Last Stories and Other Stories (9780698135482) by William T. Vollmann

table.— The next song began.
    A soldier said something to Enko, who laughed and told the American: He found a Serbian flag at his neighbor’s house; he’s gonna use it for target practice.
    The American smiled, because Enko and Amir were both watching him.
    This guy is an amazing fighter, said Enko, evidently deciding to trust the American for a few more minutes.— I’ll tell you what he did. He killed a Chetnik who was wearing a helmet and a bulletproof vest. Got him right in the forehead!
    Ask him if he wants a drink, said the American wearily. And if he cares to tell his story . . .
    If he accepts a drink from you, you’re lucky.
    Well, let’s hope for the best.
    He says he’ll take the drink.
    And a drink for everyone at his table. Tell them I wish them all the best.
    They want to know when the Americans will finally show some guts and intervene.
    Tell them I’m also wondering that. Amir, are you sure you don’t want anything else?
    No. Because I am driving.
    Amir, said Enko, you babysit him. I’ve got some business.
    The American took out his notebook and began to write. Although the music did not entirely obscure the echoing chitter of machine guns elsewhere, he felt safe here, like a child who pulls the blanket over his head.
    He wished that one of these women would sleep with him, although he would rather sleep with Vesna, whose front window was newly cracked and taped. The men at the other table bought him another whiskey andAmir another coffee. He was happy then. When he was older and had forgotten most of his interviews, it was such meaningless kindnesses that he remembered.
    We’re going right now, said Enko, so Amir and the American followed him to the car, where a fighter stood watching a crate, which they loaded into the back seat, and without explanations Amir slipped in beside it and lit a cigarette, so the American rode up front as Enko, who took more chances in his driving than Amir, brought them down a main street, past a windowfront crazily taped and shattered, a Serbian machine gun barking like a dog, and many people running as beautifully as a flight of dark birds, although no explosion had sounded by the time they rolled past a queue for something unknown around the corner from another apartment block with a shell-hole punched right through both ends. More slowly they rolled down a quiet narrow street of people walking calmly past bullet-holes, sitting under trees. Enko’s jaw tightened as he turned the next corner, already accelerating; so the car screeched into another lifeless place, then through a scorched place without any glass in any windows, the roof of one house still on but jagged like a kinked bicycle chain, and the American’s chest ached with useless fear. After another corner they went sedately down a sheltered straightaway, stopping to hand over the crate to three military police who sat playing cards in what used to be a photocopier repair station. They slapped Enko on the back and poured everyone a shot of
loža.
A policeman lit Amir’s cigarette with his own. Laughing, Enko wrote
Sieg Heil
and
Wehrmacht
on the wall. They returned to the car.
    Could you drop me at Marko’s? asked the American.
    What, now you have business with him? returned Enko, possessive and suspicious.
    Sure, and then he’ll take me to Vesna’s.
    Well, you’re on your own.
    Are you free tomorrow?
    What’s the plan?
    We could maybe interview some police—
    Why the fuck didn’t you say so when we were in there?
    I didn’t want to interrupt your business.
    You hear that, Amir? He didn’t want to interrupt our business.
    That’s right. I like his style.
    Enko said nothing. Pleased and proud that Amir approved of him, the American continued as if he had not heard: They must have some pretty good stories.
    Sure. There’s this one guy, Senad, who . . .— Anyway, fuck it. We’ll pick you up at