I've written six letters, Asija, and I thought up a different last name for you for each envelope, but I always wrote the same one in the end. Bosnia is boundless compared to just six letters. In my imagination I see you as a violinist. You have tough, hardened skin on your fingertips and you wear yourself out at every concert. If someone asks how you're doing, you hardly know where to begin for pride. You run three miles every day, you speak French, but you couldn't care less about France. I'll be in Bosnia from Monday, please call me: 00 49 1748 526368.
Hello, this is Aleksandar Krsmanovic. Asija? It would be nice if we could meet, I'm arriving on the twenty-fifth. There won't be any ripe elderberries and plums and quinces yet, but there'll be stairwells around smelling delicious. You can call me if you like at 00 49 1748 526368.
I'm sorry to trouble you. Once upon a time there was a blonde girl with the Arabic name of Asija and a dark-haired boy with the far from Arabic name of Aleksandar. There was a definite chance of a love story there: their parents might have objected on religious grounds and opposed the connection, convention opposes it anyway, and war makes all those objections even stronger. Terrible, because the heart has its reasons and so on and so forth. I have to disappoint you. Asija and Aleksandar were too young for a love story. They didn't yet have any sense of the tragic potential of their happiness and possible unhappiness. Asija who was protected! Aleksandar who protected her! Ha! The two of them held hands and switched the light on at a time when only lunatics thought of being lighthearted. 00 49 1748 526368. That's my number, in case you'd like to know more. Sorry to trouble you.
My suitcases are packed. The wine tastes good. The plums that grow in Višegrad are better than any others. 00 49 1748 526368. You can reach me at any time, any time over the last ten years, so to speak. I'm writing a portrait of Višegrad in thirty lists. But first I'm coming to see you, Asija.
Hello, good evening. I'm nothing special. My story is nothing special. Good evening. I arrive too late for everything. I arrive too late to be special. I'm arriving at the story of my life too late. Good evening, Bosnia, please call back: 00 49 1748 526368.
Asija, I'll look for your hair, I'll look on all the faces I see for your forehead. I'll drop your name into every conversation like a seed and hope it will grow into a flower. Dear answering machine, do you know a flower called Asija? If so please call me at 00 49 1748 526368. Excuse me, please . . .
Hello? Hello? Is there anyone there? I have no idea who you are. I'm Aleksandar Krsmanović, student, grandson, refugee, long hair, big ears, looking for his memory. Looking for a girl. Well, a woman, really. Asija. Do you know Asija? I once met a madman, a soldier looking for a girl called Emina. Do you know a girl called Asija? I'm conducting a methodical search. My method is to gloss over my own story and draw up endless lists. 00 49 1748 526368.
Asija? Asija? Asija? Asija. Asija. Asija.
One day a man who asked good questions asked:
Who is that, what is that? Forgive me!
Where is it,
Where does it come from,
Where is it going,
This country
Of Bosnia?
Tell me!
And the man he was addressing swiftly replied:
There is a country called Bosnia somewhere, forgive me,
A cold, bleak country,
Naked and hungry,
And besides all that,
Forgive me,
It is defiant
With sleep.
This is me, Aleksandar. The poem is by Mak Dizdar. If you pick it up, call me at 00 49 1748 526368. I'd like to tell you the story of the baker who sprinkled thirty sacks of flour over the streets of Višegrad one summer night in '92, and after that, in her little shop, she . . .
What makes the Wise Guys wise, howmuch you ought to bet on your own memory, who is found, and who is still made up
Mesud and Kemo can't remember Kiko's real name. The two men have spent hours, in between coffees, telling me the myths and legendary tales of soccer in Yugoslavia, Bosnia, Sarajevo. We're sitting in a small betting shop and café above the Old Town, and Mesud says: perhaps he was just called Kiko, same as the Brazilians.
Kiko, number nine, Kiko of the amazing headers, Kiko the iron skull of the gentle river Drina had scored thirty goals in the last half-season before the war, twenty of them with his head, three with his right foot, the other seven all with his weaker left foot, and all of those in his last game, only a few days before the first shots were fired in Sarajevo.
I landed in Sarajevo yesterday, found a room, three days for thirty euros with a young woman who had three daughters. I went to the streetcar terminals. I went out to the gray apartment buildings made of prefabricated concrete slabs. I walked through the Old Town, hands clasped behind my back, eyes on the ground, as if I were lost in thought and thus belonged here; tourists are never thoughtful. I wanted to know what people were talking about in the city, but I didn't dare ask. I listened. I wanted to know how you get up on the rooftops. I went to sniff the air in stairways, at the library they gave me a number belonging to a table with a reading lamp. I saw students studying. Orpheus and Eurydice was being performed that evening, I wanted to see what kind of underworld the river god's son goes down into, only to lose the woman he's already lost yet again, but I couldn't get a ticket. I was glad to find that such things were sold out. I was glad of everything that looked like riches rather than ruins or that seemed carefree, although I told myself that being carefree is no good. I climbed to a rooftop. I had the feeling that I'd given something up, I looked down at the city and didn't know what it was. I didn't want to go dancing, I wanted to see people dancing. There was no line outside the club, but I waited all the same, and then I just bought yesterday's Süddeutsche Zeitung at a nearby newsstand. I found a note from my landlady on the bed in my room: there's pita in the oven if you're hungry. I was hungry, the shadow birds my fingers made flew over Bosnian walls again, I slept for three hours.
On the second day I made coffee for my landlady and asked her about Asija. I asked about Asija everywhere I went. I kept looking for Asija's bright hair. In the streetcars, at the terminals, among the high-rises and in the cafés of the Old Town. I read names outside doors, I climbed to rooftops and searched the area from above. I dropped her name into every conversation. I tried to convince officials and notaries of the urgency of my search, they let me look at registers of names, statistics about refugees, lists of victims. I was told I'd come very late in the day, and I politely asked people to confine themselves to constructive comments. At the Academy of Music I secretly leafed through the card index of members of the library, still feeling sure that Asija was a violinist. I wasn't allowed to see the records of customers at the video library, but the suntan studio let me see theirs. On the way between those places I read the phone book. I called eight Asijas, apologized to six for disturbing them, two weren't at home, which gave me grounds for some hope.
There's no such street in Sarajevo, said the taxi driver when I gave him the address for Asija that Granny Katarina had given me years ago, but at my insistence he got his central switchboard to confirm it. I asked him to drive me to a street that sounded rather like the address on my note, rang at five doors and read all the names by the doorbells. The sky was cloudy, I reached the end of the street and looked around me. Children were writing their names on the asphalt with colored chalk. I'm not leaving Sarajevo until I've found something.
I bought a book about the genocide in Višegrad. I was planning to walk through the city until some kind of stray dog met me, or someone who'd fled here from Višegrad recognized me. I watched budgies billing and cooing in a window, and on the sly I asked for plum jam with my [evap[ici. Don't you try taking the mickey out of me, replied the waiter. Later on it rained, and instead of going to the driving license center, I went into the little betting shop and café with its view of the Old Town.
Mesud, who is fiddling with his mustache, looks hard at me and says: Kiko. K
iko of the gentle river Drina. Like you.
I was going to drink a coffee and wait for the rain to stop. Four TV screens on the walls, teletext on all of them, a billiard table in the middle of the room, ashtrays on the plastic tables. Men in leather jackets or tracksuits poring over tables of numbers with great concentration. I ordered a Turkish coffee. Two older men were reading the paper at a table in front of the broad glass facade, one wore a tracksuit top with the inscription ROT-WEISS ESSEN and the number 11 on it.
Well, what a coincidence, I said, I live in Essen.
The men lowered their newspapers and looked around. I was standing behind them, coffee cup in hand. They said nothing.
The top, I said, and pointed my cup at the man with the mustache. The other man put sugar in his coffee, sipped cautiously, and devoted himself to his paper again.
Germany, Regional League North, Essen versus Düsseldorf on Sunday, it'll be a draw, said the man in the jacket. His mustache covered his mouth, moving up and down as if the man were chewing.
I'm Aleksandar, is that seat free? I heard myself saying, although the deep voice under the mustache didn't exactly sound inviting.
We're the Wise Guys, said the voice, and the arm pointed to the vacant chair.
What does that mean? I asked, sitting down with them.
It means I'm right when I tell you to put your money on a draw between this Essen of yours and Düsseldorf on Sunday.
The Wise Guys: Mesud with his mustache and the tracksuit top his son-in-law had brought him from Germany years ago, Kemo the diabetic who refused to admit that he had diabetes. Kemo was the quieter of the two. He sat immersed in sporting papers most of the time, writing down numbers and drawing circles, triangles, lightning flashes and yet more numbers beside them. Mesud had countless conversations with the short-haired men who kept coming up to our table and saying things like: Under three in the Anderlecht game? With Zidane banned for those yellow cards, a draw? Deportivo away—handicap of two, what do you think, Čika Mesud? He had answers and advice for every gambler; I couldn't see any system behind it.
How often do you yourselves bet? I asked the Wise Guys.
Oh, we don't bet, said Mesud, raising his hands defensively, that's no way to be happy. We're here in case someone doesn't believe the statistics or can't think what to do, that's all.
A lot of people couldn't think what to do and came to our table sooner or later for a chat or to ask a question. A shy man in a suit and bow tie wanted to know what chance Inter had of winning today. I've never been to Milan, said Mesud, hands off Italy. Kemo gave a thumbs-up sign; Inter will make it.
The place filled up, people made out their betting slips against the wall. Music was switched on, a woman was singing about what it's like to be deceived by a man, then a man sang about what it's like to deceive a woman, best friends featured in both songs. Leather jackets gathered in front of the games machines, punched the buttons; they clanged, clanged, clanged. The rain had stopped, but I didn't feel like leaving, I wanted to be taken for a friend of Kemo and Mesud. No one asked me anything. I put ten KM on Essen-Düsseldorf for a draw.
Two boys, ten years old at the most, were knocking the white ball into the cushion of the billiard table with their cues. Kemo fed a coin in for them and ran his hand through the smaller boy's flaxen hair. The balls clattered around on the table, the first live results came through on the teletext, it was getting dark outside. We talked about Red Star, we talked about the national team of ten years ago and more, the national teams of today; if we were still all one country, Mesud said, we'd be unbeatable today. The boy with the flaxen hair sank ball after ball. Benfica, someone suddenly shouted, Benfica are bastards, the whole bunch of them! A chair fell over, at the next table someone was saying his cousin Husein sent envelopes full of shit to the public prosecutor's offices every day, someone else asked what the postage cost, then I lost track. The boy with flaxen hair was drinking Fanta out of a can and hit the ten, the ten hit the fourteen and the fourteen disappeared into the pocket. A man in a tracksuit asked: do you know this one? and I should simply have waited, but I asked: do I know what one? and the tracksuit told a joke. I wanted to know about everything all at once, but I didn't know what to make of anything.
Mujo and Suljo go for a walk, that was the joke. Suddenly Mujo falls down. Suljo calls the emergency doctor: quick, I think Mujo's dead! The doctor says: take it easy, make sure he's really dead first. There's a brief silence, then a shot is heard. Suljo says over his phone, right, so now what do I do?
The boy with the flaxen hair pointed his cue at the black ball, then at the middle pocket, and after potting the ball he leaned against the bar. His opponent bought him another Fanta and left the café, shaking his head. His own balls were still all on the table. Kemo nodded appreciatively, the boy nodded back gravely.
You'll find two sorts of people here, said Mesud, turning to me: people who miss everything and people who are indignant about everything. Me, I never get indignant about people who miss things and I'll never miss being indignant. He shrugged and grinned. Sixty-two in Chile, he said, the country was doing all right, and when a country is doing all right sport doesn't do badly either. Now it's like this: shit here, shit there. Then we had a semifinal against the Czechs. Back then Pelé said that the best player anywhere, even better than he, was the Yugoslavian Number Ten. He couldn't pronounce the name, so I'm happy to say it myself: Dragoslav Šekularac!
Mesud leaned back and looked at me. The name meant nothing to me. I nodded, said: Dragoslav, that's right.
The best away games were in Split and Rijeka, Kemo put in, and his face lit up too. The seventies by the Adriatic, ah, my dear fellow! We took Czech girls to the stadium with us! How did those games go? No idea! They wrote to us afterward, and during the war they sent cigarettes.
Asked who was top of the league table in Bosnia at the moment, Kemo put two piled spoonfuls of sugar in his well-diluted coffee and shook his head: oh, well, as for Bosnia! he said, dismissing the subject. You can lay a bet on the last backwoods dump in Finland, but here in our own league—forget it!
Let's have a little something small, said Mesud, let's have a little something sweet, said Kemo later in the evening, when most of the soccer games were in progress and everyone was staring at the screens of teletext. I went to get us flatbread stuffed with spinach, kaymak and baklava. When I came back with the food I heard jubilation. Inter was in the lead.
Where do you come from? asked Mesud, his eyes on the warm flatbread.
Višegrad, I said, thinking of Asija again for the first time in hours, thinking of Granny Katarina and my lists. The trip didn't feel like much of a trip at the moment.
Good. Good town. Mesud bit into the flatbread. The Drina is a good river, it never had any good soccer players. Except maybe for one. Kemo, can you remember—and now Mesud will say “Kiko” and remember him. What was his real name, now? Turned pro right after he came out of the youth teams. Could do header after header. What momentum, Mesud will say with enthusiasm, he didn't have to prop himself up on anything. Wow, you could hear the sound of it up in the stands! Kiko, Mesud is going to say, Kiko from the gentle river Drina. Like you.
The results flicker green and red on the teletext. The old men's hands are rough and dry, coarse and clumsy, covered with scars and bumps. We wish each other success as we say good-bye. The streetlights flicker in the Old Town, TVs flicker in dark living rooms. A cold wind rises, there are no stars. I dig my hands into my pockets, turn up the collar of my jacket. Those are my hands in my pockets. Those are my footsteps. This is my key. Here's where I unlock the door. Here's where I tiptoe up the defiantly creaking staircase. This is me being quiet. This is my room. Here's my suitcase. Here are the piles of lists. Here are the piles of streets. Here are the piles of names. This is where I kneel down by my suitcase. This is where I read “Damir Ki[c.” This is where it says “Damir Ki[ic—Kiko.”
What goes on behind God's feet, why Kiko picks up the cigarette,
where Hollywood is, and how Mickey Mouse learns to answer
At 2:22 P.M. they radioed a cease-fire through to the Bosnian Territorial Defense trenches. The third this month. At 2:28 P.M. the ball rose from the Serbian trench on the northern outskirts of the forest and flew through the air, tracing a high arc, toward the clearing that separated the opposing positions by about six hundred and fifty feet. The ball bounced twice and rolled in the direction of the two spruce trees, now shot to pieces, that had served as goalposts before, when hostilities were suspended.
The commander of the Territorials, Dino Safirović, nicknamed Dino Zoff, jumped up on the edge of the trench, cupped his hands around his mouth like a megaphone and bent his torso back as he shouted to the other side: how about it, Chetniks, want another hiding? He reached for his crotch and thrust his hips back and forth, back and forth, then went about six feet in the direction of the ball, to the place whereĆora lay with a huge hole in his head.
Mujahideen cunts, we've already fucked your mothers' arses twice, roared a hoarse voice from the Serbian trench, while Kiko—Kiko number nine, Kiko of the prodigious headers, Kiko the iron brow of the gentle river Drina—joined Dino Zoff, tookĆora by the ankles and dragged him back to the trench. He covered him up with his coat and pulled the bloodstained strands of hair back from his forehead, oh, look at you now, friend Ćora, he whispered, grass and earth everywhere.
Beside him, Meho clicked his tongue, dug the red and white Red Star Belgrade shirt out of his rucksack and put it on over his jacket. He ceremoniously emptied his jacket pockets: a Swiss army knife, a lighter, two hand grenades, an opened can of meat paste. He kissed Audrey Hepburn's photo several times, enraptured, and then put it away again. He grinned in reply to Dino Zoff's enquiring gaze, said: we all have our lucky charms, did you know about Maradona's underpants . . . and then he noticed Kiko, and Ćora's dead body, and stopped short. He shouldn't have gone out, never mind how dark it was, began Meho, both apologetic and accusing, but then he met Kiko's eyes, sighed, and offered him a pack of Drinas. Everyone in the troop knew Meho still had cigarettes; there were even rumors that the pack was half full. Kiko took the last but one. He passed it over his upper lip and breathed in the fragrance.
How the Soldier Repairs the Gramophone Page 20