The Small Boat of Great Sorrows by Dan Fesperman Page A

approaching with the prize in her outstretched hand. “The smell-good. See?”
    It was a bottle of Chanel.
    Vlado unscrewed the cap, sniffing. Jasmina hadn’t worn this since he’d been home, but the bottle had been used. He held it to the light, feeling the coolness of the glass, admiring the amber color. Even the bootleg versions of such items fetched quite a price in the streets. On their income something like this would be a real sacrifice. He pulled Sonja to him in a tight hug, blinking back tears at the corners of his eyes.
    â€œIsn’t it nice?” she said, her voiced muffled against his shirt.
    He summoned another smile. “Yes, sweetie. It’s very nice.”
    So now he had a name. Haris. He mentally flipped through a catalog of faces from their building, from the bar, the wurst stand, the market, trying to remember a Haris. There was the Bosnian Cultural Center in Kreuzberg, a place where his countrymen sometimes met, celebrated holidays, held weddings. But the only Haris there was an old man, soup on his shirtfront, always muttering about his lost sons and the crimes of the Serbs.
    The front door opened with a jolt, and Jasmina, soaking wet, stood clutching two cloth bags overflowing with groceries. She stared at the bottle of perfume in his hand, then at Sonja, who was back on the floor with her giraffe, oblivious to the sudden charge in the air.
    The color rose in Vlado’s cheeks, and he gently set the bottle on a table by the couch. Jasmina walked to the kitchen without a word, not bothering to remove her shoes, trailing wet footprints across the carpet. He heard keys clattering on the counter, the opening click of the refrigerator, then a bustle of slamming cabinet doors, clanking bottles, rustling bags. He wanted to be angry but felt only coldness, a dull, deep pain.
    He looked again at the bottle. Now was his chance to return it to the drawer, any drawer. The move would save face for both of them, buying time, a gesture to build on. Then they could talk about it later. But instead he switched on the television and returned to the couch, leaving the bottle in full view, an open accusation. Exhibit A for the prosecution.
    They waited until after dinner, when Sonja was asleep. Then Jasmina made tea for herself and opened a beer for him, bringing it in a glass. That seemed a first step toward accommodation, and he seized the opening, speaking slowly.
    â€œSonja told me about someone named Haris.”
    Jasmina folded her legs beneath her at the opposite end of the couch, the mug steaming in her hands.
    â€œHaris,” she said, pausing, “is a friend. Or was a friend. A friend and, sometimes . . .” She faltered, looking into Vlado’s eyes with an expression of care and concern. “Sometimes something more. A companion. More for warmth against the loneliness than anything. The days without you just went on and on. Between calls I would think you were dead. I’d be sure of it sometimes, knowing that no one would even find you in the apartment for days, and that even when they did, no one would know who to reach, or how. And it was on one of those days that I first met Haris.”
    He didn’t need to hear more. He only needed to hear the man was gone, finished in her life. Otherwise the conversation would veer toward the stalemate they’d often reached since his return. Both seemed intent on proving to the other that they’d suffered the most during their two years apart. And it was true that neither could fully appreciate what the other had endured. He’d never known the fierceness of life alone in an unwelcoming place with nothing but your child and your wits for company, swept along in a cold stream of indecipherable babble and officials who always wanted to see your documents, papers and more papers. She, on the other hand, could never fathom the fear and exhaustion of two years inside a claustrophobic little war, where shells and bullets