Last Stories and Other Stories (9780698135482)

by Vollmann, William T.

  Give me fifty.

  Just a minute. Here it is.

  Fine. Now, Vesna, she’s open-minded. She won’t care that I brought you. And there’s chicks galore, hot chicks. Not that they’d be especially interested in a guy like you, but maybe you’ll get lucky.

  Okay.

  Another thing. Anybody asks what you’re paying me or if you’re paying me, that’s only my business.

  I won’t say a word.

  I wish you’d have brought those binoculars. I wanted to show them off.

  Vesna’s door was open. As they entered the apartment, which was foggy with cigarette smoke, they heard many people, and far away a machine gun fired three bursts. A woman laughed very loudly.

  Look! cried Mirjana. I was wondering when you’d get here. Who’s that?

  Just some American, said Enko.

  And this is from my cousin, for the petrol. You’d better count it.

  I don’t need to count it. If he shorted me, that’s his problem.

  Thanks for helping him.

  Well, he owes me. Who’s that girl over there?

  5

  At that party Enko met a woman named Jasmina, and in the morning he brought her home with her blouse buttoned up wrong and her lipstick smeared all over his neck. Enko’s mother knew enough not to say anything. He was her only help. As for the American, he had to sleep in Vesna’s living room because nobody felt like driving him back, especially after curfew. He didn’t mind a bit. Until half-past three he sat up with the poet, discussing the novels of Ivo Andric, whom the poet detested, Danilo Kiš, whose Garden, Ashes the poet liked better than he did, and, while Vesna sat smiling, smoking and yawning, the ideal form of Slavic feminine beauty, which, since they were young men, occupied their intellects. The other guests had departed. By now the snipers must likewise have gone to sleep, and the jewel-like silence which accordingly illuminated them both, not to mention their obsessive natures, rendered the conversation yet more interesting, if that were possible, than the topic warranted, so that they nearly could have been outside beneath the stars investigating essential things. Vesna had gone to share a cigarette with the new widow upstairs. The poet asserted that there was a certain kind of look, embodied in the bygone actress Olga Ilic, which had to do with dark eyes, dark hair (preferably curly), round silver earrings, large breasts, a long throat and plump lips. I am sorry to inform you that the American had never heard of Olga Ilic. The poet explained that she had played both Desdemona and Hamlet—what a free spirit!—and that on the wall of his room he treasured a newspaper photograph of her in the lead role of “Bad Blood.” If it weren’t for the Chetniks, he’d take the American by the arm and show him that picture right now, because these were the most important topics to human beings: true art, romance, expression—all present in Olga Ilic’s eyes.— And you know, my friend, when she died, she was practically a beggar! One of our greatest Yugoslav actresses! If I could go back in time, I’d attend one of her performances at the National Theater. She used to wear a rose on her breast, and then she’d give it away. What a poem I could write about that!— In the American, who cheerfully admitted to knowing less about Balkan womanhood than he should, or intended to, the poet found a refreshingly respectful audience; and in the poet the American found a guide to the names and charms of most of the women who had been there tonight, listening to the shells. It accordingly became evident that the poet was infatuated with Vesna, who now returned, smiling at them with seeming love even though there were dark rings under her eyes. The American allowed himself to be likewise infatuated, but without denying himself permission to remember Mirjana, Ivica and Dragica. Vesna poured them all a nightcap. To himself the American pretended that he had rescued her; now they would go to bed together for the first time. She gave him a blanket, and he lay down as far from the window as he could, with his bulletproof vest for a pillow. When the fabric got too wet, for instance from perspiration, it became dangerously permeable. That was why one shouldn’t sleep in it. The poet sat up, writing a poem for Vesna. Like many egoists, he had a very kind heart, and so just before dawn, while it was still safe, he woke up the journalist and walked him over to Enko’s.

  At a quarter of nine that morning the noises began again, deep sullen thumpings and almost happy strings of popping like firecrackers. The poet had wisely departed long since. Enko and Jasmina were sleeping, or something. The journalist had brought a pound of American coffee for Vesna or some other ideal Slavic beauty, but, missing the opportunity to deploy it, he now gave it to Enko’s mother instead. That tired, hungry old woman accepted the gift with neither surprise nor thanks. Whatever came to her came not from this foreigner, who was nothing, but from Enko.

  Make yourself at home; take a shower, she said, slipping the coffee into her coat pocket.— I have some business downstairs.

  It was the first chilly day. The American took a cold shower in the pitch-dark bathroom and came out wondering how people would manage when the snow fell.

  Now there were no shells, and the sun peered mirthlessly down on broken glass. Enko and Jasmina did not appear; nor yet did Enko’s mother. Enko and Amir were on the payroll today, but the American, who did not know so very many things, did know that this would come right sooner or later, or not, and that in the meantime the best thing he could do was nothing. Tired, hungover, self-bemused by Vesna, who smiled on every guest; instructed by the poet in the ways of Slavic women, and of course altered by the various evil potentialities of the shells, he considered that he was making progress, and sat at the dining table cheerfully enough, writing up his observations, with his vest leaning against his knees. He thought it his duty to express something of these people’s sufferings. If he were here for any reason, it must be that. If he could not do anything for them, then his journey had no purpose. As sincere in his way as Vesna, he wished for peace even if it made his story less dramatic. Like the poet, not to mention the snipers, he gave due credit to his feelings.

  In front of the apartment the asphalt had been eaten away in blotches by shells, and beyond that was a littered sort of green over which wandered two dogs whose owners, Enko’s mother had said, couldn’t feed them anymore, and then a row of cars, some perfect, some rusted and windowless, some bullet-holed. The American listened. The smashing roar of a howitzer was startling, to be sure, but what did it accomplish? Did the besiegers possess only one shell? At nine it was quiet again aside from certain boomings in the background, and people passed leisurely, most of them walking, a few driving or bicycling, all of them crossing the two-lane highway at the intersection where the streetcar had been abandoned, then vanishing behind a tall construction crane. Shots sounded, but a man walked reading the newspaper. No one was running. Pigeons picked at the litter.

  At nine-thirty came bursts of echoing poppers that blurred the hills behind dust or smoke, and an elderly man carrying a shopping bag grimaced, ducked and began to run. The pigeons flew in a frightened rabble. Then it fell quiet again; everyone walked slowly or stood chatting unconcerned. A one-legged man swung himself steadily along on his crutches. He kept turning his eyes in the direction of the booming sounds. Then he was gone. The journalist wrote it all down.

  The door opened. Enko’s mother came in sighing. The American offered her a pull from his hip flask, at which she finally liked him. She took a gulp, licked her lips, and slapped him hard on the shoulder. Then she made them both some weak tea.

  Where’s Enko?

  Asleep, he said.

  Ah. With her.

  They sat there, listening for the shells, and after awhile the old woman lit a cigarette and remarked: They say it is better not to go out now. Very dangerous. Sometimes it is true, and sometimes the other way. Anyhow, one cannot stay inside forever.

  6

  Just before ten the door of Enko’s bedroom opened. Enko, shirtless but already wearing his gun, strode into the bathroom and shut the door. Then he r
eturned to the bedroom, rubbing his forehead and yawning. After another quarter-hour the girl came out, fully dressed, and darted shyly into the bathroom.

  Listen, said Enko. I need another advance.

  Why not?

  Give me a hundred.

  How about fifty?

  I said give me a hundred.

  If I give you a hundred, then after that fifty I gave you last night, we’re square for today, which is fine by me. The only thing is, I don’t have much cash on me in case we need to eat.

  Don’t worry about that, said Enko.

  All right, said the American. He took up his bulletproof vest. Jasmina had just left the bathroom, so he locked himself in there, dropped his pants and removed another hundred Deutschemarks from the money belt. Of course he had lied to Enko, who probably knew it; there was no safe place to leave cash, so he carried it all. Like the others, this was a good new banknote, the kind that the people here preferred. He folded it three times and dropped it into his pocket. Then he lifted the heavy vest over his head, lowered it into place and snugged the two tabs across the torso panels. Over this he zipped up the light windbreaker, to make him less conspicuous to snipers. It had always seemed to him elementary logic that the wearer of a bulletproof vest would be in and of himself a target.

  Jasmina stood at the dining room table, with her purse in her hand. Enko’s mother ignored her.

  Enko was staring at him. No doubt he wanted his advance. The American said: Do you have a second?— Enko rose and followed him down the hall. The American gave him the money.

  What’s all this secret bullshit? said Enko.

  I keep my finances private, said the American. That’s how I like to do things.

  Fine, said Enko. Amir’s downstairs.

  Where are we going?

  The frontline, if you promise not to shit your pants.

  I’ll do my best.

  We need petrol. That’s what the money’s for. On the way we’ll drop Jasmina at her cousin’s. Let’s go.

  The American shook Enko’s mother’s hand.— Come back, she said. I’ll pray for you.

  Enko was whispering something in Jasmina’s ear. She giggled.

  7

  Here everyone runs, said Amir. This corner is very dangerous. Serbian snipers shoot from the hills. We must speed up here.

  Okay, said the American. Enko was in the back seat with his pistol on his lap.

  The car turned onto the sidewalk, then rushed across a pedestrian bridge.— This place is very dangerous, said Amir.

  I think I can see that.

  Amir’s ancient M48 rifle jiggled between the seats, the barrel pointing ahead.

  Now they were on a straightaway, and a single bullet struck the car somewhere low on the left side of the chassis, harming nothing so far as they could tell. Nobody said anything. Amir slammed the gas pedal to the floor. No more bullets came. The American felt that slight sickness which always visited him on such occasions: in part mere adrenaline, which was intrinsically nauseating, that higher form of fear in which his mind floated ice cold, and a measure of disgust at himself for having voluntarily increased his danger of death. Over the years, the incomprehensible estrangement between his destiny as a risk-taking free agent and the destinies of the people whose stories he sometimes lived on, which is simply to say the people who were unfree, and accordingly had terrible things done to them, would damage him. Being free, however, he would never become as damaged as many of them. And, like Enko, he did get paid for his trouble. Mostly he broke even or better. On this day, of course, he was simply considering how to live out the day while writing the best notes he could. His mind subdivided checklists into sub-lists, in hopes of preparing him for anything: If Amir gets shot, I’ll take the wheel, but he’ll be in the way, so I’ll hold the wheel steady with my left hand and crook my right arm around his neck, and then if Enko helps me . . .

  Hey, Enko, said the American.

  Shut up, said Enko.

  Enko, I hope your finger’s on the trigger guard.

  Fuck you.

  Just don’t shoot me in the back when we drive over a bump. Unless you do it on purpose.

  Enko laughed.

  Amir rounded a corner on three wheels, and they sped into a tunnel lined with sandbags, already braking now, and parked in the garage of some partially ruined building.

  Listen, said Enko. We’re going through that hole in the wall. The Chetniks can see us there, so we’re going to run up the hill about two hundred meters.

  Okay.

  So that was what they did, the American journalist stumbling once, topheavy under the weight of his vest, and nobody shot at them. After that it was still only mid-morning there behind the wall of sandbags where half a dozen men, some in the uniform of the old National Army, stood smoking cigarettes while another half dozen loaded munitions into the military police truck not far from last night’s shards of broken glass which were something like new-fallen snow. Enko clashed his fist against several of theirs in turn, while Amir stood expressionless, perhaps smiling behind his sunglasses. A grey and ghastly look was in their faces as they listened for the shells.

  They were friendly to the American, because in those days his government considered Bosnian Muslims immaculate victims, hence allies to rescue; in later years it would consider all Muslims to be potential terrorists. So they gave him colorful interviews while he wrote diligently in his notebook.

  A militiaman showed him a paddle studded with nails and said: You know what we call this? We call this Chetnik teacher.

  The American knew enough to laugh heartily, and after that they liked him even better.

  8

  You know, you missed a big story, said an eyes-alight French reporter to the very young British journalist whose handler was Enko’s enemy. Four French was wounded last night, and one Egyptian!

  Buy you two a drink? the American offered.

  Very funny. Find your own story.

  I will, said the American, excited because he and Amir were about to go to Vesna’s. Enko would come later; he was with Jasmina.

  Amir accepted one whiskey and no more. He liked to drive carefully. He said: I think you like Vesna.

  Sure. Do you?

  A real Bosnian woman.

  Bosnian women are very pretty.

  Good.

  Last night Marko was telling me his theories about Slavic beauty. He’s fond of an actress named Olga Ilic—

  Who?

  Olga Ilic. He said she died in 1945.

  Forget what Marko told you. That’s just some dead Serbian bitch. Are you ready?

  Sure. By the way, do you think Vesna minds when I stay over there?

  She understands. You are a guest, and a friend.

  Thank you. You’re all my friends—

  He paid the waiter, and they went to the car. It was another point of difference between him and them that so many of them lacked bulletproof vests, and his was more invulnerable than most of theirs, although that made it proportionately heavier. The best model he had ever seen was manufactured for members of the Warsaw Pact. It had a collar to protect the carotid and subclavian arteries. His own went only as far as it went. Amir sat in the driver’s seat, very slowly smoking a cigarette, staring straight ahead. An automatic rifle chortled far away. The American understood that Amir was listening to the night and forming the best plan that he could. He waited quietly. Presently Amir started the car.

  They rounded the corner rapidly and then Amir stamped on the gas as they traversed the sniper’s field of fire, and the American looked up into the four window-rows of the building across the street but they were black and grey without any revelations, and the car whipped safely round the next corner, and Amir, slowing, said: Someday we’ll get that sonofabitch.— They came into the Stari Grad more sedately than when Enko had driven the other
night, but Amir kept gripping the steering wheel hard, with the fat barrel of the M48 pointing greyly forward between them. The American liked him better than Enko. He never asked for advances.

  They climbed the stairs. Vesna’s apartment was very crowded that night. A tall man was shouting: How can we stop them with fifty rounds? Fifty rounds, just fifty rounds!

  Vesna rushed up to him and touched his hand very gently.— Don’t worry about it now, brother, she said.

  The man stared at her. Vesna led him to a chair.

  Something almost gentle came into Amir’s face as he gazed at Vesna. He leaned his rifle inside the closet.

  As soon as Vesna moved to another guest, the drunk stood up, muttering: Fifty fucking rounds—

  Shut up and give me a cigarette.

  Where’s Enko?

  With Bald Man, and you should be, too. Hey, you, Mr. Fifty Rounds! What’s your name?

  Kambor. Who are you?

  Don’t you know who Bald Man is?

  Of course.

  Then you’d better learn who I am. I’m Muhamed. I’m in Bald Man’s squad. If you need ammunition, go to Bald Man. He’s got so many more rifle grenades—

  Not for me, for everyone! The men on the frontline with fifty rounds—

  Why aren’t you on the frontline, asshole? Amir, brother, what do you have for me?

  Amir gave the man a hundred Deutschemarks. The American went to greet Vesna, who smiled at him with a brilliance in whose meaning he could almost believe. Awkwardly he asked how she was, and she replied that a neighbor had been killed, not a close friend, but as it turned out someone whom she missed more than she would have guessed.

  How did it happen?

  She was queuing for water at the brewery, when a shell . . .

  I’m sorry.

  And the funny thing is that she was Serbian! Well, at least we’re all equals here.

  Vesna, have you met Bald Man?

  Oh, yes! He’s always smiling. He’s good for his neighbors and friends. He’s good with the people that he’s good with.