Sarajevo Marlboro by Miljenko Jergovic Page A

Somehow the girl from Foča had got under his skin, like an omen prophesying dire and painful calamity. He wanted to touch her, and yet he had begun to feel that even the slightest physical contact would expose him to irreparable loss and drive him over the edge into madness or suicide, or – worse still – into the Jewish cemetery to be gunned down by the Chetnik sniper.
    Often, at bedtime, he would stare at the crucifix on the wall andrepeat over and over again, “I’m here, God, but I’m no use to myself or to her. Help us!” He liked to think his speech had the makings of a prayer.
    Toward the end of summer a mortar fell right outside the front door and blew off Mujesira’s legs. She was dying for two whole days. But even when the doctors gave up the fight to save her life,Ćipo kept repeating in a voice that echoed around the hospital courtyard, “Come back, my Muslim doll!” Everybody watched his despair. They speculated about his relationship with the dying girl, and pretty soon gave him the nickname “Muslim Doll.”

Seconds Out
    The tram drivers always rang the bell as they went around the corner by the Medical Institute. Perhaps it was just to warn anything that was coming the other way, or perhaps it was the memory of an earlier accident, or perhaps they were just superstitious. Nobody paid much attention to the ringing trams: the occupants of a neighboring block of apartments had stopped registering the noise long ago; it was like the ticking of a grandfather clock. Nor were the cats on the wall of the army warehouse roused from their summer naps. So the years went by and the sound of the tram bells continued to be heard over the flat land that stretched all the way to Marijindvor and the stop at the junction of Titova and Tvrtkova.
    The noise didn’t bother the regulars at the Kvarner, a tiny bar inwhich a handful of relics induced cirrhosis of the liver by drinking large bottles of Sarajevsko or NikÅ¡ićko beer and Badel’s brandy. One day, Meho the Paratrooper showed up in the Kvarner with an old pal from his days in military service, a retired boxer known as MiÅ¡o the Heart from the Slavija club in Banja Luka. As with any newcomer, the regulars welcomed MiÅ¡o the Heart with two unspoken questions: how much money does he have in his pocket, and will he disrupt the atmosphere of the Kvarner? Because real drinkers seldom get into fights or smash things up. They prefer silence, peace and contemplation. Any sudden movement can provoke hard drinkers. Even a curse uttered too loudly is enough to make them grab a bottle and start breaking the furniture. That’s why the tabloid press always gives the wrong account of drunken punch-ups. All a drunk really wants to do is protect his constitutional right to have one more for the road.
    About five minutes after MiÅ¡o the Heart walked into the Kvarner, the first tram went past the Medical Institute and rang its bell. Seconds out! Instinctively, MiÅ¡o put his fists up like a boxer right in front of Velija the Footballer, who, no less instinctively, grabbed hold of an ashtray and whacked the boxer in the face. Meho the Paratrooper jumped up to defend his old comrade. Mirso the Ballbearing fell off his chair in surprise. Lojze the Professor exclaimed, “Crucifix and cruciality!” Zoka the Barman dropped a glass.
    Then MiÅ¡o stood up and grabbed Velija the Footballer by the arm. “Sorry, pal,” he mumbled. “It was an accident.”
    Velija looked at MiÅ¡o doubtfully for a moment. “That’s all right,” he said. “It can happen.”
    To make things better, Meho the Paratrooper bought a round of drinks for everybody. However, before the drinks were poured, another tram came around the corner ringing its bell.
    MiÅ¡o the Heart glanced anxiously at Meho the Paratrooper. “Hey – let’s get out of here,” he said. “These trams really fuck me