by Carrie Arcos
“Okay. Bye,” I say.
The tires tear out of the gravel by the time I’m halfway to my door. I turn around and watch him drive off, wondering what the heck happened.
1994
Spring
Sarajevo
BiH
AFTER A COUPLE of days of no bombing, it had started up again one Sehur, during Ramadan, before the day of fasting began. Since then, the enemy had shelled relentlessly all month long. Nadja and the family huddled together deep underground in their basement. They passed the time by playing cards, smoking, listening to Amir’s radio when it worked, reading the same books and magazines they had already read, and making up stories. Only at night would they peek out of the hole, like gophers, their heads darting around as if trying to spy the snakes or eagles before they swooped down upon them.
The call to prayer that rang out across the city five times a day sounded more passionate than ever, even though the mosques were targeted and many had been destroyed. The song was rebellious against the rhythm of guns and bombs. Their devotion to God and each other would not be hindered by war and hate.
When people risked going out, they would greet each other in passing.
“Esselamu alejkum,” they would say. Peace be upon you. An expression as old as the Ottoman Empire. A tradition that started hundreds of years ago. That had survived other wars.
This was always met with “Alejkumu selam.”
And upon you, peace.
Ramadan wasn’t observed by the family in the traditional sense, but because food rations were delayed and often unpredictable, it was as if they had joined a city-wide fast. Dalila didn’t understand how fasting and hunger brought her closer to God. She argued about it with Faris one night. He said the only way to God was through hunger.
“It gets your focus off yourself. It makes you realize you are mortal, with a body.”
“I knew I was mortal the first time I saw someone die. I don’t need to understand that any more.”
“Dalila, why so hard? What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
Nadja thought about how Dalila was afraid of not knowing love.
“Then you shouldn’t be afraid to spend a couple of minutes listening to God. Read the Quran. Like it says, He is closer to us than our jugular vein. Maybe you’ll like what He has to say.”
She grunted. “God doesn’t listen to us.”
“Really?” Faris said. “Maybe you should stop yelling at Him and complaining. Stop talking, and you’ll see.”
“Why should I listen to Him?”
“Because He knows this isn’t the end of the story.”
Dalila rolled her eyes. “When did you become such a believer?”
Faris shrugged.
“Enough,” Ramiza said. “Let’s not spoil our last moments together.”
Nadja watched Faris put on his green camouflage coat just as the morning prayer announcing Eid, the holy day marking the end of Ramadan, rose like a fog outside the window. Faris was leaving again, called back to the front line—an abandoned rubble of an old apartment complex built in Tito’s times. Nadja knew the enemy he fought was only some fifty meters away in the hills dotted with homes exactly like the one they were in now—two storied and red roofed.
Nadja grabbed his weapon—a rifle, solid, heavy in her hands. She wondered how such a small gun could fight against the large weapons that she knew by sound and light.
“No, like this,” Faris said, and motioned for her to come to him. “Like this.” He positioned her alongside him. Repositioned the gun in her hand. Showed her where and how to hold the gun. Where to look through. Such a small, narrow and intimate view. The range precise.
Ramiza had trimmed Faris’s hair close on the sides and in the back. He had shaved. Nadja thought he looked like he was going on a date.
They all drank lentil coffee and then went outside to send Faris off.
“Happy Eid!” a neighbor called as they walked by.
“Happy Eid!” Ramiza called back.
Nadja didn’t feel so happy, but when another greeted her traditionally with, “Bajram šerif mubarek olsun,” she responded with “Allah razi olsun.”
May God bless you.
But Faris was leaving. This clouded everything. Even the celebrations to come.
Growing up, Nadja’s family observed the end of Ramadan by going house to house wishing their neighbors well. Her mother made baklava like every other mother. They exchanged gifts. Restaurants were packed with everyone eating and dancing, breaking the end of the fast.
This year Nadja and the family had started celebrating Eid the night before, because Amir was working at the hospital today, and because Faris wouldn’t be home over the next three days for prayers and festivities. Ramiza and Amir had given gifts to all the kids. To Faris they gave things he could use on the front, like a new sweater and boots that had been mended by a cobbler in town. Nadja, as usual, had no gifts to give.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Faris gave everyone one last hug and then slung his rifle over one shoulder, the small duffel bag over the other. As he walked down the street away from them, Nadja remembered she did have something to give.
She ran down to Faris.
“What is it, Nadja?” he said to her when she got to him.
“Here,” she said. She lifted the headphones from around her neck and gave them to him along with the Walkman. “If you can get some new batteries, this may be good to listen to when you have to be awake all night.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“But this is your music.”
She gave him a hug.
“Okay. I’ll keep it safe,” he said, patting her back. He took the gift and put it in his duffel bag.
“You’re a good friend,” he said, and smiled. “Make sure Dalila doesn’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”
Nadja watched him walk a bit before she turned away.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
“It’s okay if you like my brother,” Dalila said later when they were digging up dirt along the side of the house. Ramiza had learned how to use cut-up potatoes and let them sprout. The girls were planting them. Hopefully it would mean that they would be harvesting potatoes in a couple of months.
“He has a girlfriend,” said Nadja.
“Mirela?” Dalila grunted. “How long do you think that’s going to last?”
Nadja knelt in the dirt, knowing exactly what to do. Her hands dug and scooped out the earth, moving it here and there. The motion was both comforting and familiar. There had been other gardens. Many seasons of digging and churning and watering and harvesting.
Nadja dropped the small potato piece into the hole. She knew what to whisper to seeds so that they would grow: she whis- pered the words that came from somewhere inside. She hummed the song. The song another woman used to sing. A woman with brown hair and eyes, and whom Nadja resembled. Nadja could see her still, wearing a yellow scarf in her hair as she worked. The garden was big and full of tomatoes, peppers, squash, all the things that Nadja used to complain about having to eat.
“It’s not like we have much choice now, anyway,” Dalila said. “When this war is over, I’m going to go out, pick some guy and make out with him. I don’t even care who. Just that he brushes his teeth.” She laughed as she patted the dirt.
Too hard. Too hard. Nadja heard the woman’s voice in her head. Soft, like this. Her hands packed the dirt over the bud softly, cupping it with her hands.
“So,” Dalila pressed. “Do you like him?”
“He . . .” Nadja wanted to say that he was nice to her, that he made her feel like it was all going to be okay. That she felt . . . safe with him. “He bought me batteries.”
“Yeah. But I see the way he watc
hes you. I think he likes you. I’m just saying if you like him back, don’t think it’s weird or anything. You can get married and then we would really be sisters.”
Nadja hummed as she worked; there was something else bursting from one of the boxes she had stuffed inside herself. The one close to her heart, just behind it, pressing against her back.
“I have someone,” she whispered.
Dalila stopped digging. “You do?”
“I . . . he . . . he is waiting for me,” Nadja lied, and bent over, glad she wasn’t standing. The force of the memory of him almost made her cry out. She felt the box opening, no matter how hard she tried to press the lid back down. She imagined herself standing on it, using all her strength and weight, but she was only a feather. She was all pale, fragile bone, no marrow, no flesh. The box had no more patience for her struggle. It needed to open.
And then Marko was there. He was sitting beside her. He was touching her hair. Her hair that had grown out and was now down to her shoulders, and so thin. Darker too. He whispered her name. He brought his hands down upon hers in the dirt. His were so clean and strong. She tried to take hers away. But his hands were there now, and they pulled her to him.
She allowed herself to lean against him. To let him hold her as she cried. She gave in to his smell and touch.
“Marko,” she whispered.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” he said.
Nadja saw his eyes. The fear. The love. The worry. All just before the darkness. The deep, deep darkness that took her away from him. That took her away from everything. That didn’t kill her but made her survive. She cried because she hated him for it. She cried because she loved him for it.
“Marko,” she said again, his name a wound tearing and mending over and over.
Dalila held Nadja and rocked her a little, as if she were a small child.
“It’s okay. You can let me in,” Dalila said, and she stroked Nadja’s hair again and again.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Two weeks later, one of the men from the neighborhood who fought on the front lines came and asked to speak with Amir and Ramiza. Nadja excused herself from the family room, went outside and then descended into the basement. The cries reached her before she hit the bottom step. Above, she heard Ramiza wail, followed by a thump of something falling to the floor. She could make out Dalila’s crying next. Only Amir was silent. She listened for him, but nothing came through the thin floor.
He had always been so much braver than the rest of them.
Nadja stayed down below in the dark. She sat on her bedding and reached for her headphones, forgetting for a moment that they were gone. Forgetting they were somewhere with Faris. She wondered if he was wearing them when he died. Did he find batteries? If so, what song was his last one? Did the music somehow distract him and that was what ended up getting him killed?
Nadja remembered the feel of the rifle in her hand. A toy compared to the weapons of the enemy, he had said.
She wondered what type of weapon it was that killed Faris.
She bet if she had been there, she would have been able to tell.
Nadja slipped his name through the crack of the box inside of her, the one that had opened in the garden, and sealed it shut once again.
July 13
HEY
The text comes just before midnight. I’m still awake, laptop open. Trying to work on a couple of pictures to bring in to Mr. Singh’s class. Mom’s old photos are sprawled on my bed. The small teddy from her box propped up next to Totoro at the foot.
Sorry for earlier
I’m about to text Yeah that was weird, but I decide to go with a less combative response.
No sorries needed
Can’t sleep
Me neither
Looks like I’m not the only one who has dreams they want to avoid. I wait a little to see if Joseph’s going to explain, but he doesn’t. A couple minutes pass.
What’re you doing tomorrow? I text.
Nothing.
Want to come somewhere with me?
Yes
July 14
AS SOON AS the wheels of the car turn down the road and hit the part where they’re covered with sand, I begin to relax. There’s something about that soft, soothing sound.
I roll down the window and let the breeze hit my face. Even under the bandage, my cheek tingles slightly, but it feels good. I breathe in the seawater air.
“You like this place,” Joseph says as we pass the mobile homes that are now inhabited by the summer residents but will be vacant come winter.
“No.” I smile. “I love this place.”
We pull up to the two guys at the gate. I recognize Johnny right away. The other guy I don’t know. I show them my ID. Johnny waves me through.
Joseph finds an empty parking spot.
“So this is how the rich live,” Joseph says when he gets out of the car. He surveys the wooden bathhouse structures and the ocean.
I cringe a little. “Well, it’s not like it’s our own beach house or anything. It’s just a closet to store things, really.”
“No.” He stretches. “Just your own private beach. I’ve been over to Horseneck, though. That’s on the other side of this, right?”
“Yeah, over there.” I point. I place my camera bag on my shoulder.
I bypass going to our little bathhouse. There’s nothing I need there anyway. And his comment about rich people has me a little self-conscious. It’s not like he’s suffering. Didn’t he say his dad worked hard for his success?
“So, where to?” he asks.
“This way,” I say. “Watch the grass and horseflies. Their bites kill.” I lead him up the small hill and into the dunes.
I find a spot that I like. I just have to start. Like Joseph said, maybe the point is to push through. To do the things that scare us most.
I lift my camera to my face and begin taking some photos. I drop down on the ground to get the perfect blade of grass. I don’t know if there’s a story here, but it kind of doesn’t matter. I’m just having some fun. Trying to stay in the moment. There’s nowhere else that I feel more at ease than here. It’s so open. No crowds. No threat. I’m safe.
“How far do these dunes go?”
“Not sure,” I say from behind my camera.
I take a picture of Joseph. “Wait, can you move a little to the left? Don’t look at me, pretend you’re staring at something over there.”
He puts his hands on his hips and stands like he’s Peter Pan or something.
I laugh. “Not like that. Try not to pose.”
He drops his hands and watches the water in the distance. Then he turns his face and looks directly at me.
Click. Click.
I start walking again and keep taking photos. Joseph trails behind me. He’s quiet, which allows me to just be in my head and get the shots I want. I’m grateful that he’s not talking my ear off or anything. It’s like he’s read my mind and knows what I need. Or maybe he feels bad about the way he acted after the play.
I look at the ocean in the distance; the colors of the sky are just beginning to shift. The sun won’t set for a little while still, but the late-afternoon hue hovers over the water like a thick haze. I feel at peace. It’s that magic time when people are packing up, going home to make dinner.
Even though it’s not crazy hot, I’m a little sweaty from walking up and down the dunes. My shirt sticks to my back, and when I move, it irritates my wounds.
I stop and peel my shirt free. “Ouch.”
“What’s wrong?” Joseph asks, concern in his eyes.
“It’s just from the bombing. Some shrapnel cut up my back. It’s much better than it was, but it’s still pretty sensitive and my T-shirt was kind of sticking to it. Nothing serious, though.”
“Can I help you?�
� He reaches out his hand as if he needs to steady me or something.
“No, I’m okay,” I say, and turn away from him.
I look at the pictures I’ve taken so far. They’re nothing special. I pause a little on one of Joseph. Maybe that one is special, but I’m not going to share that story with the rest of the class. Besides, I have no idea what the story even is.
The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, but I want to know why he was so weird the other night.
“So, you want to talk about anything?” I’m purposefully vague, hoping he’ll want to open up.
He watches the water.
“Okay. I guess some things are off the table.”
I start walking again, lift my camera and shoot some photos. Joseph follows me for a long time, carrying a now-uncomfortable silence with him. Whatever it is that he’s dealing with, he is definitely not over it and not ready to talk about it.
After a few more minutes, I’m about to suggest we just go back to the car when he says, “Last year, my best friend, Sebastian, and I ditched school. We hung out and started being stupid. We drank and got all loopy and were goofing off. Jumping off walls and stuff. You know, just seeing how high and far we could go. We’d done it before, but sober.”
I slow down and wait for Joseph so that we’re now walking side by side in the sand.
“We took turns daring each other. There was this ledge. It wasn’t that high. Maybe like fifteen feet. I went first and made it. Then it was his turn. I turned around and saw him jump, but he didn’t have the distance. I could tell as soon as he leapt. He tried to grab on to the side of the building after he already jumped. But he fell and hit the concrete. He died instantly.”
I want to reach out, touch Joseph, hold him, something, but I don’t. I just keep walking. I don’t know what to say.
“Those were his parents the other night. At the coffee shop. I haven’t seen them since the hospital. I tried to write them a letter, tell them how sorry I was. I never sent it. They . . .” He shakes his head. “I get it. They lost their son. I couldn’t face anyone after that. I didn’t leave the house for weeks. It was my fault. Anyway, that’s when my mom started homeschooling me.”