city. We don’t know whether there is an international landing strip at K. but the toilets in the parking lot by the airport are clean, cleaner than many facilities in Europe and North America. That must have been heard by some of the soldiers who, below the commander’s treetop, were at a loss because toilets had suddenly become the main topic of conversation and everywhere people were talking only of them. And besides, if there were no more soldiers to kill, let’s at least talk about something meaningful for all of us in war and peace. The conversation about toilets stirred the commander from a precarious doze, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The doze was precarious because man is not a bird that can snooze on a wire or a branch, and he always feels as if he’s sinking, dropping through whatever space he’s in toward the very end of the world. Voices whispered things again to the commander, there’s always someone who wants to be part of a secret alliance before all others, the more secretive the better, but then the commander had the impression he’d heard a familiar voice, he shifted silently and, sure enough, Mladen’s voice. The commander wondered what miracle this could be, though he was perplexed, musing on what could have brought Mladen to the enemy’s encampment. And then everything halted, transformed, and we were left alone as we’d never been before, because everything took on a different meaning, and the world became a backward mirror in which nothing was as it was, but as it might be. The commander looked into the mirror and saw himself tiny as a frog. He’d have been happiest stomping on himself, thought the commander, and he relished the scene of the actual act of dispersal, the heart flying off to the right, the liver to the left, the brain straight up, aspiring—in vain, of course—to celestial heights. The brain can ultimately be deep-fried; that is, probably, the only thing it is useful for. And what else, thought the commander, when it hadn’t warned him in time of what, even without his brain, he should have seen: that Mladen had been playing a double game the whole time, and he was, in fact, a spy for the enemy. Everything abruptly assumed an altered aspect, what had been unclear became clear, the inexplicable could be explained, and comprehension replaced incomprehension. All of Mladen’s undertakings, his triumphant arrivals after finishing his tasks, the conversations when he’d asked detailed questions about the commander’s plans and intentions, the ease with which he insisted there was no point to investigating the whole passel of murders of soldiers around the checkpoint, all this now suggested a different story, a story in which Mladen played the leading role, including the most sinister role, the role of merciless executioner. The commander had known, of course, that a different explanation was also possible, one by which Mladen had been compelled to obey commands from the highest military authority to convince the enemy of his loyalty. This would be easy for the commander to test. All he had to do was jump down and see what Mladen would do then, if he’d kill him or protect him in some way. But why should he, thought the commander, something should be left for the historians, those parasites who shape history whichever way they like, they who were themselves never part of history. Something had started happening down below, the soldiers were preparing to move, but first, as the commander could see, they were laying mines along the path that led upward, toward home. Several mines they planted around a nearby stream as well, and there would be woodland creatures killed by them that very night; the next morning the stream would be littered with the body parts of the animals. The people would be killed later. Not daring, still, to come down from the tree, the commander again fell asleep in his treetop and missed seeing the arrival of what must have been his last two soldiers, and hence he was unable to stop them from treading on the mines. The commander started from a dream in which he’d been eating a cheese burek, and for a moment he didn’t know what was happening. Then he understood, but first he thought of Mladen. He’d find Mladen a little later, along the path the enemy soldiers and tanks had gone. They hadn’t taken him with them for long, and besides now this was one less mouth to feed, and that seemed most important just then. The commander leaned over and rifled through Mladen’s jacket pockets. Apparently someone had already done the same before him, because, aside from an old bus ticket and a few coins, he found nothing. Then he remembered to check the pants pockets and there he found a black booklet in which Mladen had entered all his meetings and contacts with the other side. For us, this was a bonanza, it was nothing short of a list of the people who had worked to disappear us from the face of the earth. In the end they’d have all fared as Mladen did, this was the gruesome truth and nobody could fathom their willingness to do something that ultimately brought with it only loss. He continued searching Mladen’s corpse, and came across a thicker place on the right front side below his belt. He started unbuckling the belt but heard voices approaching and quickly dipped into the woods. While he was waiting for the voices to move off, he mused how he could have cashed his chips in with such a lack of caution, and then back he quietly went to where Mladen’s body lay—the body was gone. “Who could have taken it?” asked the commander softly, though he knew there was nobody around who could answer. Such things happened elsewhere, didn’t they? If they did, then they did, and there’s no cause for concern. He circled some twenty paces in both directions, but nowhere did he see footprints. He probably hadn’t looked carefully enough or hadn’t counted his paces well, but when he turned, prepared to head home, he saw two soldiers carrying Mladen’s lifeless body. He didn’t know who was more surprised, the enemy soldiers or our commander, but he collected himself quicker and with lightning speed (though to observers on the sidelines, had there been any, it would have looked incomparably slower) he aimed his weapon at them. The soldiers simultaneously threw their hands up, and Mladen’s body plunked down onto the path. “Watch out!” shouted the commander. “That’s not scrap iron to be thrown around like that.” The soldiers looked at each other and then one said, “But he’s dead, sir, nothing more can happen to him.” The commander wagged a finger: “You can never be sure of that, soldier. Miracles might happen at any moment. But first tell me: how did you learn my language?” The soldier laughed: “Your language? This is my language!” The commander nodded, pensive, then suddenly stared at the soldier. “My, my, are you one of the Dejanovićes?” asked the commander and when the soldier said he was, the commander asked, “What are you after here? Hands down and scram, you and your buddy.” The soldiers dropped their hands and trudged slowly downhill, but the soldier Dejanović stopped and asked, “And you? What are you after here?” The commander said nothing for a time, then pointed his gun at them and barked, “Want to see what I’m after, really?” He aimed a short burst of gunfire above their heads and, bumping each other, they sprinted away. The commander waited for them to move beyond some bushes and then he went back to Mladen’s body. He saw his belt and pants were unbuckled and he knew that whatever was hidden there had been forever lost. He should have frisked the soldiers. And now he had to worry about a new posse of the enemy that would be organized as soon as the two of them reached the meadow. He should have killed them then and there instead of inquiring about their language. One speaks the language one speaks and everyone will always speak the language they speak, and the language of the victors will always be on top, and so it goes. Besides, it would be funny if the victor were to speak the language of the loser, just as it was entirely natural for the loser to speak the language of the victor. But what about when the victor and loser speak the same language? What then? The commander didn’t like these writerly tricks that threw him into doubt and required of him at least a measure of wisdom, but still he tried to wriggle free of the trap and said, “Then, quick, think up a new language. That, at least, is easy!” Nothing is easy, thought the commander, but for language, at least, this couldn’t be easier. All I need is a little persistence and everyone will accept what is foisted on them. “Language is habit,” whispered Mladen softly as if to himself, but with a ring of triumph. “Repeat a word or phrase long enough, and you’ll end up thinking you came up with it yourself. And when you think you’ve created a word, you can allow yourself to feel that you created the world.” The commander couldn’t believe his ears: the body they’d all thought to be dead was now talking, and it showed no intention of stopping! He went over to it again and at that very moment Mladen’s eyes popped open, he sat up, and looked around. “Nice,” he said, “nobody’s here. The whole area is only ours, yours and mine, or, if you prefer, yours