I Am Radar

by Reif Larsen

“Easy,” said Danilo. “There’s time.”

  “So you’re happy?” said Stoja. “What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

  He brought out a black box about the size of a milk crate, which he placed carefully onto the dinner table. A black velvet curtain flowed down from one side. He ducked his head underneath the curtain for a moment, fiddling with various unseen things before reemerging and motioning for his father to put his head beneath it.

  Once inside, Danilo found himself in complete darkness. It was like diving into a deep well. He fought the urge to whip the curtain off his head. He waited. Nothing happened. He breathed. He could smell the stuffiness of his exhalations.

  “What am I looking at?” he asked from beneath the curtain.

  “Patience,” he heard from somewhere in the world beyond.

  And then, from out of the gloom, he saw tiny figures appearing. A bird. Shivering. It was a crow, pecking nervously at the ground. Looking up at him, pecking again. The movements were so natural—the bird was alive, but it was impossible for this bird to be alive, because it must’ve been less than a centimeter tall. Pecking. Ruffling its feathers. The beat of a heart.

  The whole scene gradually became illuminated. A wooden farmhouse. The walls streaked with age. A woman emerging, kerchiefed. Danilo marveled at the detail. He could see her breathing. She swept the threshold with her little broom, rested a moment on its handle, looking up at the sky. Danilo tried to look up with her, but he realized he was not part of the scene. He felt altogether massive, a clumsy, towering presence in this minuscule world. The woman shook her head, gave the threshold one last sweep, and then disappeared back into the house. From somewhere off to the side he heard the rustle of wind in the trees, though he could not decide if this was from her world or his own.

  Footsteps. A man came from around the corner of the house. Bearded. Wearing a peasant’s cap, with a rifle draped over his shoulder. When he saw the crow, the man stopped. Silence. Then the man’s arms, tiny, moving, lifting the gun, aiming. The crow looked up and saw the gun. The bird lifted its wings, but it did not fly.

  Then: everything went black. The kind of black that happens just after a dream. Danilo heard the sound of two gunshots. He jumped, peering into the dark, trying to see the body of the bird. He couldn’t see anything. He breathed. He could feel his pulse thumping. He waited.

  The curtain was lifted off his head. A rush of light.

  “So?” said Miroslav.

  “How did you make it so small?”

  Fig. 2.6. “M. Danilovic´’s Black Box Theater”

  From Røed-Larsen, P., Spesielle Partikler, p. 974

  “It’s not that small. We’re big, is all.”

  “Where are the strings?”

  “There are no strings. But what did you think?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it. That bird? What happened?”

  “It’s a secret, Tata.”

  Stoja donned the curtain and viewed the scene. She came out, blinking, tears in her eyes.

  “We’ve missed you so much, Miro,” she said.

  “Don’t call me Miro,” he said.

  • • •

  THE WEEKEND WAS UNPLEASANT for all. After the brief magic gifted by the black box, Miroslav seemed to slide backwards into the safety of unpleasantries. He drank often and in great amounts. He swore. He did not help to clear the table. He had begun smoking, which he did indoors, without asking for permission, leaving his cigarette butts strewn about the house. It was as if their son had been replaced by another, a copy that was not quite right.

  “Does he have an accent?” Stoja whispered to her husband as they lay in bed.

  “It’s not an accent.”

  “He smells different.”

  “It’s the city.”

  “Do you think he’s taking drugs?”

  “It’s the city.”

  “He might have an accent.”

  “He doesn’t have an accent.”

  During dinner on the second night, Danilo looked over and noticed his son’s hands were shaking.

  “Your hands,” said Danilo.

  “My hands?” said Miroslav, and for the first time he looked like their child again.

  Danilo went to pour his son more šljivovica, but Stoja grabbed his arm and shook her head.

  “Your elephant’s still in the barn,” said Danilo. “What shall we do with it?”

  “My elephant,” said Miroslav, shaking his head. “My elephant. You can burn it.”

  “You don’t want it?” said Stoja.

  “No.”

  “I thought you were going to walk it over the bridge,” said Danilo.

  “I can’t stand that fucking bridge,” said Miroslav.

  “Watch your language,” said Danilo.

  They ate the burek in silence.

  “Has Miša written to you again?” asked Danilo after a while.

  “Has he written to you?”

  “No.”

  “He must be busy, then.”

  “Too busy for his own mother?” said Stoja.

  “You know there’s a vast fucking world outside of this little shit town of yours.”

  “Miroslav!” Danilo yelled. “Don’t speak to your mother like this.”

  Miroslav offered a smile. “Sorry, Mama. I haven’t heard from him, either.”

  “I light a candle every day,” said Stoja. “He doesn’t know what he’s gotten into.”

  “He’s okay, Mama. He’s okay. You can stop lighting your candles.”

  She nodded. She wiped at her eyes and split open a piece of bread. “And you’ve met girls in Belgrade?”

  “I’m not looking for girls, Mama. I have an audience. This is much better than girls,” he said. “They’re hungry for something new. And I give them something new.”

  “Is that right?” she said. “So you’re learning new things?”

  Miroslav leaned back in his chair. “Yes, many things. I’m learning that nearly everyone is an asshole. And I’m learning this country enjoys fucking itself in its own ass.”

  Danilo put down his fork. “I won’t say it again. Watch your mouth,” he said. “This is still a house of God. We’ll not tolerate such language. If I hear it one more time, you can find your own roof to sleep under.”

  “A house of God?” said Miroslav.

  “When you’re under my roof, you follow my rules. You can go back to the city and live however you like, but here you show respect.”

  “Tata, wake up! This town is full of whores. The city is filled with hypocrites. The priests are war criminals, and the war criminals are priests. So good luck with your whole house of God there. This house will be the last one standing when everything around it fucking crumbles into shit.”

  Danilo stood up, furious. “Get out.”

  Miroslav picked up a piece of bread.

  “This is where you came from, Miroslav Danilovic. This is the house you came from. Don’t ever desecrate your own home. Now get out.”

  Miroslav rose from the table.

  “Danilo, we can’t—” Stoja began.

  “You are a Danilovic,” he said to his son. “You will always be a Danilovic.”

  “Believe me, I know. Why do you think I left?” He kicked his chair and stalked out of the house.

  Miroslav spent an hour shivering in the barn with the ghost of the elephant. Once he had calmed down, he came back and knocked contritely on the door of the house. Stoja answered.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” he said. “I didn’t know what I was saying.”

  “Miro,” she said. She reached across the threshold and took him in her arms. “My baby.”

  Danilo came down and saw them like this. He put his hands on his kin and whispered his love. The three of them stood together in the doorway
until the cold wind blowing into the house forced them to swing the door shut.

  • • •

  THE NIGHT BEFORE MIROSLAV was to return to the city, Stoja wept in bed.

  Danilo tried to reassure her. “It’s natural. He’s making his own way. He needs to separate himself from us,” he said.

  “But he’s my son! He’s Miro! How can he be like this?”

  “Give him some time. You’ll see.”

  “Miša is God knows where,” she said. “And Miroslav’s here, in this house, but he feels even further away. What have we done to deserve this?”

  Danilo put a hand on her stomach. “No matter what he says, he will always be . . .” And he had meant to say, “your son,” but he did not say it.

  19. THE ANGLE OF INCIDENCE EQUALS THE ANGLE OF REFLECTION.

  That January, a cease-fire was finally declared in Croatia. Televisions were filled with images of UNPROFOR’s bobbing Blue Helmets moving in to manage the peace. Despite the bleakness of winter, everyone’s mood began to lift. Maybe this would be the end.

  Life had grown more and more difficult on the farm. There was an increasing shortage of goods, and prices had risen. Without enough hay for the winter, they had been forced to sell all except two of their remaining cows. Then Danilo fell one morning on the ice and injured his leg. He limped around, trying to keep up with the work. Stoja was forced to abandon her daily vigils at the church and run the farm herself. She built her own manoualia and iconostasis in the barn next to the elephant.

  Miroslav called to say he would be coming home for Orthodox Christmas, surprising them both. After his last visit, Stoja had been afraid that he would not come back.

  On Christmas Eve, the three of them sat in the kitchen as a light snow fell outside. Stoja served tea and then sat down next to her son.

  “Let’s talk like adults,” she said.

  “Fine,” said Miroslav.

  “Your father won’t say this, but he needs your help. It’s been very hard with his fall, and without Miša here to work—”

  “Danilo,” said Miroslav.

  She took in a little breath and then began again. “I know the university’s important for you. I can see you’ve learned things. But we need you here. You can go back to Belgrade when everything’s normal again. We all must do our duty in difficult times. God bless us, we’ll get through it.”

  “I never would’ve guessed,” said Miroslav.

  “What?”

  “That you would be the one to go so God crazy,” he said. “Him maybe, but not you.”

  “I was always a believer. I just didn’t realize when I was younger, that’s all. We’re foolish when we’re young. We’re blind to the truth.”

  “Miša’s gone,” said Danilo from the other end of the table. “We could use a hand here.”

  “That’s not my fault. Don’t put that on me. Miša left because he wanted to leave.”

  “It’s not for forever,” said Stoja. “Just for now.”

  Miroslav formed a beak with his fingertips and pinched his tea bag.

  “Asking me to come back here’s like asking me to take a poison that’ll slowly kill me. Is that what you want?”

  “We’re all taking the poison,” said Danilo.

  “What’s all this about poison?” cried Stoja. “What about us? This is your home. It’s your duty to come home.”

  “Come help me chop the badnjak,” said Danilo. “Just like you and Miša used to do. We can do it together.”

  Miroslav smiled a long, sad smile. “You’re still looking for your badnjak, aren’t you, Tata?”

  “What happened to you, Miro?” said Stoja.

  “You and me, together,” said Danilo. “We’ll find a nice badnjak. I know the perfect tree where we can find one. Then you can do a vertep performance, just like the old days.”

  Miroslav shook his head. “It’s too late, Tata,” he said. “It’s too late for all of this.”

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY, Stoja rose early and collected the water from the well. She made krompiruša pie and sarma and roasted the pastrmka. She rolled the dough for the cesnica bread and placed the traditional coin inside. Danilo hummed to himself and went around sprinkling the hay on the windowsills. Then he went out and chopped down the badnjak himself.

  Miroslav came down late in the morning, a bag slung over his shoulder.

  “I have to go back,” he said.

  His parents stood in the kitchen, dumbfounded.

  “But the meal . . .” his mother began.

  “It’s Christmas!” said Danilo. “You can’t leave now.”

  “What about the cesnica? We must see who gets the coin!” said Stoja.

  Miroslav shook his head. His eyes were heavy. “I have to get back,” he said.

  “Miroslav,” said Danilo, raising his voice. “You must stay! You cannot go!”

  “Sorry,” said Miroslav. “Now one of you can get the coin.”

  He hugged them both once and then turned and left his home for the last time.

  20. WHEN TWO PARTICLES BECOME ENTANGLED, THEIR SHARED STATE IS INDEFINITE UNTIL MEASURED.

  Two months later, Bosnia declared independence from Yugoslavia, and the war came to Višegrad. The town was overrun by the JNA; huge tanks squeezed down the narrow streets, flattening signposts, crushing flowerpots. Danilo tried to call Miroslav in Belgrade, but he could not get through. The lines had been cut. He wrote to him on several occasions. He was not a writer, but he tried to write nonetheless.

  From a letter dated April 19, 1992:

  There is no telling what might happen in the future. Normal people have become sick in the head. They are pushing the Muslims out of town. The army is here now but they will leave soon. After that, no one knows what will happen. . . .

  Why don’t you ever write to us? Your mother is worried. She prays for you every day in the barn. It’s too dangerous to go to St. Stephen’s anymore. We miss you. We miss both you and your brother. I pray we will all be together again.

  Love, your father,

  Danilo

  From a letter dated May 21 (?), 1992:

  The JNA have left. . . . We heard their tanks going by at night. When I went down the next morning, I found they had knocked over our fence. There was garbage everywhere. It is a mess. They say bad things will happen. . . . Maybe you should come back home. It is best for us to be together. We can celebrate your birthday together. I hope you are safe in the city. I have not heard of how things are there. Your mother sends her love. Write if you can. We miss you.

  Love, your father,

  Danilo

  From a letter dated June 25, 1992:

  We tried to call you yesterday for your birthday but the lines are still cut. We lit a candle and said some prayers. We are always praying. We think of you every day. Things are very difficult here. You can’t imagine. The White Eagles have moved in. They are in charge now and they are very terrible. The worst kind of evil. I can’t believe Miša would know them. . . . They told the Muslims to move back into town and then they began to kill them. Every night, they say. They line them up on the Turkish Bridge and then shoot them or cut their throats and then they throw them down into the Drina. Sometimes they push them over the bridge while they are still alive, and they let them swim and then they shoot them. I saw blood on the bridge last week. Lots of it. I could not look. It is madness, Miroslav. The river does not forget. . . . I think it is best if we move to Belgrade with you. The Serbs in the town are safe for now, but what if the Bosnian Army hears of what is happening and does the same to us? Do you want your parents thrown off of a bridge into the river? Do you want our throats cut like animals? . . . Your mother is not the same as she was. I worry for her. I worry for us all. Please, write to us.

  Love, your father,

  Danilo

  21. THE
ENTROPY OF ANY ISOLATED SYSTEM NOT IN THERMAL EQUILIBRIUM ALMOST ALWAYS INCREASES.

  These letters no longer exist.

  4

  Stoja,” said Danilo.

  “Stoja,” he said again.

  Above them, the great elephant loomed against the flicker of the candles. A line of saints stared at his wife, who was kneeling, hands clutched in prayer.

  “You have to move to live,” he said.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. A dankness in the air.

  “Please,” he said.

  “Where can I go?” she said, staring at the saints. “It’s too dangerous to go anywhere.”

  “Just don’t go into town. Take a bicycle. You can ride to the river. The weather’s nice today.”

  “I don’t have a bicycle.”

  “Take Miša’s. Ride to the river and then come right back. It isn’t far. It’ll be good for you. You’ve got to move around or else you’ll shrivel up into a nothing.”

  “I like being here.”

  “If you don’t want to do it for yourself, then do it for me.”

  • • •

  SHE CHANGED into a summer dress. She put on earrings. Danilo found the red bicycle in the shed. He inflated the tires. He lowered the seat with a wrench and squeezed a drop of oil into the gears.

  “You see?” he said, spinning the pedals. “Like new.”

  “I haven’t ridden in years,” she said. “Since I was a girl.”

  “You don’t forget,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Go. I love you. Take care. And bring your ID card. They’re checking everyone these days.”

  She followed the road down into the valley. The air felt cool and light on her face. Danilo had been right: she had lost herself somewhere along the way. The barn, the candles, the elephant—it was a trap, she could see that now. She smiled, feeling the ground slip beneath her. She felt as though she could ride clear across the world like this. If she could just keep riding, everything would be normal again. And when she went back home, she would find that both of her sons had returned, and they would run out of the house to greet her.