Earlier today, there was an incident a little out of the ordinary. I feel bad about it. I don’t know what came over me, it was so … well, out of character. But I must write down what happened, even though it will be painful to do so.
A mother and her child had been to the well at Bascarsija, in the hilly eastern section of the city. There’s a strong Turkish influence there. The district, between the river and the city’s main mosque, the Chusrev Beg, is a maze of narrow alleys and small shops. I believe it’s many centuries old, but don’t know how many. The well is ornate, with an imposing wooden tower set on granite steps, the water being collected from scalloped marble pools at its base. It’s situated in a cobblestoned courtyard, and would normally be surrounded by trees (although these have now all been cut down for firewood), quaint shops and traditional coffee shops, called kafana. I imagine it would make a popular postcard in peacetime. I’ve often looked down on the district and thought how much I’d like to visit there, to sit in the shaded courtyard, listen to the trickle of water from the fountain, and watch the locals go about their business. Maybe I’d enjoy a coffee while I read a book or worked on my novel. I spotted the mother and child when they left this well. They disappeared behind some buildings, but I could work out the direction they were heading in and knew they’d reappear about a block away. I waited.
When they came back into view they were hurrying, but not taking any great care to keep out of sight, the woman probably believing the child would be her passport to safety. She was struggling with a large container of water, carrying it with one hand, the other holding her child. She was dragging the child along, trying to get him to hurry, but he was fed up – I could see that despite the distance between us. He probably wanted to run off and play.
I was about to shoot a hole in the container – something snipers do every day just for the annoyance factor – but changed my mind. I didn’t want to warn her. So I shot the kid first. Kids are the future, so it’s important to get rid of them. No kids, no future, that’s what Mladic is always telling us. He was about six, but it was too far to be certain. He was pale and skinny, and had the appearance of someone who had lived underground all his life. He didn’t look as if he’d ever stepped out of doors to play in the street. That was likely to be his life, hidden in a dim basement, holed up like a rat, so I probably did him a favour putting a bullet in his head.
The mother continued to clasp her boy’s hand as he went down, maybe hoping to hold him back in this world, to stop him from falling off into the void, into the black abyss. But I knew he was dead; I could see it from five hundred yards away. I hadn’t messed up the shot, I was certain of that. The mother dropped the container of water and, as she turned towards her boy, falling to her knees beside him, I put a bullet in her stomach. It was an impromptu thing, something I did without thinking. Almost on a subconscious level, it was as if I understood I didn’t wish her to die instantly. I wanted her to die, yes, but before she died I wanted her to know that her little boy was dead, that he’d never live the life she’d imagined for him, that her dreams for his future would never be realised.
She lay down beside him, carefully, one hand clutching her stomach, the other grasping her son. She moved gently, as if she was climbing into bed beside him and didn’t wish to disturb his sleep. There, in the middle of the street, in the bright sunshine, she cradled his head against her chest, and she could have been giving him a cuddle in bed last thing at night before he fell asleep. I could see she was screaming or crying, or maybe both, though I obviously couldn’t hear anything over that distance.
It was at that moment, watching this sad little tableau in the distance, I understood how cruel I was being, how much suffering I was causing the woman, allowing her to agonise like this over her own child, the fruit of her loins, the one she’d suckled, and so on and so forth. The pain must have been unbearable, so I decided to put her out of her misery … and I shot her. I finished her off. Then I begged them both to find it in their hearts to forgive me for what I’d done. Amen.
But that wasn’t what happened, not at all. That’s the problem. It’s important to get my story straight, to say what really happened. I’m not writing some piece of fiction here.
So let’s start again. This is what really happened.
I shot the boy and I wounded the mother. That much is true, one hundred per cent accurate. But I didn’t finish her off. That was the bit I made up. The bit about my feeling bad and being considerate enough to put her out of her misery, that never happened. I felt no guilt whatsoever. Instead, I edged back from my vantage point and, when out of sight of any possible snipers, I sat back against a tree and lit a cigarette. I left the woman lying in the street, alive, cradling her dead son, mourning his death while dying herself, while I relaxed and smoked a cigarette. Yes, I knew she’d die soon enough, but that’s not the point. The point is, I did not feel any guilt or pain about what I’d done, none at all. Radomir would have been proud of me. I think I was simply attempting to add a little spice to my life by saying I felt guilty, perhaps in the hope of making it more interesting, and to hell with how I achieved this. Now, with hindsight, I’m not certain this is normal. Possibly it isn’t. I persuade myself that it’s too difficult to worry about things like that, telling small stories: life’s too short. Ask that mother lying in the street. But I still have this nasty feeling in my head, this niggling pain, this nagging doubt.
Towards the middle of the afternoon, I crept back to my vantage point to see that the mother was still half lying across her boy, using him like a pillow. At first I thought she’d died, but then I detected some movement. She half raised her head and moved a hand out towards the dropped container. She was obviously thirsty. Scarcely surprising in this heat: so was I. But there was no water in the container. It had all soaked away into the ground. I could have shot her again, but I didn’t want to waste a bullet. They’re too precious. She didn’t die until later in the afternoon, that’s when I could no longer see any signs of movement. I imagine the two bodies will be removed during the night, although I don’t suppose I’ll bother to check in the morning.
I’m writing this now, later the same day, and I’m thinking, this is the kind of story I’m after, the kind of story that should interest me. It’s unusual, a little off-the-wall, not in the least bit boring. In an artistic or cultural environment where it’s increasingly difficult to be original, a true original, this story does not disappoint. Shooting a mother and child delivers the goods – and leaving her wounded to die in the street, I think that’s the cherry on the top. That’s outrageous, if I’m not mistaken. It’s definitely the kind of high note on which one could end a chapter. It will make people sit up and take notice.
Life, at times, may be stranger than fiction, but war is always stranger, there’s no doubt about that, none at all. And it’s something I’ve now experienced. As publishers, writing teachers and all the other bombastic know-alls always say, write from experience. There will surely be a place for such a scene in my book – possibly the climactic moment – so I’ll file it away with everything else for future use. One day I’m quite likely to be up on stage at some literary festival, trying to describe to my army of fans what it’s like to shoot a mother and child. ‘But didn’t you feel anything?’ some middle-aged, grey-haired maid from suburbia will protest, indignant, nervously hovering on the outer edge of my spotlight. ‘How could you have done such a thing, Mr Zorec? That’s what I don’t understand, how you can live with yourself.’ Everyone else in the auditorium will either applaud her, or hiss to show their support for me, but none of them will remain silent, that’s for sure. It’ll be good for sales, such a story, because it will make me notorious.
Being a sniper – and this is the crux of the matter – being a sniper is an excellent way to define myself as a published author. Everyone understands that the public needs its writers to have a signature, a definition to which they can cling; one that explains, if only on a superficial, almost meaningless level, the person whose book they are purchasing. ‘Ah, look,’ a reader will say to his partner as they wander along the rows of shelves in the local bookshop, ‘Here’s a new novel by Milan Zorec. He’s that sniper fellow. Remember, the one who once shot a mother and child?’ And he’ll buy it, out of curiosity.