Once or twice the float jerks. I stand up, I guess, at a third bite, the float goes right down. I pull in and immediately feel the weight on the rod. I give out a little more line, pull it in again—and I know I have him. He tires quickly, a young Danube salmon. I give him back to the Drina, and she lets him leap above the surface.
Drina, I need a bigger one. If Grandpa Slavko is going to cook, we need a proper fish. What do you think? Will Carl Lewis win the hundred meters? I ask, casting again, but the river gives no more answers. The wind blows more strongly, or is it a sobbing from the ravine, or would the mist like to say something too? It disperses, and now the sun is there for the lagoon again, the grasshoppers are there for the lagoon, ket-ket, calls the hawk, plunging into the ravine, ket-ket, and I wonder if the Drina has goose bumps at this moment—look at the ripples on the surface—ket-ket, kyu, ket-ket.
11 February 2002
Dear Asija,
Did I make you up? Did I guide our hands to the light switch together because of some touching story about children in wartime? You never told me your last name, but all the same I've addressed every letter as if I knew it. I remember the morning of the soldiers' dance. The architecture of the town was rain clouds, camouflage colors and splintered glass. Edin and I wanted to do something completely normal, we wanted to feel something as simple as the weight of a fish on the line. You don't come into that part of the story. You don't come into it, frightened on the stairway, or throwing stones into the river, I don't see your beautiful hair among the soldiers looting at their leisure. You didn't come with me, we never said good-bye, Asija.
No more letters. I'm getting drunk and calling Bosnia, so forgive the theatricality. The clock on my laptop says 11:23 ÇÃ.ÇÀ., Monday, 11 February 2002. What day was it when we switched the light on? No more letters, Asija, did you ever really exist?
I'm Asija. They took Mama and Papaaway with them. My name has a meaning.Your pictures are horrible
I run the cursor over the clock. “11:23 P.M, Monday, 11 February 2002.” I click, the Properties window comes up, showing the date and time. What day did we switch the light on, what day was 6 April 1992? I turn the date back ten years. Any moment now there'll be a flash, and my father will put a book on my head and mark my height on the door frame with a pencil. Any moment now there'll be a flash, and I'll be five feet tall, and . . .
Father is waking me up: Aleksandar, there's no school today, we're going to Granny's, get dressed, I'll tell you what to take.
People grow in their sleep.
Any moment now there'll be a flash. I wait to be turned back to a day—and yes, the computer shows it; a Monday—when I'm afraid of my father. Afraid of his list of things I'm to pack, afraid of his warning: only what you need. Afraid because he doesn't say why.
What do I need?
Any moment now there'll be a flash, and an almost forgotten feeling will become the sight of cobwebs clogged with dust on the cellar walls as we wait for the next hit. I make a list of all the things I can remember in my grandmother's cellar. Worn-out ironing boards, headless dolls, duffel bags containing shirts that smell of old pumpkin, coal and potatoes and onions, moths and cat's pee. Lightbulbs flickering as shells explode. Goose bumps and yet more goose bumps. Not because the fear is so great, but because going to sleep in peacetime and waking up at war is so unimaginable.
“7:23 A.M., Monday, 6 April 1992.” There's no school today. My mother sits in the living room sewing banknotes into her skirt.
My father will give the signal for everything that was unimaginable before we woke up, both through what he says and through the nervous state he's in. Father's uncertainty and the first shells make everything that was good before the unimaginable happened retreat into the distance. Thinking of setting fire to a frog is further away than Japan; dreams of the curves under Jasna's shirt are so out of place that I feel ashamed of them; plum picking is suspended for now, the secret signs showing how Edin should run toward the invisible defenders in our games are pointless. What's going to happen is so improbable that there'll be no improbability left for a made-up story.
I make a list of things I was never punished for. Setting fire to the board in school. Putting frogs, pigeons and cats in Čika Veselin's apartment after he called Uncle Bora a steamroller. Looking through the window when Zoran's Aunt Desa visited the tired laborers working on the dam. Throwing snowballs at windshields. Phoning presidents of the local Committee and saying in a disguised voice: this is Tito speaking, you're useless. Stealing those pencil sharpeners and exercise books from the department store. Breaking Granny's vase.
Why aren't you at work, Papa?
Father presses the drawing pins on my Red Star poster more firmly into the wall with his thumbs. Pack the biggest rucksack, he says. Seven pairs of underpants. Rainproof jacket. Cap. Stout shoes. Wear your sneakers. Two pairs of trousers. A thick pullover, two or three shirts and T-shirts, not too many. Your green fishing jacket, the one with all the pockets. A towel, toothpaste, toothbrush, soap. I've put handkerchiefs and your passport on the table downstairs for you . . . do you have a favorite book?
Yes.
Good, nods Father, he smooths out my no-one-could-have-guessed-you'd-win certificate and doesn't close the door when he goes out.
“7:43 A.M., Monday, 6 April 1992.” There'll be a pocketknife lying beside the handkerchiefs and a notepad with the addresses and phone numbers of all our friends and relations. Father will be in his studio. The canvases, the pictures, the paints, the brushes—he stacks everything in a corner and covers it with blankets. I crouch on the stairs, watching. He pushes my old mattress in front of the canvases and puts his beret on top of the lot. He closes the door. We drive to Granny's; the tall apartment building has a large cellar. The sound of the first shell is cramped and polished in the big cellar. That's what I think: cramped and polished. Not like in a film, not exploding seriously, no shaking, nothing trickling down. Something heavy without enough room to break into pieces properly—cramped. And free of any rushing noise, clear, clean, metallically smooth—polished. The cramped thing is injected into the cellar walls and Emilija Slavica Krsmanovic burps in the silence after the fiftieth shell.
“12:21 A.M., Tuesday, 12 February 2002.” I make a list of Granny's neighbors who came to shelter in the cellar, like us. I add all the neighbors from our street that I can think of. On another sheet of paper I write “Bars, restaurants, hotels,” and under that: Café Galerie. Estuary Restaurant. Hotel Bikavac. Hotel Višegrad. Hotel Vilina Vlas.
I surf through search-engine entries:
“soccer in the war sarajevo training shelling”
“višegrad genocide handke shame responsibility”
“victim innocent bombardment of belgrade”
“milošević international interest fades”
I scroll through discussion groups, I read diatribes and nostalgic reveries, click and click and click and note down other people's memories, Montenegrin jokes, cookery recipes, names of heroes and enemies, eyewitness accounts, reports from the front, the Latin names of the fish in the Drina. I download new Bosnian music, I click on the first link: “den haag own goal european union srebrenica.” I read that the war criminal Radovan Karadžic is in Belgrade, and here my computer crashes. I press the Restart key. My face is reflected in the black screen and I suddenly don't know what I'm looking for, here in my apartment with a view of the Ruhr, thousands of miles from my river Drina. The screen saver of the bridge in Višegrad comes up, but I didn't even take that photo myself.
“4:14 P.M., Thursday, 9 April 1992.” The truck drives up. Six men get out. Two stay there drinking Coca-Cola. They're wearing boots. Four peer through the ground-floor windows. They cross the yard. Krsmanovic and Spahic. Two families? Mixed marriage? A case of subletting? The lock gives way. Two of them search the living room. Two of them go down to the cellar. They shoot the cellar door open. They pull the blankets away. They tear holes in the still life titled The Snake and the Optimis
tic Letter to a Young Democracy and Portrait of B. as Virtuoso on the Tender Violin. They push the old mattress aside. They go to the trouble of breaking every single brush. They paint each other's faces with acrylic paint. They're wearing sneakers. They kick through the canvases. One of them puts the beret on his head.
I phone Granny. I wake her up. She sounds worried: why are you calling so late?
Granny, is the green house with the peculiar roof still there? Is the gym still in use, what's being played there, what league are we in?
Aleksandar . . . ?
Granny, it's important. I read about the building in Pionirska Street in the paper. Has it burned right down? What happened to Čika Aziz? Did the soldiers ever find him? Are Čika Hasan and Čika Sead still alive?
I've made lists. Granny doesn't answer.
What about the bridges? Has there been another flood since we left?
You always used to count your footsteps, says Granny in a calm, sleepy voice. You measured the whole town on your walks.
Two thousand, three hundred and forty-nine steps from your place to our home, I say, surprised that I still remember that after ten years.
Your legs are longer now, says Granny, come here and walk around again.
I've written about the two mosques, although I know they were torn down. Friends, pages of names, pages of nicknames, lists upon lists, betting on my memory. I've made lists, and now I have to see it all.
I'm booking a flight this very evening.
You ought to wait for the plum blossom and come by bus. Granny's voice has none of the crazy lighthearted tone of her earlier phone calls. Don't expect a holiday, Aleksandar. We can wait.
Granny?
You're late, and I'll have to tidy up. You've never been here to help me, and soon it will be spring.
I'm sorry. We all are.
Granny?
I'm looking forward to it, Aleksandar, I'll fry you minced meat and warm up the milk.
“3:13 A.M., Tuesday, 12 February 2002.” I am not planning to sleep.
“sniper alley barricades water canister”
“harry hitler potter miloševic gotovina delic”
“there is no absolute evil and no absolute memory”
“WHERE WERE YOU ALEKSANDAR KRSMANOVIĆ?”
“low-cost flights to sarajevo”
I ring 00 38 733 for Sarajevo, and then add a string of digits at random. I ask for Asija. There's no Asija anywhere, usually I don't even get a connection. Several times I raise voices that are sleepy first, then angry. An answering machine. Hello? It's me, Aleksandar, I'm coming. Are you there? Are you there, Asija?
“10:09 A.M., Saturday, 11 April 1992.” On the fifth day of the siege, shells land in the mountains, sailing down into the town only occasionally. Cows and sheep crowd the yard outside the apartment building; hooves tread the concrete in among the Fiats and the Yugos.
Refugees have moved into the cellar and the stairway overnight. Old people and mothers and babies wrapped up in pieces of cloth like hot rolls. They're looking for shelter in the big building because there are no buildings left to shelter them in their villages—no big ones, no little ones, not one is left intact. Only half walls, soot and cellars, and what does a cellar look like without a building? With my paper on my knees, I paint an uncracked glass.
Let them stay! The more the merrier! Walrus decides, and his voice echoes right through the stairwell. He's become something like the mayor of the building, second only to President Aziz, who has the right kind of gun to be a president. Walrus wins at Uno against the farmers; I learn the rules by watching.
Our horses have been taken away from us. Our sons would have been taken away from us too if they hadn't already gone to war, sighed the farmers, mourning their horses; they lower their eyes thinking of their sons; they lament for their girls.
They won't stop at our villages, says a man with a twirled mustache. I ask his name. I write “Ibrahim” on a mug and pour him water. The toothless women chew bread with their mouths open. They smell sour and lie down in the corridor to sleep. You have to climb over them; they wake up and curse you feebly. I don't call them refugees, I say: protégées. They themselves have been protecting a girl with such bright hair that I have to ask my father if there's a color word to describe such brightness.
He says: beautiful.
I say: beautiful isn't a color.
Beautiful and her uncle with the twirled mustache eat in the cellar with us. Ibrahim waits until Beautiful has gone to sleep with her head on his lap, and then he quietly tells us about their flight. He and his niece were weak and hungry when they met the other farmers. They fed them and put Beautiful, who wasn't well, in a half Lada that was being pulled by two donkeys. We are the last of our village, says Ibrahim; he thinks for a moment, we are the last of nowhere. Our houses are gone. I'm telling you all this so that you will know who you're dealing with, but first I want to sleep. And then, good people, then I want to shave, my beard is full of memories of the worst night of my life. Ibrahim strokes Beautiful's hair. The child has lost everything, he says, everything and everyone.
He doesn't have to say any more. I'll never let Beautiful out of my sight, I won't let anything happen to her ever again. Beautiful says nothing. Beautiful can sit so still that she's invisible. When Beautiful isn't near me I look for her. Beautiful is clutching a shabby old bag. A dirty, scruffy teddy bear dangles from the strap of the bag.
My name is Aleksandar. I paint unfinished pictures, look, here are books without any dust, there's Yuri Gagarin without Neil Armstrong, there's a dog without a collar. That's Nena Fatima with her hair unbraided. My name is Aleksandar, and there's always something not so beautiful that's left out of the pictures. Do you like boys with big ears?
I'm Asija. They took Mama and Papa away with them. My name means something. Your pictures are horrible.
Where are Asija's parents?
Do I know any of the soldiers out there? Could Uncle Miki be with them?
What do we need? A pocketknife costing fifty marks and a little luck, is that all?
How heavy do memories weigh in a beard?
“5:09 A.M., Tuesday, 12 February 2002.” I've written down all the names of streets in Višegrad, all the children's games. I've made a list of the things that you could find in the school, including the five hundred pencil sharpeners that Edin and I sprinkled over the rubble left by the bombing, like Hansel and Gretel. I want to trace the patterns of the past. There's a box in my grandmother's bedroom containing ninety-nine unfinished pictures. I'll go home and finish painting every one of them.
Out of three hundred and thirty Sarajevo numbers rung at random, about every fifteenth has an answering machine
Good evening, my name is Aleksandar Krsmanovic. I'm calling you because I'm trying to find out something about a childhood friend. She escaped from Višegrad to Sarajevo during the civil war. Her name is Asija. I've tried everything I can, the civil service offices, the Internet—no luck. I can't tell you her last name because unfortunately I'm not sure if I've got it right. If you know anything about anyone by that name, please call me at 00 49 1748 526368. Asija is in her early twenties now, and back then she had extremely bright blonde hair. Thank you very much.
Good evening, my name is Aleksandar Krsmanovic. I'm calling you because I'm trying to find out something about a childhood friend. She escaped from Višegrad to Sarajevo during the civil war. Her name is Asija. I've tried everything else, the civil service offices, the Internet—no luck. I can't tell you her last name because unfortunately I'm not sure if I've got it right. If you know anything about anyone by that name, please call me at 00 49 1748 526368. Asija is in her early twenties now, and back then she had extremely bright blonde hair. Thank you very much.
Hello? Mr. Sutijan? I hope I'm pronouncing your name correctly —I called your number at random because I'm so disappointed by my efforts to date. My name is Aleksandar and I'm calling from Germany, where I've been living since our war. Do you happen
to know a woman called Asija? It's not a common name, maybe you've heard it and could give me a clue where to find her. The name means “bringer of peace.” I'm looking for my own Asija and I can't be at peace until I know what's happened to her. That may sound stupid and drunk, and so it is too. Mr. Sutijan, if anything occurs to you, my number is 00 49 1748 526368.
Hello, Asija, this is Aleksandar. You're not there. I've just booked a flight to Sarajevo. I'm arriving on Monday. I'd like it if we could meet. You can reach me at 00 49 1748 526368.
Good evening, this is Aleksandar. Asija . . . ? Are you there . . . ? Please pick up the phone . . . I miss you, you see, and if you pick up the phone maybe I can tell you what exactly it is I miss about you. Things build up over ten years. How do you do your hair now? Do you like minced meat? I love minced meat. I'll be in Sarajevo on Monday, for three days. 00 49 1748 526368.
Asija? This is Aleksandar. Aleksandar with the big ears from Višegrad. The boy in the cellar. The one who called you Beautiful because there wasn't any better word to describe the color of your hair. Aleksandar who was your brother for a day. Let's meet in Sarajevo or Višegrad and remember what we went through together. 00 49 1748 526368.
Asija? Hi, Aleksandar here. Mondays are the best days to begin something. It's almost ten years since we last met. That makes about five hundred and twenty Mondays, which doesn't sound like much. But if you think about it carefully, it's a whole lot of Mondays when something new could have begun. I'd like to know all the things you've begun in your life. I'm going to spend a few days where I once came to the end of something. 00 49 1748 526368.
How the Soldier Repairs the Gramophone Page 19