Nothing in the World by Roy Kesey Page A

as a result he had always lived
     comfortably. His cupboards were well-stocked with fresh vegetables, his bins with flour and sugar and salt, and his coop with a flurry of fat hens.
     He had a brilliantly colored rooster the size of a goose, two sheep, and a cow who provided him with three liters of the richest milk every
     morning.
    However, as the war passed through the region, fewer and fewer people were able to afford the old man’s wines. This did not worry him
     greatly, for he knew that sooner or later the war would end. He began to live frugally, eating at first two meals per day, and then only one.
    When his money was gone, he began slaughtering his chickens, and they lasted him nearly a month. He killed the rooster as well, but the meat was so
     tough that he had to stew it for days on end. Now it was time to butcher his sheep, and he was not looking forward to the musky taste of their
     meat, but it turned out he needn’t have worried. On the morning he went to herd them in, one of them stepped on a landmine, and the following
     evening the carcass of the other was stolen from where it hung in his barn.
    Thus, with winter coming on, the vintner was forced to slaughter his cow. He begged her forgiveness as he sank the blade of his ax into her skull.
     In recent months he’d had little with which to feed her, and as he butchered her he saw that now she had equally little with which to feed
     him: her haunches were veined and spare.
    As if such troubles were not enough, a few weeks later the old man’s well, which for six generations had provided his family with clear cold
     water, suddenly went dry. Again and again he sent down the wooden bucket, and again and again it came up empty. For the first time in his life he
     became afraid.
    The next day, he searched through his kitchen for something, anything, the smallest scrap to eat. He checked his pantry, his bins and cupboards.
     Finally he realized that he had nothing left.
    Nothing, that is, but a cellar full of wine, a bottle from each of his many good vintages. He walked down the wooden staircase into the cool dry
     darkness, turned on the light, took the bottles in hand one after another, and tears slipped silently from his eyes.
    As his Croatian neighbors had long since refused to pay what his wines were worth, he had no choice but to cross the border into Serbia. He chose
     eight of his very best bottles, placed them in his leather knapsack, took up his walking stick and set off.
    It was a four-hour walk to the border, and another three hours to the village of Sonta. By the time he arrived the sun had set. His burden was not light, and he was very tired, but he knew that he could not rest. He made his way to the threshold of the most brightly lit house in town.
     There he knocked, and awaited his fate.
    The man who opened the door was none other than the mayor himself. Gathered in his living room were the village’s wealthiest inhabitants,
     merchants who came each night to drink the mayor’s brandy and talk of better times.
    ‘Come in, come in,’ said the mayor. ‘There is always room for one more by my fire. Take a seat here with us, and tell us your
     story.’
    The vintner sat down, and lowered his knapsack to the polished floor. He accepted a glass from his host, drank deeply, and said, ‘I come from
     Kopačevo, across the border.’
    The room went silent, or nearly so; only the fire spoke, hissing words of warning. The vintner hesitated, then added, ‘You must believe that
     you have nothing to fear from me. I am simply an old man with nowhere else to go.’
    The merchants began to protest, but the mayor silenced them. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘this is my home, and you are my guest. No harm will
     come to you here.’
    The old man took another sip of brandy. ‘I have worked as hard as any man alive,’ he said, ‘to ensure that in my latter years I
     would live without worry. But the war has taken everything from me. My cupboards are empty. I