Read Online The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven Galloway
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She exhales, and pulls the trigger.
Then sound returns to the world. She isn’t sure what has happened. She doesn’t know what a man playing a cello in the street at four in the afternoon has done to her. You will not cry, she tells herself, and she wills herself calm until after the cellist has finished, risen and returned to the building he came from. There will be no crack in her.
Nermin is looking at her.
“We need you to keep this man alive,” he says.
“I don’t understand.” She’s barely heard what he said and struggles to bring herself back into her situation.
Nermin removes his hat and wipes his sleeve across his brow. “He has said that he will do this for twenty-two days. This is the eighth. People see him. The world has seen him. We cannot allow him to be killed.”
“I can’t be responsible for him,” she says. She’s tired. She’s almost always tired, but she can’t remember the last time she acknowledged it, even to herself. An old woman shuffles past them, keeping close to the wall, and Arrow wonders which one of them is more exhausted.
Nermin shakes his head. “I’m not asking that of you. We require something slightly different.”
The place where the cellist sits, while vulnerable to shells, he says, isn’t within the direct line of fire for a sniper on the southern hills. But they have received information. It’s believed that the enemy will send a sniper into their part of the city to shoot him. And her job will be to stop that. It is, they admit, almost impossible. But, as Nermin reminds her, she has a certain talent for the impossible.
“Why don’t they just shell the street again?”
“It’s not about merely killing him. Shooting him is a statement.”
Arrow leans back against the wall and pictures the cellist lying in the street. She sees Nermin’s point. A bullet leaves evidence that a mortar doesn’t.
“Look,” he says, “we have made you a deal, and I will continue to do my best to honour it. But things are changing on our side. If you can do this, we would both benefit.”
“I don’t kill to benefit myself, or you.”
“I know. I’m just not sure how much longer that will be a position you or I can afford to take.” Nermin leans in, kisses her on each cheek, then turns and walks away. For a while she stands, not moving, not thinking. She just wants things to be still. But then the shelling begins again, and so she forces her feet to move, pulls her coat tight around her shoulders and heads for home.
Dragan
I T’S POSSIBLE THE SNIPER IS GONE. A T LEAST TEN minutes have passed since he fired, and already several people have made it through the intersection without incident. Dragan moves closer to the edge of the street, contemplating crossing. He’s hungry, feels the emptiness of his stomach urge him across. The bakery is on the other side. Only two more especially dangerous crossings and he will have bread. But another part of him knows there’s no hurry. He’s not going to starve to death over a few extra minutes of waiting, whereas a lack of caution will get him killed quicker than anything.
He steps back a bit, turns to lean against the warm metal of the railcar shielding him from Grbavica andthe hills above, up to Vraca, the old war fort. He used to take his wife and son to Vraca for picnics in the summer, when they didn’t have time to go to the park at Ilidža or up Mount Trebević. From there you could see most of the city, a fact that has taken on a whole new significance in recent months.
On his right a woman approaches, and as she gets closer Dragan recognizes her. Her name is Emina. She’s a friend of his wife, about fifteen years younger than him. Dragan has always liked her, but he doesn’t much care for her husband, Jovan. Whenever they went out for supper, which they did regularly before the war, Dragan was stuck talking to Jovan, whose only apparent interest was politics, a subject Dragan has no patience for. After a
Then sound returns to the world. She isn’t sure what has happened. She doesn’t know what a man playing a cello in the street at four in the afternoon has done to her. You will not cry, she tells herself, and she wills herself calm until after the cellist has finished, risen and returned to the building he came from. There will be no crack in her.
Nermin is looking at her.
“We need you to keep this man alive,” he says.
“I don’t understand.” She’s barely heard what he said and struggles to bring herself back into her situation.
Nermin removes his hat and wipes his sleeve across his brow. “He has said that he will do this for twenty-two days. This is the eighth. People see him. The world has seen him. We cannot allow him to be killed.”
“I can’t be responsible for him,” she says. She’s tired. She’s almost always tired, but she can’t remember the last time she acknowledged it, even to herself. An old woman shuffles past them, keeping close to the wall, and Arrow wonders which one of them is more exhausted.
Nermin shakes his head. “I’m not asking that of you. We require something slightly different.”
The place where the cellist sits, while vulnerable to shells, he says, isn’t within the direct line of fire for a sniper on the southern hills. But they have received information. It’s believed that the enemy will send a sniper into their part of the city to shoot him. And her job will be to stop that. It is, they admit, almost impossible. But, as Nermin reminds her, she has a certain talent for the impossible.
“Why don’t they just shell the street again?”
“It’s not about merely killing him. Shooting him is a statement.”
Arrow leans back against the wall and pictures the cellist lying in the street. She sees Nermin’s point. A bullet leaves evidence that a mortar doesn’t.
“Look,” he says, “we have made you a deal, and I will continue to do my best to honour it. But things are changing on our side. If you can do this, we would both benefit.”
“I don’t kill to benefit myself, or you.”
“I know. I’m just not sure how much longer that will be a position you or I can afford to take.” Nermin leans in, kisses her on each cheek, then turns and walks away. For a while she stands, not moving, not thinking. She just wants things to be still. But then the shelling begins again, and so she forces her feet to move, pulls her coat tight around her shoulders and heads for home.
Dragan
I T’S POSSIBLE THE SNIPER IS GONE. A T LEAST TEN minutes have passed since he fired, and already several people have made it through the intersection without incident. Dragan moves closer to the edge of the street, contemplating crossing. He’s hungry, feels the emptiness of his stomach urge him across. The bakery is on the other side. Only two more especially dangerous crossings and he will have bread. But another part of him knows there’s no hurry. He’s not going to starve to death over a few extra minutes of waiting, whereas a lack of caution will get him killed quicker than anything.
He steps back a bit, turns to lean against the warm metal of the railcar shielding him from Grbavica andthe hills above, up to Vraca, the old war fort. He used to take his wife and son to Vraca for picnics in the summer, when they didn’t have time to go to the park at Ilidža or up Mount Trebević. From there you could see most of the city, a fact that has taken on a whole new significance in recent months.
On his right a woman approaches, and as she gets closer Dragan recognizes her. Her name is Emina. She’s a friend of his wife, about fifteen years younger than him. Dragan has always liked her, but he doesn’t much care for her husband, Jovan. Whenever they went out for supper, which they did regularly before the war, Dragan was stuck talking to Jovan, whose only apparent interest was politics, a subject Dragan has no patience for. After a
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