by Reif Larsen
“Maybe no one paid enough money,” someone said. “Typical. People are selfish.”
“I paid!”
“I paid twice!” said another.
The crowd grew restless, and Danilo, feeling infinitely guilty for having caused all of this, found himself trying to calm a woman down.
“The show will be on tomorrow,” he said.
“How do you know?” she asked.
“It’s my son’s show.”
“Who’s your son?”
“Miro.” He wasn’t sure why he gave only his son’s nickname, but there it was.
Others came up to him with questions. How did he do it? What was the secret?
He tried to answer as best he could, until he saw an angry man in a beard go up to the box and shake it violently.
“All right!” he yelled to everyone. “The show’s been canceled for today. I’m sorry. We’ve had technical difficulties. Please come back tomorrow. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Who are you?”
“I work for the artist.”
“Who’s the artist?”
“His name is Miro.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s gone to get new parts. Please. Come back tomorrow. Everything will be fine tomorrow.”
They left, eventually, grumbling. Danilo found an old newspaper and a pen and wrote out CANCELED TODAY and posted it on top of the sign. Then he went across the street and waited.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m going, I’m going,” said Danilo.
It was a reporter. The man wanted to know whether it was true that Danilo worked for Miro, the artist who had made this cabinet of wonders.
“Cabinet of wonders?” said Danilo.
“That’s what they’re calling it. What would you call it?”
“That sounds good to me.”
“Can you tell us more about Miro?”
“He was born in Višegrad.”
“But how does he do it?”
“Do what?”
“Make them move like that? There are no strings.”
“You can’t see the strings.”
“So there are strings?”
“You’ll have to talk to him about that.”
There were more questions, but, realizing he might have already said too much, Danilo declined to answer them. He told the man to come back the next day. “The artist will be here tomorrow and will be happy to answer any questions.”
“I think your Miro will be a famous man someday,” said the reporter as he left.
Night fell again. The streetlights came on. Danilo had brought warmer clothes this time, and he settled down in the park, a good ways from the box and the playground, but not so far that he couldn’t see it. He waited, watching the changing of the guards in front of Parliament. An ambulance went by. More policemen. At some point, without meaning to, he drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke again, it was still dark. His body was freezing. He opened and closed his fingers and slapped at his legs, trying to conjure some kind of circulation. The soft halo of a streetlight caught the outline of a feral dog slipping into the park. The dog threw him a glance before trotting off. The streets were empty save for the guardsmen in front of Parliament and a lone taxi driver asleep in his cab.
Danilo walked over to the box. He noticed immediately that his announcement about the cancellation had been removed. There was only the original sign. He looked around but saw no one. Then he ducked beneath the curtain.
The darkness had shifted again. He heard gypsy music. Two horns. The quiver of a drum. An accordion.
The lights rose. Again, the bridge.
There were two figures on the bridge. Not soldiers this time. The blood had been scrubbed away. Only a faint stain remained. Danilo rubbed his eyes, shivered. Trying to blink away the blur. The men, familiar but too small to recognize. He thumbed out the sleep and looked again.
Yes.
It was Miroslav. An older version of Miroslav, to be sure, but there was no doubt it was him. The angle of the jawline. It did not change, even at such a size.
Next to him, a big mass of a man, rendered in miniature. Those shoulders. Such shoulders. Danilovic shoulders.
Seeing the two of his boys together, moving together, made him wish they all could be together again. If they were together, then they would all get through this, he knew.
He wanted to tell them that their mother was trapped in the bridge beneath them, but Miša and Miroslav were bending over, lifting something up. It looked to be a body. A body of a man! Who was he? But it was all too quick. They were heaving, rolling the body up and over the wall of the bridge. The body fell. Danilo half expected the scene to cut off then, but the man continued to fall, and there was the sound of a splash and then the body was floating in the river. Danilo again wondered how he had created such a river. A river with no beginning or end?
His sons stood on the bridge, watching the body float out of the frame. A flock of birds moved past overhead. Miroslav turned away, but Miša remained, staring at the river. Then black.
In the darkness, Danilo suddenly felt very cold. He remained crouched as he was, wrapping the curtain around himself, shivering. The show did not start again.
He didn’t know how long he had been like this, his forehead resting against the glass of the box, when he felt a hand on his back, lifting the curtain up and over him. Maybe the police would take him to prison, where he could get warm again. He felt as if he would never get warm again.
Outside, the first rays of sun were already reaching across the sky.
“Tata?”
He looked up, confused, and through the dim light of dawn he stared into the face of a man who vaguely resembled his son. The man had a beard and long, greasy hair beneath a white fedora, but the eyes had not changed.
“Miro,” he whispered.
“Tata.”
“I found you.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“I’m sorry. I was the one who broke the box. I was trying to catch her.” His voice cracked. He swayed on his numb feet, nearly tumbling backwards into the street.
“It’s okay, Tata.” Miroslav grabbed him, hugging him. “It’s okay.”
“I saw her in your box,” Danilo whispered. “I was trying to catch her.”
“It’s okay.”
“She’s inside the bridge.”
“Who?”
“Stoja.”
“What’re you talking about, Tata?”
“She’s dead. Your mother’s dead.”
Miroslav released him. “What?”
“But I saw it in your box. The Chetniks . . . She was running, and she jumped . . . and now . . .” A sob, long buried.
Miroslav was staring at his father.
“But you must’ve known!” said Danilo. “Tell me you know. Your mother was in the box. She jumped off the bridge. I saw it . . .”
“That wasn’t her. It was just a woman.”
“But it was her! I saw her go into the bridge.”
“They aren’t people, Tata. They’re just puppets.”
7
They went down the street to a restaurant called the Double. They were the first customers of the day; the waitress, still sleepy-eyed, nodded and made a gesture with her hand that meant they could sit anywhere. Miroslav took off his wool coat and placed his fedora on the seat next to him, as if saving it for another. The waitress came over and they ordered two bowls of hot pasulj. After a moment’s hesitation, Miroslav called her back and added a shot of šljivovica.
Danilo considered his son. The long, greasy hair had grown prematurely thin at the top, and the skin around his eyes was ashen. He looked as if he had not slept in weeks. Danilo spotted a single white hair in the mi
ddle of his beard. He resisted the urge to reach across the table and pluck it out.
“Miroslav,” he said, and he was not speaking to his son but to time itself.
Miroslav smiled weakly.
“I’ll also have a šljivovica, please,” Danilo said to the waitress. He realized he had no money.
“I can’t afford this,” he said shamefully.
“It’s okay, Tata. They know me here.”
The šljivovica came and they clicked glasses. Miroslav downed his in one go; Danilo sipped the liquor slowly.
“So,” said Miroslav. “Tell me everything.”
And so Danilo began to speak. About the resort hotel where the White Eagles took the women. About Lukic. About the funeral to which no one came. The anonymous delivery of flowers. He did not mention the sealed casket, that he had never seen the body with his own eyes.
The soups arrived, but neither man touched his bowl.
“This hotel’s the same one we saw that day, above the hammam?”
Danilo nodded.
“I can’t believe it,” said Miroslav. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I should never have told her to take that bicycle,” he said. And then it hit him again, as it had hit him, as it would hit him. He rubbed his eyes.
“It’s not your fault, Tata.” Miroslav reached across the table but did not touch his father.
“I told her to get outside. She was so sad to see you boys go . . . you can’t imagine,” he said. “She was in the barn, praying every day. She never went out anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” said Miroslav.
“Oh, what did she do to deserve this? She was so kind.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know. You’ve no idea,” said Danilo. “You weren’t there! Where were you?”
Miroslav was silent.
“I’m sorry.” Danilo exhaled. “I miss her. I want to see her smile again. That’s all I want. I would like to see her smile once more.”
He covered his face again, but the tears came down through the little spaces between his fingers. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes, then he lit a cigarette.
“You smoke now?” said Miroslav, incredulous.
“It’s a strange city.”
“Danilo Danilovic is a smoker. I never thought I would see this day. Can I have one?”
“It’s good to see you,” said Danilo, lighting his son’s cigarette. “I’ve been trying to find you. You’re all I have left.”
“There’s Danilo.”
“Who?”
“Miša.”
“Yes, Miša,” Danilo sighed. “But where is Miša?”
“You haven’t heard from him?”
“I haven’t heard from anyone.”
“He wrote to me a while ago. But nothing since then.”
“Sometimes I worry he’s gone too.”
“If something happened, I would know,” said Miroslav. “He’s just busy, that’s all. He’s fighting a war. Someone needs to fight the war, otherwise there’d be no war.” A little laugh.
“Someone should tell him about his mother. How do we get word to him?”
“I don’t know,” said Miroslav. “I make a point of not talking to those people.”
Danilo looked down at his soup and suddenly felt a sharp pang of hunger. He realized he had not eaten in almost a day. He picked up his spoon and began scooping the soup into his mouth with short, quick strokes.
Miroslav watched him. “You’re hungry.”
“It’s a strange city,” Danilo said through a mouthful of soup.
They slurped at their pasulj in silence.
“I feel like I’ve never eaten before,” said Danilo.
“I know what you mean.”
“A reporter asked me yesterday how you did it.”
“Did what?”
“Those boxes. How you made them.”
“Oh, yes. They always want to know. What did you tell him?”
“I said they should ask you.”
“I was already on the cover of the paper.”
“I heard about that. Was it for the boxes?”
“No. For a piece of graffiti.”
“Graffiti?” said Danilo. “You got into trouble?”
“Not really. A little. But people viewed it like a kind of art.”
“What was the graffiti?”
“It’s not important. People were just looking for a phrase. And I gave it to them. I gave them an anthem.”
Danilo considered this. “You should see the people when they come and look at your boxes. It’s like they’ve seen a ghost. They don’t know what to think. I watched them for a whole day.”
“I know. I’m watching too.”
“You are?”
“Of course. You think I would miss it?”
“You were watching the last few days? From where?”
“I have a place.”
“Then you saw me?”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t you come and say something?”
“I don’t know.” Miroslav shook his head.
Danilo stared at a little globule of spilled soup seeping into the white tablecloth. “You said they weren’t real people.”
“They aren’t.”
“But I saw you. I saw you and Miša throw that man into the river.”
Miroslav’s eyes went wide.
“I saw you in the box,” said Danilo. “You threw him off the bridge. You turned and Miša stayed. I saw it.”
Miroslav stared at his father. The corner of his mouth was quivering. He suddenly looked angry, as if he might strike his father, and then he said, very quietly: “I killed him, Tata.”
Danilo nodded. “Only God can save us now,” he said and crossed himself.
“No. You don’t understand. It was true. I made this all happen.”
“Made what happen?”
“I killed a gypsy. I killed him and then I pushed him into the Drina.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“You’re the only one who knows. Besides Miša. I killed him. And then the war came.”
“Miro, what are you talking about?”
“That day Miša was stabbed. It wasn’t a bull. It was the gypsy.”
Danilo’s face fell into comprehension. He folded his arms. “I knew it wasn’t a bull,” he said.
“He had a knife and he was robbing us. And then he attacked Miša, and I killed him. I took a tree branch and I crushed his head. And then I pushed him into the river.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. A gypsy. But I killed him. I made all of this happen. I’m the one to blame . . . for Mama . . . for everything.”
“Stop it,” said Danilo. “You can’t think like this. It’s not how it works. Do you know how much evil there’s been in this country? It’s not any one man’s doing. It’s the work of many. None of us can say we’re innocent anymore.”
“But it’s because of me! I started it. I know this. It’s why she died. Something needed to happen. Something needed to be taken away again. That’s how it works.” His voice was rising. The waitress was staring at them.
“Miroslav,” said Danilo. “Only God knows how it works.”
“There is no God,” said Miroslav.
“Miro—”
“I don’t believe what you believe.”
Danilo was too tired to argue. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’ve missed you, my son. How are you feeling? You look tired.”
“The boxes tear me apart. They’re very difficult to make. I leave a part of myself in them.”
“I can imagine,” said Danilo. He thumbed at the droplet of pasulj sitting on the tablecloth. “Wait—when did this happen?”
<
br /> “When did what happen?”
“You and Miša. With the man by the river.”
“I told you. It was last April. Before the drought.”
Danilo thought about this. “That must’ve been the Selimovics’ son. That was Mahir. He was found downstream, near Žepa. Everyone thought he was the first.”
“Mahir?”
“Didn’t you hear about that?”
“No.”
“You remember Mahir, though.”
“Mahir?”
“You went to primary school with him. Everyone thought the Serbs had killed him. He was the first Muslim to die in the Drina. After him, there were hundreds. There was a man in Žepa who would fish them out of the river every day and then bury them. That’s all he did. He would give them a Muslim burial. Mahir was the first person he buried.”
Miroslav blinked at his father. “Yes, but the man I killed was a gypsy. I know who Mahir is, and this wasn’t Mahir.”
“He was found in the river, downstream. His head was knocked in. You don’t remember this? They said he was the first.”
“It wasn’t Mahir.”
“Okay,” said Danilo.
“It wasn’t Mahir.”
“Okay,” Danilo said again. “It wasn’t Mahir.”
Miroslav stared at his soup.
“Your brother has done far worse things than you,” Danilo said quietly.
“You don’t know that.”
Danilo reached across the table and touched his son’s hand. The nails were bitten to the quick, the palm soft and damp. Such a foreign hand.
“Miroslav,” he said. His son was crying.
“Miroslav!”
His son looked up at him.
“Your mother loved you. To the very end. I know this. There’s evil in this world, and we cannot solve this evil, but don’t forget your mother. Don’t forget her. Speak her name to everyone you meet. We must not forget her, even if this is all that we can do. She’s the reason I live now. She’s with me when I wake up, when I take a step, when I take breath into my lungs. You may not believe in a God, but I do. I do, and He tells me that she’s here. She’s with us. I saw her in your box. I see her everywhere.”
Miroslav held his father’s hand. “Will you tell me a story, Tata?”