Reif Larsen - I Am Radar

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.”

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 middle 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 Danilovi c 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.”