rolls he’d bought in Split. Ants had been at work on most of them, but at the bottom of the
third bag he found several rolls that were still in fair shape. He pulled two of them out, and imagined his arrival in Dubrovnik: the gunboats were
silent, and Klara was on her balcony, saw him walking toward her, came running down the stairs to embrace him.
The landscape went pale and dry as he flew along the ragged coast, slipping onto side roads when he could, shunting back down to the highway when there
was no other choice. Hard bright cliffs grew from nothing to his left, and the sea mumbled and tossed to his right. He wondered if the spearfishing was
any good here. Then the cliffs fell away, and a small village stretched along both sides of the road. He slowed when he saw children playing in a patch
of sand nearby.
He counted the rolls he had left, checked his canteen and found it empty. He searched the sides of the road, and when he saw a stand with a sign
advertising ripe tangerines, he pulled onto the shoulder and smiled at the pudgy woman who sat inside.
- Hello, he called. Is there somewhere around here where I could fill my canteen?
- Nothing is free, the woman said.
- And if I bought something first?
The woman shrugged, and scratched at the bristly black hairs that grew from the mole on her chin. Joško opened his rucksack, then saw a
five-thousand-dinar note stuffed into a plastic box between the seats. He took the bill and held it out.
- What will this buy?
- Twenty figs, ten tangerines, or two melons.
Joško walked to the stand. The tangerines and figs looked good, but the melons were overripe, and some of them had started to rot. One was exactly
the size of Hadžihafizbegović’s head, and near the base there was a crack that curled up to either side like a grin, as if the melon,
at least, had gotten the joke.
- Ten figs and five tangerines, please.
The woman reached under the counter and came up with a plastic bag. She blew it open, counted the figs into it, took up four tangerines and dropped
them in as well.
- You—
- Minus one for the water, the woman said. You want free water, go to the sea.
- Where’s the faucet?
The woman jerked her thumb around the corner of the stand, then covered her mouth and nose with her hand.
- You really stink, she said.
She took a closer look at his clothes, reached up and drew a heavy metal grate down between them. Joško found the spigot and filled his canteen.
He washed his hands and face, his neck, his arms, and sprayed off his uniform as well as he could. As he walked back to the jeep he called his thanks
to the grate. There was no reply.
A few kilometers farther on he came to a checkpoint, and it seemed that the soldiers were waiting for him. One stood in the middle of the road and
signaled for him to stop. Another took out a clipboard, walked around behind the jeep, and shouted to the one in front.
Joško hunched as low as he could, slipped the gearshift into reverse and jammed the gas pedal to the floorboard. He felt the jolt of the
soldier’s body, put the jeep in first and hit the gas again. A bullet shattered the windshield, and there was another jolt, a soldier flying up
over the hood, catching on the top of the windshield and again on the tailgate, tumbling away. Other soldiers along the road began firing, and then
Joško was past them, past a row of tents that hunched like khaki vultures, and now he was alone with the sea and its pinpointed light.
There would be other checkpoints soon, he knew. He tried the first side road he came to, but it dead-ended only a few hundred meters inland. He tried
the next one as well, and it curled southwest and burrowed into the hills.
What happened was this: There was once an old man, a vintner, who lived outside the village of Kopačevo, midway between Osijek and the Serbian
border. He had worked as hard as he could his entire life producing the finest wines in the region, and
third bag he found several rolls that were still in fair shape. He pulled two of them out, and imagined his arrival in Dubrovnik: the gunboats were
silent, and Klara was on her balcony, saw him walking toward her, came running down the stairs to embrace him.
The landscape went pale and dry as he flew along the ragged coast, slipping onto side roads when he could, shunting back down to the highway when there
was no other choice. Hard bright cliffs grew from nothing to his left, and the sea mumbled and tossed to his right. He wondered if the spearfishing was
any good here. Then the cliffs fell away, and a small village stretched along both sides of the road. He slowed when he saw children playing in a patch
of sand nearby.
He counted the rolls he had left, checked his canteen and found it empty. He searched the sides of the road, and when he saw a stand with a sign
advertising ripe tangerines, he pulled onto the shoulder and smiled at the pudgy woman who sat inside.
- Hello, he called. Is there somewhere around here where I could fill my canteen?
- Nothing is free, the woman said.
- And if I bought something first?
The woman shrugged, and scratched at the bristly black hairs that grew from the mole on her chin. Joško opened his rucksack, then saw a
five-thousand-dinar note stuffed into a plastic box between the seats. He took the bill and held it out.
- What will this buy?
- Twenty figs, ten tangerines, or two melons.
Joško walked to the stand. The tangerines and figs looked good, but the melons were overripe, and some of them had started to rot. One was exactly
the size of Hadžihafizbegović’s head, and near the base there was a crack that curled up to either side like a grin, as if the melon,
at least, had gotten the joke.
- Ten figs and five tangerines, please.
The woman reached under the counter and came up with a plastic bag. She blew it open, counted the figs into it, took up four tangerines and dropped
them in as well.
- You—
- Minus one for the water, the woman said. You want free water, go to the sea.
- Where’s the faucet?
The woman jerked her thumb around the corner of the stand, then covered her mouth and nose with her hand.
- You really stink, she said.
She took a closer look at his clothes, reached up and drew a heavy metal grate down between them. Joško found the spigot and filled his canteen.
He washed his hands and face, his neck, his arms, and sprayed off his uniform as well as he could. As he walked back to the jeep he called his thanks
to the grate. There was no reply.
A few kilometers farther on he came to a checkpoint, and it seemed that the soldiers were waiting for him. One stood in the middle of the road and
signaled for him to stop. Another took out a clipboard, walked around behind the jeep, and shouted to the one in front.
Joško hunched as low as he could, slipped the gearshift into reverse and jammed the gas pedal to the floorboard. He felt the jolt of the
soldier’s body, put the jeep in first and hit the gas again. A bullet shattered the windshield, and there was another jolt, a soldier flying up
over the hood, catching on the top of the windshield and again on the tailgate, tumbling away. Other soldiers along the road began firing, and then
Joško was past them, past a row of tents that hunched like khaki vultures, and now he was alone with the sea and its pinpointed light.
There would be other checkpoints soon, he knew. He tried the first side road he came to, but it dead-ended only a few hundred meters inland. He tried
the next one as well, and it curled southwest and burrowed into the hills.
What happened was this: There was once an old man, a vintner, who lived outside the village of Kopačevo, midway between Osijek and the Serbian
border. He had worked as hard as he could his entire life producing the finest wines in the region, and
Similar Books
