Free The Small Boat of Great Sorrows by Dan Fesperman

him to their doorstep. If you and Huso want something done about Popovic, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
    Having said that, Vlado immediately felt ashamed, even a little nervous, like a kid who has lit the fuse of a huge firework and now must throw it, not knowing where it might land. He flashed on an absurd scene of Haris and Huso tying up Popovic with about a hundred feet of rope, squirming like a team of comedians, then dumping the man at a police station with a gag in his mouth and a note penned to his shirt, scribbled in ungrammatical Bosnian. But Haris was still staring at him, as if awaiting further instructions.
    Vlado obliged, unable to resist the temptation to coax the flame a little further along the fuse.
    â€œLook, if Popovic is living here as another person, under another name, then who do you think would miss the real Popovic? No one. They would miss this other man. But the other man doesn’t exist, except as fake papers and passports. Which the authorities would discover as soon as they searched his house or looked into his background. Assuming they even bothered.”
    He sipped the beer, the foam cold on his lips. “And if you’ve heard nothing from the tribunal, how much does that say about their interest? Sounds like you and Huso are the only two worried about it. It’s possible he hasn’t even been indicted, and if that’s the case now, who knows, it might never happen.”
    â€œBut Huso saw him, saw what he was doing in Srebrenica. My sister saw him, too. There must be plenty of witnesses who’ve mentioned his name.”
    â€œMaybe investigators have never talked to any of them. And are you sure that’s what you want to put your sister through? Have her up in the dock, answering questions from some attorney for Popovic, who’ll keep telling her how much she wanted it, how much she’d been asking for it. He’ll ask her what kind of dresses she wore, what kind of perfume she used, how many men she’d slept with. Is that what you want?”
    Haris had no answer. He just bolted down another swallow and set his glass heavily on the table, nodding once, a look of resolve in his eyes, and for a moment Vlado wanted to take it all back, to tell him, “Take it easy. I’ll make some calls. Let me handle this.”
    But the moment passed, and Haris stood, laying a last crumpled bill on the bar.
    It wasn’t long before Haris took his advice. Four nights later the phone rang. Luckily Vlado was the one who answered.
    â€œIt’s Haris.”
    The anger rose up in Vlado almost immediately, but Jasmina and Sonja were in the next room, so he didn’t shout.
    â€œI don’t want to hear any more about your problems,” he muttered. “I want you out of our lives.”
    â€œThen come downstairs, and you’ll have your wish. I promise. Huso and I are down here.”
    Hearing that both of them were there suggested some foolhardy plan in motion.
    â€œWhat have you done?” Vlado said tersely.
    â€œJust come. There isn’t much time.”
    He found them standing in a dimly lit corner of the entrance, by a pay phone next to the mailboxes, trying not to attract attention and therefore doing exactly that, a sweating and nervous-looking pair who stank of effort and exhaustion, their eyes glazed with a barely contained wildness and more than a little drink.
    â€œOutside,” Haris whispered. “Follow us.”
    They walked to a far corner of the parking lot, which backed onto a small grove of trees. Both streetlights in that corner were burned out. Broken glass crunched underfoot. Their car was the only one within a twenty-yard radius, and Vlado almost laughed to see it was a brown Yugo, like the punch line to some elaborate and clumsy joke—two bumbling expats and their expat excuse for a car.
    They stopped by the rear of the car, a nervous huddle, Haris looking at Huso, who fumbled for the keys. Vlado