Budgie squeezed my hand a little too hard and I closed my eyes. There was still a faded tan line where her ring should have been.
I know Elle said some harsh things.
Mama told her that too. How I waited forever for Elle to come and let me have it like only she could and then I waited some more. She didn’t come until Canada Day, when we were all invited over to Hana’s new house because it was only right that we show our pride as new Canadians. It was a Dajdža Drago-style party with AAA Canadian beef and homemade Canadian butter tarts and Canadian beer and I said I felt like I was going to throw up and Tata said he would stay with me but somehow it was Mama who was there when Elle came.
I was lying on my bed with a hot water bottle and maybe Mama listened at the door because Elle didn’t shout or even talk loud. She was wearing a blue tank top that probably came out of the bottom of the laundry pile and white shorts that seemed a little tight. She just stared down at me waiting, and it was like my voice had gone to Hana’s barbecue and left me here. I had to close my eyes.
What the hell, Cris?
I remember her bra straps were bright yellow. Blue and yellow. Like the Bosnian flag.
Really? You have nothing to say? Are you serious?
She sort of whispered it and she was crying a little, and all I could think of was how small she looked, how breakable compared to my old Elle.
You are dead to me. You are more than dead to me. It’s like you never came here. You were never born, Cris. Do you hear me? You never existed.
I’ve never been sure if quicksand really exists except in the movies. You don’t read about a lot of quicksand deaths in the paper. But that’s when I knew how landing in a pit of quicksand must feel. You’re falling and falling and you think you’ve hit bottom until the ground shifts and swallows you whole.
December 22, 1999
I slept until eleven thanks to Budgie’s pills. I’m still not quite awake but I still keep thinking about something Amina wrote for the Free Press. Tata clips every story that’s published and keeps a file under the phone book.
The civilized people of Sarajevo waited patiently for the world to step in and help them help themselves — but the world arrived too late.
Anger and bitterness and fear had already won the day. Ordinary young people were ready to get rich by stealing bread from children. Ordinary old people were ready to kill. Even shy math teachers were willing to beg, borrow and steal to get their families out.
Can you blame the wasted people of Sarajevo if they came to hate the impotent UN nearly as much as their enemies?
I thought sleeping would make me less tired, but I was wrong.
I could hear Sara and Mama watching the Ricki Lake Show and a guest was talking about how some Christians believe God is going to end the world in 2000 because it’s the millennium and there’s been seven years of really bad things happening on earth. The seven years before the end is called the Tribulations and would have started back in 1993.
So if you asked Amina, she’d say we’re right on track.
Except turns out when the end comes we don’t all just die. The believers go up to heaven and the rest of us stay and suffer in the ruins. I’ll be stuck exactly where I am, except maybe with boils or burns or radiation poisoning, with the other unbelievers including Mama and Tata and Elle and Amina, even poor senile Deda Ilić who doesn’t believe in that kind of Jesus.
Mama made me get out of bed just before supper and when I turned on the TV they were advertising the Peanuts Christmas special for tonight, 7:00 pm Central time. Sara stayed for supper and we all sat down to watch and Mama wanted to know why all the children were behaving like petty adults and Sara told her this was an American holiday classic and she should just watch. But the thing is I thought maybe I’m getting a fever because I felt really hot and shaky watching Lucy and Charlie Brown.
In the end the dead tree miraculously comes back to life when a bunch of kids wave their hands around and give it some love because anything can happen in a cartoon.
Only that’s not how life works. Maybe that’s how Elle thought of me, the way Lucy thought of Charlie Brown. That’s how she treated me.
Amina wrote once that In war, everyone’s hands get dirty, and civil wars are the dirtiest. But that doesn’t mean some aren’t guiltier than others.
Like plenty of Bosnian Muslim a-holes and thugs did some really bad stuff once the fighting started. Or Milošević got the whole civil war rolling in the first place, but if both my parents committed suicide when I was young I’d probably have some issues too. Radovan Karadžić is another story. Amina said the bastard was a crooked psychiatrist before the war, taking bribes to declare criminals crazy so they didn’t have to go to jail. Then he decides he can get some real kicks by going into politics as the Butcher of Bosnia. Need someone with no conscience to direct the Siege of Sarajevo? Order the genocide of Muslims in Srebrenica from the safety of his office? Disappear after it’s all over as if he never existed as a well-known doctor or politician? Karadžić is your man!
Deda Ilić said that when Peter betrayed Jesus three times he was forgiven, but Judas, who sold out his savior for a sack of gold or something, he was another story.
I was thinking that in almost every language there’s a name like Peter but you can’t say that about Judas.
What I want to know is, does a guy like Milošević, who likes Disney and Frank Sinatra, does he feel guilty deep down just because most people think he is, or does he keep telling himself the same stories over and over about doing what he had to do? If you make a nightmare, commit the biggest of sins, don’t the stories matter more than ever? Because if you’re not the hero then you’re the villain and who wants that?
Maybe it’s not the big losers or big winners you have to watch out for. Amina says Hitler wanted to be a painter and Karadžić wanted to be a poet and it’s the ones who think they might create something magnificent but never quite get there who end up heading on over to the Dark Side.
Tata is banging around the living room trying to straighten the Christmas tree in its stand all by himself. Turns out the son of his new Bosnian boss works in a tree lot and tucks the best ones behind the cash shed. Mama started crying because the tree is so perfect it looks artificial but with the scent of Trebevic Mountain right here in our Winnipeg apartment.
It got me thinking how even though both Mama and Tata were Tito-lovers who thought religion turned people into stupid sheep and New Year’s was the only holiday worth celebrating, it was different for me because of Deda Ilić. Like I was always with him when he dragged home a big oak branch to hang over the door on Orthodox Christmas Eve. I was the only one who didn’t laugh at him when he made clucking sounds while spreading straw all over Baba’s polished floor because Christ wished to gather all his people in one loving community just as a hen gathers her chicks beneath her wings to keep them warm. And when Baba made money bread on Christmas Day she made sure I got the coin baked in the middle.
But I can’t say the same thing about Muslim holidays. Tata never took me to Nana Spaho’s on Eid al-Fitr even though I know she did the Ramadan fast all through Tito and beyond. Before the siege, Arman used to hide behind the mosque’s fountain during the evening call to prayer waiting for all the street dogs to come running, howling their heads off for handouts. While the old men were prostrating inside, Arman would toss out a little scrap of mutton stolen from his mama’s kitchen and we’d watch to see if any of the strays would challenge the one we called Mujo, who was really big but kind of stupid. Every once in a while Haso, a crazy little beagle with one ear would go for it and then one day Mujo didn’t show up and so Haso was king.
Those scrapping dogs are what I remember most about the mosque, which when you think about it is pretty lame for a half-Muslim.
Now it’s like I can’t stop thinking not just about Elle, but this that and everything.
Maybe it’s like with Noah Kristianson who had his Bar Mitzvah. Elle stayed home with me in solidarity because I wasn’t invited and because she said Jimmy said these kinds of traditions are as archaic as cutting up a baby boy’s penis. I was thinking Noah’s dad was definitely not Jewish so maybe mothers call the shots when it comes to this stuff.
Like it was Mama who decided we should celebrate Christmas on the 25th and forget about Deda Ilić’s clucking on January 6th. Amina said it wouldn’t be fair to me because who wants birthday cake on Christmas Eve and Sara said anybody who celebrated the holidays a week or two late would look like they were right off the boat. Amina had to explain that one to me and she said Sara was just stirring things up.
Mama said if we were going to start fresh we should start fresh, and that was it. It’s like my whole life has been women explaining things to me.
Amina just called and asked to talk to me and I said no and Tata lost it. I was in my bathrobe and Mama was still decorating the tree and humming “Bozicna pesma” and Tata grabbed my arm and pulled me into the living room and shoved the phone against my face like it was a hold-up. For Christ’s sake, are you that selfish, son? Spare a few words for your sister.
As soon as I took the phone, he let go of me like a mugger in the movies who decides his victim isn’t worth it.
Krysztof? Cris? Are you there?
Yeah.
How are you?
Okay.
No, you’re not. I’m sorry, that was a stupid question. Are you still going for your sessions?
Yeah.
Have you talked to her? To Elle?
She’s at her dad’s.
At Jimmy’s?
Yeah.
Listen, I wish I was there. I really do. You know, I made myself go to Belgrade last week and Deda Ilić thought I was Mama. Can you imagine? It’s a joke how much we don’t look alike. I think it’s maybe the voice. We sound the same, God help me.
Yeah, you kind of sound the same.
Do you like your therapist? Is she helpful? It’s a woman, right?
Yeah. She looks like a bird.
A bird? Ah, you’re such a funny one. This Christmas, I don’t know what to expect because things are more normal in the city all the time but everything still looks like shit. Last time I was in a taxi I tried to count the number of buildings without windows and I had to stop counting because they’re all around. I feel like I know how Deda Ilić must feel, you know, being in Sarajevo. You know you’re somewhere as familiar as the back of your hand but there’s so much you don’t recognize that you can’t trust yourself.
I didn’t want to cry.
Don’t tell Mama, but I’m translating for the French and I met a soldier from Toulouse. They’re here to repair the airport, so even if I fall for him, he’ll be here for years. You get it? It’s my little joke, because you have to have a dark sense of humor here, with all the European soldiers and the Swiss cheese buildings and the people who are so beaten down they don’t know how to laugh anymore.
I won’t tell.
Okay, well, I was just kidding, I don’t care what Mama thinks. It’s just the holidays and I can’t sleep. I get all sentimental because it’s Christmas and it’s your birthday and I keep thinking of how little you were when you strutted around on stage to that Elvis song like you owned the place and now you’re going to be sixteen. Do you remember that? Was it a talent show or something like that?
A talent contest.
Yeah, yeah. It was reggae, remember? My Canadian baby brother doing reggae.
You know, Amina, Elle isn’t at Jimmy’s. She’s here. I don’t know why I said that before.
Oh. Okay.
Mama said to remember it’s long distance.
Tell her to mind her own business. I can afford it.
I’m pretty tired.
Oh. Okay. But when I call back in a few days you have to talk to me. Promise?
Promise.
I was crying by then, the kind of tears that slip down out of the corner of your eye, quiet as a sniper.
Time to take the pill.
December 23, 1999
Tata just banged on my door but I didn’t answer and he went away. I punched the wall as hard as I could and now my first three knuckles have swollen up like ping-pong balls. The tears keep slipping and I keep wiping them away like they never existed.
I couldn’t face Mama’s crying so I went to see Budgie. I closed my eyes in the car because the sun was bouncing off the snow and Mama wasn’t wearing any lipstick and there were suddenly all these lines in her face. I didn’t think she noticed my hand until I was getting out and she said I should show it to the doctor. I told her she’s not that kind of doctor and she said show her anyway.
Budgie asked me was what happening and I told her I punched the wall. She acted like everybody does that once in a while and asked how I was sleeping. I said maybe too good and she said she would adjust my prescription.
I told her I still hadn’t read Elle’s messages. She said I was in a lot of pain and it made sense to fend off more pain but it was time, maybe what she said would help me.
I told her I was tired of being afraid. That’s why I loved Elle, because she was fearless. That’s why I missed Amina.
Budgie said she didn’t think anyone lives without fear. She was wearing a blue jacket with white buttons that made her look kind of businesslike only it was too small. The jacket was open and there was no way those buttons would ever be buttoned. She wanted to know why I punched the wall and I told her I didn’t know. Maybe I was mad that Amina is grown-up and I’m not. Because Amina is exactly where she’s supposed to be and I’m not.
Budgie said Amina might say she doesn’t care what her mama thinks but she does.
No one ever said love is easy, Laz-Aaar. It makes you care.
I asked if her daughter was sad that her parents wouldn’t be together for Christmas. She cocked her head and looked confused and I pointed at her finger and she laughed like I was a baby who just did something adorable. She said she and her ex were doing most of the celebrations together, including his girlfriend, which should be fun. I asked what her daughter wanted for Christmas and she laughed again. She said Jessie was a funny kid and that she’d asked for a yellow flower and some French toast from Santa. I asked if Jessie was doing okay now that she had some help, and she said things were getting better. Then she handed me a new prescription and I said see you in 2000 and she shook my hand.
See in you 2000.
I started thinking. It’s like love is the opposite of carefree. And once it happens you’re stuck with it. You have to carry that care whether you like or not.
December 24, 1999
Everyone saved up and got me a PlayStation with Guardian’s Crusade and Marvel Superheroes vs. Street Fighter. I can’t believe it. It was Sara’s idea. She also brought a cake from Jeanne’s Bakery which she says is a Winnipeg institution but the bottom is a rock hard cookie and the icing is tasteless. I said Mama’s war cake was better and everyone laughed except Sara who said Canadians would probably think tulumba was too sweet the first time they tasted it.
December 25, 1999
When Hana came over last night she asked if I wanted to give Mama a purple scarf from Sears and when Mama opened it she pretended I’d gone to the mall and picked it out myself. Guardian is a little babyish but the graphics are really good and you can pick if you want to battle. Knight has to go on this quest with his friend Nehani and they meet up with all these big heroes who think they can save the world better than anyone else. It was probably in the clearance bin because I don’t think it’s been a huge hit or anything.
Hana said she’s going to have a baby in June and Mama is so excited I thought her head might explode. Marvel vs. Street Fighter is a sequel to the X-Men version. Ivan and I played it at the okay hotel arcade when we went
to Fargo. The PS version doesn’t have tag teams which isn’t great, and it’s your pretty standard crossover fighter. Mama said at least it’s not with all the guns and prison suits and blow-ups like that Big Thief Auto, and this time Sara laughed with everyone else.
For twelve hours I’ve done nothing but eat and game like I’m the same as I always was. But that was only a holiday because maybe it’s the same as love. Once you start thinking about things you can’t put the genie back in the bottle no matter how hard you try.
Amina just called and said that in the new century they’re going to try more than 100 Bosnian Serbs for crimes against humanity and the bastards are going to rot in their cells while Sarajevans rebuild every fricking spire and every fricking dome and every fricking park bench and every fricking cinema.
I asked her if she’d read Elle’s messages on the computer and at first she didn’t know what I was talking about. Then she laughed and said, Why would I do that? That’s your business.
I told her I hadn’t read them yet, and she laughed some more. Oh, so you wanted me to give you hints, or maybe ease the blow? You don’t need your big sisters wiping your little Canadian bum anymore because you think it’s stinky. You’re a big boy.
Then she apologized and said she spent most of the day hanging out at the new hotel where all the foreigners stay, drinking too much French wine.
I told her it was okay, I was a big boy, I could take it.
But I’m not, because I still haven’t read the messages.
Mama is in bed and Tata just came into my room without turning on the light and asked if I was awake. I decided not to take the pill so I was definitely not asleep. He sat at the end of my mattress and lit a cigarette like he didn’t care what Mama would say. The way the smoke curled up over his head reminded me of all those times I slept on the cot in our kitchen because my bedroom was freezing and also right in the line of shelling, after the electricity cut out, listening to him chat with this or that neighbor about how close or far the shelling was.
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