The old woman began to cry again. The daughter dropped the bags and shouted angrily at him. The boy gave the others a puzzled look and asked for an ice cream.
Most of the things they had packed were useless, or at least the junk was. The Jurišićs laid it out on the floor of the room and wondered why they had brought it with them. The very next day they remembered all the things they should have brought instead. The trinkets they had left in Sarajevo were worth their weight in gold, unlike the trinkets packed in the suitcases. But it was impossible to go back and fetch anything. The familiar world had disappeared, and there was no help, at least not for those who remembered what it was like.
In fact the story about the Jurišićs has a happy ending. They are still alive — yes, all of them — and nothing unusual has befallen the family, not even anything I could use as a punchline. It was only worth putting down on paper because of all the wakeful nights in unfamiliar hotel rooms that bring you closer to home, to your own world. Calmly pay for your hotel room and go to the bar for another coffee. Exchange a few words with the barman and then relax. . You are not one of those people who are constantly followed from one part of town to the other by a small yellow dog. There is no point in going back and trying to stroke the dog, because it would only run away. In any case, it always comes back when you start walking again.
Blind Man
The real argument only started when Zoran turned up with the scales he’d borrowed in the neighborhood. They placed the contraption in the middle of the dining-room table. At either end is a chair — one for Diana, the other for the boy — and in the corner of the room there is a huge pile of things: shirts, sweaters, shoes, bags, books, cassettes, figurines, sleeping bags, a hockey helmet, a Walkman, a baseball bat, a punctured soccer ball, an illustrated book about the forge at Zenica, a make-up bag, coats, a skiing jacket, a torch, a microphone, two alarm clocks, army cutlery, comics, a box with family photos, combs, sunglasses, towels (beach as well as bathroom), a wooden jewelry box, a red model Ferrari, seven toy soldiers, a briefcase with documents. .
There is a large sheet of paper and a pencil in front of Diana. The boy, who feels as if he is about to sit a math exam, is cooling his sweaty hands on the veneer of the table. Zoran adjusts the scales.
“Diana,” he begins, “write: a woman’s thick sweater — half a kilo. The Travnik Chronicles and The Journey of Alija Djerzelez — also half a kilo; a man’s coat — five kilos; English dictionary — three and a half kilos; seven vests for the child — 250 grams.”
Three hours later, the weighing is over. The boy is still sitting motionless while Diana adds up the total. She puts the pen down on the paper, remains silent for a few seconds, and then sighs, “One hundred and seventeen kilos and 250 grams.”
Zoran takes an old pair of jeans and throws them into the other corner of the room. He goes for the toy soldiers but the boy yells. Zoran flinches as though he’d just touched a hot stove. Then he reaches for the sleeping bags.
“No!” says Diana. “You don’t know what it’ll be like there.”
“For goodness sake, woman, we’re not going there to sleep in sleeping bags.”
“No, they’ll be waiting for us in Lord Carrington’s villa and they’ll let us sleep in Bill Clinton’s bedroom. Don’t touch my sleeping bag, or the child’s. If you want to go ahead and freeze, that’s ok.”
Zoran sits down in the empty chair. He stretches his arms and puts his hands on his knees. Diana goes over to the pile and picks up The Travnik Chronicles with her left and and the Bible with her right.
“Choose!” she says.
Zoran gets up, angrily snatching the books. The boy starts to cry, knocks his chair over and then shuts himself in the bathroom. With all the shouting it’s difficult to make out the words. The argument is no longer about particular things and how much they weigh. It is clear that the man and the woman are reproaching each other for all the dirty looks and all the shit they’ve given each other during the last five years. By dawn they have calmed down. Hoarse and sweaty, with mechanical movements and a sort of numbness in their eyes, they start removing sweaters, books and shirts. The boy doesn’t come out of the bathroom, and they don’t give him a second thought until they start weighing things again. Zoran finds the boy asleep on the tiled floor. He takes him in his arms and gently carries him to bed. The grown-ups put the things into the bags without a word and check for the last time — sixty-six kilos, the exact amount they are allowed to take with them. It is already daylight when they go to bed. They don’t even look back at the pile of rejected things.
The boy is the first to leave the house, carrying two bags and with his hockey helmet hanging down his back like a cowboy hat. He is followed by Zoran and Diana with the cases. She gives the keys back to the landlord.
“The flat is clean, we’re going, there are some things in the living room, so if you want anything, help yourself. You can throw the rest away.”
The neighbors watch her go in silence. The landlord gives her a limp handshake. Diana responds in kind.
At the bus station the bus that will take the Bosnian refugees from Sarajevo to Vienna Airport stands apart as if it is being hidden. The diplomats from the American embassy call out names and write them down. Relatives and friends stand to one side and cry. A blond young man with a strong foreign accent keeps on repeating in an official tone of voice that the ones who are traveling should not mix with those staying behind. Three young men laugh and wave to a young woman who replies with a walking stick. One of them shouts, “Don’t cry, people, America is a big country!” Everyone laughs and, pleased with the reaction, the young man repeats his announcement.
An old Muslim woman with a scarf gets out of a taxi. She is followed by a younger woman who takes the arm of a man with bandages over his eyes. He is wearing dark glasses, and his clumsy movements suggest that he has only recently become blind. Two huge characters come up to him and hug him and kiss him on both cheeks. A rumor circulates that the blind man was the military commander of the last Bosnian town to be massacred. The crowd of onlookers makes way for the blind man and his friend. They go straight past the Americans and join the group of people who are waiting to leave. The blind man is saying something. He laughs, shakes hands and gives the traditional two kisses.
After saying a few goodbyes, the sorrow merges with boredom. Those about to leave and the people seeing them off begin to exchange almost perfunctory smiles. A joker begins to sing. “To hell with America and all its gold too, / Why do I need your picture when I haven’t got you. .” There is no reaction, however.
At last the driver shows up, waving to the Americans, who begin to call out names. One by one the Bosnians climb on to the bus, sit down in their designated seats and glance back toward the farewell committee. People thought of the many things they’d forgotten to say to their relatives and friends. Each of them started mouthing words indecipherably through the window, or pulling faces and silently calling out to the others. When all the passengers had boarded the bus, the driver started up the engine. But then immediately he got out of the bus again and waddled over to the station as if he had no intention of driving anywhere.
Fifteen minutes later he came back, shook hands with each of the Americans and climbed back on to the bus. The hydraulics made a farting noise and the door closed. The passengers stopped miming or lip-reading in mid-sentence and the bus moved off. The people left in the bus station waved, and as the bus went past they all turned. The young woman turned to the blind man, who, like a mechanical doll, waved toward the invisible sound of the engine, a sound that stank of gasoline and old fishing boats.