Free Last Stories and Other Stories (9780698135482) by William T. Vollmann Page A

hijabs, and that was very nice, but most beautiful of all was a girl dressed all in black, with a black headscarf, brown eyes and red-painted lips; she held a red rose.
    Strolling into a travel agency, he requested an interpreter. The woman put him in touch with a friend of hers, a policeman’s son less friendly than polite—but hadn’t they all been that way? The journalist could not recall. The policeman (now retired) had never heard of Enko, and the son knew nothing of Vesna (who, after all, must be too old for the boy), but the journalist remembered that she had lived in Novo Sarajevo; whenEnko and Amir drove him to her place they had turned onto Kolodvorska and then, he thought, away from the river. The policeman’s son inquired her last name. She still lived in the same apartment.
    She barely remembered him. After all, there had been so many journalists! When he mentioned Mirjana, Anesa, Ivica and Jasmina, she took three beers out of the refrigerator, and they sat down in the living room, yes, here where they had all listened to the shells; and there by the window, the most dangerous place, was where the poet liked to sit, his eyes enslaved by Vesna; the American could not quite remember his face anymore, so he seemed to see instead (since he and his wife had just visited the museum) a sad mosaic-face from Stolac gazing up out of a floral-framed white diamond, where it had been imprisoned ever since the third century.
    He and Vesna sat smiling awkwardly at each other while the policeman’s son yawned.
    Enko had been killed in one of the last battles for the strategic heights of Mojmilo. Vesna knew his son, who was sixteen.— Do you want me to call him? she asked. I don’t know if he’s working. Probably he wants to meet a foreigner who knew his father.
    Well, if it’s no trouble . . .
    The boy’s name was Denis. He was taller than his father.— Who are you? he said.
    I knew your father briefly, in ’92.
    We don’t like to talk about those times, said Denis. What can I do for you?
    How’s Amir? He was your father’s friend—
    Uncle Amir? He works for the customs department.
    His cell phone rang. The policeman’s son’s cell phone was already ringing.
    Wearily, Vesna opened more beers.— You still look beautiful, the journalist told her.
    Not anymore. But I don’t care. I’m studying Buddhism.
    You never married?
    Twice. Where’s your wife?
    At the hotel. Cigarette smoke makes her sick.
    But everyone here smokes! cried Vesna in amazement. This was theonly interesting thing he had said, but it must have been quite interesting indeed; she could not imagine this wife who declined to smoke.
    I know, he said. Have you kept in touch with Marko?
    Which Marko?
    The poet who was in love with you.
    He was my second husband. Do you want his cell phone number?
    Uncle Amir’s on his way, said Denis. He knows lots of stories. Isn’t that why you’re here? That’s what you journalists do, is make money from our stories.
    I don’t know if I’m a journalist anymore.
    Then this is a fucking waste of time, said Denis.
    At least your uncle will get a beer out of it, said the journalist. Vesna, does the shop across the street sell beer?
    I’ll come with you, she said. I need cigarettes.
    Denis and the policeman’s son sat gazing out the window. They were sending text messages on their cell phones.
    How’s Mirjana? he asked her as they entered the elevator.
    She married, and they tried and tried, but never could have children. Now her health’s not good. Also, her husband is a real bastard, so maybe it’s better we don’t phone them.
    I remember that she used to tell about a Serb in her building who would cheer whenever a shell came in—
    Oh, that crazy Boris? He’s still there. Very elderly now.
    He said: I’ve never forgotten sitting with you and your friends at this place, listening for