Dan Fesperman: Lie in the Dark

The small crowd which had formed to watch the removal of the body now watched Damir with weary fascination. No one other than Vlado shouted or urged him on, conserving those energies for loved ones. Vlado decided to make a run for it, hoping to either tackle Damir or shove him to safety. Before he could move, there was a quick whizzing sound, followed by a loud metallic ping as a bullet struck a yellow traffic sign a few feet behind Damir. Then came the sharp report of the rifle itself, as the sound caught up to the consequences. The traffic sign quivered as if plucked by a hand from the clouds. A fresh hole rimmed in gray joined two others already orange with rust.

Surely the sniper would not miss twice, and Vlado again braced for a run, only to be interrupted by a second shot. It, too, struck the sign, though Damir had continued moving forward. Then came a third shot, and a fourth, with the sign pinging and quivering each time.

The sniper was taking target practice, and with each impact he was tapping out a message, a terse, cynical telegram of his disdain for them all.

Damir, of course, received the signal loud and clear, and as he finally reached the shelter of the opposite corner he turned and shouted to Vlado in a monotone, “You see, this is our war. Games of chance before a live audience. And when the killing spills into the grandstand, you and me get to sort it out. Maybe someday we can make up our own stories of how heroic it all was.”

Damir kept walking, neither faster nor slower than before. His footsteps were drowned out by the shouts from the U.N. sentry post. The small angry man had still not relented in his harangue of the soldier, who, for all the impassiveness of his face, might as well have been made of lead.

The gypsy’s home was predictable enough, like just about any other overcrowded apartment in the city these days: two rooms, with paint peeling on dingy walls, a garden hose creeping across the walls like a long green snake, carrying gas from an illegal hookup to a makeshift stove and to a second nozzle mounted precariously at eye level, spurting a small jet of flame that provided the only light in the gloom of late afternoon. On the stove was a large pot encrusted with day-old beans. The window glass was gone, taped over with milky, billowing plastic. The bed was pushed into a corner away from the window. A small bassinette sat nearby on the floor. The air was rank from sweat, whiskey, old food, and soiled diapers. And, yes, the smell of blood.

On the bed was the body of a large man sprawled face-down, his head a pulp of gore and matted hair. A hammer lay in the floor nearby, plastered with more of the same mess. Vlado took out his notebook and sat in a small chair to wait for Tomislav Grebo, who in the pared down police department was now both the evidence technician and the medical examiner, although his police work was decidedly secondary to his part-time career as a scrounger and small-time retailer. Grebo was in partnership with his cousin Mycky, who had a knack for coming up with the odds and ends necessary to keep life running in a broken city. Most mornings you’d find them seated behind a card table in the dimness of the drafty old market hall in the city center, peddling plumbing equipment that came in handy for everything from gas hookups to makeshift stoves. They’d recently expanded their operation to a second table, carrying stray cartons of Marlboros or whatever other items they managed to procure.

This meant it always took a few minutes to round up Grebo. Usually someone had to reach him on foot. But within a half hour he breezed into the apartment, rubbing his hands against the cold. He was tall and thin, with an unruly thatch of wavy dark brown hair and a thick mustache drooping above a long, narrow chin.

Grebo looked toward the bed, grimaced, then pulled an Instamatic camera from a bulging coat pocket.

“What’s today’s special?” Vlado asked, trying to cheer himself out of the funk he’d been in since watching Damir walk away.

“Cigarette lighters. BICs, too. Mycky came up with a whole case, don’t ask me how.” He paused, placing his cigarette on a small table, a column of ash hanging over the edge. “We sold a few and swapped some others for beer-Amstel, not the local shit-and a bag of salt.”

He snapped a photo, the flash popping, then waited for the print to slide from the front of the camera.

“Not a bad morning. He thinks if we’re patient we can trade the rest for gasoline.”

“Why would anyone trade gasoline for cigarette lighters?” Vlado asked.

Grebo lowered his camera, frowning. “Why would anyone trade a blow job for Marlboros?”

“Good point.”

“It all depends on need. Supply and demand. This is gut level capitalism, Vlado. After the war everything will be banks, accountants, and middlemen, so learn the easy stuff while you can.”

Vlado was used to these lectures. It amused him to think of the likes of Grebo as the future of the city’s economy. Yet he admitted that the ways of barter and the black market baffled him. He considered his new jar of Nescafe. Perhaps he could trade a little for something to break the monotony of his diet, even if only for some cabbage.

“How much cabbage do you think I could get for a quarter pound of Nescafe?” he asked.

Grebo again lowered his camera, scowling now. “Jesus, Mary, and God, Vlado,” Grebo said. Like Vlado, Grebo’s father was a Muslim, his mother a Catholic, and he had been baptized a Catholic. But like some in Sarajevo, he expressed his religious affiliation mostly through his choice of curse words. “Only an idiot would trade coffee for cabbage.”

“But you just said …”

“That’s different. Marlboros for blow jobs, yes. Coffee for cabbage, not even on the same map. It’s a matter of comparable worth. I keep telling you, it’s supply and demand. You’re still thinking like a Communist, a fucking Yugoslav. Coffee’s as good as hard currency, save it for something special. Cabbage you can get with army cigarettes, and army cigarettes you can get anywhere.” He glanced furtively around the room, adding in a lowered voice. “You might even find some here, unless the gypsy’s cleared them out.”

Vlado continued to brood about his Nescafe. If not cabbage, then maybe some oranges? It made him tired to think about it. Better just to keep the coffee or he’d only end up feeling cheated.

They stepped around the body as they talked, not once mentioning it. Grebo snapped photos while Vlado jotted a note now and then, plotting out the room’s dimensions in case anyone ever asked, which no one ever did. They began talking of food. People in Sarajevo sometimes seemed to talk of nothing else.

“Did you hear about Garovic,” Grebo said. “Eating again on the U.N.’s tab, and they took him to Club Yez. Again.”

Garovic was Lutva Garovic, their boss. Club Yez was Sarajevo’s best restaurant, safe and snug in a deep, brick cellar with a fireplace and a piano player. Every bottle at its bar had the right label, no matter what was really inside, and the kitchen had spices and fresh meat. Deutschemarks only. U.N. people, foreign journalists, and successful smugglers were the only ones who could afford the place, and on any given night they could be found dining together, asking no questions of each other except perhaps whether the special was worth a try.

“His third time this month,” Grebo said, disgusted. “And of course he had to tell me all about it. He was going on and on about this piece of veal. A filet, ‘Pink as a puckered cunt,’ he said, the asshole. And twice as juicy’ All you can do is sit there and listen. Tell him what you really think and you’ll be up on Zuc shooting at Chetniks by the end of the week.”

“Fat chance. If he fires you he’ll have to fill out forms, recruit a replacement, answer questions to higher ups. Aggravation’s not his style.”