back at the library and sees the woman lookingat him. It’s too far for him to be sure, but he imagines she’s laughing at him. She is, he realizes, using him as her guinea pig, just as he did the couple before. Did he reassure her, he wonders, or make her more reluctant to cross? She doesn’t move from shelter, so he assumes he didn’t instill any confidence in her.
In front of him is a café he used to go to, the Spite House. The story is that it used to be on the other side of the river, on the right bank. When the Austro-Hungarians regulated the flow of the Miljacka it was in the way, but the owner refused to allow it to be demolished. He agreed to give up his piece of land only on condition that his house be moved, brick by brick, across the river to the left bank. In addition, he demanded a bag of ducats, out of spite. Kenan’s never been sure whether the story’s true or not, but he doesn’t think it matters. What he wants now is for the men on the hills to come down and put every building back the way it was, brick by brick. If they can cough up some money too, who is he to say what is spite and what is reparation? He looks at the now closed restaurant and laughs a little at the thought. The men on the hills will come down into the city for only one reason, and it won’t be to make things the way they used to be.
He picks up his bottles, puts the rope over his shoulder, then stoops to pick up Mrs. Ristovski’s bottles aswell. He can’t understand why she insists on these particular containers, why she can’t switch to ones with handles. He knows she’s old and set in her ways, but it’s not as though she’s been using these containers to carry water all her life. She’s been dealing with the water shortage for exactly the same amount of time that he has, but without having to make the trek down a hill, through town, across a bridge, up another hill and home again. If anyone should be set in his ways it’s him.
He remembers meeting her, almost seventeen years ago. He and Amila were in their early twenties, just married, their first daughter only months old. They moved into their apartment on a dreary spring morning, and in the afternoon they heard an insistent knock at the door they would come to know well.
Kenan opened up and found Mrs. Ristovski standing there, looking much the same as she did today. She thrust a potted fern into his hands, stepped forward, removed her shoes and looked at him.
“I am your neighbour, Mrs. Ristovski,” she said. “Do you have any slippers?”
Kenan introduced himself, handed the plant to his bemused wife and rooted through several boxes until he found a pair of slippers.
“They’re a little small,” she said as she jammed her feet into them, “but they’ll do for now. Next time I’ll bring my own.”
They sat on the sofa Kenan’s parents had given them as a wedding present while his wife made them coffee. Mrs. Ristovski gave him a long list of do’s and don’ts regarding the fern, which he listened to as attentively as he could. The baby was sleeping in the next room. He mentioned her presence several times and spoke in a soft voice, hoping Mrs. Ristovski would follow suit. But she grew louder every time she spoke, until it seemed to Kenan that she was shouting.
His wife returned with the coffee just as the baby woke, screaming. She scowled at him, as though it was his fault Mrs. Ristovski couldn’t keep her voice down. When Amila was gone, Mrs. Ristovski took a small sip of her coffee and wrinkled up her face. “That’s quite a holler your baby has. I hope you and your wife aren’t as loud.”
Kenan assured her they were not, and the rest of the visit passed more or less without incident. She returned once or twice a week from then on, usually in the evenings when Kenan was home. He followed her instructions about the fern as well as he could, but it deteriorated rapidly in his care. This did not escape Mrs. Ristovski’s notice. On a
In front of him is a café he used to go to, the Spite House. The story is that it used to be on the other side of the river, on the right bank. When the Austro-Hungarians regulated the flow of the Miljacka it was in the way, but the owner refused to allow it to be demolished. He agreed to give up his piece of land only on condition that his house be moved, brick by brick, across the river to the left bank. In addition, he demanded a bag of ducats, out of spite. Kenan’s never been sure whether the story’s true or not, but he doesn’t think it matters. What he wants now is for the men on the hills to come down and put every building back the way it was, brick by brick. If they can cough up some money too, who is he to say what is spite and what is reparation? He looks at the now closed restaurant and laughs a little at the thought. The men on the hills will come down into the city for only one reason, and it won’t be to make things the way they used to be.
He picks up his bottles, puts the rope over his shoulder, then stoops to pick up Mrs. Ristovski’s bottles aswell. He can’t understand why she insists on these particular containers, why she can’t switch to ones with handles. He knows she’s old and set in her ways, but it’s not as though she’s been using these containers to carry water all her life. She’s been dealing with the water shortage for exactly the same amount of time that he has, but without having to make the trek down a hill, through town, across a bridge, up another hill and home again. If anyone should be set in his ways it’s him.
He remembers meeting her, almost seventeen years ago. He and Amila were in their early twenties, just married, their first daughter only months old. They moved into their apartment on a dreary spring morning, and in the afternoon they heard an insistent knock at the door they would come to know well.
Kenan opened up and found Mrs. Ristovski standing there, looking much the same as she did today. She thrust a potted fern into his hands, stepped forward, removed her shoes and looked at him.
“I am your neighbour, Mrs. Ristovski,” she said. “Do you have any slippers?”
Kenan introduced himself, handed the plant to his bemused wife and rooted through several boxes until he found a pair of slippers.
“They’re a little small,” she said as she jammed her feet into them, “but they’ll do for now. Next time I’ll bring my own.”
They sat on the sofa Kenan’s parents had given them as a wedding present while his wife made them coffee. Mrs. Ristovski gave him a long list of do’s and don’ts regarding the fern, which he listened to as attentively as he could. The baby was sleeping in the next room. He mentioned her presence several times and spoke in a soft voice, hoping Mrs. Ristovski would follow suit. But she grew louder every time she spoke, until it seemed to Kenan that she was shouting.
His wife returned with the coffee just as the baby woke, screaming. She scowled at him, as though it was his fault Mrs. Ristovski couldn’t keep her voice down. When Amila was gone, Mrs. Ristovski took a small sip of her coffee and wrinkled up her face. “That’s quite a holler your baby has. I hope you and your wife aren’t as loud.”
Kenan assured her they were not, and the rest of the visit passed more or less without incident. She returned once or twice a week from then on, usually in the evenings when Kenan was home. He followed her instructions about the fern as well as he could, but it deteriorated rapidly in his care. This did not escape Mrs. Ristovski’s notice. On a
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