Free Our Man in Iraq by Robert Perisic

identity was dynamic. But I couldn’t change asthe wind changed. I felt everything was in the process of being defined and I was developing my own vision of the future, a vision that haunted me. At first glance it was nothing terrible, everything seemed down to earth. But I saw a putrid life in a putrid atmosphere with people who were half putrid. We met at work-related parties and children’s birthdays, sipping beer and slagging off about this and that, about our government and the Americans, and then the fun began as we talked about minor victories we encountered at work. I saw people buying new washing machines, fitted kitchens, and hi-fis to listen to rock, buying shelves and arranging their CDs on them. I saw them exchanging exotic recipes, showing photos from summer holidays, and talking about Istrian stone houses. I saw people to whom I was afraid to show pity, I saw happiness becoming compulsory and everyone saying fantastic, fantastic, fantastic. I saw them park, park, park in front of fenced-in holiday cottages where they were holding their child’s birthday party, and someone would say, Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for ages! I saw myself among them making a few sick jokes, but taking care not to insult anyone, especially not all of us together.
    At 7:29pm a huge clock appeared on the screen. It happened every day. I don’t know if the evening current-affairs program begins like that everywhere or only in former socialist countries.
    The TV showed the entrance of Rijeka Bank and zoomed in at the bank’s logo above the entrance.
    There was a problem with the bank—that much was clear if they were filming it like that. Money had inexplicably disappeared.
    Tomorrow they’d reproach me for us not reporting it first. Why hadn’t our sources alerted us?
    I rubbed my eyes. Sanja made a movement beside me, but when I looked I saw she was sleeping.
    Now for Baghdad. The reporter looked me in the eye and told me the situation there was returning to normal.
    I switched to Bosnian TV. Easier to watch the Bosnians. Their mess was essentially the same, only much worse, so their view of things calmed me a little. They announced a feature on the recipient of Police Officer of the Year.
    My mobile rang.
    “Who is it?” Sanja asked, raising her head.
    “One of the many.”
    She just sighed with irony.
    “Markatović,” I said. “I’ll call him later.”
    “I bet he was born with a mobile in his hand.”
    “That’s just his business side.”
    “Is there anything else to him?”

       From: Boris < [email protected] >
To: Toni < [email protected] >
       The rate of advance is now 30-40 kilometers a day, resistance is eliminated from the air, and I’m still eating the biscuits I’ve lugged with me from Kuwait. They stick in my throat, I bum water wherever I can, otherwise I’m always drinking warm Coca-Cola, there’s enough to throw away here, as if Coke is sponsoring this whole rally. I’m on a Coca-Cola high, soon all the bubbles will come out on my skin as blisters!

Sanja took the remote, flipped through the channels, and stopped at a police series.
    I touched her neck like I was gently massaging her. I got behind her and kissed her on her uncovered lower back, and she gave a wiggle of pleasure. She turned around, kissed me on the mouth and stroked my hair. She leaned against me and looked at me pleadingly as if she wanted to take a rest from everything.
    On the screen a forensic expert, who also happened to be a psychiatrist, prepared a psychological profile showing that the man they were seeking was a sex maniac. She argued that he actually wanted to be caught and was therefore leaving traces, and he was terribly intelligent, which opened up a whole gamut of potential plots for scriptwriters. Series like this one were becoming ever more popular. A whole civilization lived in fear of sex maniacs because civilization is a sex maniac.
    I stroked her back and then moved down lower.
    “Hmm. You know, I