Read Online Sarajevo Marlboro by Miljenko Jergovic - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miljenko Jergovic
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cityâs matriarchs when their daughters got engaged to unbelievers, and nobody was more tactful in extending his condolences.
Slobodan was exemplary in most respects, but he used to get very irritated if somebody addressed him by a nickname such as Boban, Sloba or Boba. Often he would stand in the middle of the road, clench his fists with childish anger and howl at the culprit, âSlobodan! Slobodan! Slobodan!â In a flash the neighborhood rogues pinpointed his weak spot, and as a result poor Slobodan was taunted endlessly. He became the local idiot. Small children ran after him in the street. Idle young men standing under the café awnings with bottles of beer in their hands poked fun at Slobodan mercilessly, until perhaps an older and respected member of the community decided to chase the rowdy layabouts away â and to take Slobodan home.
In the end Slobodan came to resemble any other madman dressed in rags and always hungry. Nobody really knows how he managed to survive after his motherâs death. Did the neighbors feed him? Or was he intelligent enough to scavenge for a crust of bread in the rubbish bins?
One of the first CNN bulletins from Sarajevo contained footage of Slobodan wandering aimlessly through the city as dozens of shells exploded on all sides. The camera followed him for about seventy yards, no doubt because the journalists were expecting to capture the moment when the Serb onslaught destroyed an innocent life in Sarajevo. Slobodan very casually sauntered over to the cameraman and gave him a warm smile. You half-expected him to launch into a series of questions about family trees, but he didnât stop. He just went on hisway as the shells continued to fall. That night the reporter, with some disappointment, informed viewers that there were insanely brave people living in Sarajevo.
Trout
At night only the sky glows. It lights up houses, skyscrapers and telegraph poles, illuminating the branches of trees and casting the long shadows of a few passersby â a generous sky that protects us from darkness. A young man stands on the roof, smoking a cigarette and hoping to see the landscape. His choked-up view of the city makes it hard to imagine the waterfront or the neon sparkle of a leaping fish, not to mention the voices of water fairies, a time-honored curse (âMay your mother have to dredge up your corpse from the bottom of the lake!â), a shout from the other bank, the sound of a distant folk song amid the echo of breaking glasses from a bar twenty miles away.
Fifteen years ago he had escaped from his own part of the country â it was the only lake district in Bosnia â and settled in a city whoselight and dark were to become more important to him than anything in his old life. At first he was comforted by the distant sounds â the hoot of a train leaving the station half a dozen miles away, the noisy rhythm of machines in the sock factory, the rattle of late-night trams, the shimmering light over Mounts Igman and BjelaÅ¡nica, the frozen grind of the first snow, the ice crunching underfoot, the sound of axes hacking away at the snowdrift in front of the garage door. Soon the noises began to fade away and his impressions of the lake became unreliable, almost fake. In spite of himself, he grew accustomed to the other world that was separated from the world of his childhood by a distance of only fifty miles and yet was utterly different.
The loud blast sounded like a final explanation; it made the lights go out, restoring to the world the peace and tranquillity that was behind his closed eyes. The young man stood on top of the house, on the edge of its flat roof, swaying gently in the wind. That morning, unfamiliar voices from the lake had brought news of his fatherâs death. But how reliable was the information? Of course he couldnât be sure, not when all the phones were down. In any case, reliable messengers only entered Sarajevo by accident.
There
Slobodan was exemplary in most respects, but he used to get very irritated if somebody addressed him by a nickname such as Boban, Sloba or Boba. Often he would stand in the middle of the road, clench his fists with childish anger and howl at the culprit, âSlobodan! Slobodan! Slobodan!â In a flash the neighborhood rogues pinpointed his weak spot, and as a result poor Slobodan was taunted endlessly. He became the local idiot. Small children ran after him in the street. Idle young men standing under the café awnings with bottles of beer in their hands poked fun at Slobodan mercilessly, until perhaps an older and respected member of the community decided to chase the rowdy layabouts away â and to take Slobodan home.
In the end Slobodan came to resemble any other madman dressed in rags and always hungry. Nobody really knows how he managed to survive after his motherâs death. Did the neighbors feed him? Or was he intelligent enough to scavenge for a crust of bread in the rubbish bins?
One of the first CNN bulletins from Sarajevo contained footage of Slobodan wandering aimlessly through the city as dozens of shells exploded on all sides. The camera followed him for about seventy yards, no doubt because the journalists were expecting to capture the moment when the Serb onslaught destroyed an innocent life in Sarajevo. Slobodan very casually sauntered over to the cameraman and gave him a warm smile. You half-expected him to launch into a series of questions about family trees, but he didnât stop. He just went on hisway as the shells continued to fall. That night the reporter, with some disappointment, informed viewers that there were insanely brave people living in Sarajevo.
Trout
At night only the sky glows. It lights up houses, skyscrapers and telegraph poles, illuminating the branches of trees and casting the long shadows of a few passersby â a generous sky that protects us from darkness. A young man stands on the roof, smoking a cigarette and hoping to see the landscape. His choked-up view of the city makes it hard to imagine the waterfront or the neon sparkle of a leaping fish, not to mention the voices of water fairies, a time-honored curse (âMay your mother have to dredge up your corpse from the bottom of the lake!â), a shout from the other bank, the sound of a distant folk song amid the echo of breaking glasses from a bar twenty miles away.
Fifteen years ago he had escaped from his own part of the country â it was the only lake district in Bosnia â and settled in a city whoselight and dark were to become more important to him than anything in his old life. At first he was comforted by the distant sounds â the hoot of a train leaving the station half a dozen miles away, the noisy rhythm of machines in the sock factory, the rattle of late-night trams, the shimmering light over Mounts Igman and BjelaÅ¡nica, the frozen grind of the first snow, the ice crunching underfoot, the sound of axes hacking away at the snowdrift in front of the garage door. Soon the noises began to fade away and his impressions of the lake became unreliable, almost fake. In spite of himself, he grew accustomed to the other world that was separated from the world of his childhood by a distance of only fifty miles and yet was utterly different.
The loud blast sounded like a final explanation; it made the lights go out, restoring to the world the peace and tranquillity that was behind his closed eyes. The young man stood on top of the house, on the edge of its flat roof, swaying gently in the wind. That morning, unfamiliar voices from the lake had brought news of his fatherâs death. But how reliable was the information? Of course he couldnât be sure, not when all the phones were down. In any case, reliable messengers only entered Sarajevo by accident.
There
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