taste of a foreign Marlboro unpleasant. The experts from Philip Morris were especially pleased with their Sarajevo product, it seems, and believed that the tobacco in question, which grows near GradaÄac and OraÅ¡je, was generally one of the better blends.
The Condor
Izet was what they call an eglen-effendi, or brilliant talker. He could talk non-stop from dusk to dawn. One story flowed into another, one event turned into the next. Often heâd use the dayâs events to begin a story that would range across whole centuries and finally return to the price of meat or some gossip about a fellow called Hido who led a ram across Mount Jahorina just before the animal sacrifice of Bairam, right through the Serb positions, until he reached the ViÅ¡egrad gate, where he was hit by a UN armored truck â I swear to God â and thrown into a ditch while the ram was killed instantly. There was no end to Izetâs stories, just as thereâs no end to time, the past or the future. But they were never dull and they usually had a message or a moral and were seldom erratic: a tiny thread of narrative kept you holding on to the story, and forced you to listen, even if it meant that you had to gohungry or without drink, or that your life as a whole became a tense silence in which things only mattered if they could be described by a storyteller.
At the outbreak of the war Izet was staying at Vraca. Before he could even blink, let alone run away, a gang of Chetniks turned up outside his house. His neighbor Spasoje immediately began to point the finger at Izet. It was very sad. Until the day before, the two of them were always drinking rakija together. Spasoje was as good as gold and as harmless as a water-pistol. But on the day in question he dressed up in a black uniform, with a knife flashing at his waist, and his beard seemed to have grown overnight, as though heâd fertilized it with manure. Anyway, he was outside Izetâs door yelling that heâd slit his throat if he didnât open up. Suddenly Izet lost his tongue, and his knees began to tremble. He didnât want to open the door. He didnât really want to keep it shut either. But since he couldnât say anything in reply, only being able to manage a hiss in the back of his throat, he just made his way to the door and painstakingly fumbled with the key in the lock. He could smell the rakija on Spasojeâs breath through the wooden door. As soon as he opened the door he was hit in the face by a rifle-butt. Izet fell to the ground like a stone. He was so light that Spasoje was able to pick him up by an arm and a leg, and carry him through Vraca. Blood was pouring down Izetâs face but he was still conscious. Even so, it was impossible for the eglen-effendi to utter a single word.
His neighbor didnât let go of Izet until he reached the Stara Rampabar. He carried him inside the building, where pictures of King Petar and Draža MihailoviÄ had sprung up overnight. Yet there was no sign of any barroom furniture. Instead, five men in uniforms sat at three tables in the empty room. Spasoje dumped Izet on the floor in front of the soldiers, but the wounded man quickly got to his feet. A fair-haired captain wearing the uniform of the Yugoslav National Army pulled up a chair for Izet.
âWhere are your weapons?â demanded one of the other soldiers, who had a beard down to his belly-button.
Izet opened his mouth but only the hissing sound came out. The bearded Serb repeated the question, and Spasoje delivered another blow with the rifle-butt. Izet was feeling dizzy. He could see that his captors werenât fooling around, and so he began to make up plausible lies, except he couldnât give voice to any of the stories. As the question was repeated for a third time, the five soldiers jumped up, almost fighting one another for the privilege of hitting Izet. In the end he was pummelled from all sides. At one point he imagined
The Condor
Izet was what they call an eglen-effendi, or brilliant talker. He could talk non-stop from dusk to dawn. One story flowed into another, one event turned into the next. Often heâd use the dayâs events to begin a story that would range across whole centuries and finally return to the price of meat or some gossip about a fellow called Hido who led a ram across Mount Jahorina just before the animal sacrifice of Bairam, right through the Serb positions, until he reached the ViÅ¡egrad gate, where he was hit by a UN armored truck â I swear to God â and thrown into a ditch while the ram was killed instantly. There was no end to Izetâs stories, just as thereâs no end to time, the past or the future. But they were never dull and they usually had a message or a moral and were seldom erratic: a tiny thread of narrative kept you holding on to the story, and forced you to listen, even if it meant that you had to gohungry or without drink, or that your life as a whole became a tense silence in which things only mattered if they could be described by a storyteller.
At the outbreak of the war Izet was staying at Vraca. Before he could even blink, let alone run away, a gang of Chetniks turned up outside his house. His neighbor Spasoje immediately began to point the finger at Izet. It was very sad. Until the day before, the two of them were always drinking rakija together. Spasoje was as good as gold and as harmless as a water-pistol. But on the day in question he dressed up in a black uniform, with a knife flashing at his waist, and his beard seemed to have grown overnight, as though heâd fertilized it with manure. Anyway, he was outside Izetâs door yelling that heâd slit his throat if he didnât open up. Suddenly Izet lost his tongue, and his knees began to tremble. He didnât want to open the door. He didnât really want to keep it shut either. But since he couldnât say anything in reply, only being able to manage a hiss in the back of his throat, he just made his way to the door and painstakingly fumbled with the key in the lock. He could smell the rakija on Spasojeâs breath through the wooden door. As soon as he opened the door he was hit in the face by a rifle-butt. Izet fell to the ground like a stone. He was so light that Spasoje was able to pick him up by an arm and a leg, and carry him through Vraca. Blood was pouring down Izetâs face but he was still conscious. Even so, it was impossible for the eglen-effendi to utter a single word.
His neighbor didnât let go of Izet until he reached the Stara Rampabar. He carried him inside the building, where pictures of King Petar and Draža MihailoviÄ had sprung up overnight. Yet there was no sign of any barroom furniture. Instead, five men in uniforms sat at three tables in the empty room. Spasoje dumped Izet on the floor in front of the soldiers, but the wounded man quickly got to his feet. A fair-haired captain wearing the uniform of the Yugoslav National Army pulled up a chair for Izet.
âWhere are your weapons?â demanded one of the other soldiers, who had a beard down to his belly-button.
Izet opened his mouth but only the hissing sound came out. The bearded Serb repeated the question, and Spasoje delivered another blow with the rifle-butt. Izet was feeling dizzy. He could see that his captors werenât fooling around, and so he began to make up plausible lies, except he couldnât give voice to any of the stories. As the question was repeated for a third time, the five soldiers jumped up, almost fighting one another for the privilege of hitting Izet. In the end he was pummelled from all sides. At one point he imagined
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