The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway Page A

not quite a jog. The woman moves a little faster than the man, and he speeds up to stay beside her. As they near the middle of the bridge Kenan feels an overwhelming sense of doom, is sure that shots are about to come, they’re both going to be killed. But the shots never come, and the couple make it to the other side. They slow down a little, perhaps feeling they’re out of danger, though Kenan knows they can still be hit. They’re not safe until they’re behind the cover of the buildings, but the couple either don’t know this or don’t care.
    A woman comes up behind him. She’s in her early fifties, he thinks, her hair mostly grey, though that’s not a good way to tell anymore. He never knew how many women put colour in their hair until the war came and hair dye became another commodity for black marketeers. Kenan looks at the woman again, thinks maybe she’s younger than he first thought. She might even be his age. There is no way to tell what the war has done to age her.
    She has a four-litre water jug in each hand. She acknowledges Kenan, looks at the bridge. “Is it safe?”
    Kenan shrugs. “A couple just went over and no one was shot. But who knows.”
    The woman sees his water canisters. “Are you going to the brewery?”
    “Yes.” For an instant Kenan wonders if she’s going to ask him to get water for her, but knows even before he’s done thinking it that he’s being irrational. “You?”
    “If I can. The hill is steep, so I stop and rest a lot. But I’ll make it. It’s the bridge I don’t like.” She looks again at the bridge, then the hills.
    “I think it’s safe.” He considers asking her what she looks for in the hills. Maybe she knows something specific that he doesn’t.
    The woman doesn’t respond, and Kenan gets the feeling that he is intruding on her privacy, even though he was here first and they are in no way in a private place. He wants to be away from here, though, so he picks up his jugs and takes one last look at the bridge.
    “Are you going now?” she asks, standing up straighter.
    “Yes.” He hesitates, unsure of what she wants from him, or if she wants anything. “Do you want to go together? You know, safety in numbers?”
    She appears to be considering his proposal. He wonders which one of them is a more appealing target, then stops himself. This is no way to think.
    “No,” she says. “I think I’ll rest here for a while.”
    He nods to her and steps out onto the street. He is glad to be moving along. He isn’t sure what just happened, but there was something about the nature ofthis interaction that unnerved him. He moves as quickly as he can, a slow jog at first and then faster. His feet hit the bridge, and he knows he’s now exposed. He zigzags a little, right then left then right, then runs in a straight line, attempting to create no pattern in his movements. The trick is to keep your movements random but not frenetic. He once saw a man move too quickly to the side in an attempt to be evasive, and his foot slipped out from under him and his ankle snapped. He lay in the street for several minutes until someone came and helped him to safety. Although no shot ever came it just as easily could have, and the man would have done most of the sniper’s work for him.
    Kenan’s water bottles thump against each other, and though it’s not a loud noise it sounds to him like the beating of drums, and this frightens him, makes him think someone is hunting him. He runs faster, much faster than he thinks is safe, but terror has wrapped its arms around him and he can’t help himself. The end of the bridge is just ahead, and his foot catches on a cleft in the pavement. It seems like he’s going to fall, but he doesn’t, somehow, and he recovers himself enough to stumble across the rest of the bridge to the protection of a small building to his left.
    He sits there, wheezing, his lungs hot and dry, until his breathing slows, and he pulls himself to his feet. He glances