Dan Fesperman: Lie in the Dark

Vlado first offered the obligatory refusal, downgrading his polished English to singsong cadence to better suit the moment. Play the dumb, stiff local bureaucrat for a while and Toby might give up a little quicker.

“Oh no, it would not be a possibility”

Toby insisted, as they always did. “Really. Please. Go ahead. I’ve got so many, and, well, I’m leaving Monday anyway.”

Leaving Monday. That always stopped him with these people, whether it was journalists, aid workers, or some Western celebrity seeking a little wartime atmosphere and some publicity. They came and went like tourists, flashing a blue-and-white U.N. card to pass through checkpoints where just about any local would be stopped cold. Or shot. Even if he was a police detective. Only foreigners left town so easily They boarded U.N. cargo planes, deep-bellied green tubs that lumbered up over the hills and away Then they no doubt toasted their survival that very night in some warm place where the windows had glass, not flapping sheets of plastic, and where there was electric lighting and plenty of cold beer.

So Vlado felt only the slightest twinge of guilt when he locked the jar of coffee in a desk drawer and announced, “I am sorry, but my superiors have told me that I really shouldn’t talk to you. At least not on this subject. Maybe we can speak a few minutes ‘off the record,’ as people in your profession say, but anything more would not be possible.”

Then had come the unpleasant part. Toby had decided to deliver a lecture. “Yes, that’s the spirit, isn’t it. Remain silent and preserve the myth.”

“The myth?” Vlado had asked, curious to hear the outside world’s latest take on Balkan madness.

“The myth of ethnic peace and harmony among the poor beleagured people of Sarajevo. Of clean government with nothing but noble intent. Yes, you’re victims, we all know that. Bloody well can’t turn on our televisions without seeing another weeping Sarajevan saying ‘All you need is love.’ But whenever the subject of ill-gotten gains and bad players behind the scenes comes up, you go all quiet on us and resort to your ultimate fallback: Blame the Serbs. The Chetniks did it. And they did, didn’t they. Threw you out of half the city and three-quarters of your country.

“But you’re not exactly saints down here are you, pardon the botched religious metaphor. What about revealing some of your own bad apples for a change? How long do you think this war would go on if some key people in key places suddenly stopped making money off it?”

“You find our hatreds unconvincing, I take it? Perhaps poor old Marx was right, after all, even if he’s no longer in fashion. In the West, it’s always about money.”

“Because it is always about money, or power, or whatever form of wealth you want to name,” Toby said. “And that’s true in the East as well. Why do you think the Serbs grabbed half your country right out of the gate? Not so they could lord it over you lovely people, I can tell you that. It was an economic land grab, plain and simple, dressed up as an ethnic holy crusade. ‘Save our Serbian brothers. Oh, but while you’re at it, take that factory over there, won’t you?’ I’m not saying there’s any shortage of genuine hatred up in those hills. There are enough zealots to keep these armies burning for years. But look at the support systems and the lines of supply. All the bit players that prop it up. Who needs morale when you’ve got a nice flow of hard currency to keep the officers happy? Take that away and who knows, maybe the whole thing begins to rot from the inside out. Maybe the hatred isn’t enough anymore. Maybe you even end up with a ceasefire that lasts long enough for something more than allowing the next shipment of tobacco and liquor to come across the lines. With fifty percent of the proceeds going to the local constabulary, of course.”

“I think you are oversimplifying a complex situation.”

“Yes, well that’s what I’m paid for, isn’t it. Take all the nice blurry grays and turn them into black and white for the public to digest before moving on to the horoscopes and the latest from the Royals. But before you dismiss me as just another hack, which is exactly what I am, by the way, let me tell you a little story I picked up down the road in your city of Mostar-then we’ll see what you think.”

The last thing Vlado wanted from this blustering little man was an object lesson, but he’d paid for at least that much with the pound of coffee, so Vlado let him ramble on.

“You know the situation in Mostar, right?” Toby said, his face more flushed by the minute. “Even worse than here, in a way. Croats and Muslims fighting each other tooth and nail down in the streets, shooting at each other from across the river, while the Serbs sit on the mountains to the east and lob shells on the both of them. Like a bored old housewife pouring boiling water onto a couple of fighting alley cats.

“Well, a few weeks ago the local Muslim commander’s doing his usual bit for the home side when he starts running low on artillery shells. So he gets on the radio and calls his mate on the next hill to ask for more. ‘Sorry, lads, we’re running low ourselves. Can’t spare you a single shot. Arms embargo and all that, you know.’

“So who should pipe up on the same frequency, because everybody’s using the same old Yugoslav army radios anyway, but our Serb friend up on the mountain. We’ll call him Slobo.

“‘If it’s shells you need, we’ve got all you’d ever want,’ General Slobo says. ”‘And at popular prices.’

“ ‘Great,’ General Mohamad says. ‘But what about delivery? The Croats are between you and us.’

“‘No problem,’ Slobo says. ‘My Croat friend, Commander Tomislav, can bring them right to your doorstep for a small commission, say, twenty-five percent of the ordnance.’ So they haggle for a while over price, set a time and place for delivery. Then they chat up the U.N. to arrange a temporary ‘ceasefire’ to allow for shipments of ‘humanitarian aid,’ and the whole thing goes off without a hitch. The U.N. people spend a whole day patting themselves on the back, then can’t understand why things go sour as soon as the last truck leaves. So there you go: enemy number-one arms enemy number-two with the help of enemy number-three, while greasing the palms of God knows how many generals, staff officers, subordinates and checkpoint trolls along the way. And all you people down here want to talk about is hatred, intolerance, and ‘woe is me.’ When the topic’s corruption, everyone clams up.”

Vlado had no answer for him. Nor did he doubt that Toby’s little story had been true. He’d heard much of the same sort of thing around here. So he decided to just sit. Toby would be bored soon enough.

Indeed he was. Sighing, he pulled a business card from his bag.

“If you should ever happen to change your mind, here’s my card. You can reach me at room four thirty-four of the Holiday Inn. You know the place, the big yellow dump on the front line with all the shell holes. But it’s the only room in town. Who knows, if you decide a week from now to talk, I might even be able to scrounge you a sack of sugar. A little palm greasing for the good guys for a change.”

And it was that parting message, Vlado supposed, that had left him with the bitter aftertaste, a hint of shame that had played at the edge of his thoughts for the rest of the day, like the vivid last image from a waking dream.

But coffee was coffee, and he savored another sip, cradling the cup in both hands for warmth as he gazed toward the soccer field. What was so embarrassing about a little ingenuity, he told himself. He sipped the gritty remains and glanced back outside. The gravediggers were waist-deep. He had perhaps another half hour before the snipers would be stirring, although he had a feeling it would be another slow day.