and bitter irony, he reminds us that we should “gently stroke” the very objects we cherish most, our books, for instance, so we can remember they are nothing but “dust.”

Ammiel Alcalay

May 2003

One: Unavoidable Detail of Biography

The Excursion

You want to bury your head in the pillow. Anything else is just torture. Yet the snugness of your bed soon vanishes like a dream. The sleep world disappears and you bump your head against your mother’s bony shoulder. As you glance out of the corner of an eye you see the steps of the bus dancing under your feet. This optical illusion of neat geometrical figures sends you right back to sleep. Ten minutes later you wake up again with a sick feeling in your stomach, but now it’s too late. You’re already on the bus surrounded by the clerks and typists of the Public Accounts Department on an excursion to Jajce. Your mother is the only member of staff who has brought a child with her — because you have to see the waterfalls, or so she insists, and she won’t take no for an answer, even though your stomach is threatening to erupt and right now your head feels more like a cesspool than a waterfall. Will it never clear up? You hear sounds amid the din, the rhythm of the bus, its thick window knocking. Through the glass you notice things — people, scenes, aspects — that will become, much later, ten years on perhaps, the more or less familiar images of your homeland. Such things you will describe with fervor and exaggeration to strangers from other countries.

Outside the window it’s a rainy day. The overflowing Bosna rushes under the bridge. Not the best weather for an outing, perhaps. Nevertheless the middle-aged employees gossip happily and ogle the blonde secretaries who have packed roast chicken and other snacks into their oversized beach bags, as well as make-up and combs, packets of Panadol, suntan lotion and those mysterious little objects that, as you will soon discover, come in handy once a month — but always, it seems, in the course of day-trips or celebrations.

You look out of the window and see a Fiat overtaking the bus. Inside the tiny vehicle are four young men who, as seen from your lofty vantage, look like happy dwarfs enjoying the rain. It’s obvious they want to race everyone they meet in this shiny, wet world. But you seem to be the only person watching them. The attention of the other passengers is drawn to other things, understandably perhaps, because it’s the middle of the week and they’ve got a day off, so they intend to make the most of it. Take old Džemo, for instance, who has brought an army hip-flask and is now passing it round. The toothless fool offers you a drink as a joke. At first you think it’s just water inside the flask, but then you catch a whiff of the alcohol, its sharp smell not unlike the liquid that nurses use to wipe your shoulder before they give you a jab. You can’t stop the heaving in your guts, until finally you throw up, covering the seat in front of you in a bitter, yellowy-green substance whose unpleasant smell stays in your nostrils for a very long time.

The bus slows down and comes to a halt in the middle of the road. The driver gets out, followed by the rest of the passengers. Your mother tells you not to move an inch, but you’d rather not stay in the bus on your own, so for once you disobey her and join the crowd that has gathered at the roadside, crawling between the legs of the onlookers in order to catch a glimpse of the mangled Fiat, a hand hanging out of the window. Angrily, you mother covers your eyes with her hand, and for that reason you don’t see anything else until she puts you back in your seat on the bus. The pale passengers also clamber back on board and return to their seats, but nobody utters a word, except perhaps for one of the blonde secretaries, who complains that seeing the car wreck has ruined the trip. But how? You don’t ask because you know it will sound like a stupid question. The young men in the Fiat are dead, but it seems as if you’re the only person who is unaffected by this. Why be sad now? After all, it’s not as if anybody knew the crash victims. And then Džemo starts telling stories about the many accidents he has witnessed and the hundreds of others he has merely heard about. To listen to Džemo, you’d think no journey in the history of the world had ever ended without a crumpled Fiat lying at the side of the road. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a disaster after all, if your own bus or car or whatever were to become the object of morbid scrutiny by palefaced onlookers, in whose midst an unknown woman, somebody else’s mother, would hastily cover her young child’s eyes. Just imagine the thrill of being at the center of such a drama. You don’t know why the idea of being the focus of other people’s attention makes you so excited, but you no longer feel sick. Instead you feel a kind of ecstasy as pleasure floods through your body and your tiny penis stirs in your pants. Suddenly you’re wide awake and having a wonderful time. You quiz your mother and wave your legs in the air. Then you ask Džemo for the hip-flask, which gets a big laugh from everybody on the bus. In other words, you’re the life and soul of the party, and you couldn’t be happier even if you’d died in a car crash.

Jajce is made of giant Lego, as if a mighty pair of hands had assembled the bricks after reading the instructions on the back of a toy packet. Nothing is real, except the waterfall perhaps, which is massive and terrifying. You spend the visit at a restaurant sitting outside on a terrace sheltered from the rain. Džemo tells a story about a lovesick young girl who jumped from the top of the waterfall on account of her boyfriend. As soon as he found out what had happened he climbed up and jumped off the waterfall too. Only it turned out that the girl had somehow miraculously survived her terrifying leap and so, making an appearance in Jajce the following day, she asked people if they had seen her boyfriend and they told her about his suicide. The poor girl’s despair was so great that she went and jumped off the waterfall again, killing herself this time.

Nobody believes Džemo’s story about the star-crossed lovers. You ask him why the young man had not turned up alive and kicking after his jump. You simply can not understand how a woman, a member of the frailer sex, as it were, could survive an ordeal like that, while a strong young man perished. You challenge Džemo to jump off the waterfall in order to see which of you survive. He declines.

Džemo refers to the labyrinth under Jajce. Once inside its network of corridors, he says, you can never get out again. Apparently it’s where they throw schoolboys who smoke in the toilets. How terrifying! You have never smoked a cigarette, but what if somebody jumped to the wrong conclusion and threw you into the underground dungeon anyway? Wouldn’t it be horrible to spend the rest of your life wandering in darkness?

You visit a museum with portraits of national heroes. This is where Comrade Tito made Yugoslavia. You ask Džemo if Tito also made Jajce. The old man replies, “Yes and no — which is to say, he didn’t, but he might as well have.” You can’t understand Džemo’s answer. Comrade Tito, you imagine, was the only person in the world strong enough to assemble the Lego bricks above the waterfall. Džemo’s “he didn’t, but he might as well have” stinks, just like his hip-flask.

You eat a meal in the restaurant. You have shish-kebab, but in the bus on the way home you throw up. Never mind, you’d enjoyed eating it.

It is already dark outside; but no Fiat overtakes the bus, which doesn’t stop — and nobody dies. Džemo doesn’t talk of accidents any more. He talks about something else, probably equally untrue. Or perhaps it is true just for a moment before you close your eyes and fall asleep only to wake up when the sky is red, like a burning roof over the lights of Sarajevo.

Two: A Reconstruction of Events

Cactus

She was always afraid of missing the beautiful and important things in life. She traveled a lot, but more often she panicked because she was stuck at home. For some reason she always imagined that real happiness and pleasure lay elsewhere. As a result she was forever thinking up new ways of stopping time and grasping that crystal moment when life becomes a dream or a fairy tale.

Suddenly, at the end of December 1990, she told me she longed to spend New Year’s Eve on the island of Hvar with a bunch of people I didn’t know. In her enthusiasm she managed to present her longing in terms of it being just a good idea. I was somewhat taken aback, but my objections only made her depressed, so I finally accepted the plan as if it were a joint one. We got together at Marijindvor the day before New Year’s Eve. It was early in the morning; the trams were not yet running. I was introduced to some rather decadent men and women in evening dress, which I tend to associate with late nights and drunken parties. A dozen of us, plus a load of suitcases and a more or less hyperactive boxer dog, squeezed into three cars. The convoy set off, with two VW Golfs in front and a wreck of a Citroën 2cv following behind. In the old banger were the two of us, a bald engineering student, his ugly fat girlfriend and the boxer dog. The car seemed to be held together by the sort of brown tape used to wrap parcels. Not surprisingly there was an icy draft blowing from all sides and our feet almost sank through the floor. As we crawled agonizingly along the road toward the south, the fat girl talked about French perfumes and the dog kept farting noisily. On each occasion I smiled fondly at my girlfriend and made some lighthearted remark, trying as hard as I could to make her think I was enjoying myself. The 2cv inched up the Ivan mountain at about ten miles per hour until Konjic, where it spluttered a couple of times and then finally came to a standstill. The flatulent dog broke wind once again and started to bark excitedly. We got out of the car and waited for the others who were in the Volkswagens to come to our rescue. Then we began to discuss strategy or, at any rate, how to redistribute the extra passengers among the two vehicles that were still on the road. Who was going to go where? It was impossible to decide. No matter which combination of humans, suitcases and flatulent animals was proposed, my girlfriend and I always ended up being the odd ones out. And so when at last it had been decided who would continue the journey by train and who by car, I put my hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Why don’t we just go back?”

Unexpectedly she didn’t look at me in a reproachful way. She merely shrugged and heaved a weary sigh.

I said, “Who’ll tell them?”

“You do it. After all, you’re the man.”

“It’ll sound better coming from you. They’re your friends. Besides, if I say it they’ll only get the wrong idea and think we’re annoyed about something.”

I was right, of course, and in the end she made the announcement. She just said that we were going back to Sarajevo. It’s funny, I always had the knack of entrusting unpleasant tasks (and pleasant ones!) to somebody else.

We had to wait another two and a half hours before the train was ready to depart, and so we huddled together in the cold and empty hotel lounge, watching each other and swapping playful embraces.

“What a pity!” I lied.

She blamed herself for ruining my New Year’s celebration, but with my kisses and with other masculine trickery I somehow managed to convince her that nothing had been ruined.

“I’m sorry about the presents.”

I always like receiving gifts, so I insisted that we perform the ritual in Konjic. At first she resisted because the circumstances did not seem festive enough. She was still hoping for that crystal moment. But I’ve already told you about my powers of persuasion.

She carefully opened her backpack and even more carefully pulled out a box displaying the logo of a well-known brand of cognac.

“Open it!” she said.

The box was light so it obviously didn’t contain a bottle. That would have been a dumb kind of present anyway. Inside the box was a mysterious object wrapped beautifully in white paper. She gestured with her hand and so I unwrapped the gift, only to reveal a common garden pot holding a tiny cactus about the size of a newborn baby’s thumb.

I had never told her that I hated indoor plants, mostly because they demand attention and routine. You have to think about them all the time and I can’t even think about other people, let alone plants. I remember that when grandmother died all the plants in my room withered. I felt sad even though I hated them.

I smiled and kissed my girlfriend, uttering a few sentimental words. As soon as I had convinced her that I was sincere, I gave her my presents, a bottle of Chanel No. 5 (which, of course, I’d bought thinking of Marilyn) and a collection of essays by Susan Sontag about photography. I had to give her the perfume as well because she was always suspicious of my taste in literature, no doubt believing, and perhaps justly, that I was usually thinking of myself, instead of her, when I recommended a book.

I placed the cactus in a reasonably sunlit corner of my room, next to the icon of St. Vlach and a pebble with a hole in the middle which I keep because they say it brings good luck. A few months later the war in Croatia broke out; the film about Segelj, the conflicts at Plitvice, Borovo Selo. .

I watered the cactus regularly at five-day intervals and was careful not to move it. Perhaps I remembered something that my grandmother told me a long time ago. She said that you should never move a cactus. It has to stay in one place — and only one place — not that it really matters what kind of place it is, or even whether it’s the best place available, just as long as it belongs there. In other words, I really looked after that cactus, which is to say, it kind of surprised me that I didn’t harm it in any way.

Instead of dying, as you’d expect of your average cute plant that is brought out by shopkeepers for special occasions, the cactus began to grow, spreading its spikes, which were soft like a baby hedgehog’s, getting fatter and tilting at the sun. The heliotrope was no longer the size of an infant’s thumb, and so whenever my girlfriend came to visit me in my room, she was pleased to see that the cactus had not suffered from my usual negligence.

“It’s beginning to look like you!” she said.

“The cactus?”

“Well, not like you exactly, but like a part of your anatomy.”

I must admit that such a comparison had not occurred to me. But from that moment onwards I couldn’t help seeing things from her point of view. The cactus became a pleasurable detail in our lives, the sort of detail that makes a love affair worth remembering.

In the days when Vukovar was being destroyed, I felt something like icy breath down my neck. Life became a very serious matter, different from anything that I had known before. I felt that any mistake could prove fatal, although I didn’t know how or why.

At the end of April I moved into the cellar. A mortar bomb had struck the crown of the apple tree. My windows were shattered, a piece of shrapnel, no bigger than a grain of rice, smashed the Austrian antique mirror on the dressing table next to the cupboard. The glass cracked in a pattern that was as regular as the lines of longitude and latitude on a map of the world. But the phones were still working and so I tried to tell my girlfriend. She didn’t understand what had happened. She probably thought I’d gone a little soft in the head.

Every five days I would go upstairs to water the cactus. It was now leaning toward the Chetnik positions. I often glanced nervously up at the sun, expecting a bullet at any moment. In the cellar, however, it felt safe and warm, even though it was damp and, let’s say, intimate. There was always a smell of rotting potatoes, and the coal dust made your eyes smart. But I couldn’t have been cosier in the womb.

My girlfriend came to believe that death only happened in Sarajevo. She became increasingly sentimental and almost distant. She asked me if I wanted to emigrate with her to New Zealand. I replied that I was happy in the cellar and that, in any case, New Zealand was a long way away, and I didn’t think I’d be happy Down Under. She never asked about the cactus. I didn’t like to mention it.

People change when they’re alone in the dark. It happens imperceptibly. I heard a story about a man who went to bed as usual one night and by the morning his hair had turned completely grey. Yet he didn’t remember having a nightmare or bad dream. At the time I lived in desperate fear of the cold.

One morning — it was day five — I woke to discover that all the water in the flat had frozen up. Only then did it occur to me that cacti have difficulty withstanding the cold. I took the plant downstairs and placed it in the cellar opposite the stove that we used to stoke with coal dust. Not too close, not too far away. In the precise spot that I reckoned would suit both a cactus and a human being. The next day it was drooping over the side of the pot. How was it drooping? Well, put it this way, the tip was pointing downwards as if the sun was under the ground. I watered the cactus for the last time but I realized that it was too late. The end was nigh!

The war has taught me how to calm my emotions and nerves artificially. Nowadays, in conversation, whenever somebody raises a topic that I find upsetting, I have a sense of this tiny red light automatically switching on inside me, not unlike the one you press to remove the background noise on a tape. And after that, I don’t feel anything. But when I think about that cactus, the light refuses to come on, and nothing else helps. It’s a minor consequence, like a bitter cyanide capsule. But — do you remember? — many years ago lots of people got upset because they found out horses died standing up. By contrast, I get sad just thinking about the way a cactus dies, like the boy in Goethe’s poem. It’s not important, mind you, except as a warning to avoid detail in life. That’s all.

Theft

In our garden there was an apple tree whose mouth-watering fruits could be seen from the upstairs window of the house next door. Our neighbors, Rade and Jela, used to go to the market to buy apples for their two young daughters — but it was no use. However delicious, other apples were never as tempting as the ones that were visible from the family’s window. Each morning, as soon as Rade and Jela left for work, the girls would jump over the garden fence in order to pick the overripe fruit. Usually I chased them away by throwing mud or stones at them. In other words, I defended my property, but as a matter of principle and not because I was particularly tempted by these or indeed by any other apples. Seeking revenge, the younger girl told my mother that I had got an “F” in math. As a result, my mother paid an unexpected visit to my school and was able to confirm the truth of my enemy’s allegation. She spent the next few days torturing me with quadratic equations. All those x’s and y’s made life intolerable, so I decided to get back at our next-door neighbors in any way I could. Here’s what I did: I found myself a hiding place and spent the whole day waiting for the thieves. Eventually they turned up, as I knew they would, and that’s when I jumped out of the bushes and grabbed my enemy by the hair and began to drag her toward our house. I planned to lock her in the pantry until my mother returned home from work in order to punish her. But the little girl resisted fiercely, screaming and struggling. In the end she escaped, leaving only a handful of hair and a tiny piece of scalp in my hand. I was furious and ran inside, locking the door behind me. A short while later, I heard Rade screaming under the window that he was going to kill me. He must have repeated the threat to my mother, because she responded in kind. Predictably, they spent three or four hours trading insults at the window. My mother called Rade a gangster from Kalinovik. He called her a shameless hussy.

Over the next twenty years or so, the two of them never even said hello to each other, though I have to say neither of the sisters ever came to steal again. Each year, August and September would come and go, and the apples were no less beautiful and tantalizing, but the two families continued to live side by side without exchanging so much as a glance. Our parents grew old without forgetting the insults. In time the two girls got married and moved away, but otherwise everything remained the same.

A few days after the war began the police searched Rade and Jela’s flat and found two hunting guns and an automatic rifle. The neighbors were understandably frightened. Indeed, they began to speculate about whom Rade was planning to kill, and how. For many years he had stopped coming out of his house. Was he hoping to lure his victim into a trap? Jela continued to go to the market in order to fetch the humanitarian aid and water until one day a shell exploded ten yards away from her, blowing her arm off. The tragedy had the unfortunate effect of driving Rade into the open, so to speak. For the first time in ages, the neighbors got to see Rade in the flesh, although he seemed to have aged preternaturally in the last few months and looked a hundred years old when he finally emerged from his house with a little saucepan of soup and three shrivelled lemons. He visited the hospital once a day, keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, apparently terrified by the prospect of catching somebody’s eye.

During that war-torn September our apple tree produced riper and tastier fruit than ever before. My mother joked that the last time such delicious apples had been seen was in the Garden of Eden. I climbed the tree, from whose uppermost branch I had a good view of the Chetnik positions on Trebevič. Hanging in the sky, I picked dozens of apples with the enthusiasm of Scrooge McDuck when he’s in his vault throwing money in the air. As I reached out for one particularly juicy apple that was growing only half a yard from Rade’s window, I couldn’t help spotting him in the back of the room. I froze on the branch but eventually Rade shrank back a few inches. I don’t know why but I didn’t want him to go.

“How are you, Uncle Rade?”

“Be careful, son, it’s high — don’t fall. .”

“How’s Auntie Jela?”

“Well, she’s hanging on, with her one hand, to what remains of life. The doctors say that she’ll be coming out of the hospital soon.”

We talked like this for two long minutes. I held on to the branch with one hand, and gripped my bag full of apples with the other. I was overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of nausea that was infinitely worse than anything caused by exploding shells and by guns that have or have not been found in people’s houses. It was as though, hanging from the top of the apple tree in front of Rade’s window, everything I knew about myself and other people had become meaningless.

Rade continued, “You know, son, when you lose an arm you continue to feel it for a long time. It’s something psychological, as though you deceive yourself into thinking you still possess the missing limb. Every day I cook a little something to take to my wife, but there is no life in it. I look at the beans or the thin soup, and then I look at her and I say, ‘Jela!’ but she doesn’t respond. Then she says, ‘Rade!’ and I don’t respond. D’you understand, son? We’re alive just enough to see each other and to conclude that we’re not alive any more. That’s all. Sometimes I look at these apples and marvel at the life in them. They don’t care about all this. They don’t know. I daren’t even mention them. .”

I stretched over to the window and passed him the bag. He looked at me, rather surprised, and then began to shake his head. Suddenly my throat became tight and it was as much as I could do to move my lips. I was paralyzed for half a minute; if the Chetniks had been looking at me they would have been very confused. Rade was trembling like a man who had nothing left. He was reduced to shivering like an unhappy, frightened animal. At last he raised his arm but he still couldn’t say anything.

The following day Rade knocked on our door with a hundred apologies for disturbing us. He gave us something wrapped in newspaper and then left in a hurry, so I didn’t get a chance to speak to him. The parcel contained a small jar of apple jam.

Soon afterwards Jela came out of hospital. The husband and wife continued to live behind their closed window, and Rade only ventured out to collect the humanitarian aid. One day, standing next to my mother in line, he whispered “Thank you” to her. She turned around just in time to hear him say, once again, that the apples were full of life.

In the next few months a handful of men in uniform came for Rade twice, took him away somewhere and later brought him back again. The neighbors watched these mysterious comings and goings, twitching at lace curtains, sometimes peeking through their keyholes. Feeling guilty perhaps, they couldn’t help reminding one another of the hidden guns. Half a dozen gossips went back to the idea that Rade must have wanted to kill somebody. Others remained silent, as if the mere act of talking about their neighbor was enough to cause pain. The obvious solution would have been to hate Rade, but somehow it wasn’t possible.

Nobody knows who killed Rade and Jela. They just disappeared one day without fuss or explanation. Perhaps it’s wrong to say what I am going to say, but I only remember two things about poor Rade — his apple jam and the remarkable fact that he never once, not even in the dead of night, reached out of his window to steal an apple.

Beetle

The War broke out in the year she came of age. She was only just getting used to the slick city streets and to the smell of gasoline and oil and lead. By then she had more or less got the hang of swerving sharply to the right, or sharply to the left, straight on, over the bridge, before the traffic lights turned red. But her early life was spent on the Ravna Romanija mountain with a chap called Miloš, who put her to work on the hardest, dirtiest jobs. When I first saw her she stank of cement and manure and liquor. It was not long after she’d come back from the building site on the premises of a glamorous café, which is nowadays the watering-hole of Chetniks rather than lorry drivers. I agreed a price with Miloš without fuss. He obviously wanted to be rid of her as quickly as possible. In his village the least expensive car was a Golf, so having a rusty old Beetle around the place was kind of an embarrassment.

It was already dark by the time we drove back from the Romanija, through Pale and the tunnels on the outskirts of Sarajevo. Emblazoned in neon lights on one of the concrete flyovers was the legend, “Tito’s crossing the Romanija. .” I was always confused by the three dots. I had a feeling they meant something rude. But my Nazi frau ignored the revolutionary message as she grumbled noisily but in rhythm like a Buddhist nun.

I found a parking space in front of my house. I should say that I live in a rather steep neighborhood unsuitable for cars, but it has an excellent view of the hills around Sarajevo, which are dotted with white Turkish tombstones. It was the first time in her life that she was ever tidy and clean. Squeezed in between all those Mazdas, Hondas and Toyotas, she resembled an architectural model from the golden age of romantic futurism. My neighbor Salko observed that we made a perfect couple — me with my big head and stocky body, her with those gentle curves. Other people reckoned that I could have done better and they said she wouldn’t last more than three days.

I bought her the cheapest car stereo I could find — it was the sort of junk nobody would steal — and I played our tune again and again, partly to block out the noise of the engine and partly because I wanted to have a continuous wall of noise in the background. Somewhere on the road to Kakanj, Nick Cave’s icy melancholy pulsed in time with the flawless Nazi machine, evoking more clearly perhaps than intellectual concepts, painful ideologies and climactic histories the importance of believing in a harmonious view of the world that is unaffected by revolutions and apocalypses. After the beheading of Marie Antoinette, for example, the people of France discovered Baroque. After Lenin killed the Romanovs, a baby’s pram rolled down the Odessa Steps of Eisenstein’s cinematography. After Hitler, I discovered my own rhythm in four beats to the bar and a 1300cc engine.

Now and again her gas supply would be blocked and she would suddenly cut out. I remember her clutch gave up on one occasion. Also, she guzzled huge quantities of gasoline, as you’d expect, and she did have a tendency to get dirty very quickly — but she never had any serious breakdowns. In any case, still having a grip on my imagination, I only drove her around town for pleasure, so these flaws seemed rather trivial. It wasn’t as if I needed the car to escape anywhere or make a getaway.

On the second of May you could hear the thunder crashing on all sides. The bombardment started about midday. After going for a quick spin around town and leaving the car in the parking lot, I drank my last prewar Coca-Cola and then ended up in a cellar somewhere. The shelling continued beyond nightfall. I sat in the dark belly of a building and spoke to a bunch of people I’d only just met. It was a crowd of accidental passersby — a woman on her way home from the market, young children on roller-skates, that sort of thing. I guess the shelling sounded even more terrifying in the darkness. Is that why I became so worried that it wouldn’t leave anything in its wake? I couldn’t help wondering about the first casualty — would it be my house or my Beetle? Of course I wanted both to survive, but it was as if I was obliged by the persistent booming to make an impossible choice. Having stayed awake all night turning the dilemma over and over in my mind, I finally opted to save my home. I think I already had a picture of the Beetle as a dark metal skeleton, but I’m not sure. Perhaps I just imagined that conjuring up such an image would somehow protect my building.

It was already daylight when the shelling came to an end. The sun was dazzling. Glass crunched underfoot. The city was empty and shattered. I noticed that the traffic lights were no longer working as I made my way to the parking lot, where I found my Beetle among the wrecked and burned-out cars. She was covered in dust with a slight shrapnel wound, but I drove her home, opened the courtyard gates and parked the car inside. The war has really started now, I thought. It’s over — no more driving for you.

At first I thought it was incredible that both my house and my car had survived the madness of that day and night of bombing. But as time went by, I began to realize that in fact nothing had been saved; it was just that the final moment of separation had been postponed. The delay was helpful in terms of getting ready and coming to understand that nothing was left for me in Sarajevo apart from the murdered and maimed citizens, the demolished buildings, my forgotten childhood and perhaps a sackful of human flesh that lives off its nostalgia for other forgettable things until it comes face to face with what really matters, at which point it shivers like an engine before cutting out.

A Ring

The doctor announced that my grandmother would die in the middle of the night. She was losing her battle for life, but we knew that anyway — it was the note of medical precision in his voice, or, at any rate, the utter denial of hope, that was so confusing. How could we prepare for her death? How could we get used to the idea before the awful moment when the telephone rings after midnight and another unfamiliar voice full of bureaucratic sympathy informs you that half an hour ago, while you were sleeping, a human soul much loved by you expired in the Oncological Ward of the Kosevo hospital?

Every night my mother went to the hospital, where she stayed until the early hours of the morning. On her return she didn’t say very much. She just shook her head a few times and went to bed. It was the summer of 1986, and the World Cup was being staged in Mexico. My grandmother’s long-drawn-out death throes began as the soccer teams were playing the various group matches prior to the knock-out phase but continued during the quarter-final matches which were broadcast live on tv throughout the night. With only soccer players and commentators to keep me company, I waited for my mother to return from the hospital each night. As soon as she came through the door I would switch the television off and scrutinize her in the few minutes it took her to say goodnight and go upstairs. Then I would sleep until midday.

The whole city seemed to be relaxing in sidewalk cafés. Tired of winter and spring flu, everybody soaked up the mild weather before the heatwave. I used to drink my coffee on the sunny side of a street full of cars going south. I discussed the previous night’s matches with my friends or found other ways of killing time until nightfall, when the familiar cycle of waiting for death and watching late-night soccer games from Mexico would begin all over again.

During the first semi-final my mother came back unexpectedly from the hospital and went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. Of course I turned down the volume on the tv — the Germans were silently celebrating a goal — but neither of us said a word. So this is it, I thought — The End. Nevertheless we went to bed earlier than usual because we knew that in the morning, according to custom, the house would be full of family and friends who had come to ease our pain with hugs of comfort and funeral presents.

In the pantry I neatly arranged the bottles of whisky, packets of coffee and sugar cubes. I welcomed dozens of familiar and unfamiliar faces and said a lot of goodbyes. I was polite, if a little cold, in response to the expressions of concern, hardly able to wait for the ordeal to end.

The next day we were told that my grandmother could not be admitted to the mortuary because she was still wearing her wedding ring. Apparently some families had complained in the past because — or so they claimed — certain valuables belonging to their dead relatives had been stolen. A new code of practice had been introduced as a safeguard, and henceforth items of jewelry had to be removed from the deceased before the body was transferred to the mortuary. My mother went to the hospital and sorted the problem out.

“We’ll slide it back on her finger before the funeral,” she said, absent-mindedly putting grandma’s ring on the bedside table. I don’t think she remembered where she’d left it until several days later.

It was a quiet funeral without melodrama or tears. On a small bronze plaque nailed to the black coffin were inscribed the facts of grandma’s life, her christened name and her family name, year of birth, time of death, the sixth of June 1986. But nobody displayed much interest in those details. In the future perhaps, a long time after we’re dead and forgotten, I like to think a team of archeologists will dig up the remains of our society — like they did in Pompeii — and, coming across grandmother’s plaque, regard it as something utterly fascinating.

After the funeral our house seemed emptier than before. No doubt the other mourners returned to wherever they lived, while my mother told us the familiar stories about grandma’s life — it was mostly for her own sake — and I switched on the tv in order to see the World Cup final. The rest of the cycle was over and now it was time for me to say farewell to the soccer tournament. On the other side of the world a huge stadium burst into life in an orgy of excitement. I could not really identify with the supporters’ noisy enthusiasm, but perhaps that is why it appealed to me. In the absence of my own feelings, it was possible to be happy watching a spectacle that made me forget about reality, just as it is sometimes possible during orgasm, for example, to pretend that nothing else in life matters.

My grandmother’s death was the last pure sadness of my innocent childhood. The darkness of my teenage years owed something to adolescent moodiness, and in that respect it was kind of private, but otherwise I like to think my doom-and-gloom phase was just a sign of things to come, like the approaching cataclysm — a time of numberless deaths and prolonged sufferings. There was no point in getting used to the bereavement, since war made a habit of death without sadness. Public displays of grief seldom occur nowadays, but when they do they are full of tears and inconsolable wailing — and it happens quite unexpectedly. The more trivial the cause of hysteria, the more difficult it becomes to control the wide-spread sobbing. That’s why melodramatic films, silly love stories and the deaths of animals on the road are things I prefer to avoid.

Many gallons of my funeral booze were consumed in the early months of the war. The bottles had stayed in the pantry for years, but with the first sip their contents began to course through our veins faster than the blood that only a miracle left unspilt.

My grandmother’s ring has not been stolen yet. In fact it remains on the ground, like half a memory. The other half is several feet below — with my grandfather, who died and was buried several years earlier, before the mortuary introduced its new code of practice vis-à-vis jewelry.

Mr. Ivo

In the old days the street-traders used to carry wicker baskets laden with produce as they climbed up Šepetarovac on their way to Bjelav stores and the shops on Pothrastovina. The same thing happened for centuries — the reward for getting up the hill was a drink from the water fountain at the top. Not only did the pedlars regard the fountain as a source of refreshment; it was a source of encouragement too, always renewing a hope that one day the hill would be flattened by the tramp of their boots. Nobody remembered exactly when the fountain was built — it was a long time ago, during the Ottoman Empire — but it was generally accepted that the local pasha had been responsible for the project, which he had undertaken for two reasons: in order to help the people of Sarajevo and also to improve his chances of being treated favorably in the afterlife. Over the years the fountain never dried up, even after the street-traders were replaced by juggernauts and there was only the name itself — roughly translated, “Šepetarovac” means “Basket Street” — to keep alive the memory of the old-fashioned peddlers.

Mr. Ivo lived at the bottom of Šepetarovac nearly all his life, but in the eyes of everybody, including Mr. Ivo himself, he continued to be the Gentleman from Dubrovnik. The roses in his garden were more fragrant and colorful than anybody else’s. His flagstone path was always neat, and his small talk was invariably perfect in terms of decorum: not over-familiar like the common people’s, not too distant like the nouveaux riches’.

After the Chetnik bombing of Dubrovnik in the early autumn of 1991, Mr. Ivo suddenly bought five hens and a cock and dug up the roses in his garden. By accident, in the course of rearranging what used to be the flowerbed, he uncovered an old blocked-up well. In no time Mr. Ivo reopened the shaft and rebuilt the well using flat white stones. His neighbors had a pretty good idea of what he was doing but, even so, they were reluctant to believe that anybody could be such a pessimist, or that a gentleman like Mr. Ivo could suddenly metamorphose into a muddy laborer or peasant, the kind of person who was able to put up with the stink of chickens.

“Who cares?” said Mr. Ivo. “If the war spreads, heaven forbid, I’m well prepared. If it doesn’t, so what? I had a lot of fun digging up my garden. I’ve grown roses for thirty years, surely you don’t expect me to die without getting to know the difference between them and chickens?”

At the beginning of the war Mr. Ivo produced an excellent yield of tomatoes and lettuces, and when the water shortages began, he was able to use the cold clear water from his well. It didn’t take long for the neighbors to imagine that the clucking in Mr. Ivo’s garden was the singing of birds of paradise, an irresistible sound that brings you out of the world of shadows and into the light of day.

“A gentleman is a gentleman, and riff-raff’s riff-raff, whatever happens,” they said. “Until yesterday we watched Mr. Ivo among his roses and thought to ourselves, ‘You see, he’s a gent from Dubrovnik.’ Never mind that today he’s knee-deep in chicken shit — he’s still a gent!”

One day, because the water pipes had been dry for almost a fortnight, and even the drinking fountain at the top of Šepetarovac had dried up, a handful of neighbors carrying buckets knocked on Mr. Ivo’s window for the first time. He agreed to draw water for them and, of course, they spread the good word around the neighborhood. The next day fifty people gathered in front of Mr. Ivo’s house. Nobody was denied a bucket of water — until another fifty, then a hundred, came knocking on Mr. Ivo’s door.

The Gentleman from Dubrovnik had a simple rule: his neighbors were not allowed to help themselves to water, in case they dirtied the well. After a few days, Mr. Ivo hung up a notice on his door: “Dear neighbors,” it read, “the well is open from ten to midday and from four to six in the evening. I am not in a position to serve you at other times.” The next morning a long and surprisingly disciplined queue formed outside Mr. Ivo’s house. He let in three water-carriers at a time. Nobody complained, and there were no raised voices. A code of behavior was observed as in a mosque or a church. The rowdy element was upbraided by Mr. Ivo or by others in the line. “You’ve come to draw water,” they were told. “This isn’t a pub!” And so they were instructed to behave accordingly.

At times of heavy shelling, or on days when the fierce south winds were blowing, the Gentleman from Dubrovnik sometimes became irritable. Usually, on such occasions, people standing in line tried to cheer Mr. Ivo up with quizzical looks, polite questions or tiny gestures. Sometimes it worked, but often Mr. Ivo behaved like a cruel aristocrat. He would shower people with sarcastic comments, unnecessary warnings and even insults. But he never withheld water from any of his neighbors.

Whenever the south winds and the Serb attacks receded, the gentleman became his old self again. He never lost his dignity, even when leaning over the well, or when sweat was dripping off his face, or when he felt a bit weak and had to sit down for ten minutes.

Now and again the main water supply in the city was restored, which meant that Mr. Ivo could breathe a sigh of relief. On days like that, nobody gave the Gentleman from Dubrovnik a second thought, and nobody knocked on his door — which is how it should be: leave the poor man alone to have a rest from his nonstop visitors. Don’t forget that you’ll have to go back there sooner or later, at which time you’ll thank your lucky stars that you don’t have to walk to the city water pump by the brewery, which is often shelled by the Chetniks.

On Christmas Eve Mr. Ivo announced that he wouldn’t be working the next day because it was a holiday, and for that reason he intended to stay at the well until midnight. The following day the water-carriers brought Mr. Ivo lots of presents and cakes and pies, baklavas and jars of yoghurt made from milk powder, not to mention bundles of ground coffee. One young man somehow managed to get hold of a packet of Croatian cigarettes, which especially touched Mr. Ivo.

The day after Christmas was just like any other. At one end of the garden was a long line of men, women and children holding buckets; at the other end was Mr. Ivo staring into the well, whose clear water represented for this particular neighborhood all of the goodness in the world. The Gentleman from Dubrovnik would fill every bucket — and then it was time to climb up Šepetarovac again.

Every day when I drag the water up the hill I remember Christ on his way to Calvary. I wonder if Calvary was uphill all the way, or if it was perhaps uphill only here and there, with flat or even downhill stretches in between, the way my mother used to say it was about a Muslim woman — giving her something else to worry about?

Bosnian Hotpot

“I know what the speed of light is,

but we haven’t learned about the speed of darkness yet.”

Dino from Zenica, twelve years old,

temporarily at school in Zagreb

You should go to Africa maybe, where love never dies; it’s like a fairy tale. You know how the story goes: by chance, two people meet and fall in love, they get married, have children and live happily ever after, or, at any rate, until death finally casts them asunder. This is a cliché most of us believe in from puberty onwards; it doesn’t take account of reality. Young girls read about the cliché in romantic novels. Parents make hopeful plans with a view to their children having fairy-tale lives. But real life isn’t a cliché, and that’s why it almost never works out the way you imagine. But don’t look back in anger or you’ll only end up thinking love is God’s idea of a joke.

Elena was a young ambitious woman from Zagreb. She came to Sarajevo to study for a degree that was unavailable back home, even though she could have taken a dozen similar courses there. At first she hated the way the city tram drivers always made a special detour on Baščaršija in order to buy a pastry. She was driven crazy by the Sarajevans who talked too loud and made spiteful jokes. The pungent smells of the city also bothered her. Nor could she stand the young men who insisted on telling their whole life story to her, only to be crudely familiar the next time she met them. But Sarajevo was a city that didn’t require people to change the habits of a lifetime — it could even put up with people’s contempt — and so Elena quickly grew accustomed to its local oddities. Pretty soon she began to derive pleasure from the way so many people lived on top of one another without making a fuss about their differences. The trivial but immediate quality of this pleasure brought to her mind the atmosphere of a station waiting-room on a platform from which trains depart to heaven and hell.

Zlaja, who was older than Elena, had not yet graduated from the school of journalism. He was the eternal student type, the son of a wealthy and respected Bosnian family. His upbringing smacked of liberal Islam and stuffy Viennese gentility. The local wags used to joke that even the flies in Zlaja’s house were upper class — they buzzed around wearing tailcoats.

As a rule, decadence goes hand in hand with laziness. In this respect, Zlaja was no exception. Always urbane, and with a taste for drink, he spent most of his time in cafés dreaming up endless projects that would guarantee his future. Needless to say, his schemes were always completely unrealistic. The more time he wasted, and the more the situation in Bosnia deteriorated, the more Zlaja yielded to his fantasies. Most bouts followed a similar pattern: after the first drink he would embark on a tall story about a fabulous new business, a sure thing. Around midnight the new business usually merged with other businesses whose success was equally assured; and by sunrise Zlaja had created a giant multinational. His plans ranged from launching a daily newspaper that would sell a hundred thousand copies, to producing a special kind of tea for pregnant women that would predetermine the sex of the unborn child. (If the experiment failed, and the unfortunate parents got a child of the wrong sex, the manufacturers would refund the money.) In any case, according to the law of probability, you were bound to come up trumps fifty per cent of the time, so the product couldn’t fail to bring in lots of dough.

This plan failed, of course, just like all the others, because Zlaja came up with a newer and brighter idea. People who were unacustomed to café society often tired of these interminable discussions, but most of Zlaja’s cronies were also self-deluding Walter Mitty characters who thoroughly enjoyed spending the whole night in his company. He was intelligent and well-educated, after all, and seldom talked nonsense even when he was completely drunk.

Nobody knows for sure how Elena met Zlaja, but according to the most reliable version she just happened to walk into a café as Zlaja was holding forth. It was love at first sight. Later, when they went for a romantic stroll around town, she just melted into his arms as soon as he began to tell her stories in that somewhat incongruously laidback way of his. It has to be said that Zlaja’s storytelling operated at the same level of unreality as most of his business plans, and yet it was very effective in terms of courtship because Zlaja had the knack of talking about things we boring and rational types long to discuss, but don’t know how.

When they started living together, everybody just assumed that one of them would have to change. Zlaja would ruin Elena — or Elena would be the making of Zlaja. Either she would discover the pleasures of drinking, daydreaming and loafing about, or he would slowly become neat, ambitious and calculating. As time went on, they continued to love each other as much as ever, but there were no personality changes. Indeed the two of them were brought closer together by all the things that in other relationships would probably have led to conflict or bad feeling or separation. Elena was happy and successful. Zlaja was happy and unrealistic. Often she accompanied him on his drinking bouts but only when there was a gap in her busy schedule. By the same token, he delighted in her success and used to give her plenty of career advice, with the result that she began to figure increasingly in his plans.

The war, however, ruined Elena’s ambitions and Zlaja’s dreams. As a couple, they hadn’t reckoned on the non-stop shellings; it couldn’t be ignored or avoided; it destroyed real as well as imaginary worlds. Death bulked large not only in people’s dreams but also in their dayto-day lives, and perhaps that is why the bombardment was especially upsetting for people like Zlaja and Elena who were cocooned in a world of their own, not wanting to question the state of things, and having in some ways an unusual approach to life. A month into the war Zlaja managed to persuade Elena to leave “infernal Sarajevo” and go to Zagreb. Yet he stayed behind, for he did not believe that all was lost. He still hoped to make a go of things, the sort of things that were possible only in Sarajevo. No other city, Zlaja felt, could sustain the fragile world inside his head.

The months of separation had no effect other than to make Elena realize that she had left something invaluable behind her in Sarajevo. Zagreb was no longer the center of her world. It didn’t matter to her whether she had become addicted to Sarajevo itself or to Zlaja. She always walked around her native city with a pebble in her shoe to remind her that life — her life anyway — was elsewhere, and that she couldn’t go back to it.

At the end of the first year of the war in Sarajevo, Zlaja made the long journey in search of Elena. He travelled by roads that were unfamiliar to him, over the Bosnian mountains, passing angry soldiers in different uniforms, until finally he reached Zagreb. He wasn’t the only one, by any means. So little remained of the country that had nurtured Zlaja, the dreams and projects, the diverse Bosnian cultures, that even the most determined patriots became refugees, opting to save their own lives, for which, ironically, they discovered they had no use once in exile.

It was impossible to reconstruct the lost dreamworld in Zagreb. In the local cafés the big plans just sounded empty and artificial. Tall stories were interpreted as lies. Besides, you could never find anybody to lap up your wit and repartee, to shoot the bull. And even if the right kind of people did exist, they probably had their own way of telling stories, not to mention their own cafés to frequent. So what if their big ideas were akin to Zlaja’s — he had fuck-all chance of meeting them.

Elena tried to persuade Zlaja that it was necessary to change his lifestyle. He responded by telling her stories that were pale imitations of his Sarajevo yarns, often lacking a climax or dwindling into nothingness like the bad copy of a fax message. He did attempt to change, however; for instance, he tried to think up a hyper-fantastic scheme as a way of reviving the old magic — but he failed to come up with anything. Soon he came to resemble the kind of no-hoper who achieves nothing by force of habit and is utterly devoid of spark or imagination.

Not long afterwards Zlaja developed an obsession with cookery, an art at which he became as proficient as he had once been at spinning yarns. He immersed himself in haute cuisine with the single-minded passion of a person who has no other choice or interest in life. His dishes, like his stories in a former existence, were feasts of pure pleasure. Among his staple ingredients was the odd spoonful of a Bosnian metaphysics that was strongly opposed to the idea of nutrition or a healthy diet, being more interested in unadulterated hedonism.

Elena was happy that Zlaja enjoyed cooking. So that was it! At least he was able to derive meaning and a sense of purpose in the kitchen, and was no longer sinking inexorably into the depths of despair. One day, however, Zlaja decided to prepare a Bosnian hotpot. He told Elena that he couldn’t possibly make such a dish in any of those teenyweeny pots that will still bear the legend “Made in Yugoslovia” a hundred years from now. To prepare a Bosnian hotpot you have to use a clay pot of a sort that obviously doesn’t exist in the overtly Westernized city of Zagreb. The kind of pot Zlaja was talking about wasn’t even on sale in the shops of Sarajevo, but you’d find one in every Bosnian household all the same.

For a long time Elena and Zlaja searched everywhere in Zagreb for a clay pot. In the end they found two pots — at opposite ends of the city — that were ideal for preparing the traditional dish. However, it was very hard to choose between them, and so they travelled back and forth on crowded trams up to a dozen times, expertly tapping the pots, shaking their heads and then leaving the shops empty-handed in order to rethink the purchase. The dilemma of Buridan’s Bosnians was impossible to resolve. Fortunately, the problem was solved by a third party, presumably another Bosnian, who bought the second pot — and so there was only one left.

Zlaja was very happy with his pot. He described the method of preparing the dish a thousand times, often hinting at its divine flavor. Once again, he had found something about which to fantasize.

But then the police raids started in Zagreb. Muslims without refugee papers were arrested, and there were many unconfirmed stories about their fate. Now Elena tried to persuade Zlaja to leave the city, as he had persuaded her to leave Sarajevo when the shelling had begun the previous April. It didn’t take much to convince him. He packed his bag straight away and went to some refugee camp in the West. The pot was never used. I suppose it will remain in the kitchen like an empty flowerpot until somebody breaks it or some other Bosnian comes along.

So what happened to Elena and Zlaja? No doubt it’s already clear. Even so, it would be a pity if the unhappy end of a love affair were to stop other people dreaming or having fantasies. In fact, the cliché gives you a magical opportunity to escape from the real world and to enjoy with somebody else, who may be thousands of miles away, the kind of love story that always happens elsewhere, in Africa, say, or in another country where things still happen out of pure pleasure.

Muslim Doll

Ćipo had never met or spoken to his aunt, but one day she phoned to offer him the use of her apartment, so naturally he jumped at the chance. Five rooms is five rooms, after all — and not a broken window in sight, gas heating and a full pantry.Ćipo had never dreamed of such luxury. His father had emigrated to Canada years ago. Soon after that his mother disappeared into a bar on the road to Šabac. For the next ten years Ćipo just wandered from cellar to cellar, begging and unloading coal or carrying small parcels across the border to Ljubelj for a hundred Deutschmarks a trip.

At first he couldn’t think of what to do with five rooms all to himself. He slept in a different one every night, cosily tucked up in a feather bed out of the way of any flying shrapnel. But sooner or later anybody would bet bored in such a large flat. Only a loser would live alone with five rooms, he thought, and he began to think up ways of filling the empty corners and uninhabited spaces. To begin with, he brought home a stray mongrel who fouled the carpets and then died in the middle of the hallway. Then he adopted a cat, but the silly minx ran away after a day or two. Just as he was giving up hope of ever finding a suitable lodger, he bumped into Mujesira, a seventeen-year-old girl from Foča, who had come to Sarajevo — god knows how — after the rest of her family had been killed in a massacre.Ćipo showed her where to sleep, but warned her not to make small talk or to ask him questions, because he was very bad-tempered and had a short fuse. He also warned her never to go into his part of the flat. Not for any reason.

Mujesira wiped the dog shit off the carpet and rearranged the furniture in her room, giving the place a feminine touch. At least she helped to liven up Ćipo’s dreary routine — or that’s how it looked from the outside. And yet, for some reason, he refused to have anything to do with her. He never spoke to her, for instance, and at the end of a fortnight, when she just happened to ask him the most innocent of questions, he responded very angrily, with a look of hatred in his eyes. Mujesira put up with her landlord the way you put up with boorish men. She didn’t ask for any explanation as other women might have done. She had no idea about Ćipo’s background: where did he come from? Did he own the flat? Did he work? If not, how could he afford to furnish the flat so beautifully and expensively? Late at night, when she was frightened or panicking, she couldn’t help wondering whose side Ćipo was on. Was he one of us or one of them? Could he be a secret sniper or a spy? She couldn’t understand why he guarded even the most trivial details about himself, or why he refused to let her know his real name: it certainly wasn’t Ćipo, because such a name didn’t exist among Serbs, Croats or Muslims. She hoped to inveigle her way into his affections by means of giving him coquettish smiles of performing little acts of kindness, but Ćipo didn’t change at all. He was as bilious as ever.

“Am I in your way?” she asked one morning. “I’ve been here rather a long time. Perhaps it’s time I should move out.”

Ćipo looked at her with contempt and spat sideways. Through clenched teeth he mumbled, “Where would you go, you sad thing?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer before leaving the flat. Mujesira was stunned. She considered various explanations and devised a few sly womanly tricks in order to soften him up, with a view to discovering his true nature, or, at any rate, the one he shows off to his friends, if he had any, or the other men and women in his life. After all, she thought, he must have come from somewhere. He must have a mother and father, a wife and children. But when Ćipo returned to the flat in the afternoon, she didn’t have the nerve to speak up. She was afraid that if she asked the wrong question Ćipo would go mental, and anything could happen then. Who knows? It was not inconceivable that her world might fall apart again, quite unexpectedly and for no obvious reason, as it had done several months before in Foča.

In the hallway Ćipo touched Mujesira by accident as he went past. She froze and almost stumbled, but he just turned and gave her the usual cold stare. One day, while he was out, she sneaked a look at his room. There was a large crucifix on the wall and a few other religious items. So that’s it, she told herself, and for the next week or so she imagined that she knew everything there was to know about Ćipo. He was a Catholic, then. No wonder he hated her. Mind you, the Catholics are preferable to the Orthodox. At least they invite you into their house instead of killing you. So what if they give you nasty looks?

For a long time Ćipo thought about what to do with his Muslim lodger. She struck him as being very beautiful yet foreign. Before the war he would never have met such a doll in the underground cellars that he used to frequent. Yet here she was, in wartime, in his aunt’s flat, like a gift from God, an open invitation to lead a better life. On the one hand, the situation was very promising; on the other, it was kind of disgusting. Somehow the girl from Foča had got under his skin, like an omen prophesying dire and painful calamity. He wanted to touch her, and yet he had begun to feel that even the slightest physical contact would expose him to irreparable loss and drive him over the edge into madness or suicide, or — worse still — into the Jewish cemetery to be gunned down by the Chetnik sniper.

Often, at bedtime, he would stare at the crucifix on the wall and repeat over and over again, “I’m here, God, but I’m no use to myself or to her. Help us!” He liked to think his speech had the makings of a prayer.

Toward the end of summer a mortar fell right outside the front door and blew off Mujesira’s legs. She was dying for two whole days. But even when the doctors gave up the fight to save her life,Ćipo kept repeating in a voice that echoed around the hospital courtyard, “Come back, my Muslim doll!” Everybody watched his despair. They speculated about his relationship with the dying girl, and pretty soon gave him the nickname “Muslim Doll.”

Seconds Out

The tram drivers always rang the bell as they went around the corner by the Medical Institute. Perhaps it was just to warn anything that was coming the other way, or perhaps it was the memory of an earlier accident, or perhaps they were just superstitious. Nobody paid much attention to the ringing trams: the occupants of a neighboring block of apartments had stopped registering the noise long ago; it was like the ticking of a grandfather clock. Nor were the cats on the wall of the army warehouse roused from their summer naps. So the years went by and the sound of the tram bells continued to be heard over the flat land that stretched all the way to Marijindvor and the stop at the junction of Titova and Tvrtkova.

The noise didn’t bother the regulars at the Kvarner, a tiny bar in which a handful of relics induced cirrhosis of the liver by drinking large bottles of Sarajevsko or Nikšićko beer and Badel’s brandy. One day, Meho the Paratrooper showed up in the Kvarner with an old pal from his days in military service, a retired boxer known as Mišo the Heart from the Slavija club in Banja Luka. As with any newcomer, the regulars welcomed Mišo the Heart with two unspoken questions: how much money does he have in his pocket, and will he disrupt the atmosphere of the Kvarner? Because real drinkers seldom get into fights or smash things up. They prefer silence, peace and contemplation. Any sudden movement can provoke hard drinkers. Even a curse uttered too loudly is enough to make them grab a bottle and start breaking the furniture. That’s why the tabloid press always gives the wrong account of drunken punch-ups. All a drunk really wants to do is protect his constitutional right to have one more for the road.

About five minutes after Mišo the Heart walked into the Kvarner, the first tram went past the Medical Institute and rang its bell. Seconds out! Instinctively, Mišo put his fists up like a boxer right in front of Velija the Footballer, who, no less instinctively, grabbed hold of an ashtray and whacked the boxer in the face. Meho the Paratrooper jumped up to defend his old comrade. Mirso the Ballbearing fell off his chair in surprise. Lojze the Professor exclaimed, “Crucifix and cruciality!” Zoka the Barman dropped a glass.

Then Mišo stood up and grabbed Velija the Footballer by the arm. “Sorry, pal,” he mumbled. “It was an accident.”

Velija looked at Mišo doubtfully for a moment. “That’s all right,” he said. “It can happen.”

To make things better, Meho the Paratrooper bought a round of drinks for everybody. However, before the drinks were poured, another tram came around the corner ringing its bell.

Mišo the Heart glanced anxiously at Meho the Paratrooper. “Hey — let’s get out of here,” he said. “These trams really fuck me up.”

“We can’t leave yet,” replied his friend. “Don’t you remember, I’ve just ordered more drinks?”

Mišo the Heart shuffled nervously in his chair as Zoka the Barman doled out the beers. A few sips later, yet another tram could be heard — seconds out! Once again Mišo the Heart put up his hands like a boxer. Everybody in the bar was watching, and they all laughed, even Velija the Footballer, who apparently hadn’t laughed since the cup match in 1951 when he poked out the eye of Pandurović from Poleter FC in the heat of the moment. It was obvious that everybody liked the washed-out boxer who had nothing left in the world except the memory of a bell. Just for that, Mišo was bought another beer.

The next day he turned up at the Kvarner by himself. The regulars greeted him with looks of delight. Velija the Footballer clapped him on the shoulder. Zoka the Barman, who was wiping the glasses, called out, “Hey you, Heart-Attack, seen any more trams lately?”

Mišo the Heart looked at the barman with mock horror and ordered a beer. When the first tram passed by, Mišo was ready for the bell, and so he just raised his middle finger, but the next one caught him by surprise. The more beer he drank the faster and more confident his reactions became. The regulars, who had deduced as much, kept on buying Mišo beers. His reflexes became part of the daily routine. Only Lojze the Professor doubted that a person could fail to get used to the trams within a few months.

It hardly mattered in the end. As far as the Kvarner regulars were concerned, Mišo the Heart was like the cuckoo in a clock announcing each hour. On days when he didn’t show up at the bar, the others felt a kind of emptiness; it was as if they were missing out on something vital and important. Time slipped through your fingers when Mišo wasn’t around. Beer lost its flavor. You couldn’t even get drunk on brandy. Empty pockets and impermanence, not to mention the coming threat of war, these were the only certainties. And yet when Mišo the Heart turned up again the next day, his pals awaited the first tram with a sense of unbridled joy and optimism.

On the sixth of April 1992, a notice was pinned to the window of the Kvarner announcing the death of Lojze the Professor, and there was also news of the first shells to be dropped on Jarčedole. That day the regulars talked more than they drank. With a clear head, Edo the Engineer, Velija the Footballer, Meho the Paratrooper, Mirso the Ballbearing and Stevo the Thief analyzed the political situation. Que sera, sera, it was decided. But Mato the Villain observed that Lojze the Professor would probably be the last of the boozers to die from cirrhosis in the traditional way. The others shrugged their shoulders.

Just then Mišo the Heart walked through the door. He sat down at his usual table and lit a cigarette. “This match will last a hundred and one rounds,” he said through clenched teeth. “Geddit? I won’t be KO’d by trams or upper-cuts or your piss-taking. This is what’ll kill me!”

He beat the left side of his chest three times and looked meaningfully at everybody present.

“Mišo isn’t mad,” he went on. “And the heart doesn’t have biceps without reason. I know what you all think when I come down here. If you let me in the door again, it won’t be Mišo the Heart any more, but Mišo the Chetnik. Fuck you all! It’s only just occurred to you where you are and what’s going on, but while the soldiers were sharpening their knives, you fought to buy me drinks. Now it will be Mišo’s fault that you didn’t catch the last train out of here. Go on, smash my head — so you won’t have to think about it later. And fuck you all!”

Mišo the Heart covered his face with his hands. The others were silent. Then Zoka the Barman mumbled awkwardly, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mišo, I’m a Serb too.”

When he didn’t respond, Velija the Footballer stood up and was about to say something to Mišo, whom he’d already patted on the shoulder. But it was too late — the boxer jumped at Velija and delivered an almighty punch, the likes of which Bosnia had never seen before. Unsurprisingly, Velija the Footballer collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Please, Mišo, don’t,” pleaded Meho the Paratrooper, on the verge of tears. “It’s a dreadful shame.”

“What is, you baboon?” Mišo replied.

“If you don’t know, what’s the point in my telling you? But think of the trams — and think of the rest of us. It’s a great shame when you talk like this.”

Mišo the Heart looked alarmed, as if he really had suffered a heart attack. He fell back into his chair, white as a sheet, with an utterly vacant expression on his face. The incident was over in a couple of minutes. It wasn’t even long enough for a tram to go by.

Zoka the Barman poured brandy into a glass and took it over to Mišo’s table. For a while nobody else moved and the bar-room was as quiet as a grave. Mišo began to wipe away his tears — and then a crowd of people gathered round his chair. But nobody could think of anything to say. Outside, in the distance, you could hear machine-gun fire and the sound of explosions. Suddenly you noticed that the trams were passing by without ringing the bell. It was as though each soul in the room was passing from one body to another and changing into something that was painful and unrecognizable.

That night the regulars parted without a word. The following day a shell exploded in front of the Kvarner, breaking its window. The local hooligans climbed into the bar and ran amok, destroying the place and stealing the booze. Most of Zoka’s customers never even came back to see what was left of the Kvarner. Perhaps they moved on to other bars or ended up in another story.

The ex-boxer from Slavija in Banja Luka was shot on the bridge by the First High School. Some witnesses claim the bullet went straight through Mišo’s heart. Others say he was struck in the head. The daily newspapers wrote about yet another well-respected athlete who had been cut down by the enemy’s hand. And that’s all, folks, except to add that most of the trams in the depot were hit by incendiary bombs and are now burned-out wrecks.

Slobodan

It was 1944 — and the future was uncertain. Bogdan and Mira spent the nights having long and painful discussions until it was finally decided to terminate the pregnancy. By pulling strings, Bogdan managed to get an appointment with a German doctor who performed abortions in secret for the rich women of Sarajevo. The operation went ahead as planned, but Mira’s belly continued to grow. By the time the couple realized that the fetus had escaped the scalpel’s blade, it was too late. Months of anxiety ensued: would the baby survive? Or would it be abnormal? Would it have two arms and two legs — and two heads?

On the day that Sarajevo was liberated Mira gave birth to a boy whom the couple named Slobodan, which means “Free.” As the last German units withdrew from the city, abandoning their weapons and their self-esteem, the newborn baby started to cry like any other infant. Mira gleefully changed his first dirty diaper as a story about the parish priest who had been lynched in the street was doing the rounds. The boy smiled for the first time the day the last Chetniks were captured in Vučija Luka and led in handcuffs through the city. It seemed that Bogdan and Mira’s anxieties had proved to be unfounded. Perhaps God had intended the birth of Slobodan to herald a more prosperous age in which comradely hugs and outstretched arms would no longer be used to hide the fist of fear.

As the first wave of proletarian labor camps were being set up, it became clear that something was in fact wrong with the boy. He picked up some things more easily than other children of the same age, but other things he failed to understand. To begin with, he would cry inconsolably for a long time, or withdraw into his shell for days and just stare at the corner of his room. As he always came around in the end, his parents were able to convince themselves that his tantrum had just been a passing phase, one of many peculiar childhood illnesses whose real cause is unknown but which sooner or later vanish without any trace.

On the first day at school Slobodan had a nervous breakdown. He sat on his desk and howled, gripping the top of his chair until his fingers broke. “Sleep heals everything,” his mother observed, but the infant woke up in a similar mood the next day and the day after that. He responded warmly to any kindness but fiercely resisted his parents’ attempts to send him back to school. The very idea provoked a series of long monotonous wails that only died down when poor exhausted Slobodan fell into a sweaty sleep. The rest of the time he would only talk about subjects that interested him at that moment. Anything else he reacted to with a look of bewilderment or silence. For days, whenever Bogdan tried to teach his son how to do up his shoelaces, Slobodan fumbled clumsily with his fingers or tied false knots. He just couldn’t master the three simple moves. And yet he was able to remember any conversation that had taken place in the family, and often took great pride in recalling, word for word, everything that had been said over the Sunday lunch table the previous weekend. Also, he could tell you whose godfather had stepped on a sea urchin in Promajna last year, and which of the neighbors had been discovered with stockpiles of flour in 1946. As he grew up, the boy served as a kind of aide-mémoire to his parents, utterly incapable as he was of doing anything but repeat conversations with unnerving accuracy in a slightly raised and monotonous voice.

In the mid-1950s, Bogdan died of heartbreak and the unforgiving memory of that night in the autumn of 1944 when he agreed to let Mira resolve all the uncertainties of life by having an abortion. His widow continued to bring up Slobodan on her own, and the boy soon grew to be over six feet tall, though he never became any more independent and was still unable to look after himself. To this day, many inhabitants of Sarajevo remember Mira as a smart old lady, always immaculately groomed, with an intelligent and attractive face. But wherever she went she was followed at a distance of three paces by her gigantic son, whose appearance was no less immaculate and polished than his mother’s. In other words, he was fine as long as he didn’t open his mouth. But the minute he started talking it became apparent that Slobodan was very strange. For instance, he had already sprouted a few grey hairs when he came to the attention of Meho the Shoemaker, who looked over the rim of his spectacles and commented, “That young man comes with his own sell-by date. I bet he won’t outlive his mother.”

During the Sarajevo Olympics in 1984, Mira quietly and gracefully departed this world. Soon afterwards her poor distraught son began to stop passersby in the street in order to ask irrelevant questions about their family trees. As a rule, people were happy to cooperate with this idiotic stranger and tried to answer his questions patiently. They would tell Slobodan everything, and he would commit the information to memory, filing away personal details inside his head only to regurgitate the miscellaneous data at the next encounter. Slobodan had total recall when it came to other people’s faces. For instance, he would never mix up a family from the region of Lika, say, with its counterpart in Podrinje. Nobody understood better than Slobodan the frustrations suffered by the city’s matriarchs when their daughters got engaged to unbelievers, and nobody was more tactful in extending his condolences.

Slobodan was exemplary in most respects, but he used to get very irritated if somebody addressed him by a nickname such as Boban, Sloba or Boba. Often he would stand in the middle of the road, clench his fists with childish anger and howl at the culprit, “Slobodan! Slobodan! Slobodan!” In a flash the neighborhood rogues pinpointed his weak spot, and as a result poor Slobodan was taunted endlessly. He became the local idiot. Small children ran after him in the street. Idle young men standing under the café awnings with bottles of beer in their hands poked fun at Slobodan mercilessly, until perhaps an older and respected member of the community decided to chase the rowdy layabouts away — and to take Slobodan home.

In the end Slobodan came to resemble any other madman dressed in rags and always hungry. Nobody really knows how he managed to survive after his mother’s death. Did the neighbors feed him? Or was he intelligent enough to scavenge for a crust of bread in the rubbish bins?

One of the first CNN bulletins from Sarajevo contained footage of Slobodan wandering aimlessly through the city as dozens of shells exploded on all sides. The camera followed him for about seventy yards, no doubt because the journalists were expecting to capture the moment when the Serb onslaught destroyed an innocent life in Sarajevo. Slobodan very casually sauntered over to the cameraman and gave him a warm smile. You half-expected him to launch into a series of questions about family trees, but he didn’t stop. He just went on his way as the shells continued to fall. That night the reporter, with some disappointment, informed viewers that there were insanely brave people living in Sarajevo.

Trout

At night only the sky glows. It lights up houses, skyscrapers and telegraph poles, illuminating the branches of trees and casting the long shadows of a few passersby — a generous sky that protects us from darkness. A young man stands on the roof, smoking a cigarette and hoping to see the landscape. His choked-up view of the city makes it hard to imagine the waterfront or the neon sparkle of a leaping fish, not to mention the voices of water fairies, a time-honored curse (“May your mother have to dredge up your corpse from the bottom of the lake!”), a shout from the other bank, the sound of a distant folk song amid the echo of breaking glasses from a bar twenty miles away.

Fifteen years ago he had escaped from his own part of the country — it was the only lake district in Bosnia — and settled in a city whose light and dark were to become more important to him than anything in his old life. At first he was comforted by the distant sounds — the hoot of a train leaving the station half a dozen miles away, the noisy rhythm of machines in the sock factory, the rattle of late-night trams, the shimmering light over Mounts Igman and Bjelašnica, the frozen grind of the first snow, the ice crunching underfoot, the sound of axes hacking away at the snowdrift in front of the garage door. Soon the noises began to fade away and his impressions of the lake became unreliable, almost fake. In spite of himself, he grew accustomed to the other world that was separated from the world of his childhood by a distance of only fifty miles and yet was utterly different.

The loud blast sounded like a final explanation; it made the lights go out, restoring to the world the peace and tranquillity that was behind his closed eyes. The young man stood on top of the house, on the edge of its flat roof, swaying gently in the wind. That morning, unfamiliar voices from the lake had brought news of his father’s death. But how reliable was the information? Of course he couldn’t be sure, not when all the phones were down. In any case, reliable messengers only entered Sarajevo by accident.

There was nothing he could see (or hear) from his gloomy vantage point to confirm (or deny) the existence of the ugly voice that had been audible for only a second or two. He had been standing there since the lights went out across the city and now he couldn’t think what to do next. One false move, like going back to bed or playing the cool guy, would only upset him even more. Shaking in the night wind, he gave in to his fear of the coming madness, hating nostalgia and the crystal lake.

He was seven years old when he first held a live trout in his hands. He couldn’t help thinking that the fish, cruelly separated from the water and thrashing its tail angrily, wriggling helplessly, was almost as big as he was. He felt there had to be something else, a reason to throw the fish back into the lake, and as far away from him as possible, before the creature had no option but to use a secret weapon — its spikes perhaps, the ones his father said it didn’t have — and to fill him with a dreadful pain in order to get away. Growing up, the boy sometimes watched films in which these aquatic beings managed to escape from the grasp not only of children but also of experienced anglers, just at the point when the fishermen were beginning to congratulate themselves on vanquishing the trout. He had come across the widespread belief that fish were slippery for a reason — and that reason was the constant need for a last-minute escape — but he no longer believed this old-wives’ tale. It was more likely, he reckoned, that the unfortunate fishermen who let the trout slip through their hands were frightened of its dark and watery strength, knowing it could trick and destroy ordinary mortals right now or in a hundred years.

The father used to go fishing at the weekend. The rest of the time he was a miner who worked at the colliery next to the lake. The pit was as muddy and dirty as every other mine in the world, but his father was proud of his job. Being tall, handsome and blond, he spoke up at parents’ meetings on behalf of all the other fathers, and whenever they travelled anywhere by train he would tell his fellow passengers in the carriage that he was a miner. On such occasions the boy would often feel embarrassed and prod his father with his foot, but his father just laughed as if the boy had cracked a good joke. Many years later in some Balkan hotel, the young man tricked a naïve and vulnerable girl, by means of a series of flirtatious glances, into believing that he too was a miner. The girl looked at him and observed cautiously that only uneducated people go to work under ground. The young man smiled with a kind of insouciance, but she just responded with a stupid grin. At that moment he envied his father, who had always been able to choose the right place and the right way to fascinate people with his stories about the life of a miner.

As the old saying goes, you can see the whole world from the roof, or at least you can see the parts you’re really interested in. The young man strained his eyes until they began to hurt, and yet he still couldn’t see anything. At that moment the only thing he wanted was to forget the bad news, and to pretend that nothing had happened — except he had already told his girlfriend and most of his friends what he had heard. In the end it was their sympathy and kindness, and acts of spurious compassion, that made it impossible to forget his bad news. His friends suggested that maybe his father wasn’t dead after all — perhaps it was just a terrible mistake — but none of them really believed he was still alive. He was the only one. He continued to believe — or to disbelieve, as the case may be. He didn’t expect very much in return. He would have settled for the average presentiment, however low-key, or indeed anything else that was likely to persuade him to come down off the roof and go back to bed.

Just then it looked as if it might rain, a heavy thunderstorm. Perhaps it would flood the valley, he thought, with the moonlight reflecting in the water. Under the surface the gasping city would be sure to drown. The only things to escape would be the Serb rockets bombarding the city — and the disbelief surrounding the young man’s father, who was perhaps even at that late hour sitting in a rotting boat and waiting for the trout to bite.

Beard

Juraj’s head lay in the mud like an empty dish into which the raindrops fell. But the soldiers marched past without giving him a second look. A few steps away his neighbor Šimun, who was digging a two-yard trench, stared at the iridescent clay with a peculiar feeling of emptiness in the back of his neck and also perhaps with a kind of premonition, as opposed to fear, that soon his own head would be cut off and used for slopping out as in a prison latrine. Once in a while he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the trench which Juraj had been digging an hour before. Šimun imagined a person measuring the hole through which Juraj’s brain had seeped on to the ground. He admired its geometrical shape and reflected to himself that such a thing could have been molded by a skillful potter rendering God’s creation with ease as if it were nothing but dust and water.

Dinka came with two other women just before nightfall. They were led up the hill by gloomy bearded men in uniform. One of the soldiers turned over Juraj’s body with his foot and mumbled out of the side of his mouth, “Is this him?” Dinka nodded and then looked away. The women departed immediately without glancing back, leaving Juraj in his new position. Now it was possible to see his lifeless staring eyes and the tiny hole in his forehead. His arms were folded on his chest, and his mouth was open, as if he had seen the trail of a jet plane in the sky for the first time. His look suggested that he was about to ask timidly, “What is that?” Šimun would have liked to go over to the body in order to close his friend’s eyes — anything to stop the raindrops welling there like tears — but he wasn’t sure how the soldiers would react, and who knows if Juraj would have looked any better with his eyes shut, or what kind of impression it would create and how much it would continue to haunt the prisoner who was still alive and digging.

Before his capture Juraj had spent four months hiding in cellars, refusing to abandon hope that one day something unexpected would happen to make the Chetniks go away — or perhaps he dreamed of suddenly waking up one morning in a strange country far away, or, at any rate, on the other side of the river. Every day he was visited by Dejan, a poet friend from the Writers’ Club, who had taken to wearing a Serbian cap and letting his unkempt beard grow down to his navel. Dejan was permanently drunk — in honor of the war. Sometimes he gave Juraj a hug and whispered (or burped) in his ear that he intended to sort things out and that the longed-for day would soon arrive when Juraj could once again walk through Sarajevo without shame or fear, like an honorable and decent man. But drunks have an unfortunate habit of suddenly changing their outlook on the world. And so, having consoled his friend, Dejan would often go on to observe in the same tone of voice how excellent it would be if he the Serbian poet were to use his knife to slit the throat of Juraj the Croation poet right here and now on the shag carpet. Out loud he began to imagine Juraj’s death rattle or the blood seeping across the room, or perhaps the fetid smell of his soul escaping from his body and wafting from wall to wall in search of an open window. The monologue usually came to an end with Dejan imagining the ode to slaughter he would write to commemorate killing his friend. Juraj never rose to the bait. He just kept his mouth shut and smiled innocuously like a lamb. Dinka, on the other hand, looked petrified as she stood in the corner of the room, yearning for Dejan to leave and for the next chapter in her life to begin.

Dejan soon got bored anyway. On the way out he’d shake hands with Dinka as well as Juraj, and leave yelling, “Your Dejo’s looking out for you, so don’t worry! He’ll save you, goddamit! A true friend ain’t just a button, see, and his wife’s not a zipper, either!”

As soon as he’d gone, Dinka would begin to cry, and so Juraj would stroke her shoulder with the tips of his fingers, because there was nothing to be said. The couple had a sneaking suspicion that one day Dejan would honor one or the other of his promises, and yet it was hard to know if he was more likely to rescue them from murderers or to deliver the fatal blows himself.

One day a gang of bearded men whom they didn’t know burst into the cellar. These anonymous thugs proceeded to beat up Dinka and to “draft” Juraj into what they called “the labor platoon.” As a result, he spent months on the front line, and only ten yards or so from the Bosnian line, digging trenches. Often he would recognize a soldier on the opposite side by the color of his eyes or the way he walked. Out of delight he would open his mouth to speak to his comrades, but they just ducked their heads, so he was left having imaginary conversations with their gun barrels. At first he panicked in case the warring armies opened fire, but as time went on he came to realize that the killing would not begin unexpectedly. There would have to be a kind of advance warning, he was sure, a portent in the sky, or perhaps a dawn chorus prophesying death, in order to distinguish the day of slaughter from the others that had preceded it.

Dejan continued to visit Dinka. He brought her food and claimed drunkenly that only he could save Juraj, and that he knew Juraj would do the same for him if, heaven forbid, the tables were turned and the Ustashas were defeating the Chetniks. Dinka merely nodded her head, looking forlorn, so Dejan tried to get around her by telling jokes.

One day he asked her, “Tell me, Dinka, would you let me fuck you if I managed to get Juraj out of the shit?”

Dinka looked away, her lips trembling with fury, but she remained silent.

“Listen, sweetheart, I didn’t say I wanted to or anything. I’m just curious — would you let me? Don’t you see that I have to know what kind of person you are and how fond you are of Juraj? Take me, for example. I couldn’t be more fond of him than I already am. If I thought it’d save his bacon, I’d let you fuck me. Honest! Without a second thought. So it’s really a question of who cares more about your husband — you or me?”

Dejan left the house volunteering to go to Pale, if necessary, in order to save Juraj. He warned her not to get upset about his teasing. We’re human beings, after all, not animals, he said.

Dinka couldn’t help remembering that conversation as she was coming down the hill with the other women after identifying Juraj’s body. She was still trying to comprehend that her Juraj was no more, and that nothing was left of him except a hollow skull. As she wiped her eyes she saw Dejan beaming at her in the distance. He was running up the hill and waving a piece of paper above his head. Dinka prayed that he would just vanish into thin air. He stopped in the middle of a sentence but she couldn’t bear to look at him or to listen to what he was saying about headquarters. . orders from the very top. . the real important people. . the necessary papers. . All she could think was, “How on earth does he wash that beard — does he shampoo it or does he just wash his face in the morning like everybody else?”

Chico the Seducer

On a clear day, if you look hard enough, you can see a neat line running horizontally across Mount Igman as if it had been drawn with a pencil. From the line upwards the mountain is covered in snow, but a pale green forest grows on the lower slopes. Armin spends most of his time above the line, in the white, so to speak, because he’s fighting the enemy and a guy named Mitar Kalpoš in particular, not to mention that innkeeper from Vogošć who has a tattoo of Zagor the cartoon hero on his left shoulder and is known as the Beast. Sometimes in the course of a battle, however, Armin goes down the mountain as far as the green, though he claims never to notice the white becoming green or vice versa. It’s just a question of perspective, because whenever Armin comes over here, and especially when he climbs to the top of Budaković, near Kožara, he can plainly see the clear line on Igman. After all, he’s not stupid or blind, is he?

Once I asked him, “Have you really been above the line on Mount Igman?”

He replied, “As God is my witness.”

“And below? Have you been there too?”

Armin looked exasperated. “You idiot!” he exclaimed. “How on earth could I have been above the line if I hadn’t also been below it?”

“Were you ever on the line itself?” I asked.

He didn’t reply at first, and then he just muttered that he couldn’t remember. He’s a bit eccentric, you see. Put it this way: he’s twenty-seven, right, and he’s fighting against the Serbs, but when he talks about the enemy he doesn’t call them Chetniks or anything like that. Instead he calls them damn raving Redcoats, or Comanches, or robbers from the Rio Grande. He reckons that way it’s easier to make sense of the war. Mind you, I’m not convinced. I think he just describes the war in terms of a comic strip because he thinks it’ll help me to understand what’s going on. “Harun,” he says, “you’re only twelve. You don’t know what it’s like to be wounded and still have to kill twelve more Redcoats. Let me give you some idea: it’s your last few moments of consciousness, so you grab one of them by the legs and wave him over your head, then you knock out the other eleven before you finally black out.”

Armin has been wounded hundreds of times, and yet he only has one scar. He boasts he has others which you can only see when he takes his clothes off, except he doesn’t want to undress. I think he’s lying, because I saw him once as he was washing in the yard. He’s intact.

Once I voiced my suspicions, but he just got angry. “Boy Wonder!” he yelled. “We’re finished! Because you’ve betrayed me, and that’s unforgivable — you know that Robin never betrayed Batman, don’t you?”

Armin sat on the wall and lit a cigarette. He refused to look in my direction for several minutes. Then he asked me, “Do you know what happens when the wolves from Ontario cry?”

I didn’t reply, so he asked the question again. I felt awkward. I didn’t know what he wanted. How could I? I’ve never read a comic with crying wolves from Ontario, “Armin,” I said, “I don’t know that cartoon.”

He motioned with his hand and sighed, “You’re dumb, Boy Wonder,” then he fell silent and just stared at Mount Igman.

The next day he went back to the mountain, climbing up through the green at first until he reached the line and crossed over into the snow. He was going to fight the Serbs who were under the command of the innkeeper with the tattoo of Zagor on his left shoulder. A long time ago Armin promised me that if he ever captured this enemy leader he would peel the skin off his shoulder and give me the tattoo as a present. I was planning to frame the scalp and hang it up on the wall. It would be so much better than any other spoils of war.

“Tell me, Armin,” I asked him once. “How d’you know what kind of tattoo the innkeeper has on his shoulder when you’re in one trench and he’s in the other?”

Armin laughed, “Boy Wonder, you’re not too swift!”

Then he explained that he and the innkeeper have been locked in combat for over fifteen months. As a result, they know each other better than Flash Gordon and Dr. Zarkov. From a distance they have already studied each other in minute detail.

“You know,” Armin said, “the innkeeper would probably be my best friend if I didn’t have to kill him. The Redcoats are people like us, don’t forget. Their only mistake was choosing to be Redcoats. Mind you, if it were any other way, life would be very boring, wouldn’t it? Instead of DC Comics, say, or Luno’s Big Book of Comic Strips, there’d be only blank notebooks in which you could write nonsense or draw love-hearts with Cupid’s arrows and silly things like that. You’ll understand when you grow up, Harun. Boy, does it piss me off that a fucking Redcoat has a tattoo of Zagor.”

I continued to nod my head while Armin was speaking, because I knew that if I stopped for a moment or, even worse, tried to ask him any questions, like the one about his scars, he’d just snap at me and say, “You’re dumb, Boy Wonder,” and refuse to look at me again.

But I know that Armin is lying when he says that he owns all the comic strips featuring Zagor, and that he knows the number of each adventure. Because when I said to him, “Chico the Seducer,” he replied, “Four hundred and thirty-seven.” He was wrong, of course, so I ran home to fetch Chico the Seducer, number 239, but when I got back he was nowhere to be seen.

You never really get to know his movements. Most of the time he’s in Muče’s café, unless he’s gone to fetch water for his mother. But then you try to pin him down and he claims he was in the war zone fighting the Redcoats. In fact, I happen to know that he’s deeply ashamed to have lied about the scars he doesn’t have, and the comics he doesn’t possess, and the back issues he doesn’t know. I don’t say anything, however. Armin is still a fighter, and you should always be grateful to them. I am useful to him in terms of logistics — which is to say, I bring him lots of comics.

Once I gave Armin an unused bullet, and he was really pleased. He put it in his shirt pocket and said, “Boy Wonder, I promise you I’ll take out Mitar Kalpoš with your bullet. I had him in my sights, you know, at least three times, but I wasn’t in the mood. Now I’m going to jump out of the trench straight in his line of fire, and as soon as he puts his finger on the trigger, I’ll kill him with your bullet. And I’ll tell everybody that Robin has once again saved Batman’s life. You know what your bullet means, don’t you, Boy Wonder? It means that the damn raving Redcoats will never capture Ontario or float down the Miljacka in a steamboat!”

For a month now Armin has not returned from Mount Igman. I’m worried in case something’s happened to him. Perhaps he really did jump out of the trench, only to discover that he’d left my bullet in the pocket of his other shirt. The weather has improved during the last four weeks. Spring has finally arrived, and the snow has melted in the city. The line across Igman is moving upwards. Soon the white will be overrun by the green. I’m worried that Armin will not return before the snow melts on Igman. I have a feeling that if I ever see a completely green mountain, then he will never come back. The trick is in the line — and I know it. If the line disappears, the hundreds of invisible scars and the adventures of Batman and Robin will have meant almost nothing, but certainly no more than back issue 239 of my favorite comic, the one with Chico the Seducer, who only killed a Redcoat by accident.

The Communist

Ivo T. always was a communist — and he always will be. The year before the war, not long after the various nationalist parties won the elections, he led his wife and children on to the patch of grass in front of his apartment block, made a fire and began to roast a lamb on the spit. We couldn’t help watching from our window, but we weren’t amused. Ivo T. was dressed in a white shirt and a suit with a red carnation in his buttonhole. As he turned the spit, he made a point of holding his head high like Emperor Franz Josef. It was as though he’d forgotten that nobody celebrates May Day anymore. His wife and children perched on wooden stools, looking equally festive. But you could tell that they didn’t really know where to put themselves. Every passerby stared disapprovingly at the family, and a handful even made rude comments.

Ivo T. pretended not to see or hear anything, but when he just couldn’t help noticing, he responded with the national sign language of Bosnia — an obscene gesture involving the forearm.

In nineteen sixty-something Ivo T. was chosen as president of the local council. Every day he came to work on his bike so that he wouldn’t stand out from the workers. His trouser legs always bore the traces of bicycle clips, and you could always see the imprint of the saddle on his bottom. On Sundays, however, he used to stick his wife and children in the Yugo 1300, and drive slowly up and down Princip Street or around Vitez so that everybody could see them. Of course he only bought the Yugo in order to help the country’s economy — unlike some, who bought Mercedes and thus helped the capitalists. But after only a month Ivo T. resigned from his council job. Nobody could understand why, although he claimed it was because he just couldn’t deal with those criminals.

When Tito killed a prize bear in the woods near Bugojno, Ivo T. said, “It’s a pity for the bear, I guess, but it’s only a wild animal after all. As long as that’s where it ends.” Some people claimed that Ivo T. was against the state and against self-management, but he replied, “I knew the right path even when Tito broke with Stalin, let alone when it comes to a bear hunt.”

The others bowed their heads and went home without saying a word.

When Tito died Ivo T. locked himself in his room and drank a bottle of gin before dawn. He summoned his wife, Ruža, his son and daughter and gave them a pep talk along the lines of, “Now the old man has gone, there’ll be no more messing around. I expect you all to behave responsibly. .”

All the party officials stood to attention as the pall-bearers lowered Tito into his grave. Ivo T. also got to his feet. Tears ran down his face as the Internationale was being played.

Ruža, however, was a God-fearing woman. In the run-up to Christmas she always did a bit of dusting, replaced the curtains, went to the hairdresser’s, and made sure the children looked neat while her husband looked on grumpily.

He knew her game. Two or three days before Christmas he went up to her and gave her a talking to. “There’ll be no Christmas celebrations in this house,” he said. “I have already made my position clear, and I’m not going to be like some people. You know the type — on the one hand he’s a communist, but on the other his house looks like Zagreb Cathedral. If you want Christmas, take the kids and go to your mother’s or my mother’s or wherever. Celebrate as much as you like, but leave me out of it.”

Ruža used to go with the children to her mother’s one year and to her in-laws’ the next. Without fail Ivo T. would appear at the relevant house several days later; it was as though he was just passing. He’d be dressed in his everyday clothes, and he’d sit down, have a drink and a bite, wish a merry Christmas to the family, and then announce, “Socialism guarantees the freedom to worship.”

Ivo T. was friendly with everybody except thieves. Walking through Vitez, he would never fail to greet his acquaintances politely. He was equally fond of the Germans and the English and the Americans. In spite of capitalism. As a matter of fact, the only people he hated were the Japanese. Nobody knew why. One evening his children were watching a Japanese film on tv and he’d fallen asleep in his chair. (He always sat on the ordinary wooden chair, because he had a bad back and it hurt even more when he stretched out.) He was snoring away when a samurai suddenly yelled out and startled him from his sleep. He began to shout at the tv — it was “the Japanese this” and “the Japanese that.” The children managed to get their father to calm down, but his tirade ended with a rather strange question. “Well, my old Darwin,” Ivo said, “if a man comes from an ape, where does a Japanese come from?” Then he returned to his chair and began to snore again. Later, everybody in Vitez laughed about Ivo and the samurai.

It became fashionable in the workplace to think of yourself as a Yugoslav. But when Ivo T. was asked what he was, he replied, “I must say that I’m a Croat.”

His colleagues were surprised, but he went on, “That’s what I was born and I can’t change it. If you don’t like me as a Croat, why would you like me as a Yugoslav?”

Once again, they lowered their heads and left. That’s what the times were like.

When his son was leaving to study in Zagreb, Ivo T. accompanied him as far as Zenica, embraced him, shoved 100 Deutschmarks into his pocket and said, “The people in Zagreb are just the same as people in Vitez. You have good ones and bad ones. The good ones will like you as long as you don’t forget where you come from.”

It’s hard to know whether the boy paid any attention to his father or not. He wanted to have a good time. He didn’t think about what he was leaving or the life that awaited him in Zagreb. That day a terrible storm broke over Vitez. The sky crashed down. There was talk of a pregnant woman who had been killed by lightning in Kruščica. Some people heard the child cry from inside its dead mother’s belly — but after a while it stopped. Others said the child should have been taken out of its mother while it was still alive. As it is they had to bury an unbaptized soul inside a baptized one. Old women later claimed that such a thing always causes bad luck. It was as if somebody had whispered in the good man’s ear, and persuaded him to remove his son from any misfortune.

Vitez was not bombed during the early months of the war, but as time went by the Muslims and the Croats began to listen to the firebrands among their leaders. They began to look askance at each other and then to set fire to one another’s houses. Each community went its own way — some escaping to Zenica, others from Zenica to neighboring towns. They dug trenches for several weeks and then the chaos began. Wherever you went there was blood and shooting. There was nowhere else to look. They were cramped, and so were we, but everybody felt more or less comfortable until they had to leave their homes. We battled over each field, over plots of land to which none had given a second thought until then. Bosnia shrank like a scarf washed in boiling water.

Ivo T. walked around Vitez like a shadow of his former self. There was nothing left of him. He’d shrivelled up and withdrawn into himself. When the church was hit by a shell, he stood in front of the doors with tears streaming down his cheeks. We were all upset, but we couldn’t understand how it was that he, who’d always been and who always would be a communist, felt even worse about the shelling than the priest did himself.

“Don’t cry, Ivo,” I said. “We’ll fix it easily.” But he just kept repeating that nothing could be fixed any more.

I thought, “What do you mean, you silly old man? Why can’t the church be fixed when the hole’s only half a yard by a yard?”

But I didn’t say anything. I could see that the poor guy had lost the plot, and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and risk having him break down in front of me.

Except he wasn’t finished. “How can we fix it, Rudo,” he asked, “if with my own eyes I can see the sky where my ancestors could see a bell tower?”

Suddenly I began to choke. I embraced Ivo and hid my face in his coat. We must have stood there for ten minutes — two men leaning on four legs. If you’d separated us, I think we’d both have fallen down and been unable to get up again.

An American came from Zagreb bringing a small parcel from Ivo’s son. Three boxes of cigarettes, a pound of coffee and two cans. That was all the guy could carry. Ivo T. took a couple of the cigarette boxes and went from door to door giving everyone a packet. He kept the third for himself.

That night we all went over for coffee at Ivo’s house. In the middle of the conversation he yelled over to Ruža and asked her to bring the tape recorder. I thought, “What do you need a tape recorder for now when you’ve got machine-guns playing outside?” Ivo said he wanted to send a message back with the American to his son in Zagreb. He didn’t want to write because he felt the boy would take him more seriously if he could hear his voice.

He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, took out a photo and began talking. “My son, evil people have done this to us. Neither your friends nor mine are to blame. Nor is the drunkard Avdo, who punctured the tires on our car a few years ago just because I parked in front of his garage. Nor should we blame the Muslim priest who told his people not to shake hands or kiss Catholics on the days when they slaughter their pigs. The only ones to blame are the evil people. Please don’t let me hear you say that you hate anybody — and God help you if I find out that you’ve sworn at anybody because of what is happening to us. Because I’ll break your legs. Whatever happens, remember what I said. Each ugly word will come back at you like a stone when you are most vulnerable. That’s all from me, study hard and send us something again when you can, but don’t spend too much money, and don’t drink too much, or walk around town late at night. Oh yes, and look after your girlfriend! That’s all from me, son. Love, Dad.”

When he’d finished the recording, nobody said a word. We just sat around the table in silence while the bombing continued outside. When I drank my coffee I thought it tasted kind of salty, which came as a surprise because I hadn’t been crying. Who knows? Perhaps there are secret tear ducts inside a person. That night, in any case, we all cried like babies, even Domo, who had just returned from the front, where he used to spend day after day shooting at people on the other side. Apparently he didn’t sleep a wink that night because he was crying non-stop. The human heart is tender, I guess, especially if you strike it in the right place.

You could write a story about Ivo T., but you’ll have to be careful what you leave in and what you take out! Whatever you do, don’t say that he always was and always will be a communist, and don’t mention that he wouldn’t let his wife enjoy Christmas. Skip the bit about Tito too, and perhaps don’t write that he was president of the local council, because we all know who became the presidents in the old system. Perhaps it would be more sensible to lie and to say that Ivo T. was a priest — except you can’t, now that I think about it, because priests aren’t allowed to marry or have children. Why don’t you just say he was a good guy? That’s all you need to write.

The Gravedigger

Know why you should never bury people in a valley? Because a graveyard needs to be located on a hill somewhere above town. Just imagine you’re climbing up the slope because you want to rest your eyes perhaps, or walk among the tombs flicking through the album of headstone photographs. Let’s say you meet a stranger idling through the deep grass and he expressed an interest in the life story of a person buried up there — well, there you have it! At least if you’re on a hillside, you don’t have to regurgitate the story. You can actually map out the life history of the deceased as it moved through the downtown area, from shop to bar toward the grave. You climb on Alifakovac and meet an Italian, say, who’d like to hear Rasim’s life story, so you recall that Rasim was born in Kovac — you point with your index finger so the visitor can see. He went to school over there by the bridge, you add, gesturing with your other hand. When he was seventeen he fell in love with the beautiful Mara who lived in Bjelave — look! You can see Bjelave from Alifakovac — but his father wouldn’t allow him to marry her, so he ran away from home and moved into Mara’s house. They hid on Ilidža for three months — Ilidža, by the way, is the mountain you can vaguely see in the fog. Sooner or later his father discovered where Rasim was living and begged him to return to Kovači. Rasim told his father that he would only return if Mara accompanied him. At last, it seems, the old man began to understand that the love affair was serious, and so he brought Rasim and Mara back to Kovači. Except she was not permitted to leave the house in case the neighbors saw her. Hoping to make things up to her, Rasim used to take Mara at night to the rocks above the Jajce barracks. As soon as her eyes grew accustomed to the light she was able to see Bjelave from the rocks. Or perhaps she just imagined that she could see the town. Often she used to cry — and her bout of self-pity lasted for up to a year until Rasim’s father built a house for the young couple in Bistrik — over there, see? That’s Bistrik with the mosque and the brewery and the army camp. Soon after Rasim and Mara moved into the house, the couple were married — but just when you imagined that here was love’s young dream, Mara got ill and died suddenly. She was buried above Širokača — that’s Širokača in the distance, to the left. Her grave lies a few yards apart from the others, possibly because nobody knew whether Mara had in fact remained Mara, or had become Fatima. They couldn’t ask Rasim because he had been struck dumb with grief. He said that he blamed each of the local districts from Kovači to Širokača for her death, and in a fit of pique he sold the house and moved to Vrbanja — that’s Vrbanja, over there. His uncle owned a bakery in the town. At night Rasim used to bake bread. The days he spent mourning his dead bride. People used to say that old Edhem didn’t need to salt his bread, Rasim’s tears were enough.

At the beginning of the Second World War, Rasim went to the Ustasha headquarters, which you can just see down there by the Miljacka river, before you get to Skenderija with those two white poplars, and signed up the Ustashas. Immediately promoted out of the ranks, he made a habit of walking around town with red eyes. Everybody was afraid of him, even though there was no evidence to suggest that he’d ever harmed anyone. But one of the first things the Partisans did when they entered the city was lock up Rasim in the bank cellar — over there! The leaders wanted to shoot him, but Salamon Finci, a merchant from Bjelave, suddenly appeared from nowhere and spent three days persuading some commissars that Rasim of the Ustasha had saved five Jewish families by sending them to Mostar and then on to the Italians. In the end the commissars believed old Finci and decided to sentence Rasim to three months, for the sake of appearances. He served his time — down there by the forest above Skenderija — and when he got out it was as if nothing had changed. By day he still mourned the death of his wife — and salted bread at night. One morning he was found dead with his head in the dough mixer. Apparently poor Rasim had been lying there for much of the night, with the result that his face had left a mould in the dough. His friends brought him back to his father’s house in Kovači and buried him just here beneath the patch of grass that you are standing on. In a way you can review his whole life, and pass judgement, merely by standing on this spot. Only thieves and children and people with something to hide are buried in valleys. There’s no trace of life in the valley — you can’t see anything from down there.

When I was digging a grave for Salem Bičakčija, who was killed in the road by a sniper, an American journalist came to interview me. Perhaps he’d heard that I lived in California for a while, and had seen the world, spoke languages and knew important people. But now I was working as a gravedigger again, so perhaps he thought that I might be able to explain to him what had happened to the people of Sarajevo.

So I’m digging away, and he’s asking me lots of questions. He wants to know everything, he says.

“About the living or the dead?” I ask.

“Both,” he replies.

I point out that you can’t talk about the living and the dead at the same time, because the dead have their lives behind them while the living don’t know what’s just around the corner, and in what way it could spoil or ruin their lives. In other words, it’s much harder for the living, or so I tell the American, because they have no idea where their grave will be — in the valley or on the slope — or if anybody will remember whether they walked happily or unhappily through the dunjaluk.

The American asks me to explain what I mean by the dunjaluk. I give him a wry look, because I really don’t know the English word for it. In the end I laugh and say, “It means something like ‘all over the world.’” For some people, of course, “all over the world” is just the distance between Marijindvor and Baščaršija, and for others it’s five continents and seven seas. You end up happy or you don’t — and that’s all.

The American nods his head. I can tell that he doesn’t understand or even care what I’m saying, but I don’t take offense. Why should I? I like to have a chat while I’m digging; it helps to pass the time.

He asks me if I’m sorry that I ended up in Sarajevo under siege after having been around the world three times. I tell him that I didn’t end up here. I was born here — and God forbid that I’d ended up dead and buried anywhere else. Who on earth would remember me, or speak about me in respectful tones? Besides which, the graveyards in the rest of the world, and especially in America, are not like the ones in Sarajevo. Elsewhere they line the dead up in rows like soldiers in uniform, with identical headstones, as if their souls had been cast from a mould.

The American continues to nod his head. I say that he shouldn’t hold it against me if I utter disparaging remarks about his country. But then the idiot asks me if I’m ready to die now in Sarajevo. I tell him that I’ve thought up hundreds of ways to stay alive, and I like all of them. Each one reminds me of the joys and pleasures of my life, because nobody’s happier than me when I escape a shell on my way here to dig graves in this beautiful spot for the unlucky ones. I know that the dead used to celebrate being alive too, and that they just happened to lose a life the way some people lose a pinball at the end of the game, having scored a hundred points a hundred times — you could have scored more, but. . you didn’t. Life is only valuable because you know you have it. Death always finds you unprepared, without tangible proof that you ever lived. Perhaps you weren’t much good to yourself or to others. Isn’t that why your wife and children cry at your funeral? Because they have a sense that you foolishly squandered your life, like a chicken that refuses to die even after you’ve chopped off its head.

The American asks me to describe the change in people’s faces. I tell him that I can’t, but I have noticed that somehow they look more beautiful and festive. So then he asks why people are killing one another if they’re so damn festive. I understand that he is researching the subject for his article, except he can’t write the piece because he already knows what it’s going to say. I tell him that he shouldn’t gaze into people’s faces so intently if he doesn’t understand what he sees. Perhaps he should just look at things the way I used to look at neon signs in America, in order to get a rough idea of the country.

I take a packet of cigarettes out of my pocket. “See this?” I begin. “D’you know why the packet is completely blank?” He shakes his head. “It’s because there isn’t anywhere in Bosnia to print the brand names and logos. I bet you think we’re poor and unhappy because we don’t even have any writing on our cigarettes. That’s what you think, isn’t it? Know why? Because you haven’t a clue where to look.”

I begin to unwrap the packet because I know that something is printed on the inside: it might be the label from a box of soap or a detail from a movie poster or part of an advertisement for shoes. I’m very curious to find out what’s inside — I make a point of checking — and it’s always a surprise. The American is curious too, but he has no idea what I’m doing. At last I undo the cigarette packet to reveal a Marlboro wrapper — the old brand from Sarajevo.* The American is nonplussed but I swear under my breath. I don’t know what else to say. Whatever I say, he’ll just think, “Look at these mad people! They turn cigarette wrappers inside out, then tear them apart to see what cigarettes they’ve bought. If you want my opinion, the people here are just like their packs of cigarettes: everything is back to front — what they say and what they think and what they do.”

Later on, I regretted that I ever opened my big mouth to the American. Why didn’t I just say that we are an unhappy and unarmed people who are being killed by Chetnik beasts, and that we’ve all gone crazy with bereavement and grief? He could have written that down, and I wouldn’t have ended up looking ridiculous in his eyes or in my own.

In the United States people use elevators in graveyards. It says a lot about Americans. If the Serbs attacked Pittsburgh or some other city, the local people could just go and hide underground using the elevator. They wouldn’t have to worry about the shelling or the fighting in the streets. When you look at the advertising billboards, fifty feet high, you don’t have a clue what Sarajevo Marlboro is or isn’t. Nor do you comprehend the sort of unhappiness that sent Rasim underground, or why he saved those Jews, or why he was in turn saved by Salamon Finci, or what happened to his face in the dough mixer at Edhem’s bakery, Vrbanja Street, which can be seen from any graveyard.

*Sarajevo Marlboro — a brand of cigarettes developed by Philip Morris Inc. to suit the taste of Bosnian smokers. The tobacco company made a study of the local cuisine before launching the product, according to a practice that is widespread in other parts of the world. That’s why Marlboro varies from country to country, and from manufacturer to manufacturer, and why a smoker can find the taste of a foreign Marlboro unpleasant. The experts from Philip Morris were especially pleased with their Sarajevo product, it seems, and believed that the tobacco in question, which grows near Gradačac and Orašje, was generally one of the better blends.

The Condor

Izet was what they call an eglen-effendi, or brilliant talker. He could talk non-stop from dusk to dawn. One story flowed into another, one event turned into the next. Often he’d use the day’s events to begin a story that would range across whole centuries and finally return to the price of meat or some gossip about a fellow called Hido who led a ram across Mount Jahorina just before the animal sacrifice of Bairam, right through the Serb positions, until he reached the Višegrad gate, where he was hit by a UN armored truck — I swear to God — and thrown into a ditch while the ram was killed instantly. There was no end to Izet’s stories, just as there’s no end to time, the past or the future. But they were never dull and they usually had a message or a moral and were seldom erratic: a tiny thread of narrative kept you holding on to the story, and forced you to listen, even if it meant that you had to go hungry or without drink, or that your life as a whole became a tense silence in which things only mattered if they could be described by a storyteller.

At the outbreak of the war Izet was staying at Vraca. Before he could even blink, let alone run away, a gang of Chetniks turned up outside his house. His neighbor Spasoje immediately began to point the finger at Izet. It was very sad. Until the day before, the two of them were always drinking rakija together. Spasoje was as good as gold and as harmless as a water-pistol. But on the day in question he dressed up in a black uniform, with a knife flashing at his waist, and his beard seemed to have grown overnight, as though he’d fertilized it with manure. Anyway, he was outside Izet’s door yelling that he’d slit his throat if he didn’t open up. Suddenly Izet lost his tongue, and his knees began to tremble. He didn’t want to open the door. He didn’t really want to keep it shut either. But since he couldn’t say anything in reply, only being able to manage a hiss in the back of his throat, he just made his way to the door and painstakingly fumbled with the key in the lock. He could smell the rakija on Spasoje’s breath through the wooden door. As soon as he opened the door he was hit in the face by a rifle-butt. Izet fell to the ground like a stone. He was so light that Spasoje was able to pick him up by an arm and a leg, and carry him through Vraca. Blood was pouring down Izet’s face but he was still conscious. Even so, it was impossible for the eglen-effendi to utter a single word.

His neighbor didn’t let go of Izet until he reached the Stara Rampa bar. He carried him inside the building, where pictures of King Petar and Draža Mihailović had sprung up overnight. Yet there was no sign of any barroom furniture. Instead, five men in uniforms sat at three tables in the empty room. Spasoje dumped Izet on the floor in front of the soldiers, but the wounded man quickly got to his feet. A fair-haired captain wearing the uniform of the Yugoslav National Army pulled up a chair for Izet.

“Where are your weapons?” demanded one of the other soldiers, who had a beard down to his belly-button.

Izet opened his mouth but only the hissing sound came out. The bearded Serb repeated the question, and Spasoje delivered another blow with the rifle-butt. Izet was feeling dizzy. He could see that his captors weren’t fooling around, and so he began to make up plausible lies, except he couldn’t give voice to any of the stories. As the question was repeated for a third time, the five soldiers jumped up, almost fighting one another for the privilege of hitting Izet. In the end he was pummelled from all sides. At one point he imagined that he heard an echo in his ears as if the Chetniks were beating somebody else, or as if the neighborhood children were shaking the apples off the tree. The lies slipped his mind, and he drifted first into indifference and then into a soft comfortable darkness from which he didn’t emerge until the next day.

He woke up battered and broken, with his arms and legs tied, in the cellar of the bar. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a pile of tables and chairs. On top of them lay Mijo Penava, also battered and tied up. He was the butcher from Lenin Street who’d cut off his left thumb six months ago. The two of them looked at each other for about ten minutes, Izet lying on the wet cellar floor and Mijo on the heap of furniture that was almost collapsing.

“Why did they put you up there, you poor thing?” said Izet, who had by now recovered his voice.

“Because they threw you down there, I guess,” replied Mijo.

“What did they want to know so badly that they had to beat you to a pulp?”

Mijo was trying to put his head between two chairs. “The same thing they asked you, I guess.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I said whatever came to mind. But now they want me to lead them to the place where the guns are hidden. Dammit! How will I show them what isn’t there? If I tell them I was lying, they’ll just beat the hell out of me. I have to think of something else. Blow me if I know what. And you? How did you butter them up?”

“I lost my voice so I couldn’t tell them anything. I opened my mouth but the volume was switched off. Mind you, I’d have told them whatever they wanted to hear, just as long as they didn’t reach for their knives. Except I couldn’t, for the love of God. D’you think I’m being punished for having a tongue that’s quicker than my brain? How unfair! Just when life depends on it, my tongue gets knotted up.”

“Tell me then,” said Mijo, “what story can I make up so I don’t have to lead them to the weapons?”

Izet considered the question, licking his dry lips. He knitted his brow for a moment and then suddenly opened his eyes wide as if he could see the story he was about to invent.

“Here’s what you’ll tell then, Mijo: all the guns you talked about were picked up by that guy Zvonko who worked as a bouncer at the Lav nightclub. They won’t be able to check the story, because Zvonko has escaped with his wife and mother to town, to stay with that smalltime crook who owns the jewelry shop on Slatko corner. Then you tell them that the jeweller used to be a Ustasha, and that he always acted against Yugoslavia, and that he more or less brainwashed Zvonko. You can say that he spent time as a political prisoner on the island of Goli Otok because it was alleged he had ties with the Russians, and that he sent his mother to an old-people’s home, even though he owns three villas in Sarajevo and Split. Tell them it’s easy to recognize the guns by the sound of the bang — it’s kind of dull, like you were using a silencer but it wasn’t fitted correctly.”

“And what’s this dealer of Zvonko’s called?”

“Make something up on the spot — a Muslim name, though, so they get the idea that Zvonko has links with both sides, and that’s why he wouldn’t have told an out-and-out Croat like you what they were planning to do with the weapons.”

Soon afterwards the Chetniks came and took Mijo away for more questioning. Izet never saw him again. But when his turn came to be interrogated again — would you believe it? — his throat seized up again and he found that he was unable to speak a word. Three times the soldiers beat Izet until he was unconscious, only to revive him and start the questioning again. In the end they decided that Izet was a big-shot. “Well, he must know a lot if he’s not talked yet,” they reasoned. So they didn’t sling him back into the cellar. Instead they put him in a room with a bed, fed him well and gave him enough to drink — and then they took him to Lukavica. He was questioned there by several colonels, but they didn’t bind his legs or his arms, and they even offered him coffee and cigarettes. After a while Izet got his voice back. Now he could tell the Serbs whatever he wanted, except they were no longer interested in guns: they wanted to know his rank and various troop formations. As Izet had never served in the army, he didn’t know anything about the latter, but self-importantly he proclaimed that his rank was that of colonel of the Green Berets. And as for military plans, he went on, they might as well kill him because he wasn’t going to reveal any secrets. Of course he wasn’t lying in that respect — he couldn’t invent things about a subject he didn’t understand.

The officers smiled at Izet, almost out of a sense of camaraderie, but they didn’t press him anymore about the troop formations. Instead they began a friendly conversation about other things. Izet talked knowingly about the political situation, though he was careful not to say anything to annoy his inquisitors or to give them any reason to suspect that he was trying to suck up to the enemy, or that he wasn’t in fact a colonel who was prepared to give up his life in order to safeguard military secrets. Izet played with words and swayed like a pelican on a wire. He talked nonsense but it sounded ambiguous and therefore wise. You utter a word, you weave it backwards and forwards, and at the end of the sentence you stand it on its head. You’re not making any sense, but you’re the only one who knows that.

The next day a colonel came into his room and announced that Izet was going to be released in exchange for ten Serb prisoners of war. Everything was agreed with the Croats, who wanted to know the identity of the war hero held by the Serbs. It was just a formality. The other side had to guard against swapping ten Chetniks for a nobody who was merely lying about being a colonel in the Green Berets.

Izet panicked. If he didn’t come up with a meaningful lie to tell his own people, the Chetniks would take great pleasure in slitting his throat, whether he confessed to stringing along the interrogators or continued to protest his high military rank. Hundreds of stories flashed through his head in a moment but each was as unconvincing and as complicated as the next.

At last he blurted out, “Tell them that you have captured the Condor from Treskavica.”

The Serb colonel looked at him blankly, then took a pen and paper, wrote it down and went out. That night was the longest in the whole of Izet’s life. All he wanted was to die without suffering, to fade away or disappear, so that he wouldn’t have to face the morning and the knife of his neighbor Spasoje.

At dawn three privates came to get him. One of them said, “Condor, it’s time!”

Izet left the army camp at Lukavica with a heavy heart. His knees were trembling. Outside, the door of a yellow Golf was open, and as Izet huddled in the back seat, he realized that he’d lost his voice again. Only this time nobody was asking any questions. Instead of taking him all the way to Spasoje, they just drove him to the bridge, where he was released. Halfway across the bridge he passed a group of men whose lives had been exchanged for his own.

As soon as Izet came clean and admitted that he wasn’t the Condor of Mount Treskavica, he was given a violent beating by his own people. The soldiers kept him locked up for days and threatened to shoot him or to give him back to the Chetniks. With each blow of the rifle-butt they shouted out the names of all the prisoners whose freedom would have been negotiable in exchange for the ten Serbs. They could have liberated war heroes instead of ending up with a sad case like Izet, who was only good at talking nonsense. In the end they let him go — fuck it! — it was their own fault for watching too many films and believing in stories about condors.

Sooner or later Izet recovered from the shock. He forgot about his episode in prison and went back to telling safer and more intelligent stories.

Having recovered from his wounds and his nightmares, the only painful memory that stayed with Izet concerned Mijo, the butcher, whose throat was slit by the Chetniks in Vraca. He couldn’t help wondering if Mijo had been killed for spouting the lie that Izet invented for him, or if the poor man had simply lacked the ability to use the right words at the right time. Perhaps there really are occasions in life when it’s best not to say anything.

The Gardener

People can be pathetic when they’re dying. Sometimes they try to make you feel guilty. Jan Palach doused himself in gasoline and then lit the touchpaper. Take the eighty-year-old guy who can’t bear to stop breathing. He’s having a tube inserted in his throat while his relatives sit in the waiting-room whining. Hospitals are full of people who grab hold of their souls. They fight over them like women fighting over bread in a bakery line while the mortars fall outside. In the end, of course, some playboy living a dolce vita announces that suicide is the only real philosophical question.

We were coming home with our water when the shells began to fall, so we ran into the nearest building. The hall was already full of people. Ivanka leaned against the wall and put her canisters down, but I didn’t let go of mine. She lit a cigarette, and then the place just exploded. People fell to the ground, and then one by one they stood up again. All except Ivanka, that is — she didn’t get up. At first, because there was no trace of blood, I thought she’d simply fainted out of fear. I lifted her head but it didn’t feel right; it was as though her neck was made of rubber. Her hair was covered in dust from the ceiling. I cleaned it off with my fingers. The emergency doctors rushed up in white coats and a boy with a face like Kafka’s tried to find the pulse on her neck. He was slow and methodical, as if he was playing the piano. I saw his fingers dance on Ivanka’s neck — it made me angry. I just wanted him to stop, but there were lots of people around, so I didn’t say anything. I think I was jealous. They put her on a stretcher and carried her away. Nobody spoke to me all the time I was there.

The crowd began to disperse. I was left on my own between the four canisters. I picked up the two I had been carrying. Water was pouring out of them, like the stream of water from those statues of little boys in Dubrovnik. Her canisters were still intact, so I picked them up and went outside. It was a beautiful spring day and by now the sound of gunfire had vanished. I covered the thirty yards or so to our building, and then decided to go for a walk, so I turned back and went in the opposite direction. Two soldiers were running along the bank. Some boys were playing kickball on the grass by the art school. One of them kicked the ball awkwardly — and I caught it on the volley. To be honest, if I hadn’t, I think it would have ended up in the Miljacka river. I met Tadija by the Two Fishermen Café. He asked me where I’d been exactly when the shelling began. I was afraid that he’d ask me about Ivanka. We sat down on the wall in front of the restaurant and he cut a cigarette in two with his penknife. (He took the half with no filter.) Wittgenstein was afraid of going mad, I told him, and that’s why he became a philosopher. I don’t remember what he’d wanted to be in the first place — a gardener or something. Tadija shrugged his shoulders and exhaled the smoke. A cold sore was visible on his mouth, next to the cigarette.

Ivanka’s funeral was brief and rather superficial. When it was over I went to the market and found seeds for carrots, parsnips and lettuce among the old shoes and the ludicrously expensive tins of beef. I bought a few packets and went home along the back streets in order to avoid meeting people I knew. The washing Ivanka had done a couple of days earlier still wasn’t dry. I buried my head in a damp, white shirt. It’s odd — even when the sun shines nothing dries. I cooled my face and pondered: Heraclitus only cracked jokes at his own expense, but Zeno made jokes against the world. Plato was a transvestite who dressed up humanity. Somebody should have bumped off Socrates to stop him making such a performance of his death. If you want my opinion, philosophy is just a video game. I put the shirt back on the line. My face hadn’t left any marks on the fabric.

I haven’t spoken to the girls for months and I don’t know how to break the news that their mother’s dead. But it’s wrong to let them go on thinking she’s still alive, a beloved parent to whom they need to send food parcels and remember in prayers at bedtime. They have a right to know so that they can mourn — and then forget. One life and one worry less.

The water lasted for days so I didn’t go out. I sat on the table by the window and stared at the concrete slabs below. If you looked closely, you could already see blades of grass growing in the cracks. I leaned out of the window as far as I liked, without my heart beating faster. I was free and happy: I didn’t have to write messages, I didn’t have to suffer or to explain myself to anybody. The world vanishes if you don’t talk.

In the pantry I found a little bag of compost and some light styrofoam boxes, just big enough to bury a rat in. I mixed the compost with the infertile soil from the children’s playground. There was something hypnotic about touching the damp black-brown dust with my fingers. I could have kneaded and stroked the soil for hours. I scattered the seeds and marked the boxes. I placed them under the window and watered them. I think I read in a book somewhere that Wittgenstein didn’t in fact want to be a gardener but an aeronautical engineer. Does that mean a pilot or something else? I returned to the window and looked down again with a kind of resignation. All I’d have to do is persuade myself I’m a canary. Nobody would believe that I’d jumped out of the window immediately after sowing the seeds. I can already see people whispering that somebody had pushed me. Otherwise the carrots, parsnips and lettuce would never have been planted.

I don’t go to the cemetery, as I explained to Tadija, because there are too many fresh graves there. It is vulgar to visit them all one by one. He pulled out a cigarette, which he snapped in two, giving me the half without the filter. His cold sore has been there for weeks and so he can’t really manage the tiny cigarette ends any more. I put my half away in my pocket, for later. He looked at me and shrugged.

Friar Andro sent word to the girls that Ivanka had died. They asked about me. I don’t know what he told them. Whatever happens they should know that I’m ok. I flick through books, read and wait for the carrots, parsnips and the lettuce to grow. Humans live out of curiosity. That’s the best and most honest way. Anything else is just a false way of courting other people’s tears. Camus demanded and gave melodramatic explanations. For those whose death isn’t accidental, the situation is as follows: women and homosexuals slit their wrists, soldiers and boors shoot themselves in the head, actors and romantics swallow pills, the clumsy and the neurotic shoot themselves in the heart, the ignorant and the perverse hang themselves, the ambitious and the weak jump off bridges, sad cases and intellectuals jump from roofs or top floors.

The parsnip was the first to sprout, followed by the lettuce and finally the carrots. The tiny leaves are as soft as a newborn baby’s hair. I watered them before I went to visit Tadija in the hospital. The doctors don’t know what is wrong with him. He has shrunk to half his size and the cold sore still hasn’t disappeared. I offered him a cigarette as we sat on the bench in front of the hospital. He took a penknife out of his pocket, divided the cigarette in two and gave me the end with the filter. He’s got used to having the other end, he says, it doesn’t bother him any more. We sat and smoked. I told him about the parsnips, lettuce and carrots. He replied that he was now quite sure that Wittgenstein had wanted to be an aeronautical engineer.

The lettuce was the first to be ready for picking. I pulled off two heads, washed and cleaned them, wrapped them in newspaper and took them to the market. I gave them to the first woman who came along for two cigarettes. Everyone looked at me strangely. A Gypsy said that he would have given me two boxes of cigarettes for the lettuce. That’s fine, I replied, but the woman didn’t have two boxes of cigarettes. The Gypsy swore and went off.

I pulled out three small, as yet unripe carrots and washed them. I put two cigarettes in my other pocket and went to the hospital. Almost timidly, the doctor asked me if Tadija had been a relation. I said no — he was my friend.

“Yes, of course — is,” replied the doctor, extending his hand, “but I have to inform you that you will no longer be able to talk to him.”

“No problem,” I said, pulling out the cigarettes and carrots. “This is for you because you looked after Tadija.” He shivered and withdrew his hand. “Don’t be silly,” I smiled. “Take it!”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just tired,” and he took the three carrots and the two cigarettes.

“It’ll be ok,” I said, turning away and going down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs I felt the doctor’s hand on my shoulder. We went outside and sat on the bench. He offered me a cigarette and put the other in his mouth. As we sat there, people were running about in blood-stained white coats.

“You know, it was cancer,” the doctor said finally.

“No problem.” I replied again, and then I told him the whole story from the beginning about the seeds, the compost, the white styrofoam boxes and the sprouting plants. He looked at me with tears in his eyes, just nodding his head. I think he really was a tired man.

The lettuce, parsnips and carrots continued to grow. I often relaxed as I leaned out of the window. The grass between the concrete slabs was already getting dry. Autumn was on its way. The white boxes will remain empty. It’s not easy to get rid of unwanted things.

Awakening

By six o’clock the last trace of daylight had vanished from the room. Every fifteen seconds the glow of three cigarettes described the short, nervous trajectory through the darkness from their lips to the ashtray on the table. In the distance you could hear the muffled sound of nonstop warfare and the occasional burst of a machine gun or the revving of a car. The infrequent gusts of wind distorted the sounds like a mixing desk in a recording studio. It gave the impression of a virtual reality or multimedia event — listening to the digital transmission of a pop concert, say, or the spinning turntable of a cyber-DJ.

In the morning Davor left to fetch the water. Perhaps he dropped in on a friend in Bistrik, or took cover from the shelling in a café, or stayed to lunch at Aunt Rozalija’s. Or did he meet somebody else perhaps? Every hour brought fresh comfort and a new explanation. Yet in order to retain its happy ending the story’s plot had to become more and more complicated. As time went by, the mood of depression was punctuated by spells of euphoria unprovoked by anything except the need to perform the daily tasks, such as chopping wood or fixing the radio. But later a wave of indifference began to roll in, a private acceptance of everything, including the worst news. How would they react to the stranger who knocks on the door and, scratching himself or averting his gaze, reports that a shell had landed close to the water, just where Davor was standing, and a tiny, one could almost say unimportant, piece of shrapnel had hit him, against all the odds, where it shouldn’t have. Each puff of a cigarette was accompanied by this unspoken story which always ended in a sigh of resignation.

But nobody knocked on the door, and so apart from the rumbling background noise of the war — and that never went away — there was nothing to confirm or to deny the family’s hopes, or to underline the need finally to acknowledge the horror, with a deep breath, as a prelude to beginning again. At last a hand crushed its cigarette in the crystal ashtray and the ember dwindled into microscopic flames. The same hand reached for a match whose tiny flame briefly illuminated the faces of a man and two women as it proceeded to light the wick in a glass filled with oil and water.

The man got up with a sigh and limped off to fetch the car battery. He skillfully wired up a boom-box. Suddenly the end of a pop song was blaring out of the machine. They heard the tail-end of a melody and then the piercing beeps of the time signal marking the top of the hour. “It’s nine o’clock precisely,” said a voice. “Here is the news: leaving today on a state visit. . seventeen dead and eighty-five wounded. . under enemy fire. . in panic-stricken retreat. . the French Minister for Humanitarian Aid paid his respects to the victims. . our correspondent in the free territories reported new atrocities committed by the. . world sailing championships. . white-water canoeing. . our team received the warmest applause. . people were crying. . now the weather: the outlook for tonight is wind and rain.” The pop music started up again, a drum beating, a voice singing, “I know I’ll die of love and only love.” When the man disconnected the battery, the music continued for a second and then stopped abruptly.

Eight years ago Davor went camping with the scouts near Lake Boračko. It was part of an exam to become a Scout-Partisan. He and six other boys were not supposed to talk all day. They had to spend the night in the woods and cross the hanging bridge over the Neretva. The following day the other six returned but Davor was nowhere to be found. The whole camp began to search for him. They alerted the police in Konjic. The phone rang in the flat, and a man’s voice asked various questions about Davor. Did he show any signs of pathological fear? Was he afraid of the dark when he was little? How did he cope with loneliness? The father gave hysterical answers. The mother and sisters grew pale; it was chaos. That night Davor was found in the wood near Glavatičevo. He was laughing and pointing at something. When the scout leader gave him permission to speak, he calmly said that he had got lost because, unlike those six cheats, he had decided to become a real Scout-Partisan and cross the bridge. The next day the camp was over. The tents were folded, and only the regular geometrical patterns of dry grass and the scorched traces of the camp fires remained.

At midnight the older woman poured more oil into the glass and the flame crackled briefly. Once again the man fixed the wires to the battery. This time a woman’s voice reiterated the same news. The pounding became more syncopated. Regular waves of explosions covered the city from one end to the other. There was a sound like a cat scraping its claws on glass, very quiet at first but getting louder — it had started to rain.

The younger woman went over to the window and pressed her hand against the pane. “It looks like a real spring shower,” she said, “and yet by morning it will have turned to snow. It didn’t rain when it should have, so it has to now. There’s no winter without snow; you keep on hoping it won’t come this year, but it arrives with the first cherry blossom.”

She walked into the bathroom and picked up two aluminum bowls, then she went out into the rain. When she came back her hair was covered in droplets of water that shimmered like quicksilver in the candlelight. The water had a rather solid appearance, as though a gentle hand could have gathered up all the drops. Soon a different noise came from outside; it was the metallic sound of water pouring out of the drainpipes into the bowls.

The older woman held the now-forgotten bottle of oil between her knees. She looked down and saw that her dress was covered in grease marks.

She said, “You boarded up all the windows, there isn’t a glimmer of light in the room. Others light their candles at nine; we have to light ours at six. You’ll rot in this darkness.”

The man looked at her, clenching his right hand into a fist and raising it in front of his face as if he were about to scream. He jerked his hand open, drummed on the table with his fingers, then stood up and left the room. At first they just heard the sound of branches breaking and wet leaves fluttering, but soon it was possible to hear the man taking the boards off the windows and pulling down the sandbags, which landed with a dull thud on the ground. The sand went everywhere.

“Happy now?” cried the man.

The older woman sighed. The younger one nervously slapped her knees. The man came back into the room without a word, sat down on the bed and lit another cigarette. The two women also lit up at that moment. According to the house rule, they were only allowed two cigarettes each per day. They were already over the limit.

In the early days of the war Davor told his parents that he wanted to join the Territorial Army. His mother could never sleep while he was absent on duty. Her husband used to scold her, and so she always had a terrible migraine the following day. Usually Davor came back from military duty with a smile on his face, only to spend hours regaling the younger woman with stories of his exploits in the war zone. Of course he used to exaggerate slightly, making up jokes about himself as well as the Chetniks. Yet it seemed that in his bizarre, war-engendered happiness, he was unlikely to come to any harm. The man always hugged his “brave son” and interrupted with a story of his own — how in 1953, somewhere near Pirot, or somewhere even more remote perhaps, he was among half a dozen recruits who were ambushed by Bulgarian border guards.

The young woman was the first to fall asleep. She curled up in the armchair like a fetus. The man covered her with a large Russian scarf and stroked her hair. The older woman took a bottle of transparent liquid from the cupboard and poured the contents into two coffee jugs, but very quietly, to avoid knocking the neck of the bottle against the rim, because the sound was likely to wake the sleeping woman. Afterwards she sat in the middle of the room scraping bits of wax off the bottle with her fingernail. The man stared absent-mindedly into the black mirror of the windowpane.

“Perhaps he couldn’t get back because the sniper was shooting at the bridge,” she whispered at last.

The man shrugged his shoulders and continued to stare at the glass. His wife watched him hopefully or pleadingly for a matter of seconds, then stood up and went to the bathroom. Outside, in the dark, there was an explosion not very far away. The sleeping woman awoke with a jerk. She smiled. The man looked at her and the smile lingering on her face. It remained for several minutes like the expression of a wax figure. At first the smile looked warm and friendly, but it changed and soon became insanely frightening. The man’s gaze returned to his self-portrait in the window.

The older woman stretched out on the sofa, whose springs played a few notes. She turned over to face the wall and didn’t move again. After a while her breathing became regular and maintained its steady rhythm until dawn.

The man left the room on tiptoe, stopping to pick up another cigarette and the lighter on his way out. He stood under the eaves; it was no longer raining; the wind shook the raindrops from the trees. The man believed that the winter might really pass without snow. He lit a cigarette, inhaled and remembered that silly adage about not smoking outdoors at night, because a soldier could easily mistake the cigarette for the infrared sight of a sniper’s gun. The bombing had stopped. Several minutes would elapse before a melancholy watchman discharged a round of machine-gun fire. The shots sounded rather inoffensive but not very far away. It was a reminder that not everybody was asleep. There were still people with mad, unhappy and worrying thoughts who were on duty. The cigarette had burned down to his fingers as the man threw a last glance at the sun rising over the hills. He closed the door behind him and went back into the room. Everything was just as he’d left it. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

The man and the two women were asleep when the bright daylight streamed into the room for the first time in ten months. They were like children in a hospital ward struggling not to wake up.

Duke

You could spend your whole life searching around Bosnia and not come across another person who was so evil. He was moody and he wore an expression of such disgust that nobody would look him in the eye in case he made something of it. On one occasion a boy was kicking a football against this man’s house. Jovan, alias Musa, opened the door and hissed, “Get away from here.” When the boy refused to stop, Jovan ripped off one of his fingers. The boy’s father shrugged his shoulders. “What can you do?” everybody said. “That’s Musa for you.” And it didn’t even occur to them to look at the culprit reprovingly. Whenever he got drunk, the villagers hid in their homes, because he’d prowl around the village like a rabid dog, shouting: “I’ll show you. I’m gonna skin you alive!” When he was ranting like this, he used to beat the shit out of anyone who accidentally got in his way. He wasn’t discriminating — he’d beat up a relative just as soon as a total stranger. If your travels brought you to the village of D—, the well-meaning villagers made sure to warn you about Musa as if declaring the risk of a natural disaster. If it had been possible, the local people would probably have signposted a warning at the entrance to the village.

D— is the only Serbian village near the Muslim town of Zenica, but this fact only became relevant when the Yugoslav National Army began withdrawing from the area. The villagers were then given numerous cannons, rifles and machine-guns — at least three guns per inhabitant. They were instructed to defend their homes and told that the army would remain nearby to help out. They even appointed a village commander or “duke” — Musa. He appeared in front of the villagers, wearing a number of cartridge belts and a traditional black fur hat with a Serbian cockade. Some of his neighbors were still terrified of the madman, but there were others who looked at him with a new glimmer in their eyes. Zenica lay sleepily below in the valley, somehow tempting the villagers to shell it as a way of proving themselves to Musa after years of being afraid to look him in the eye.

For ten days Musa didn’t sober up or leave the headquarters, which were located in an old shop. The guards at the entrance were regularly changed, and the Duke appointed, then canned, a new deputy every morning. At daybreak he always summoned the deputy he had appointed twenty-four hours earlier and the person who was due to replace him. Both men would stand to attention in front of the Duke, staring at the top button of his military coat.

“You imbecile.” he always began, addressing the first subordinate. “Did you know, imbecile, that I could skin you alive?”

“Yes, I did,” the unfortunate deputy would reply, causing the Duke to jump out of his chair and punch the man in the teeth with a mighty blow.

“You’re an imbecile and you don’t know anything until I tell you!” he’d bawl.

The following day the next soon-to-be ex-deputy would perhaps try the other tack, answering, “No, I didn’t,” to the same question not that it would make any difference — he’d receive a blow just the same.

“If you didn’t know, imbecile, whether or not I could skin you alive, how dare you come before me?”

If the people of Zenica had not decided to capture D—, obliging the Duke to sober up finally, it is more than likely that, sooner or later, the entire male population would have served as his deputy, being patted on the back one day, and the next with a mouth full of blood.

D— came under fire from rifles and hunting guns, and the occasional mortar bomb. Duke Musa gave the attackers an ultimatum: either they withdraw or he would raze Zenica to the ground. They stopped firing, and Musa went back to drinking. One night he ransacked the headquarters and tore off the guard’s ear. He gave orders to the villagers not to shoot without his command, and it didn’t occur to anyone not to obey.

The villagers were equally fearful of Musa and the people from Zenica. But they firmly believed that when Musa gave the word, Zenica would simply disappear. If his own neighbors were so afraid of him, they reckoned, the Muslims and Croats must be shitting themselves.

The inhabitants of Zenica, however, were rather confused by Musa’s behavior. He declined to open fire — but he also refused to negotiate. Whenever the military command in Zenica tried to make contact with D—, hoping to persuade the villagers to surrender peacefully, the Duke would scream down the telephone line, swearing and cursing so terribly that the blood would freeze in their veins. You couldn’t talk to him or threaten him or try to bribe him with a few thousand Deutschmarks to surrender D— and go his own way. In any case, his curses were not just empty words: it was hellfire and brimstone, as if somebody had opened the gates of the underworld. Here was evil for its own sake, unwilling to compromise, impossible to deceive, a malevolence to which it was unwise to submit, because it wanted nothing and expected less.

The attack on D— village finally began a month later. This time it was decided not to pay any attention to Musa’s threats — it was time to go the whole hog. The grip was being tightened, Musa howled. People died with guns in their hands, but they were not allowed to shell Zenica. Nobody could understand what sort of idée fixe had taken hold of the Duke, but it was still preferable to die from a bullet wound than to ask the wrong questions and thus become a victim of Musa’s wrath.

On the third day of attack the Duke nevertheless fired three cannons at the town, but he forgot (or omitted) to activate them. The cannon-balls happily bounced along the streets of Zenica and then quietly came to rest. That night Musa assembled all the men in the village and threatened to rip their heads off unless they immediately brought all their weapons to the headquarters. He then phoned the commanders in Zenica and invited them to enter D— the following day at noon.

Everybody heard the gunshot, but none of the villagers were brave enough to enter the headquarters without Musa’s permission. At midday the troops from Zenica passed through the village and opened the door to find the Duke lying on the floor, with a bullet hole in his temple, a bottle of brandy in his left hand and a picture of St. Sava, the patron saint of Serbia, in his right. The villagers were still afraid of him, even though he was dead, so they whispered to the soldiers from Zenica that they were not Chetniks and that the Yugoslav National Army had forced them to take the weapons. Nobody, however, understood why Musa had refused to fire on Zenica.

A Diagnosis

No other place has threats and curses like the ones in Bosnia. They have been dreamed up over a long period of time, not in order to hurt or scare anybody, but to prove the value of imagination. The best curses and threats chart the development of a particular culture. For example, with the electrification of Bosnian villages came the following curse: “May your child be cut up with a chainsaw and stored in the cellar for winter!”

Salih F. saw with his own eyes his wife and two daughters being cut up with an electric saw by the Chetniks. Later imprisoned in Manjača, he was expected to die there, but instead he was released in exchange for some other prisoners. He was transferred to Gradiška, then to Karlovac and finally to the Czech Republic, where he ended up in a refugee camp among unknown, but mostly Bosnian, people. Illiterate and a bit slow, he was the ideal figure of fun. Salih F. spent days trying not to rise to the bait. Sometimes he made the effort to come up with a quick retort or to think of an original reply, but it didn’t really work. He only ended up looking even more stupid than before. It was as though he had been dropped into a machine for mincing his nerves. The only way to escape was to put the heat on the next sucker, or else to sort it out with his fists.

One day Salih F. fought with half the camp. He had the shit beaten out of him, at first by the Bosnians and then by the Czech police guards. Afterwards, still bleeding and now tied up, he was presented with an official order banning him from all the refugee camps in the country. He packed up his things, swore at the Bosnians and the Czech guards and set off for Prague. After walking over fifty miles, he entered the city in triumph and was immediately arrested. He had no documents in his pockets except for the banning order.

The police threw Salih F. into prison, but after keeping him locked up for a night, they couldn’t think what to do with him. They wanted to expel the vagrant, but no country would take a Bosnian who was prone to fighting. The most straightforward thing to do would have been to send him back to Manjača, but this was impossible in practice, because such a move would have contravened the international declaration of human rights.

In the end the problem was solved by a quick-witted bureaucrat from the Bosnian embassy in Prague. He recommended that the police dispatch Salih F. to a psychiatric hospital to be pronounced insane. That way, he couldn’t be expelled from the country — it was again a matter of human rights. After listening to the prisoner’s life story, the authorities decided that the psychiatric option was really quite a good idea.

In the hospital Salih F. was treated like a king. He was given his own room with a television, a tape recorder and a comfortable armchair. The doctors were thrilled to have such an opportunity to study a human guinea pig who had witnessed his next of kin being cut to pieces — legs first, then the arms, and finally the heads. At regular intervals the men in white coats used to check on Salih F. by peering through the spyhole. Most of the time he sat quietly in the armchair, watching television, changing channels and munching grapes lazily. He looked no different from everybody else in the world who follows the latest news from Bosnia with a lack of interest.

The doctors concluded that Salih F. was actually in a state of shock. They drafted long and pedantic reports about him, wrote papers for psychiatric journals, discussed various prognostications and waited patiently for Salih F.’s battered and bloody soul to recover. But over the next few months his condition did not change. Salih F. lived from day to day without fuss, always replying politely to the doctors’ questions but making no special requests and apparently displaying no interest in the hospital’s plans for his future. The doctors attempted to bring Salih F. out of shock by providing him with a hobby. They offered him singing lessons, drawing paper or a course in photography. Just choose which you’d prefer, they said, and he thanked the men in white coats, adding that he didn’t need or like any of those activities. But the doctors insisted — and so in the end Salih F. agreed to take up drawing. He couldn’t sing and was scared of photographs.

Salih F. used to draw obediently whenever it was time for his drawing practice, but at the end of a session he would go back to watching television and munching grapes. Predictably the doctors sat up late at night analyzing his drawings. He used a brown wooden pencil to draw a hut, a green one for the grass and a yellow one for the sun. He drew eyes and a mouth on the sun; it was a copy, he said, of a picture he had seen as a child. Sometimes he had to explain to the doctors the nature of a particular drawing. The men in white coats used to smile as they listened to his explanations. But sometimes they asked follow-up questions that were too confusing for the interpreter to translate.

The day finally came when a decision had to be made about the future of Salih F. The doctors had prepared only one question. “What would you do,” they said, “if you caught the murderers of your wife and daughters?” Salih F. replied that such a thing was unlikely to happen. By now the Chetniks responsible were far away, across many borders and barbed-wire fences and lines of battle. But the doctors insisted, assuring him that many things were possible even if they seemed unlikely at first. And so, recognizing that his questioners were like small children, and that it was necessary for them only to imagine a situation in order to make it a reality, Salih F. replied, “I would kill them,” adding, “or I would give them a pen and paper and tell them, as you tell me, to DRAW!”

The doctors’ faces lit up. They took their pens and papers and pronounced Salih F. insane.

The Colony

Down there the devils multiply. .

Djordje Balašević

The Colony was built by the Austro-Hungarians a few years after they came to Bosnia. The bungalows were laid out in two rows with military precision. In the tiny gardens only wild marigolds grew — and the odd lettuce perhaps. In front of every house there was a little wooden table and two or three stools. In the summer evenings the smell of coffee and rakija wafted everywhere; both drinks were served in Turkish cups with a gold star and crescent moon in the bottom. Even the shrieks of playing children couldn’t disturb the peace. For almost a hundred years the miners and their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren have lived here, descendants of those who had left other parts of the empire and turned up one morning with their cardboard suitcases at the Kakanj railway station. They set up home in the Colony and lived lives without hopes and expectations, perhaps, but with a kind of inner peace that sometimes creates the illusion of happiness. And the pattern of life was upset only on those black days — which did occur, however, with demonic regularity, about every four years or so — when the siren blasted the news that some of the miners had not returned from the pits alive.

On the other side of town was a Catholic church — and nearby a mosque. As if by some tradition, the Orthodox people didn’t live in the Colony, nor did they go down the mines. Communism barely affected the lives of the miners. The pits were too dark to foster any rethinking of ideological views. Decades passed, and the organized diplomatic tours avoided the Colony. The inhabitants weren’t affected by the passage of time or by other worldly fashions. And so they continued to be ignorant of such things as traffic pollution, neon lights and synthesized muzak. Only the thick layers of dust, which turned into mud during the autumn, and the increasingly dirty façades suggested that life was about to change — or perhaps it was just returning full circle: the young folk looked back to a period when their grandfathers roamed up and down Bosnia looking for mines, but they also looked forward to the day in the not too distant future when the pits and the Colony would cease to exist.

As soon as war broke out, nobody went down the mines any more. People carrying weapons and flags marched through Kakanj. Some of the inhabitants left, never to return. Others wasted a lot of time in bars, cursing too loudly. In other words, fear entered the Colony — mostly fear of other people, of strangers, of spies, of messengers bringing bad news, but also fear of the night. At daybreak somebody would start shooting, and of course there would be a response from the hills. With the dawn chorus many frightened and tired faces would look out of the houses. Now, every night was like those nights in the past when the siren broke the news of a mining accident.

On such a morning Rudo L. packed his things in a case, locked the front door and the gate, left the keys with his neighbor and, without much explanation, set off toward Vareš on foot. When he reached the church he crossed himself and swore that he would never tell anybody what had happened that night, in his thoughts or his dreams, to induce him to leave Kakanj. Vows seldom have any rational basis. Often they are just ridiculous and pointless, but they can seriously burden a person. Sometimes a vow ends up costing a life. But as the folk in this part of the country are obstinate by nature and thus, in an odd way, rather devout, they seldom break their vows. All around Bosnia people cautiously tell one another stories about horrors that befall those who break their promises. The commitment of a Bosnian who has made a vow can be glimpsed in his face or read in his eyes. It often makes you want to question him or to put temptation in his way or to subject him to other kinds of torture. His persistence makes him appear unstable in other people’s eyes.

When the people in Vareš asked Rudo L. what had occurred that night to make him leave, he refused to say, and so everybody concluded that it must have been something terrible. But as the imagination is always provoked by secrecy, the questioning just intensified; it became more probing and more organized, until it was taken up by those in authority. The police questioned Rudo L. for days, but he stubbornly remained silent. He didn’t even attempt to lie, but nevertheless objected repeatedly to the idea that he was suffering from amnesia as a result of the horrors he had witnessed. Rudo L. no longer knew which was worse: being pressured to break a vow or perhaps being certified insane. In any case, he regretted ever having left Kakanj. Yet it was too late to return. He didn’t worry that he would probably be killed if he ever went back. He was more disturbed by the idea that, in a manner of speaking, his return would be tantamount to breaking his vow. Such a move would only revive the horrors that played on his mind the morning he left the Colony.

One day the authorities in Vareš put him in the back of a truck full of people from Kakanj and told him to go to Croatia. The policeman gave him a cynical smile and remarked that “They have superior methods over there,” and that they would inevitably force him to divulge what he had been through. He was afraid of being harassed at Serb checkpoints, or being stopped and threatened or searched, but he was even more afraid when he stepped off the lorry in Čapljina and was approached by a television reporter who stuck a microphone under his nose and turned a spotlight on him. He asked the very same question that had come up again and again in Vareˇs, but on this occasion it was asked in such a confident voice that Rudo L. imagined the reporter already knew the answer. But who is privy to a vow? The person who makes it, the Lord, and perhaps the devil, too. Who cares if the reporter knew the secret? Rudo L. made up his mind to to surrender his soul to the journalist. He told him that the Chetniks had stopped the lorry on the way to Croatia, and the disappointed reporter immediately vanished. Rudo L. interpreted the episode as a divine omen, a reward for his silence.

The next day he saw the sea for the first time and took his first boat trip. The water was deeper than any water Rudo L. had ever imagined, and the boat was larger and more crowded than anything he had seen on tv. Rudo L. couldn’t understand why the boat didn’t sink and how it floated gently on the surface like a walnut shell. It was a sign — real tangible proof — that miracles exist and that a long time ago St. Francis really did walk on water, unsinkably like a boat packed with hundreds of people. Even though he was a long way from the Colony, Rudo L. was a happy man again.

His daughter met him in Rijeka, and he told her, if only by way of a sign or a hint, something of what he’d been through and what temptations he had endured. Her eyes filled with tears as she listened to him. She didn’t ask him why he’d left Kakanj, but he told her anyway that he had made a vow.

It was a coincidence that not very far from Rijeka was a mining town called Labin. Perhaps it had a colony too — or perhaps not. It wasn’t as though Rudo L. needed to know anyway. He was ninety years old, and it was too late, even for a Bosnian, to pretend to be alive.

Declension

Hypnotized by the rhythm, the young boy had been declining the Latin word terra for the last fifteen minutes. He gently swayed in the middle of the room, happy and vacant, and just as handsome as a Buddhist monk.

His stepfather was chain-smoking cigarettes and rewinding the videotape of a massacre he had filmed in central Bosnia. The speededup images of suffering and tears played on your nerves, dispelling the memory of emotion. He had to think of a commentary in a hurry in order to dispatch the report to the United States the next day. Briefly he thought it would be a good idea just to record the sound of the boy declining terra, terra, terram, terrae. . and blood.

“Dino, why don’t you go and study in your room?”

“Can’t you see, Zoka, that I’m doing my Latin?”

“Can’t you go to your room and do something else?”

“I’ve done everything else.”

“Hey, kid, unless you push off to your room to study, I’ll play you a video of Tudjman’s speech in Sisak.”

The boy looked at his stepfather with dismay. He stopped in the middle of a particular declension and went to his room. The stepfather switched the video off, lit another cigarette and exhaled the smoke happily. He enjoyed the silence under the white ceiling, attempting to be here, in Zagreb, if only for a moment, what he used to be in Zenica. A successful man, that is, and full of himself.

After ten minutes the boy came back into the room. He closed the door after him but didn’t take another step, like somebody who had come into a rather daunting office. He remained silent.

Calmly at first, and then with irritation, the stepfather looked him straight in the eye.

“Zoka, are there any horrible pictures in this speech?”

The stepfather scratched his head and laughed, then he got up. He spent a long time fixing his tie in front of the mirror.

“Zoka, do we need anything from the shops?”

“I don’t know. . No, we don’t. . Ask your mom.”

“Do you need any beer?”

Another look, as in westerns, right in the eye.

“What is it that you want, Dino?”

“You know, Zoka, I’m very grateful to you. You bought me shoes, and everything. I mean, I have a pretty good idea of your financial situation, and so on. But of course I’m still young, I don’t understand everything, so. .”

“Yes, Dino, and —?”

“You’re going out now, aren’t you, Zoka?”

“So?”

“I’d like to watch the cartoons on the satellite channel.”

The stepfather put his jacket on and arranged his greased-back hair in front of the mirror. He went out in his slippers. Leaning on the doorway, he put his shoes on. Then he swayed like an old drunkard and pushed against the walls with his thumbs. The boy laughed. The other winked knowingly and went downstairs.

The following day. The boy goes to church with his best friend. A mass is being held, the hall is filled with black and pious figures. The boys sit down in an empty pew and open their mouths in time to the prayer. Play-back, of course, amateurish and inexperienced. The words are becoming more and more complicated and confused, and the boys can no longer follow the rhythm as they lip-sync. Toward the end of mass, the priest approaches the boys and takes them to his room. He asks their names. They timidly tell him what they are called and pull their sleeves over their sweaty hands. As if they were guilty. The priest smiles and asks them where they’re from. From Zenica and Prijedor.

The priest puts his hand in a drawer and pulls out pencils, notebooks and sweets. He pats them on the shoulder. They feel uncomfortable.

“You know what, you two really don’t have to go to church, to mass and such things. When you’re not well, when you’re sad or when you get frightened you can just say to yourself, ‘God, help me,’ and everything will be all right.”

The boys leave the church in silence. They don’t speak until they get home but they part with a few words to show that everything is, as it were, normal.

At home the stepfather tries to explain that not everyone has to go to classes of religious instruction because not everyone has the same beliefs. Of course, the stepfather is, like the priest, a Catholic. The boy, or course, isn’t. He tells him that a girl at school, for whom he has a soft spot, often corrects his pronunciation. The stepfather opens his arms, laughs and says that women are like that. The boy goes to his room, saying that he has to study more Latin.

He locks himself in the room. The stepfather and mother knock on the door. He tells them he’s got important things to do. He stays in his room for two whole hours. He emerges ready to go out, with a hockey helmet on his head. He’s going to make a snowman. The stepfather and mother go into his room. They try to smell his secret. They look under the bed. They flick through the boy’s notebooks. But they can’t find anything. Disappointed, they look at each other. The mother puts away various things that have been scattered around the room. The stepfather talks some pedagogical nonsense.

Later. The mother found some pages that had been torn out of a notebook. The boy was writing to his grandfather in Zenica. If it had been anybody else’s son, the sentences would have looked stupid and banal. As it was, they were perfect to cry over. The mother told the stepfather about the contents of the letters. He nodded and later told his friends about them. He translated the words for American editors, and they replied that they were wonderful and moving. The mother returned the boy’s letters to where she had found them. She didn’t say anything. She was just a bit more affectionate toward him from then on.

The boy made a snowman in the courtyard out of the remaining snow. He carved out the president’s face. He didn’t make a nose out of a carrot, because he thought that was stupid. Nobody had a carrot on their face. Especially not the president.

The Photograph

Our idea of love is not letting other people steal your woman.

Duško Trifunović

I don’t know what it’s like anywhere else, but in Europe it’s like this: Rick is unhappy because Ilse loves Laszlo. He knows that she loves him too, and yet she remains faithful to Laszlo. Rick wishes she’d be faithful to him instead — because it’s not enough to know that she loves him. No doubt you have heard and read the same story, with a few variations, a thousand times. The key to true love is faithfulness. You don’t need to think about it much — it is taken for granted. Mind you, if it wasn’t for faithfulness, there probably wouldn’t be any unhappiness in love. Nor any happiness either.

Senka and Mašo were often cited in the neighborhood as love’s young dream. She was unable to have any children, but he didn’t hold that against her as other Balkan husbands might have done. Senka worked in the Post Office and Mašo was a plumber. She always used to refer to him as “my Mašo”, and he to her as “my Senka.” Their story would not have been of any interest if the war had not broken out. We don’t usually find stories about long and happy relationships very interesting.

As soon as the shelling began Mašo joined the Territorial Army. Senka was not very pleased about this, but she realized that there was no other way of preserving their one-bedroom Eden. The very thought of leaving town scared her. A different place would mean different circumstances; it would be a story involving different characters.

One day a strange man in uniform with muddy boots knocked on the door. He hugged Senka and whispered to her that Mašo had been killed. He left a paper bag with Mašo’s possessions on the table — a hanky, the case for his spectacles and his wallet. After the first few days of mourning, which are usually more ceremonious than sorrowful, and which demand a certain presence of mind to avoid the compassionate gazers who thrive on any sign of tears, Senka took out all the things that had been returned to her instead of Mašo. She touched each object in turn and finally opened the wallet. Inside she found fifty Deutschmarks — an amount that any cautious man perhaps would always carry with him — and odd scraps of paper with phone numbers and notes about plumbing. In the little plastic window was a photograph of Senka. The only purpose of the plastic window is to give a glimpse of your intimate life to strangers at supermarket checkouts. But the wallet also had a secret invisible compartment. Senka peeked into it and found a photograph of an unknown woman. On the back was written, “Always yours, Mirsada.” The handwriting was flowery with many loops. The next day Senka told the whole neighborhood what those “bastards from the brigade had done to her.” Angrily, then bitterly and in the end tearfully, she showed the incriminating photograph to the women, who tut-tutted and shook their heads. They consoled her as she was leaving their houses and then immediately began to gossip about her. On the whole, everyone, except of course Senka, was pleased to discover that Mašo hadn’t been a saint. They secretly considered her pitiful for having revealed so publicly her shame, which she didn’t even acknowledge.

When, a fortnight or so later, the boys from the brigade came with a parcel for the wife of a dead comrade, she refused to open the door to them. She shouted at them through the door, making various threats and curses. When Senka declined the army handout, most of the neighbors just assumed that she had gone mad already. They pulled at the soldiers’ sleeves, trying to get them to leave the parcel, so that they could pass it on to Senka when she calmed down.

As time went by, the widespread compassion turned to ridicule. Nobody any longer wanted to hear her story about the inserted photograph, which had gradually acquired a thousand twists. On the other hand, Senka was always trying to come up with a story that would clear Mašo’s name. Each day she added new details. Yesterday’s reasons disappeared in a flash before today’s uncertainties. But the story about love’s young dream always triumphed in the end. Senka believed that she had to sacrifice everything, including her sanity. In this war-stricken town, deprived of hope, Senka had nothing to cling to but her story.

I don’t know what happened after that because I left Sarajevo. But perhaps the ending is not very important. Once again, faithfulness has been confirmed as the axiom of love, as something that is more important than love itself. But in any case, what transcends even the bounds of this story is our need to create a fable, or a context, to make sense of life and thus give it a purpose.

The people who write about the war in Bosnia without any thought of personal gain, or any wish to clamber over the bodies of the living and the dead in order to achieve success — a select few, in other words — are actually quite similar to Senka. Without any profit to themselves or others, they bravely seek to preserve an image of a world that has been shattered. Sometimes their unflinching descriptions or honest reports, not to mention their uncompromising points of view, offend public opinion. It is not unknown for such writings to be condemned as national treason by Orthodox believers. But in fact they are only vain attempts to discover a truth, a reason to exist. At a time when just about everything else has been lost of destroyed, faithfulness is the only thing left to believe in. When the time comes to write the history of Bosnia, only people like Senka will resist its lies.

Journey

You wake up in the middle of the night in a room that isn’t yours, with a view of a strange man’s rosy feet and the sound of heavy snoring. At first you can’t work out why you’re there. You shudder before the unfamiliar scene until you wake up completely. Then you remember what brought you there — it wasn’t entirely unpleasant circumstances — but your brain is already working away like a runaway engine and the memory of the night before seems unbearably distant. It is hard to deal with insomnia in a place where nothing belongs to you except your thoughts. The man on the other bed grunts contentedly, without any rhythm or melody, as though he will never stop. The night is long enough and reality is clear enough to let you run through your worst fears before morning — and then you wake up with gray hair. In this kind of situation, and only then, you realize that you are not self-sufficient and that you would be lost without all the various things, big and small, that, in the pause between dreams and journeys, mean life to you. When you’ve experienced a bout of insomnia, and particularly if there is a total stranger lying in the bed next to you, you don’t really want to travel ever again. In the morning you act the part of the distant stranger. You say goodbye coldly without exchanging telephone numbers or addresses. To the others you seem different from last night and from the previous days. You leave behind sober faces, a bungled attempt at friendship and an unclear, cloudy suspicion. Nobody knows, or should know, that you just wanted to return to a familiar world. Unknown places, new people, strange cities are interesting until you see how empty they are.

The Jurišić family cried a lot the night before they had to leave. Granddad, grandma, daughter and grandson. The old man looked at the unpainted ceiling and remembered the cans of paint that had been lying in the attic for two years. He began to sob. The old woman also shed a tear as she put away the coffee pot, thinking that she would never take it out again. The daughter kept on repeating that the most important thing was to stay alive, but the impact of her statement made her whimper. The grandson cried because everybody else was crying and because it seemed to be the thing to do. The convoy had already been postponed seven times, and so it was the eighth time the Jurišić family had woken up to the last morning and said goodbye to their home.

Each postponement brought a kind of relief but made the next last night even more difficult to bear. The sort of trivia that means nothing to ordinary people made the Jurišićs emotional. They absorbed dozens of memories and carried them in their souls like a heavy burden — it was much heavier than any suitcases or bags. Every day grandma Jurišić squeezed another little trinket into the cases for the journey: it was the most recent thing to provoke tears. Packed between the coats and shirts and shoes were lids from sugar bowls, spoons, used lighters, instructions for the freezer, useless junk that was only valuable at that particular moment because it was part of what one thinks of as home, the part that isn’t needed on a journey.

The convoys were usually cancelled only after the passengers had gathered at the bus station. As a result, everybody had to drag the suitcases back home, running the gauntlet of neighbors looking out of their windows. But the Jurišić family was always smiling by that time. Only the little boy was unhappy, because yet again the adventure had failed to begin. The old man would open all the windows, as if the family was returning from a long journey, perhaps from its summer vacation, and he’d once again try to fix the permanently broken coffee grinder. The old woman used to complain that the Bosnian government wasn’t helping people to escape from the war zone when even the Chetniks were running convoys. Those no-good politicians were all the same, she’d say. The old man would put the coffee grinder down ceremoniously on the table and say, “Nothing’s the same and nobody’s the same — but you’re still the same old fool.” His wife would be quiet for five minutes and sulk for a little longer, then he’d go over to her, put his arms around her waist like he used to fifty years ago, and tenderly whisper, “We’ll go to the other world like the Omanovićs.” The Omanovićs were the old married couple from downstairs. They had been killed the previous year by a Serb mortar while they were listening to the news on the radio. The old woman would look at her husband and gently push him away, the way you push men away when they come out with silly love talk.

On the eighth attempt, the convoy did manage to get through, leaving the town behind; it was like somewhere utterly unattainable. The prospect of an unbesieged world stretched out before the Jurišićs. The old people silently stared into space. The daughter showed the grandson an oak, saying, “That’s an oak!” or a pine tree (“That’s a pine tree!”), or a cow, saying, “That’s a cow!” or the sea (“That’s the sea!”). The boy pressed his nose against the window, smearing circles on the glass.

In Split she said to him, “This is Split.”

He asked, “But where’s Sarajevo?”

The old man spoke for the first time. “Sarajevo is where it’s always been,” he said, “but we’re no longer there!”

The old woman began to cry again. The daughter dropped the bags and shouted angrily at him. The boy gave the others a puzzled look and asked for an ice cream.

Most of the things they had packed were useless, or at least the junk was. The Jurišićs laid it out on the floor of the room and wondered why they had brought it with them. The very next day they remembered all the things they should have brought instead. The trinkets they had left in Sarajevo were worth their weight in gold, unlike the trinkets packed in the suitcases. But it was impossible to go back and fetch anything. The familiar world had disappeared, and there was no help, at least not for those who remembered what it was like.

In fact the story about the Jurišićs has a happy ending. They are still alive — yes, all of them — and nothing unusual has befallen the family, not even anything I could use as a punchline. It was only worth putting down on paper because of all the wakeful nights in unfamiliar hotel rooms that bring you closer to home, to your own world. Calmly pay for your hotel room and go to the bar for another coffee. Exchange a few words with the barman and then relax. . You are not one of those people who are constantly followed from one part of town to the other by a small yellow dog. There is no point in going back and trying to stroke the dog, because it would only run away. In any case, it always comes back when you start walking again.

Blind Man

The real argument only started when Zoran turned up with the scales he’d borrowed in the neighborhood. They placed the contraption in the middle of the dining-room table. At either end is a chair — one for Diana, the other for the boy — and in the corner of the room there is a huge pile of things: shirts, sweaters, shoes, bags, books, cassettes, figurines, sleeping bags, a hockey helmet, a Walkman, a baseball bat, a punctured soccer ball, an illustrated book about the forge at Zenica, a make-up bag, coats, a skiing jacket, a torch, a microphone, two alarm clocks, army cutlery, comics, a box with family photos, combs, sunglasses, towels (beach as well as bathroom), a wooden jewelry box, a red model Ferrari, seven toy soldiers, a briefcase with documents. .

There is a large sheet of paper and a pencil in front of Diana. The boy, who feels as if he is about to sit a math exam, is cooling his sweaty hands on the veneer of the table. Zoran adjusts the scales.

“Diana,” he begins, “write: a woman’s thick sweater — half a kilo. The Travnik Chronicles and The Journey of Alija Djerzelez — also half a kilo; a man’s coat — five kilos; English dictionary — three and a half kilos; seven vests for the child — 250 grams.”

Three hours later, the weighing is over. The boy is still sitting motionless while Diana adds up the total. She puts the pen down on the paper, remains silent for a few seconds, and then sighs, “One hundred and seventeen kilos and 250 grams.”

Zoran takes an old pair of jeans and throws them into the other corner of the room. He goes for the toy soldiers but the boy yells. Zoran flinches as though he’d just touched a hot stove. Then he reaches for the sleeping bags.

“No!” says Diana. “You don’t know what it’ll be like there.”

“For goodness sake, woman, we’re not going there to sleep in sleeping bags.”

“No, they’ll be waiting for us in Lord Carrington’s villa and they’ll let us sleep in Bill Clinton’s bedroom. Don’t touch my sleeping bag, or the child’s. If you want to go ahead and freeze, that’s ok.”

Zoran sits down in the empty chair. He stretches his arms and puts his hands on his knees. Diana goes over to the pile and picks up The Travnik Chronicles with her left and and the Bible with her right.

“Choose!” she says.

Zoran gets up, angrily snatching the books. The boy starts to cry, knocks his chair over and then shuts himself in the bathroom. With all the shouting it’s difficult to make out the words. The argument is no longer about particular things and how much they weigh. It is clear that the man and the woman are reproaching each other for all the dirty looks and all the shit they’ve given each other during the last five years. By dawn they have calmed down. Hoarse and sweaty, with mechanical movements and a sort of numbness in their eyes, they start removing sweaters, books and shirts. The boy doesn’t come out of the bathroom, and they don’t give him a second thought until they start weighing things again. Zoran finds the boy asleep on the tiled floor. He takes him in his arms and gently carries him to bed. The grown-ups put the things into the bags without a word and check for the last time — sixty-six kilos, the exact amount they are allowed to take with them. It is already daylight when they go to bed. They don’t even look back at the pile of rejected things.

The boy is the first to leave the house, carrying two bags and with his hockey helmet hanging down his back like a cowboy hat. He is followed by Zoran and Diana with the cases. She gives the keys back to the landlord.

“The flat is clean, we’re going, there are some things in the living room, so if you want anything, help yourself. You can throw the rest away.”

The neighbors watch her go in silence. The landlord gives her a limp handshake. Diana responds in kind.

At the bus station the bus that will take the Bosnian refugees from Sarajevo to Vienna Airport stands apart as if it is being hidden. The diplomats from the American embassy call out names and write them down. Relatives and friends stand to one side and cry. A blond young man with a strong foreign accent keeps on repeating in an official tone of voice that the ones who are traveling should not mix with those staying behind. Three young men laugh and wave to a young woman who replies with a walking stick. One of them shouts, “Don’t cry, people, America is a big country!” Everyone laughs and, pleased with the reaction, the young man repeats his announcement.

An old Muslim woman with a scarf gets out of a taxi. She is followed by a younger woman who takes the arm of a man with bandages over his eyes. He is wearing dark glasses, and his clumsy movements suggest that he has only recently become blind. Two huge characters come up to him and hug him and kiss him on both cheeks. A rumor circulates that the blind man was the military commander of the last Bosnian town to be massacred. The crowd of onlookers makes way for the blind man and his friend. They go straight past the Americans and join the group of people who are waiting to leave. The blind man is saying something. He laughs, shakes hands and gives the traditional two kisses.

After saying a few goodbyes, the sorrow merges with boredom. Those about to leave and the people seeing them off begin to exchange almost perfunctory smiles. A joker begins to sing. “To hell with America and all its gold too, / Why do I need your picture when I haven’t got you. .” There is no reaction, however.

At last the driver shows up, waving to the Americans, who begin to call out names. One by one the Bosnians climb on to the bus, sit down in their designated seats and glance back toward the farewell committee. People thought of the many things they’d forgotten to say to their relatives and friends. Each of them started mouthing words indecipherably through the window, or pulling faces and silently calling out to the others. When all the passengers had boarded the bus, the driver started up the engine. But then immediately he got out of the bus again and waddled over to the station as if he had no intention of driving anywhere.

Fifteen minutes later he came back, shook hands with each of the Americans and climbed back on to the bus. The hydraulics made a farting noise and the door closed. The passengers stopped miming or lip-reading in mid-sentence and the bus moved off. The people left in the bus station waved, and as the bus went past they all turned. The young woman turned to the blind man, who, like a mechanical doll, waved toward the invisible sound of the engine, a sound that stank of gasoline and old fishing boats.

The farewell party broke up in silence. An old man with a beret was the last person to speak. “Well, I’ll be damned if I understand this,” he exclaimed. “Mejra’s taken twenty-two kilos of things with her from Sarajevo, and now, once again, she’s allowed to take twenty-two kilos with her to America. But those twenty-two kilos were fifty this morning. If they make her leave America, she’ll have to divide things in two again. In the end she’ll be left with nothing, but even so it’ll weigh twenty-two kilos. That’s how it goes.”

The Bell

Billie Holiday drank too much and lived in cigarette smoke for too long. That’s why she looked unhappy and gaunt. She sang as though she was sorrow itself, and that’s why people liked her. Later on, black and white girls appeared in her image. They were just as gaunt but their lungs didn’t belt out jazz in the same way. Nevertheless they readily absorbed the music. It consumed them the way they consumed alcohol. Sad and lonely, they’d end up in a doorway vomiting to the syncopated rhythm of the boogie-woogie. The only difference between Billie Holiday and her imitators was that her sorrow was authentic while theirs was inferred. The jazz singer created the things that were rejected by the girls’ bodies.

The Bell was a bar in a cellar dating back to Austro-Hungary. It was vaulted with lots of arches and laid out in the shape of the letter L. The sound of rusty trumpets blasted out from the middle of the room. It was the sort of jazz decreed by the architecture, and it was unlikely to be much improved by the use of loudspeakers or by the landlord’s attempts to enhance the acoustics by adjusting the treble or the bass. You always had the impression that two different types of music were being played simultaneously at opposite ends of the bar. At one end the customers stared emptily in front of them, inebriated by the sound or by the beer, and with heroin shadows in their eyes. At the other end people were laughing happily, out of range of the music and protected from any sensation.

The barman was called Sem. At least he used that nickname when he was drying glasses, pouring drinks and smiling benevolently at the customers. Otherwise it was Semezdin — but this name was too long and provoked more comments than was desirable in a place like The Bell. The landlord was called Vedran. He was dark, with a moustache and unshaven like a Mexican. He always had a different girl in tow. This is the life! was his motto, especially if you could spend it listening to music in The Bell. The rotten jazz mixed with beer and with the grass in your lungs and the sound of the muezzin became a way of avoiding reality, of floating over the streets of Sarajevo and the muddy yellow waters of the Miljacka. Vedran seduced his girlfriends by telling stories he didn’t believe. Not that he expected the women to believe them either. Each date ended with a big wet kiss, and heads would turn to watch the embrace, but none of his love affairs ever produced anything out of the ordinary. Of course Sem used to smile knowingly to himself, because Vedrans come and go but you can’t do without a barman.

Some time before dawn, when everybody had drunk too much and the barman was measuring the level in each bottle with scientific precision, a girl would be sitting at the bar, sipping an espresso. Her ruffled hair would be the only sign that she had been crying. The last guests would be putting their coats on, Vedran would have left already, and out of the corner of his eye Sem would be looking for someone to give him a lift home.

The girl crying would only prolong the illusion. But since a level of intolerance had already been reached, and by now everyone was thoroughly sick of jazz, the stragglers only despised her, if she didn’t actually annoy them. She was useful as a warning sign not to cross the borderline, reminding you that it would soon be time to go back to reality, to abandon the enchanted stupor and return to the mundane but also sustainable rhythm of ordinary life. To justify her tears would have been similar to becoming a druggy, an unhinged pleasure-seeker flying off to strange places where misguided people actually believe that an illusion can serve as a modus operandi in life. Billie Holiday is ok as long as she doesn’t become your only option.

That’s why you have to go home, into the fog and the snow, and back to your warm beds.

One day The Bell came face to face with reality. The guests packed their student bags and went back to their places of birth. They hoped that it would be easier to survive there. In Doboj, Teslić, Banja Luka, Mostar, Čapljina. . Vedran watched from his bedroom window the Cyclopean barrel of a sniper’s gun just staring back at him. He got scared, took his current girlfriend by the hand and escaped to a safer part of town. The records, tapes and record-player were destroyed in a fire. You see, jazz burns as easily as folk music, punk or anything by The Doors. He sat up home in an abandoned cellar, with just the one girl who shivered in his arms like a sparrow — or like Edith Piaf — while the shells fell everywhere.

The local criminals wearing combat uniform plundered The Bell, while the neighbors smashed up the bar and used the wood to stoke their stoves during the first days of winter. The bar turned into an empty cellar devoid of illusion. One day Sem took a handful of foreign journalists around the place; by then it was a cold and empty hole. They looked at one another, probably not believing that it had ever been a jazz club. After all, what could these unfortunate, hungry and poor Bosnians possibly know about jazz, about the roof gardens of Manhattan where a lonely person drowns his sorrows in a dark liquid. It’s just sad that Billie Holiday died a long time ago.

The Letter

I hate to think about where I’ve ended up. It’s a city like many others, full of colors and signs and directions, setting the pace and purpose of everything like a metronome. The city lies about a hundred miles or so from the end of the world; its inhabitants make plans for the future. Cobblers repair shoes for the winter. Tailors make suits that will last a lifetime or from one occasion to the next. Novelists begin work on family sagas in three volumes that will take a dozen years to write. Life pulsates to a regular beat, with minor betrayals and the odd respite, like juggling your check book and the credit cards. People survive in closed circuits. They flicker like neon, and stay alive by means of ritual, from the cradle to the grave; it’s a long way from apocalypse. In fact, they live the sort of life I used to live before the war dissolved everything and upset my routine. Before a kind of fear made it necessary for me to give up other considerations and to escape. Everything I had was left behind, and represents, at least in my imagination, the price of fear. And my home, my books, fridge, video, furniture, the feeling that I have to save up for the future. . These days I spend money more freely than ever, because I don’t have enough of a stake in this new city to buy anything of value. Just a microwave. Since I’ve got money I eat in expensive restaurants. I leave the change. I don’t even bother to count the smaller notes. I feel like a monk, without any possessions, but with a wealth of choices. I could be somewhere very different in just a moment. Or I could be nowhere, in a world of pure dreams, faith or fatalism. It really doesn’t matter.

People often give me letters that are addressed to strangers because they imagine that I still have a link to Sarajevo. They bring me the envelopes and ask if I could pass them on at the first opportunity. The city I left is no longer visited by postmen or carrier pigeons. The only links are secret and unreliable — and I’m supposed to be one of those links. A little while ago I was given a letter for a man who was already dead. He was killed while he stood in his doorway having a cigarette. At least, that’s what I heard.

I didn’t want to tell the letter-bearer the truth, because I doubt that he would have known what to do with such a piece of information. I put the letter in a drawer, hoping it would just vanish. Each time I opened the drawer, for whatever reason, I happened to see the letter. As soon as the dead man had become a distant memory, and the idea of him was no longer accompanied by sadness, I decided to open the letter. It was written by a person who was a complete stranger to me, with an unfamiliar name and surname, and as he had nothing to do with my life, I read his letter as if it was a work of literature, cut off from reality like the dead man, another distant memory.

My dear friend,

I left without saying goodbye. It was the only way to go at the time. I am writing this so that we don’t create a void between us and in case you think that something occurred suddenly to ruin our friendship. I never mentioned my leaving because it would have been rude. You might have thought that I valued my own life more than you did yours, or that I felt I was a more worthy human specimen, or at least one deserving to find salvation in General Morillon’s ark. I left because I was afraid and because I had the choice. This is the naked and banal truth that I have to tell you from the start. I didn’t come to say goodbye because I didn’t have the courage.

Fifteen years ago I came to Sarajevo, where I was noticeably different because of the color of my skin. You already know that. I was one of the many students from non-aligned countries who regarded Bosnia as the gateway to the white world that invented the rules of the game and thus bulked large in our dreams of Eldorado. This was not London, Paris or New York; it was less bright than our dreams, but in essence it was a sort of Disneyland, where mice, dogs, cats, ducks and horses all took part in the same story. The black man was greeted by the whites without hatred or love. It was only when Sasa and I got drunk and became argumentative that he would curse my “black mother.” Yes — my mother was black, although he seldom displayed much interest in her. In other cities, for example, nobody ever cursed my black mother, but nor did they share a bottle of beer with me. The same curse, with variations, was also directed at other people who were not black. At Serbs, Croats, short or fat or tall people, hunchbacks, those with a limp, Albanians, the devout — it was a particular joy to curse another person’s god — pastry chefs, bakers, soldiers. . They were harsh curses that always referred to the obvious, to things that were immediately apparent as a defect, but which really shouldn’t have been regarded as a defect so much as a trait. The effects of the curse didn’t last long, and anybody who spent any length of time in Sarajevo quickly grew accustomed to the impoliteness — but not until they grasped that each curse meant, “I can see you’re like this or that — but I don’t really mind.” Nevertheless your otherness was always used against you. I didn’t really enjoy the Sarajevo curses, but they probably explain why I spent my whole life — you see, I really can’t tell if it’s over yet — in that city.

It was clear to me from the start that the hatred embodied by the mortars and shells was not a product of Sarajevo’s curses, or indeed of anything else I had known in Bosnia. The hatred I encountered was too personal to have produced such a collective evil. Bosnians could hate for a long time, persistently and with gusto, but there was no order in it. Somebody else had to provide the mortars, shells, tanks and planes in order to organize the hatred. I still feel that the sniper pulls the trigger in order to kill somebody who is like himself, somebody he has cursed very often perhaps, but who would otherwise have solved the dispute in a bar-room brawl. With fists or a knife.

The wartime killings in Bosnia seemed to me technological. They were undertaken with a discipline that was far removed from anything I had encountered. In this country, the rocks are fastened to the ground by ice, and dogs are let off their leads, but until today, nobody was ever attacked by the dogs in a pack. Just by one. For the whole pack to come after you, there has to be something else at stake, something impersonal — a system of government, perhaps, or a circle of hell — to give the crimes an ideological motive and to justify hundreds of empty stories, including the ones about fastened rocks and unfastened dogs.

At first we believed that we were separate from the evil in lots of ways. I had a head start in that respect, because of the color of my skin. I reckoned if they’d had a choice back then, all the Sarajevans would have become black overnight. Neighbors looked after one another, ate together, gave away their last handful of rice. They believed that they were soon to be redeemed, that the world and God would see what they were like and release them from the suffering.

Since the war began in Sarajevo, I haven’t come across a single atheist. Those familiar with the liturgy go to church or the mosque. Those who don’t, invent their own language of signs to convey their faith in a higher principle or god. They all carry an amulet in their pocket to help them survive the shelling. Each morning they wake up realizing how tiny and insignificant they are in terms of the cosmos. So they resolve to spend yet another day running with the crowd, hoping to appear more significant in number and thus worthy of salvation.

Only the robbers are different. At first there were only two kinds of people in Sarajevo — metaphysicians and robbers. The latter believed in a concrete future while the rest of us believed in a promised future, the one we’d promised ourselves upon realizing that we were different from the killers. Each new massacre gave us new hope in our suffering, and a belief that the horror was about to be stopped, if only because it had gone way beyond the boundaries of good taste. Nobody could believe that things would get worse after Mitterrand’s visit. He’d seen the devastation and therefore he understood. And if you understand — you’ll help us. When he left, the robbers put up the prices, and the Chetniks burned the city hall and all the documentary knowledge in it. It was a sign that the truth was not worth very much.

You remember the despair that followed. At first it was rumored that the Serbs would take the city, and then that they would kill everybody. As soon as we realized that neither event was going to happen, we understood that we had to be — different. The outside world became an object of hatred.

We only turned to God out of habit, or out of fear that the worst might happen, and so icy relations developed between people. Our next-door neighbor could have starved to death then — we no longer cared. Gloomy people dragged water containers around with them, cut down trees in parks and looked for plausible new choices. Foreign reporters began talking about “the hundred-year hatred” and incomprehensible tribal conflicts, and the Bosnians became less and less interested in convincing them otherwise. The war between the Muslims and the Croats marked the end of moderate warfare, the end of decency. People began to say the kind of things about one another that everybody had previously been saying only about the Serbs. They began to believe they would be saved if they just did the same as the others, that the world and God would offer them a chance to survive. If the rest of the world had failed to acknowledge what was good about the people of Bosnia, let them see what was evil.

Each day the political situation confirmed the lie about Bosnian hatred, a lie about this country of icy intolerance. But since nobody was interested in the truth, it stopped being used as an argument. If you ever write any sort of history of Bosnia, I doubt that it will even be mentioned. Not even as a footnote. If anybody does mention it, the truth will be as convincing to the Serbs as it is to the Croats and the Muslims. The Chetniks were guilty of crimes, but the others came to believe as a result of suffering that the Serbs were right in their tactics and that therefore they should think and behave in the same way. From now on, anything that happens will just be the reflex of evil, a kind of catharsis, but it will have nothing to do with the way Bosnia and Sarajevo used to be. Or at least not with the way I remember them.

I’m not telling you any of this as an excuse. I only want you to know the way I’m feeling as I leave Sarajevo, and what I’ll be like in the future. Besides, where I’m going nobody will ask me — a black man — about my Bosnia story, and yet I have to tell somebody. Who except you and Saša would even believe that I’d lived in Sarajevo?

When Morillon’s ark rose over Bosnia, I watched the country through the window until it vanished. From the sky it looks as though nothing has happened. The borders, fields and villages look just the same. You can even see the burned houses. I thought I could spot haystacks. From above, from an angel’s perspective, it’s easy to see what Bosnia used to be like. It flows gently like a curse into the glittering sea. The sun made my pupils dilate until they hurt and I couldn’t look any more. I remember, on the first spring day many years ago the owner closed his shop on Baščaršija and put up a notice saying, “Closed because of the sun.” Who’d want to work on the first day of spring?

Yours, M. L.

I understand the pathos of this letter, perhaps because its author will remain unknown to me. Letters are probably the last means by which you can talk about such things. Everything else that has been written about Sarajevo is just an attempt to create a framework for a new existence or to find the least painful way of dividing up life: the one that has already happened and should be forgotten and the one that’s coming, in which people will live comfortably and happily until death, as in a fairy tale.

The Saxophonist

Oh! I felt so good when I pinched the saxophonist’s girlfriend right from under his nose. We knew each other vaguely. I spotted her in the Belgrade taverna. She was by herself — I suppose she was waiting for somebody — I approached her, sat down, looked at her rather flirtatiously, sold her my blue-eyed gaze, plus lots of sweet nothings, blew her a kiss and then quickly became her boyfriend. Although I’m fat and sluggish, without movie-star appeal, I left the sax player for dead. He was tall and lanky, rather striking, but he didn’t communicate well and was always utterly silent except when he was playing the saxophone. He was a fixture in the Sarajevo clubs. He made young girls weak at the knees and was the unspoken fancy of all the marriageable types. But, you see, he valued words too highly, or perhaps he was afraid of language. In any case, he never managed to whisper the right words into the right ear to convey his particular appeal.

Very much in love, she and I walked up and down the promenade. Mind you, I’d politely say hello to him, and he would respond civilly, but she always felt a bit embarrassed. She wanted us to avoid certain streets and places, to hide away somewhere we wouldn’t bump into him. I always agreed, with dignity and understanding. I spoke highly of the saxophonist, though not without irony and the odd jibe at his inability to communicate. And just so she wouldn’t accuse me of being jealous, I confessed to being absolutely devastated that I couldn’t play the saxophone.

In the difficult and uncertain times that followed, I presented a solid front. My words hit home like a sniper’s bullets. I spoke without a grain of doubt about the beauty of sacrifice, or the unarmed storming of the Chetniks, even before those Serb marauders came upon the scene. I wanted to appear noble in her eyes, not only in terms of the rumpus of prewar years, but also in comparison to her former lover and his saxophone. In the days of party meetings, of clear but still-distant threats, the saxophonist became less relevant. I had succeeded in defeating him at the very beginning. Now I felt that I wanted to renew my victory every day. I told her about how I met the state president. I divulged information that would become common knowledge a week later, and all because I wanted to make the sax player and his jazz rhythms insignificant.

I entered the war despising his saxophone. The guy was a Serb, after all, and when the time came, I really expected him to vanish from the city and reappear in Pale, with or without the saxophone. It would prove that she had made the right choice and that the good guys in this movie didn’t have to be handsome, or the bad guys ugly. But the sax player didn’t leave. Often I would bump into him in town and greet him more heartily than ever, because it was necessary to show that even in desperate times one was sensible enough to distinguish between those who fired guns and those who played music.

Then came fifteen days of shelling so destructive and severe that I was unable to leave the cellar. When I finally surfaced the saxophonist was no longer in evidence. After a while I stopped thinking about him, probably because my ex-girlfriend also left town. I became my number-one priority. In the respite from the shelling, I naturally continued to open my big mouth, to discuss the rights and wrongs of the situation in a thundering voice, inviting others to follow my example. I began to yell a lot, my soul full of fear, and wondered it somebody up there — not the gods, you understand, but the Chetniks manning the big guns — were listening to my ramblings. If so, would they get so fed up with me one day that they would just take aim and shoot me down in mid-sentence?

As soon as the fear became unbearable and there was nobody left to listen to my tirades, I decided to escape. I wanted to disappear from a city that no longer resembled the place in which I had seduced my ex-girlfriend in the Belgrade taverna. I went abroad with a thousand excuses on my lips an many other explanations in my head. I arrived in a quiet, peaceful country populated by other women and their jazz-playing boyfriends, in order to begin the story all over again.

Some time later I obtained a copy of a newspaper from Sarajevo and discovered on the back page that the saxophonist had been killed while defending the city. It’s not surprising that he died: being tall and having soft fingers, he wasn’t made to hold a gun. I, who convinced everybody of my importance, have a fat, ugly and crooked index finger just like in an advertisement for machine-guns. But I knew how to talk, and the sax player didn’t. Nothing can help him now. He lost two battles: one for the female heart and the other for his life. It is clear now that he was always the superior individual, with nobler feelings, stronger and braver. He just couldn’t put it into words.

Saxophonists don’t make history — they make music. But perhaps, after so much talk and fighting, unspoken words do create a silence in whose gentleness the survivors of good and bad can sleep easy.

Three: Who will be the Witness?

The Library

You hear the whistle over your head. It’s followed by the odd moment of suspense, and then below, somewhere in the city, there’s an explosion. You can always see the spot clearly from your window. At first there’s a tall, thin column of dust which turns to smoke and flames. You wait a few minutes to work out what sort of building it is. If the fire is slow and lazy, it means that the burning flat belongs to some poor people. If it bursts into a huge, blue fireball, then it’s somebody’s nicely decorated attic with panelled walls burning. If it burns unremittingly, then the flames must be coming from the apartment of a wealthy shop-owner, full of massive antique furniture. But if the flame suddenly shoots up, wild and uncontrollable, like the hair of Farrah Fawcett, and disappears even more rapidly, allowing the wind to spread paper ash over the city, that means somebody’s private library has just burned down. As you witnessed many such vigorous fires over the months and years of shelling, you got to feel that the foundations of Sarajevo must have been made out of books. And even if they weren’t, you’d like to say, as you stroke the bound volumes on your shelves, that the city still contains many books that have not yet been destroyed.

In any private library most of the books have not been read. No doubt you bought this one or that one because of its cover or the author’s name, or simply because the smell of the paper appealed to you. You pick up such a book often in the early days, open it, read a few lines and then put it back. After a while you forget about the book, or else you look at it from a distance with mild disgust. You have often wanted to take it to the nearest public library and give it to somebody, just to get rid of the thing in some way, but you were never able to do so. It will always remind you of your tendency to hoard useless things, and will soon transform itself, in a painful burning moment, into a host of other memories. All those unnecessary and unread books will prove to be a burden when it’s time to leave them behind. You may almost come to understand the fire’s rapture as it engulfs similar books around the city.

There are a few books which you have not opened since childhood. They remind you of a time when you still hadn’t learned to scan the pages, to read from the top left-hand corner to the bottom right. These are probably the only books you have really enjoyed in your life. All the best children’s stories had an unhappy ending which didn’t teach you anything, except that sadness is a place where fiction becomes more important than reality. In John Huston’s film The Dead, a woman bursts into tears and is unable to say why. As you watched the film, you thought that this was in fact the way life is — and you too felt like crying.

There are even fewer books that you imagined you’d always carry with you. When you read one for the first time, you’d try and postpone the ending. Later on, you found them exciting in both content and appearance. But you will have to leave them behind, just like all the others, with the bitter conviction that not only in this city, but also in the world at large, a book’s natural state of aggregation is fire, smoke and ash. Somebody in the future may find this pathetic, but for you, especially when you end up in other cities where bookshops still exist, Farrah Fawcett’s flaming hair will always be the plain truth. The only thing that burns better, more beautifully and more thoroughly than a book is a manuscript.

With the illusion of a private library also vanishes the illusion of a bibliotheca, or civilization of books. Its very name, which is just a Greek word, like any other, but which is, for you, tied to the name of the Holy Scriptures, was enough to make you a believer. But, as they burned, disappearing irrevocably one after the other, you stopped believing that there was any purpose in a book’s existence. Or perhaps the only one to have worked out their purpose was the Sarajevan author and bibliophile who, instead of using expensive firewood, warmed his fingers last winter on the flames of Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Cervantes. . As a result of so many deliberate and accidental fires, a new kind of person has been created, a person who has come bitterly to understand how things go and who, as a result, would coolly watch flames rising from the Louvre and not even reach out for a glass of water. There’s no point in not letting a fire swallow up things that human indifference has already destroyed. The beauty of Paris or London is only an alibi for the criminals who have allowed Warsaw, Dresden, Vukovar and Sarajevo to disappear. But even if they hadn’t ceased to exist, they would have become places inhabited by people who even in peacetime were ready to evacuate, who were prepared to abandon their books.

In this world, as it is, there is one basic rule; Zuko Džumhur mentioned it when he was thinking about Bosnia, and it relates to the two suitcases that you always have packed in the hall. All your possessions and all your memories have to fit into them. Everything outside is already lost. There is no point in looking for reasons or meanings or excuses. They are just a burden, like memories. There is nothing left but to return the books you have borrowed in the past, trying to avoid or overlook the ones you were given as presents, and the others you’ve made a note about to send to friends who live elsewhere, so that those books would not be engulfed in flames — or, at any rate, not until the day the world returns to the condition it was a few million years ago.

You can never list or recall the private libraries that have burned down in Sarajevo. And why should you? But the fate of the Sarajevo University Library, its famous city hall, whose books took a whole night and day to go up in flames, will be remembered as the fire to end all fires, a last mythical celebration of ash and dust. It happened, after a whistle and an explosion, almost exactly a year ago. Perhaps the same date you’re reading this. Gently stroke your books, dear stranger, and remember they are dust.

Content

Miljenko Jergovic
Sarajevo Marlboro

Everyday History by Ammiel Alcalay

One: Unavoidable Detail of Biography

The Excursion

Two: A Reconstruction of Events

Cactus

Theft

Beetle

A Ring

Mr. Ivo

Bosnian Hotpot

Muslim Doll

Seconds Out

Slobodan

Trout

Beard

Chico the Seducer

The Communist

The Gravedigger

The Condor

The Gardener

Awakening

Duke

A Diagnosis

The Colony

Declension

The Photograph

Journey

Blind Man

The Bell

The Letter

The Saxophonist

Three: Who will be the Witness?

The Library