Free Diary of Interrupted Days by Dragan Todorovic Page A

I order you to commence firing at sixteen hundred, when will you start shooting, artist?”
    “One second after someone with a watch.”
    One of the sergeants laughed. The captain said, “Boys, leave us alone,” and they did, the door slamming behind them. The other man stayed where he was.
    “So, what is your problem, then?”
    “Well,” Johnny said, “I was drafted for the exercise. The draft said five days. It didn’t say anything about a week and there was definitely nothing about the war. In which, by the way, Serbia is not taking part. I mean—wouldn’t it be dangerous if someone from the foreign media were to learn about us being here?”
    Pap looked straight into Johnny’s eyes, but Johnny was accustomed to people looking at him. He also knew that avoiding the captain’s sniper stare would mean submission. Not to this man. His basic strategy had been to get some sense of whoever was running this show, and then get away from here as fast as he could. There was not much left of his plan.
    “Ah,” the captain finally said, “you got me there. I told you to avoid nuances but they are important, of course. It’s true that Serbia is not at war with anyone. But you are not in the Serbian army, are you? We are the Yugoslav People’s Army and this is still Yugoslavia until the politicians decide it’s not. We can have our exercises wherever we please, including the combat zone. And we can exercise with live ammunition to our heart’s content. So we’re legit here. Regarding the foreigners, who cares what they think? It’s our country that’s falling apart, not theirs.”
    Johnny waited a few seconds for him to go on, and when he didn’t, he said, “There were rather large protests against the war in Belgrade just recently. I took part in them. Am I being punished for that?”
    The third man got up. “I’ll be back later, Captain,” he said, “after you put the babies to sleep.”
    Johnny stared after him as he left.
    Pap took a notebook out of his leather officer bag. “It’s good that you didn’t get into an argument with him.”
    Johnny felt a change in Pap’s tone.
    “His face seemed familiar.”
    “To you, Interpol, and several tens of dead men.”
    “Ah,” Johnny said. “The Candyman.”
    “The men outside, they are his private army. They call themselves the Black Lions. Actually, they seem to be the advance guard. He’s just told me they have around sixty more fighters coming tomorrow and three tanks. They’ve got Uzis, they’ve got Magnums, and they have a few cannons available. They’ve got more than I do.”
    “What do you think my chances are of getting out of here?” Johnny said.
    “Right now, none. Stay put and keep a low profile. This is apparently getting out of control—that’s what the Candyman’s arrival means. Our secret service has employed criminals for decades, and now it’s payback time. They must have opened the prisons and let the worst out.”
    Johnny looked at him. Was he afraid of the gangster?
    “Would you like a drink?” Pap asked.
    “Why not?”
    The captain poured two shots and pushed one towards Johnny, then raised his, waiting for Johnny to do the same.
    “Cheers,” he said, “and may we survive this shit.”
    Johnny was suddenly aware of birdsong outside the cabin walls. It was not pleasant, sounding more like short screams, but anything was better than gunshots.
    “Make no mistake, artist: I, too, don’t want to be here. I know, I am a professional soldier, I chose this uniform, but those were different times: brotherhood and unity. Then this started. My colleagues chose their sides fast. I am where I am because my parents were Serbs. There is no choice in that.”
    Johnny drank a little from his glass. The brandy was strong and sharp, probably made that same year. The captain lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
    “I once fucked a girl in Zagreb when I was serving there. She was ugly but she was a nymphomaniac so what the hell. Ideal