There’s now a lot of talk about us leaving the city. For the first time people are openly saying we won’t be able to capture Sarajevo because the UN, after three years of doing little more than look on from the sidelines, is now becoming actively involved in the fighting. The Serbs are disappointed. After the longest siege in history, they don’t have a lot to show for their efforts. The original idea was to win half of the city and then split it, like Jerusalem. We’d have one half and they’d have the other. Then someone decided we should try to win the whole city, if only because its occupants had proved so intractable and tenacious. That would be their reward for refusing to surrender – nothing at all. It now looks as though we’ll be the ones who end up with nothing – apart from me. I’ll have a story – my story.
I think back to a time in the playground, during a midday break, when I was having a cigarette and watching some kids, three boys of about nine or ten, surround this fat kid. He was hugging an article of clothing to his chest, a T-shirt or jacket, I couldn’t really see, while he tried to turn his back on his tormentors. There were snot and tears all over his face, and even from where I was standing I could hear his squeaky, snivelling voice protesting. They were punching him, shoving him, attempting to yank the article of clothing from his grasp. It went on a long time, and I stood and watched them and wondered who’d win. I had a little bet with myself, but I got it wrong: the fat kid with the clothing won. He hung in there, gripping the jacket as if his very life depended on it, all the time being pummelled and kicked by the other three kids, until, finally, they gave up in disgust and walked away. Those people down there in the city, they’re the same as that fat kid: they refuse to give up and now, disgusted and exhausted, we’re about to walk off and let them keep their stupid city. We’ve had enough, we’re bored. Maybe we’ll find someone else we can pick on.
I’m trying to work out where I could go next. I have to go soon, somewhere, otherwise I’ll end up staying here forever, or until this war ends – whichever comes first. I’ve had enough of the Balkans and this siege, this pantomime. Some of the men have been talking about moving on to Africa, to Zaire to fight for Mobutu, and others Kosovo, to fight against the Albanians. They’re mercenaries, from all over, and they travel around to wherever there’s a war. They’re free, absolutely free, and I like that. They’re paid well for what they do, too. Maybe I should go with them to Africa. They’ve told me they can help me arrange the paperwork. They say it’s easy enough to do. I’m seriously thinking about it. Follow in the steps of Rimbaud, and give up art completely. But continue as a sniper, continue killing. Unlike Rimbaud, who only had it in him to do a spot of gun running – the limp-wristed pansy.