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Authors: Steven Galloway
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while, he began to make excuses to get out of these dinners, until, shortly before the fighting broke out, the invitations stopped and his wife and Emina drifted out of contact.
It’s obvious to Dragan that Emina has seen him, is coming to speak to him, and he looks for somewhere to hide even though it’s pointless. There’s no way to prevent this interaction, short of running into the street, and although Dragan can barely bring himself to nod a polite hello to a stranger let alone talk to an old friend, he isn’t yet willing to risk his life to avoid a social exchange. This comforts him slightly, but he wonders if it’s possible that a day will come when he makes a different choice.
Hoping for a miracle, he stares down at his feet, attempting to appear deep in thought. Perhaps she will walk by him. It’s not impossible. It could be that she’ll walk right by him without seeing him and continue into the street, arriving safely on the other side without even knowing he was there. What he wants is to cross and get his loaf of bread as quickly as he can. He doesn’t want to encounter anyone.
“Dragan, is that you?” A hand touches his shoulder, and he realizes that his attempt to look as though he was deep in thought resulted in actual thinking. He smiles, finding this funny, and Emina smiles back.
“Hello, Emina,” he says, leaning in to kiss her on each cheek. She hugs him tight. She feels small beneath her blue wool coat. He remembers this coat. His wife once told him that she liked it, and he’d always meant to ask Emina where she got it, so he could buy one for Raza, but he never did.
“How are you? How is Raza? Where are you staying?”
He tells her as much as he can, tells her about how his wife and son left on one of the last buses out of Sarajevo, how their apartment was one of the first shelled and how he’s staying with his sister. He can’t tell her about how his wife and son left at night and when the bus pulled away he felt, somehow, that he would never see them again, even though they were going to be only a few hundred kilometres away, not even anhour by plane. He can’t tell her about the night his apartment was shelled, how he hid in the cellar with his neighbours and waited for the building to come down on top of them, or how he arrived the next day at his sister’s, his brother-in-law answering the door and looking at him as if it were his fault his apartment was destroyed. He thinks that if he were to tell her all the things he can’t tell anyone, they would be standing there for days.
She looks at him, and he can see she knows there’s more to his story than he’s telling her, but she doesn’t push him. Everyone has more than they declare. He isn’t sure what to say next. Should he ask about Jovan? What if something’s happened to him, or he’s left her? At the very least she’ll be reminded that Dragan never really liked him, and that in itself will be awkward enough.
Emina isn’t moving, she’s just standing there, waiting for him to speak. Her hair is tied back, but a few brown strands have fallen across her face. She brushes them aside, tucking them behind her ear, and puts her hand back in her coat pocket. She seems smaller than Dragan remembered, not just thinner but shorter. He’s not sure how that is possible.
If only to break this awkward silence, he speaks. “How is Jovan?” he asks, afraid of the answer.
She shrugs. “He joined the army. I don’t see much of him.”
Dragan is surprised. Jovan didn’t strike him as the sort. He’d always pegged him as more of a talker than a fighter.
Emina hesitates, perhaps seeing his surprise. “Well, he’s more of a liaison for the government between the various branches of the army.” This makes much more sense. “I’m not really sure exactly what it is he does. All I know is that he’s gone almost all the time.”
Dragan nods, not sure what to say. “There’s a sniper covering this intersection. Or at
It’s obvious to Dragan that Emina has seen him, is coming to speak to him, and he looks for somewhere to hide even though it’s pointless. There’s no way to prevent this interaction, short of running into the street, and although Dragan can barely bring himself to nod a polite hello to a stranger let alone talk to an old friend, he isn’t yet willing to risk his life to avoid a social exchange. This comforts him slightly, but he wonders if it’s possible that a day will come when he makes a different choice.
Hoping for a miracle, he stares down at his feet, attempting to appear deep in thought. Perhaps she will walk by him. It’s not impossible. It could be that she’ll walk right by him without seeing him and continue into the street, arriving safely on the other side without even knowing he was there. What he wants is to cross and get his loaf of bread as quickly as he can. He doesn’t want to encounter anyone.
“Dragan, is that you?” A hand touches his shoulder, and he realizes that his attempt to look as though he was deep in thought resulted in actual thinking. He smiles, finding this funny, and Emina smiles back.
“Hello, Emina,” he says, leaning in to kiss her on each cheek. She hugs him tight. She feels small beneath her blue wool coat. He remembers this coat. His wife once told him that she liked it, and he’d always meant to ask Emina where she got it, so he could buy one for Raza, but he never did.
“How are you? How is Raza? Where are you staying?”
He tells her as much as he can, tells her about how his wife and son left on one of the last buses out of Sarajevo, how their apartment was one of the first shelled and how he’s staying with his sister. He can’t tell her about how his wife and son left at night and when the bus pulled away he felt, somehow, that he would never see them again, even though they were going to be only a few hundred kilometres away, not even anhour by plane. He can’t tell her about the night his apartment was shelled, how he hid in the cellar with his neighbours and waited for the building to come down on top of them, or how he arrived the next day at his sister’s, his brother-in-law answering the door and looking at him as if it were his fault his apartment was destroyed. He thinks that if he were to tell her all the things he can’t tell anyone, they would be standing there for days.
She looks at him, and he can see she knows there’s more to his story than he’s telling her, but she doesn’t push him. Everyone has more than they declare. He isn’t sure what to say next. Should he ask about Jovan? What if something’s happened to him, or he’s left her? At the very least she’ll be reminded that Dragan never really liked him, and that in itself will be awkward enough.
Emina isn’t moving, she’s just standing there, waiting for him to speak. Her hair is tied back, but a few brown strands have fallen across her face. She brushes them aside, tucking them behind her ear, and puts her hand back in her coat pocket. She seems smaller than Dragan remembered, not just thinner but shorter. He’s not sure how that is possible.
If only to break this awkward silence, he speaks. “How is Jovan?” he asks, afraid of the answer.
She shrugs. “He joined the army. I don’t see much of him.”
Dragan is surprised. Jovan didn’t strike him as the sort. He’d always pegged him as more of a talker than a fighter.
Emina hesitates, perhaps seeing his surprise. “Well, he’s more of a liaison for the government between the various branches of the army.” This makes much more sense. “I’m not really sure exactly what it is he does. All I know is that he’s gone almost all the time.”
Dragan nods, not sure what to say. “There’s a sniper covering this intersection. Or at
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