by Scott Simon
“Who will I talk to?”
“Whoever answers. Priest, housekeeper. It could be a soldier. Improvise accordingly.”
“What the hell—?”
“Here’s the hell,” said Tedic. “Here is the hell that has caused you to dial the church for help. You are inside your house. The house in front of you—that big stone gray one across the street—has been invaded by Muslim assholes. They are shooting into your kitchen. Your parents are away. Working, shopping. You have the kitchen phone on a long wire and are hiding in the hallway. But the Muslim bastards are so close, you can smell their greasy breath. You can practically feel the scrape of their ill-shaven chins against your soft young neck. You are a twelve-year-old girl—innocent, sweet, and unspoiled. Unspoiled. I hope I don’t have to be too frank. Put that in your voice. You have been forsaken by everyone but God.”
Jackie, who had been standing with her hands on her hips, scowled with disapproval.
“Honestly, Tedic, the only story lines men know are rape fantasies,” she said.
“Jackie, love, let’s try to get this job done without arguing sexual politics.” Tedic turned back to Irena. “Try to sound naÏve,” he said. “But not stupid. Wide-eyed, not empty-headed.”
“For fuck’s sake, Miro.” Jackie stamped her foot. “You just drag her out of the second grade and expect her to all of a sudden act like Julia Roberts.”
When a chorus of kindly laughter flickered across the basement room, Tedic waited for it to die down.
“Not Julia. Ingrid,” he announced softly, looking at Irena. “Bergman. The maid, the maid. ‘I hear voices in the bells.’ ” Tedic did a little singsong. “Go forth, save France,” he sang, barely above a whisper.
“Whoever answers may ask you questions,” Tedic continued. “Gerry over there will hear them, too, and try to give you answers. We don’t have time for a tutorial. Make it up. Be specific. Let your certainty confound them. Keep your voice urgent. Make your urgency move them along.”
“What the hell,” Irena said, “is going on?”
“We don’t have time for a tutorial,” Tedic repeated, holding the phone up in his hand as if he were about to dial.
“I am a full-court player,” Irena reminded him. “Offense and defense. What the hell,” she asked urgently again, “is going on?”
Tedic smiled slightly, and lowered the phone to his waist. “Look across the street at the stout gray house protruding behind that row of homes,” he said. “It has a sturdy basement wine cellar. The Serbs took the house from a Serb family so they could drink the wine, and store gold, dollars, deutsche marks, and diamonds in the cellar. Their booty is installed in the basement. Some unassuming guards scratch their guns on their asses on the ground floor. The top, with its pretty oval windows, has become a sporting club for the bankers who oversee these holdings.”
“Sporting club?”
“Fishing and rod club. Hunt club. Pig-sticking club. They take their girls there, to be plain. Bordeaux and pearls in the basement, creamy Swiss sheets on the beds.”
“They take other people’s girls, too,” added Jackie.
“That’s plain,” said Irena.
“Ingrid,” Gerry said, “about half an hour ago, one of the bankers pulled up with a young blonde. Mitar is his name. If we proceed quickly, there is a real chance of pulling off something that would disrupt the Serb cash flow. And catch a bad man with his pants down.”
There was another chorus of laughter from the young people clustered around Irena in their blue jeans and baggy sweaters. Jackie had eyeglasses like Nermina’s and, beneath them, pools of warm chocolate for eyes. The boys and girls all stood around Irena, looking at her, waiting for her to begin the play. She took a breath, let it go, and nodded.
Gerry punched a number into the handset and handed it to Tedic, who listened for a moment, smiled, and then held it to Irena’s left ear. She heard a trilling. She heard squeals and clicks. Two rings, three rings. Gerry stood directly in front of her, an earpiece hanging from his left ear, a scratch pad at the ready. She sensed that Jackie was behind her; she smelled a rose perfume and turned around. Rosy Jackie, she thought to herself, guarding my back. When Irena looked over her shoulder, Jackie smiled as she listened to the rings, prepared to eavesdrop with her own earpiece.
“Do you hear voices in the bells, Ingrid?” she asked. “ ‘Go forth, kick ass.’ ”
Irena heard a rattling on the line, and then a rough, phlegmy man’s voice. “Ah, yes.” She was on.
“IS THIS THE Orthodox Church in Dobrinja?”
“Yes.”
“I am Vanja Draskovic. My parents, maybe you know them, Milica and Branimir. We need help.” Irena spoke in a hushed rush, as she would coming downcourt alongside Amela Divacs.
“I am Father Pavlovic. What is it, child?”
“Muslims,” said Irena huskily. “They have shot their way into the house in front of ours. The Domics’ house.”
“Where are your parents, child?”
“Gone,” said Irena. Then she added, “Work. I’m supposed to stay in the basement when they’re gone. But I heard shooting and wanted to be sure that our bird was safe. I should have taken him. Oh, hell,” she said suddenly. Gerry’s eyes widened, but relaxed when he heard the priest respond only with new concern.
“What child? What’s wrong?”
“I . . . I saw one of them. In the window. Long beard, like a rabbi. A long gun.”
“Can he see you?”
“I’m in the hallway. Outside of our kitchen. I have the phone on a cord.”
“Stay there,” said Father Pavlovic. “Stay down. Stay away from the windows. Do you know your address, dear?”
“Thirty-nine Hamo Cimic.”
“How old are you, dear?”
“Twelve. I’ll be thirteen next February twenty-eighth,” Irena volunteered. Nermina’s birthday. Gerry dashed out a note: “NOT TOO MUCH,” it said in big black letters.
“Well, you’re a very bright girl,” the priest resumed. “Where do you go to school?” Gerry already had that on his pad, and pointed to the note for Irena.
“Number Nine.”
“A very good school,” said the priest. “Do you know Mrs. Ivanovic?”
“My bird,” Irena said suddenly. “Miro.” An inspired interjection, she thought. Tedic hovered by Gerry, who was flipping pages on his pad. “He’s in the kitchen, where the Muslims can see him.”
“I’m sure Miro is fine, dear,” said the priest soothingly. “You say you went to Number Nine?” Irena’s distraction afforded Gerry the time to find the right page and hold up one full hand of fingers and two on his second.
“Mrs. Ivanovic is a seventh-grade teacher,” said Irena, then pressed ahead to close off another route. “But not mine.” Gerry already had his finger on another name. “Mrs. Fejzic is my teacher. But there is no school. I miss her,” Irena added. And before Gerry could groan he heard the priest brim with new tenderness.
“Of course you do, dear. This war is a terrible thing. Look, dear, I am writing something out here. I don’t know your parents. Do they come here?”
“We have been to church. But not a lot.”
“What church do you and your parents go to, dear?” the priest asked.
Tedic’s eyes narrowed as he held his breath.
“None, really,” said Irena. “My parents are still socialists. We go to Christmas Mass.” She paused. “We go when we are in trouble. I’m sorry, Father. That’s why we had the number in my mother’s little plaid book in the kitchen.” Irena imagined her mother’s small plaid book of numbers, filled with listings for telephones that now could not ring.
“That’s why I called,” Irena continued. “All these numbers she has of friends and restaurants. I didn’t know who else could help. My mother has always said, ‘We go to the church in times of trouble.’ ”
“Oh, child,” said Father Pavlovic, “your mother said the truth. Now, dear, the house in front of yours. Where the Muslim
s are. Can you tell me what it looks like?”
“Do you want me to take a look?”
“No, dear. Away from the window. Just what you remember.”
Irena’s memories of the house across the way were fresh; she softened them a little. “Gray. Nice round windows in front. Red roof.”
“Are you sure?” asked the priest. “How can you see the color of the roof?”
“It is one of those old buildings. The roof isn’t flat. It’s like a triangle. There are red shingles.”
“Does it have a chimney?”
Gerry nodded and whispered, “Kitchen fireplace.”
“Yes. The Domics have a fireplace in the kitchen. Mrs. Domic loves to make cevapcici there.”
Jackie, Gerry, and the kids beamed at Irena, almost to bursting.
“You are in the hallway, daughter?”
“Yes,” said Irena. “You told me.”
“Good. Good. Now I am going to have to put the phone down for a moment.”
“Don’t be away for long!” Irena put the crack of a command into her voice; but infused it with a child’s confusion and fear.
“I won’t,” Father Pavlovic ardently assured her. “I won’t. Just a moment, child. Bear with me.”
“The Muslims,” said Irena, her whisper rising. “I hear them laughing. They are over there in the Domics’ house, laughing.”
“Stay where you are, child. Stay down. Be quiet. Say a prayer. Think of the baby Jesus, safe in his manger.”
Irena, Jackie, and Gerry were utterly still as they listened to Father Pavlovic’s telephone handset settle on a hard surface. They heard a brief murmur of voices.
Jackie shook her head. “Not a thing,” she whispered.
Irena whispered back, “Won’t someone there know that all the money and gold is kept in that house?”
Gerry smiled. “Kept it secret,” he rasped. “Else their own folks would steal it.”
There was a clank and a rattle on the line as Father Pavlovic returned. “I am back, child,” he said. “Now you must listen. It is important that you stay away from the windows. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Your bird, Mischa.”
“Miro.”
“Where is he?”
“In a corner of the kitchen.”
“Well, then, he has his cage to protect him. The rest of us are not so lucky as your little bird. What I want you to do now, dear,” the priest said soothingly, “is lie down on the floor. Get down, dear. I will hold on.”
Irena obeyed instantly. Tedic, who was not able to listen, stared at her quizzically, but put his hands out to ease her onto the stony basement floor.
“I am on the floor, Father.”
“Are you all right there?”
“Yes,” said Irena. She had turned her head so that her left temple rested against the floor. The side of her skull got instantly cold against the stone. Her nose filled with the smell of smoke and stale blood. “It’s not very comfortable,” she said. “Is something happening, Father?”
“Soon, daughter. It will not last long. Are your eyes down against the floor?”
“No. That would put my mouth against the floor. How could I breathe? Father, Father, Father, what’s going on?”
The priest began to coo into Irena’s ear, as if he were soothing a lost child. Jackie appreciated his tenderness even as she admired Irena’s ingenuity.
“It will not last long, child,” he said. “It will be over soon. You will soon be safe. Turn your head to the floor, child. Rest on your chin. You will be able to breathe just fine. Put your hands over the back of your head. Shut your eyes. Put the phone down next to your ear. Don’t worry about speaking. I will just keep talking. Can you hear me? Just grunt once, child. Softly.”
Irena grunted. Softly. Once.
“Don’t worry about speaking, dear. There is nothing for you to say. You reached out to God when you were troubled, and He put me nearby to hear you. Stay down, dear. Just listen to me, dear. Shut everything else out for a few seconds, dear. You are not alone. God is on that floor with you. God has His arms around you. God is with all of us who fear. His Son was fearful, too. His Son tells us that the meek are blessed. They—we—shall inherit the earth. The merciful shall have mercy. The poor shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, dear. They are the children of God. Anyone who has to hide on the floor, seek help from strangers, or fear men bursting through their door is blessed. The kingdom of heaven is theirs.”
Irena was glad that her eyes were turned toward the floor. The tears that had inexplicably filled them could just trickle away onto the ground. Out of a corner of her eye she could see Gerry’s feet turning. She looked up, and saw Jackie’s chin tip upward as she looked toward the small basement windows. Irena could hear a crash from across the way, then the whine of another mortar. There was another boom, and then a spray of rock, earth, and glass falling to earth in the no-man’s-land just beyond their snug little basement.
“Direct hit,” said Tedic.
“Flames,” said a man in a jean jacket nearby, squinting through a set of field glasses. “Nice, big orange sheets of flames.”
“Dead-on shots,” Tedic repeated. “Hand it to the bastards. Broke their own bank, didn’t they?”
“Looks like they have a team outside, just raking the house with gunshots,” said another member of Tedic’s team, and Irena could hear a popcorn of retorts under the bristle of flames.
“Strike the set,” Tedic ordered softly.
There was a sudden scramble of Tedic’s boys and girls pulling at wires and snapping open cases. The telephone handset was turned up on the floor; people stepped back as if it were a broken glass. Irena, who had pulled herself up on her knees, picked up the handset and spoke into the receiver without listening.
“Thank you, Father Pavlovic.” She let Gerry take it gently from her hand, and told him, “Really, he wanted to help me.”
TEDIC SAID A quick goodbye to Gerry, Jackie, and their troupe.
Jackie slipped her glasses onto the collar of her sweater, and when she pulled a pin from her brown hair it tumbled over her shoulders. She smiled at Irena and reached a hand out to squeeze her shoulder. “Ingrid,” she said. “Vanja. Masterful. Five-star. Tedic renames us all according to his screen fantasies. I will look forward to your next performance.”
People began to slip out through side windows, counting to thirty to space their exits.
“We got them to break their own bank,” Tedic repeated as the group thinned out. “Our banker and his pal should be in oblivion. If we’re lucky, there’s a funeral pyre of dollars and deutsche marks burning now. Even if we aren’t, they’ll have to send teams to dig out their riches. They’ll be sitting ducks with shovels. We don’t need the Serbs’ heavy weapons,” Tedic said, “as long as we can fool them into firing at themselves.”
“But this was a trick shot,” Jackie reminded him. She gathered a handful of her hair, then let it fall. “The spectators now know where to look for the wires.”
TEDIC GAVE IRENA another four cans of beer when they got back to the brewery. He added two packs of Marlboros, and made a small ceremony of lighting one from his own pack for her.
“You were genuinely distinguished, Ingrid,” he said. “Really. I don’t mind telling you—sitting on the far end of the bench, as we coaches do, after all—that I wondered what you were trying to do with that bird. Miro. ‘We made cevapcici in the fireplace.’ But it was inspired. The great Zaric.”
“Just trash talk,” said Irena.
They were sitting in Mel’s dispatch office. He had the brewery’s 1992 calendar hanging on a nail over a deep green file cabinet. A new picture flapped down each month, of brisk streams, effulgent mountain flowers, and snowcapped crags, where the journey of Sarajevo Beer ostensibly began. But Mel had stopped turning the pages of the calendar in June. The months and weeks sat barren, with no appointments to keep or celebrations to schedule. It was no longer possible in Sarajevo to flip throug
h the pages of a calendar and say, “Thank God it’s Friday,” “My birthday is soon,” or “Our vacation starts here.”
“We need to make new calendars,” Irena told Tedic.
“Oh, I don’t imagine we will soon put out new ones,” he answered.
“But we need them,” said Irena. “Not to sell beer. There’s no competition—it’s our beer or no beer. The kind of calendar we need now,” said Irena, “would be marked differently. Not holidays or moon phases. There would be a red sign in the box for the last day of the month that said, ‘If you can read this, you are still alive. Congratulations. Go on to the next month.’ ”
“You are a marketing genius,” Tedic said finally.
IRENA WAS STILL circling Tedic’s seat, prowling for scraps.
“The girl is the girl, the banker is the banker,” she said. “We don’t give them names, do we?”
“Terms of art,” said Tedic.
“And you give us stage names. Gerry, Jackie, Ingrid.”
“Sigourney, Arnold, Nicole, and Jean-Claude,” he agreed.
“And the banker’s girl is even just ‘the blonde,’ ” Irena pointed out. “Brunettes can sometimes be ‘the cute one.’ But blondes are always ‘the blonde.’ ”
“I suppose we don’t even know if she really was blond,” Tedic said.
“The banker,” Irena asked suddenly. “Who was he?”
“Mitar Boskovic,” answered Tedic. He flattened his hands over the packing slips on Mel’s desk.
“A thief, a debaucher, a financier of mass murder,” Tedic continued. “Husband, father of three, lover of many. An old Tito man who used to reassure the West that those Commies could be as greedy as any Swiss banker. I never saw him outside of a photograph. International banking buccaneers do not invite assistant school principals for ski weekends.”