The Small Boat of Great Sorrows by Dan Fesperman

surprised him, he supposed, and for the moment he was too dazed and weary to feel angry or even hurt. He had been sealed away for so long, with no prospect of escape, and suddenly here he was, watching his daughter eye him from the kitchen door. He knew from his own experience that lonely people in unfamiliar places either made friends or went crazy, and sometimes friends become something more. Beyond that, he was too drained by the interrogation, the long trip back to his family. And it was less than a week since he had left Sarajevo. The emotions of the years under fire still clung to him like wet clothing.
    Jasmina never once mentioned anyone, or offered another hint, although there were times when she seemed to hesitate, to hold back in conversation, whether in reluctance to hurt him or in sorrow for some loss, he couldn’t say, and wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
    Fortunately they had Sonja to distract them. She warmed to Vlado quickly, some old bond taking hold, as if she had encoded his smell, his voice, the way he felt when you snuggled up to him with a book, asking to be read to, and within a week she had latched on and wasn’t letting go. He developed an afternoon routine of reading her a storybook in German. It was good practice for both of them, although it was a toss-up as to who was doing the teaching. He proceeded down the pages like a man on stilts while she gently corrected his pronunciation, her little hand darting to the page while she deftly enunciated the throat-clearing sounds. Her Bosnian—if that’s what they called his language now, Serbo-Croatian having become a contradiction in terms—faded more by the day. He and Jasmina used it around the house, but breaking into their native tongue began to seem like shuttling to another era on a tram that had become creaky and outmoded.
    Their marriage felt that way for a while, too. They’d lost their feel for each other’s rhythms, their comfortable give-and-take with its catchphrases and gestures. It was like relearning a language, but with each day more words came back to them.
    Vlado never wanted to ask about any man, though he was tempted to broach the subject with Sonja. It would have been so easy to inquire about “Mommy’s friends.” But in trying to form the words, he’d feel the policeman in him coming out, interrogating his daughter, so he’d push the thought away. Besides, Jasmina showed no signs that anything had continued. No lengthy unexplained absences, no furtive moments on the phone—and yes, he listened for them, with an attentiveness that made him ashamed. The only clues she offered were those moments of emptiness, when she would gaze into corners where there was nothing to see. Whose face was still over there, he wondered?
    After a few months it had all surfaced anyway, while Jasmina was out shopping. Sonja was playing on the floor with a small plush giraffe, with orange yarn for its mane.
    â€œThat’s a nice toy,” Vlado said from the couch, just making conversation.
    â€œHaris gave it to me,” she answered, and at first it didn’t register. He figured Haris for a playmate, some generous boy from the
Spielplatz.
    â€œWhen he brought Mommy the smell-good.”
    Now she had his attention.
    â€œThe smell-good?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œShow me,” he said, dropping slowly to the floor, sidling up to his daughter like a conspirator, but keeping his voice light. “Show me Mommy’s smell-good.”
    â€œYou knowww.” She crinkled her nose with a smile, shaming his ignorance.
    â€œNo. I don’t know.” He smiled back. “Bring it to me.”
    And like a good little informant she hustled off down the hallway with the wobbly walk of a four-year-old. He watched through the open door as she raised herself on tiptoes in their bedroom, rummaging in the top drawer of Jasmina’s dresser.
    â€œHere it is,” she said sweetly,