18.

MOLLY STAYED ON his knees. By the end of her last clip, they could both see that Irena’s bullets had blown out the largest part of the white T in the blue head of the silhouette. There was a hole the size of her fist in the center of the figure’s chest. Irena turned on her ass to lean back on her elbows. She was breathless, drowsy, wound up, and unexpectedly sorrowful.

“Oh shit,” she said to Molly. “It’s too much.”

“What?”

“I mean,” she began to laugh, “I need a fucking cigarette.”

Molly had none. He squirmed around on his knees and took Irena’s rifle into his arms. “It’s not good for you,” he told her with teasing sternness.

“But this so fucking is.” Irena heard herself talking in a kind of grave, astonished giggle. Her back bowed as she arched back on her shoulder blades.

“You’re first-rate,” Molly told her.

“Tell me I’m amazing. Tell me you’ve never known anyone like me.”

“You’re getting carried away,” said Molly, but nicely.

“I’m pretty damn good,” said Irena. “Admit it.”

“I do. But you can still learn,” Molly told her.

“Oh, fuck yes, I know,” said Irena. “Show me, show me.”

“Soon, soon,” Molly said. He had crooked the small finger of his right hand in the trigger guard. He pressed his left palm against the heat of the barrel.

“Fuck,” she snapped back. “What do you know?” Her humor had turned suddenly surly. “You could be on the other side,” she said.

“Quite a few old comrades are,” said Molly.

“But it’s not your war. What do you care?” asked Irena.

“But I do,” said Molly. “If you win, I get references.”

“What does it matter?” Irena wanted to know. “You said it yourself—you could be on anyone’s side.”

Molly finally dipped his fingers into a shirt pocket to find a small pack of French chewing gum. The name caught Irena’s attention: Hollywood.

“I could like girls, too,” said Molly, upending three sticks into the palm of his hand. “I just don’t.”

Irena let the avowal pass without remark. She turned onto her right hip and reached her left hand down onto the stock of the rifle. “If you were on the other side,” she began. “Not that other side. I don’t care about that. I mean on the other side of the river. If you worked for them. If they paid you, you’d shoot me.”

“That’s too dramatic,” said Molly. He rolled the foil from a stick of gum between two fingers. “If they paid me, I’d shoot anyone. Besides”—he flicked the foil like a small soccer ball over Irena’s shoulder—“your side’s paid up. Besides, besides, besides—if I teach you well, you’d get me first.”

         

MOLLY DELIVERED IRENA to Tedic that afternoon just as darkness began to spread across the delivery docks. Tedic stood at an inclined gray steel shipping desk that he had appropriated as a work surface. The surrounding shadows gave his perch the look of the lair of some observant bird. Irena cinched her hands against her hips as she walked toward Tedic. “Do you have many more like Molly?” she asked.

“I knew you two would get along.”

“I’ve heard you’ve got a couple of Americans,” said Irena. Molly had admitted to one. Mostly, though, it was Irena’s guess, and was meant to force Tedic to turn over his cards.

Tedic answered by confirming nothing. “We get volunteers,” he said. “People show up from Bosnian neighborhoods in Detroit or Toronto. They weep bloody tears. ‘I want to help my people.’ I assume that Belgrade sends them. I tell them to dig ditches. Some of them turn out to be sincere. When they get hungry, they go home. That’s why I look for professionals.”

“Professional assassins,” said Irena. “Molly—I’ve been trying to figure out his name.”

“Professionals,” Tedic stressed, then softened his tone. “Old French legionnaires. They seem to be Ukrainians these days. South Africans who miss the good old days of guerrilla wars. Rummy old Brits who always hire themselves out to the next war going.”

“They don’t know the neighborhood,” said Irena. She meant it as a metaphor.

“Exactly.” Tedic seized on the word. “They aren’t neighborhood boys who get sappy about shooting into their old streets, schools, and coffeehouses, where they used to sip slivovitz. No high-school friends across the way. Most of these boys don’t have neighborhoods. Most of them don’t have friends. I’ve got a Kosovar Albanian who’s eager to settle scores with Serbs. I grant him his dream. I’ve got a Moroccan who I’m pretty sure is really an Israeli, sent to keep an eye on armed Muslims. But he does good work for us both. A Russian or two, of course.”

“Russians are pro-Serb,” said Irena.

“Russians,” Tedic said, smiling, “are pro-money.”

“Any girls?”

“A question my wife used to ask me,” said Tedic. But he went on. “Some of the best.”

“And on the other side?” Irena asked. Tedic let a moment pass and twisted a paper clip in his fingers.

“Much like us, I suppose,” he said.

“Who do I shoot?” Irena asked finally.

“We’ll tell you. We’ll go over maps, point out streets, show you where to look.”

“But who, exactly?”

“It’s not a matter of who,” said Tedic. “Often we’ll just want you to shoot out the tires on a truck. Sometimes, we’ll just want you to send a little love note through somebody’s office window. Or put a bullet through Slobo’s nose on a street poster.”

“You cannot be training me,” Irena told him, “just to shoot at posters.”

Tedic deployed his newest world-weary smile. “Sometimes it may be a who,” he said. “We look for uniforms—soldiers, police. We’ll show you how to recognize the police who are too cowardly to wear uniforms, and go about dressed like you or me. Possibly in something from your very closet in Grbavica.”

Irena had let a cigarette between her fingers burn down to the butt. She held out her hand in sudden surprise, and saw two smudged brown shadows between a couple of her knuckles.

“We don’t shoot civilians,” Tedic continued. “Let me revise that. We shoot civilians only when they are armed and mean to do us harm. The black-sweater brigades. Not exactly a boys’ choir, are they? But I think you know that.”

Irena said nothing.

Tedic rushed on. “Most of the work is mundane. It’s waiting, being quiet, and wanting to take a piss. You almost never see anyone over there to shoot. The Serbs have figured out those areas that are blind to us. That’s where they go about their business—the routine and the murderous. You make them worry. You make them restless. You make them lose sleep. You just shoot at a spot.”

Irena bristled at Tedic’s inventiveness. But any retort she ran through her mind sounded hollow before it could reach her throat. “Bullets aren’t so predictable,” she finally answered. “We’ve all seen that. They hit, ping, and wind up God knows where. You can hit the turret of a Serb tank and the bullet bounces a block away, into the skull of some old lady picking roses.”

“An old Serb lady,” said Tedic.

“Oh shit,” said Irena. “That makes no difference.”

“An old Serb lady,” Tedic continued, unfazed, “who stood by when her Muslim neighbors were dragged away, then went into their apartment and took their teacups and television set. Some other Serb lady who cheers Karazdic when he says Sarajevo must be cleansed. Or one of those enchanting Serb kids spraying slogans about rag-head girls on their classroom walls. Could a bullet meant for a Serb general skid off and hit such a person? Past the age of twelve, I call no one here innocent.”

         

THE NEXT MORNING Tedic opened the door into a small storeroom in which a bright steel light screamed down on a set of gray overalls unrolled over three sacks of grain; stubby black shoes arranged in descending order, like a family of bears in a children’s storybook; a roll of paper towels standing behind on a box; and, in front of the towels, a dark blue oval shroud, slit at the center.

“I need to tell you about each and every item,” Tedic insisted gently. “If you know the reason behind everything, you’ll be less likely to ques-tion it.”

The smudged coveralls had dark letters sewn above the left of the breastplate: DRAGAN.

“Specially made, you will notice,” said Tedic.

“For someone else.”

“All the same,” he replied.

Irena sensed that Tedic was beginning to take pleasure in watching her discover and defuse his jokes.

“The war closes down gas stations,” he continued, “and we get a bounty of uniforms. You get a gray one for camouflage among the beams and ruins. If we ever put you into a tree or on a hill, we have green and brown ones, too, depending on the season. Even quite a few blue ones we haven’t figured out a use for yet. Now, I know that you know this, but please listen anyway. You have Dragan’s outfit on at all times, and you keep it zipped over every part of you. We will give you this charming ski mask as well. We will give you as many as you need or want, a different one each day if it is your whim. Bosnians have lots of ski masks. What else would we use them for right now? When you aim and fire, your hands will be held in at your chest. But any inch of your precious pink flesh showing can wave like a flag to our friends on the other side. It is the first thing they look for through their binoculars.

“So, zip Dragan’s sleeves down to your wrists. Tuck his pant legs into your shoes. Zip the front up under your chin, and pull the neck of the ski mask over your throat and stretch it over your collarbone. We will help you. You must think of this uniform as a spaceman’s moon suit. An astronaut cannot roll up the sleeves of his moon suit a few inches without exposing his flesh to an atmosphere that would cause his body to pop. You must think of Dragan’s costume as being just as essential for life.”

“I’ll try.”

“You will!” Tedic insisted. His tongue leaped and lapsed back suddenly. “I am a sentimental man,” he went on, “but it is not your safety alone that concerns us. If someone spots you in a place and shoots you, we cannot send someone back to that place for a time. I tell you the truth because I know you are a smart girl and would see through anything else. So, wear this uniform at all times. I usually have to tell girls to take care to tuck their hair inside the ski mask.”

Tedic allowed himself a smile at the blunt, practical cut that Irena kept. She would be able to turn out of a pivot without signaling her direction with a flapping of curls. “Shoes, too,” he said. “Not those collector’s items you wear now, but something that might save your life. Size forty?”

“Usually.”

“We have a pretty good selection. Before the Indian troops left town, we made them a pretty good deal on their shoes. They would have sold us their underwear. Okay, so we have you in Dragan’s smock and an Alberto Tomba ski mask and Sayeed’s shoes. But remember, these costumes are not armor-plated. They might obscure you among the rafters and girders, but they can’t stop bullets. You can’t rely on garb alone.

“There are other things you cannot take for granted. You cannot take up any water, okay? This is hard to say, because we can get water in the brewery. But you can’t drink it on the job. I don’t care if you’re up there for two hours or eight, no water. Nothing glistens like a plastic water bottle. Hold it to your lips, you draw a target on your mouth. Even if we put water in an old goat’s bladder, if you drink, you will piss. If you have to piss anyway, do it in your pants, okay? Don’t hesitate. If you are nervous, and it’s maybe a little cold, that will happen. You were expecting to meet Tom Cruise in one of our bombed-out buildings? He would be charmed, anyway. Piss dries. But if you unzip your gray suit to squat, you’ll have to reveal your lovely pink bum to the world. I don’t care if you’re certain that you’re hidden behind a wall. Someone sitting across the way will be looking through a telescope and see the ass of his dreams winking at him. He will thank God and then fire a bullet into the very spot on your buttocks that he wants to bite. It’s basic psychology, male or female. Shoot what you cannot have.”

         

TEDIC CROSSED OVER to the door to check for eavesdroppers. He left the door open a crack to recharge himself with air for the monologue ahead. He cleared his throat like an engine kicking in.

“Hmmm-oookay now. Hhhoookay. So, no drinking, no unzipping. No snacks. If you get hungry, well, we’re all hungry, aren’t we? Now, this is really important: no smoking while you’re up there. This is very hard to say to a Bosnian. I have been smoking since I was six. It’s especially hard to hear now, when so many people are smoking to curb hunger. But flicking a match shows a flame for miles. The end of a cigarette glows bright orange, and we’re trying to keep you gray. Little white curlicues of smoke catch the light. They know they have only to follow them down a few feet to find you. If you’ve never believed smoking is bad for you, believe it in your working hours. Think of it this way: we want you to live long enough to get lung cancer.

“Now look, we have at least one other important diktat. Your personal life is your own. How you spend your personal time is none of our business. But don’t drink booze or smoke hash for eight hours before you come to work. Drink as much beer as you can before that, if you want. Drink anything else that comes your way if you find it. But if the booze is still in your system, it throws off your dexterity and timing. Perhaps you’ve played the occasional basketball game while hungover.”

Irena didn’t fight the flush that was reddening her face.

“So you know,” Tedic went on. “You need no reminder. Now listen, I know there’s hashish in town. It’s easier for a Ukrainian soldier to hide hash in his crotch than a veal steak. Even as a school principal, I had no problem with hash. Sometimes I’ve even wanted to tell some hyperactive hellion brought to my office, ‘Give us all a break. Smoke a hash pipe every now and then.’ When I was your age, we were proud to know that Sarajevo got the best hash in Yugoslavia. But a few hours later—I’m sure you know this—hashish makes you hungry. We don’t want you fidgety and agitated.

“Now, we have to be a little more strict about something else. Don’t snort cocaine—ever. This has nothing to do with morals. Morals are not exactly my area of expertise, now, are they? You’re smart enough to know not to accept moral advice from someone who’s showing you how to shoot people.”

Irena marked this as Tedic’s first admission.

He went on quickly. “My admonition is strictly practical. Your work requires calm. Cocaine makes your heart race. Then, hours later, your heart stops racing and you collapse. It’s hard enough for us to be energetic now, when we’re eating just a few beans, some rice, some Spam. None of us is eating what you would call a ‘breakfast of champions.’ Besides, in the middle of this siege no one is going to begrudge you a little grass. The police have quite enough to do without worrying about kids smoking tea leaves, but if you get caught with cocaine they’ll wonder where you got the money. When they find out that you work at the brewery, they’ll start asking questions—do you follow? They’ll resent the fact that you have money for drugs when most Sarajevans can’t buy bread or soap. Ecstasy, LSD—the same prohibition holds. They fuck with your perception. You must be clear-eyed. If anything else comes your way, ask us first. You’ll find that we don’t want to deprive you of fun; we’re not your parents. But we need to make you the best instrument possible.

“Now then, because most of your friends and family don’t have jobs, they’ll be interested in yours. Make up nothing—you won’t be able to remember it. Evade, distract, avoid. Tell them you’ve been warned not to talk because of spies.

“Boyfriends are likewise none of my business. Girlfriends, either. Just don’t let yourself sacrifice a good sleep for an hour or two of recreation. What’s exhausting about sex isn’t sex; it’s staying up, drinking beer, and trying to get laid. There’s a lot of fucking going around right now. Not true romance. Just a lot of ‘We might be dead tomorrow, let’s fuck while we still can.’ I’ve tried that line myself.

“Should you want to get close to someone, remember that confiding in him or her about your work is the worst way to do it. They will not be able to understand what you see or do every day, not at all. Confession will confuse or frighten the good ones, and truly fascinate only the bad ones; they’ll want to use you to dispense their vengeance. Sometimes you’ll hear friends—or some boy trying to impress you—talk about the war. They will assert something very positively that you know to be untrue. You must not be tempted to set them right. Let them have the distraction of their ignorance. You may even be amused by it. You will appreciate how much you really do know by how much your friends cannot even fathom. In any case, they cannot appreciate that you are right.”

Irena spoke for the first time in Tedic’s oration. “Now,” she said. “Now you have me scared.”

“Of dying? Who isn’t?”

“Oh, shit no,” Irena said. She added very simply, “Of living like this.”

Tedic stopped at that. He wasn’t reaching for punctuation or drama, or to reposition his argument. His face took on something mournful. “Remember,” he said, “all we wanted in Sarajevo was to be left alone. Left alone to smoke and drink, stay up late and listen to jazz, ski and screw, and otherwise pursue this brilliantly irrelevant mixed culture we have built over five centuries. Then one weekend that changed. They knocked down our doors. They dragged us out of the cafés in which we used to so wisely declaim about Kafka, Sidney Bechet, and Michael Jordan. They raped us, dear. Now they’re starving and shooting us. The mandarins in Washington and London, the café crowd in Paris and New York, wring their hands over our fate. They wail against war. But they don’t undo their fingers from their prayers or their espresso cups to help. Right now, five seconds only, the window is closing; we have at least the brief hope of a choice. We can stay with our frivolous, peaceful ways and die silently, leaving the world our names for another memorial. Or we can use every wicked trick they have used on us, and a few more we can think up, to strike back. And buy an extra day of life.”

         

THE MORTAR FIRE and sniping were especially intense that night. Aleksandra came up from her apartment to sleep with the Zarics in their living room—that was what they now called Grandma’s apartment.

Irena found it comic and uncomfortable to sleep in the same room as her parents. When she shifted or flinched—or, as she did a couple of times, screamed in her sleep—her mother would roll over and take her flailing arms into her own hands. She thought Irena looked like a kitten twitching in her sleep.

Irena cried out that night. Mrs. Zaric awoke first, but she couldn’t make out the words. She crawled over and held Irena, who was trembling.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

Irena stirred. Then she began to laugh. She thrummed her fists against her chest.

“You’re laughing,” said Mrs. Zaric. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” said Irena. “Say that again, Mother.”

“What’s wrong?”

Mr. Zaric had pulled himself up on his elbows and he, too, began to laugh. “Again, Dalila dear,” he said. “Listen to yourself. Think about each word. What’s. Wrong. What’s. Wrong. What’s wrong?”

Aleksandra, Irena, and her father laughed harder.

Mrs. Zaric suddenly raised a hand to her forehead. “Oh, I understand now,” she said. “Yes, that’s pretty funny. What’s wrong? Oh, nothing special.” She was finally laughing. She laughed so much that she decided she needed a cigarette to settle her breathing, and fumbled around on the floor for anyone’s pack of Drinas.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Irena repeated the words drowsily, as if they were the refrain of a favorite song. She could see the orange veins of mortar rounds scoring the sky as she laughed herself to sleep like a child.

         

IN THE MORNING she found a small blue envelope folded into the right pocket of the jeans she had left beside her on the floor, in case she had to dress quickly. Aleksandra’s handwriting looped across one side. “Shh,” she had written. “For Your Eyes Only. A.”

When Irena turned the envelope around, she recognized Tomaslav’s handwriting:

TO IRENA ZARIC PERSONAL PLEASE
FOR HER ONLY

Aleksandra must have retrieved it from the synagogue. Irena’s new duties did not always permit her to make that run for the building, and Aleksandra enjoyed arranging her route to run into French soldiers and their chivalrous donations of cigarettes to old ladies. Irena crawled below the living-room window in her panties, her jeans with the note slung over her shoulders, to slip into the bathroom and close the door. Her brother’s note was written on a British Museum greeting card that showed an eighteenth-century Wenceslaus Hollar engraving of a cat receiving a deputation of mice. Tomaslav’s handwriting looked plain and firm.

Dearest sister:

On my way to Chicago. Man at Bosnian office here got me student visa. Now, I must find something to study. You will hear from me. Will make your case to Toni Kukoc. Will write another note to Milan and Dalila from there c/o synagogue. Don’t tell them about this—please—I want no one to worry. You are the ones who are bearing the worst. I hope to begin to pay you back soon. Those who love Sarajevo should not stay away. Funny—but Chicago may be a step closer.

With love always,
Tomaslav

And on the back of the card, above “The rights to this image reserved by the British Museum,” Tomaslav had added:

PS: Pretty Bird would join up, too! Chirrrp! Pretty Bird!

I’m not going to tell him about Pretty Bird, Irena thought, at least not yet. Then she realized: I don’t know how to reach him. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know where he’s going. And I don’t like the way he suddenly says “With love always,” like the note some people leave on a pillow before they steal away in the dark and you never see them again.