Dan Fesperman - Lie in the Dark

Vlado shrugged. “Maybe a quarter. Maybe more.”

“Two thirds, more likely, and who moved in after they left? Rurals and refugees. Peasants. All with a chip on their shoulder and an ax to grind. Half of the women wearing headscarves and cursing anybody who’s not just like them. You’re a Catholic with a Muslim wife. Think there’s going to be much tolerance for that around here after the war? Take a look at our government if you’re interested in postwar demo-graphics. The upwardly mobile will be Muslim and politically active, I don’t care how much lip service you hear about a multiethnic society. That died with the first four hundred shells.”

“That’s now. When people don’t have to fight to live, or stand in line for water, or think their children are going to be blown to bits every time they step out the door, they’ll change again.”

“Don’t bet on it. And don’t think these refugees are ever leaving, either. They’ve got it too good. They’re taking all the best jobs, the best empty apartments. And they stick together. When one gets a job so do all his friends and family. Besides, you’re forgetting the way memory works around here. Talked to any old Partisans from the forties who have anything nice to say about the Germans? Or to any old Chetniks who have anything nice to say about Tito? Not to mention the good old fascist Ustasha. This city’s dead, Vlado, and so is everyone in it who sticks around after the fact.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just too stubborn to admit it.”

“Not stubborn. Sentimental. You’re one of those people who’s dug himself deep into his own little bunker and gone to sleep, thinking that if you can just survive the shelling and the sniping then you’ll be able to wake up in a few years and the sun will come out, your family will come home, and you’ll pick up right where you left off.”

“Not right where I left off. I’m not naive. I know things will be different. I won’t be able to speak the same language as my daughter for one thing.”

“That you can fix. That you can repair in a few months, maybe less. But maybe Jasmina had better be wearing a scarf on her head when she comes back. And if you still have any friends over in Grbavica then you better write them a good-bye letter now, ‘cause they’ll either be moving or they’ll be living behind a wall, one running down by the river with a checkpoint at every bridge. If we’re lucky we’ll be the new Berlin, if we’re not we’ll be the next Beirut.

“You’re one of those poor deluded souls who thinks he’s got this figured out, Vlado, who believes that survival is really all there is to it. That as long as you keep your head down, stay off the bottle, and shave every now and then, you’ll come through this just as you were, with nothing worse than a few bad memories to trouble you in the blissful years of peace that lie ahead. That’s you all over, Vlado, painting your soldiers in the dark and running after your petty criminals.”

“So I should drink, then? Or stop doing my job and join the army? Or maybe whore my way around the city every week or so to let me ‘live’ again. Those are your cures for people like me?”

“You should do anything, is all I’m saying. Any act of temporary insanity will do. Anything that will convince me you don’t really believe you’re still the safe, careful man you thought you were at the beginning of this war. Self-control is a virtue, not a religion. Because in a place like this, any move you make-any move-can get you killed, so why not choose a few with some meaning, some passion. Then maybe you won’t wake up some morning ten years from now and discover you’ve buried yourself alive and there’s no one left to dig you out.”

As Vlado fumbled for a reply the office door opened from the darkened theater, and the ticket-taker’s head popped in. “Your scene’s coming up, Goran.”

“Thanks. Be right there.”

Vlado assumed a quizzical look, in welcome for the interruption, feeling awkward, unsettled. “Your scene? You doing a floor show now?”

“A food scene,” Goran answered sheepishly. “It’s part of the movie, and, well, I never like to miss it. Comes right after the shootout. A huge meal for an American holiday. A bird the size of a hatchback Yugo, glazed and brown. Tureens of hot soup, potatoes, vegetables, pastries. Wine, drinks. It’s only a minute or two, but the whole crowd swoons. You can practically hear the drool splattering on the floor. After that who cares about the plot. I’ve seen it nine times already and I still haven’t had enough.”

He rose abruptly to his feet. “But, listen, I’ll run down this Neven tale and get back to you.”

As he moved to the door Vlado remembered something else.

“One other thing,” Vlado said. “Do you remember hearing anything about Vitas’ mother. Where she is. What she’s up to?”

Goran stopped, a hand on the doorknob.

“Yes, she’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be without having seen the body”

“That’s not much assurance, coming from the expert who once said the war would be over in three months. How reliable’s your source?”

“Pretty reliable. Vitas told me.”

“When?”

“Must have been about a year ago. He’d come round here doing something a little bit like you are, searching the family tree of one hood or another. I asked after his family and he mumbled something about his late mother. Said she’d died a few months earlier. Old folks die, you know, even when there isn’t a war on. Especially when they’re bored and lonely, like you. Please, Vlado, don’t forget to call next week or I’ll come pull you out of your flat myself. And I’ll step on some of those little men while I’m there. Now, off to the dining rooms of New York.”

He opened the door to the sound of squealing tires and Hollywood gunshots, which sounded nothing at all like the sharp crack of a sniper rifle. These were soft little pops, the sound of children making believe.

By the time he left Goran’s it was probably too late to catch Damir at the office, and chances were the phones would be down as well, which rankled because now he had plenty to discuss. They’d have to remap their strategy now. If Glavas was able to deliver as promised, they’d have scores of leads to check out around the city from the transfer files, looking for lost paintings.

When he reached his apartment he was cold and bone-weary, the first time in weeks he’d felt so tired, a sensation he might even welcome if a hot bath awaited. Instead there was only a dead phone line. The temperature indoors seemed even colder.

He threw open the oven door and turned the knob for the gas, hearing the weak hiss, then lighting it with a match. He made a mental note to scrounge up some more matches. There were fewer than a dozen left in his box.

A feeble blue ring of flame sprang from the burner. As more families tapped into the pipes the pressure continued to drop, and the supply was prone to frequent interruption, sometimes for days at a time. At this rate it would be twenty minutes before he could boil a pot of water, longer still before he’d actually heat even a corner of the apartment.

He walked to the workbench in the corner of the narrow kitchen, fumbling for a few moments with some half-painted soldiers, but his hands were still too stiff for any detail work.

He sliced a piece of the butcher’s meat and chewed slowly, wrapping the rest back in the rough paper, then swigged some water from a plastic milk jug and tore at a stale heel of bread.

He pulled his bed next to the kitchen door, hoping to capture as much of any heat as possible, and decided to leave the oven on all night. It was a risky proposition. If the gas supply was cut the flame would go out, and if the gas were then turned back on, he’d either suffocate or go up in a ball of flame. One or the other event happened about once a week in the city these days, either from a faulty hookup or from a gamble just like this one. It didn’t help that the local utility had long ago exhausted its supply of the additive that gave gas its tell-tale warning scent, nor would the Serbs be sharing any of theirs any time soon.