Pretty Birds (21 page)

Irena imagined the boys on the crew clapping as the girl swayed her hips and slipped out of her black sweater, perhaps draping it around the neck and shoulders of a shy lieutenant. She imagined a black brassiere beneath, with a shocking red ribbon.
Oh, you bitch, you.
Perhaps the Knight, if they could hear him, had goaded them along with the Clash:
We're a garage band, we come from garageland, things hotting up. . . .

Someone placed a beer can over the girl's belly button. She laughed at the cold, laughed at the can, and tried to balance it along the ridges of her muscles without laughing. But she kept laughing, giddy after a night's work sending black steel shells and fire into the pale flesh of hiding people, and drunk after just a sip. The can was the particular leaf-green of a Heineken, with a white medallion declaring it was the official beer of Her Majesty the Queen of the Netherlands, whoever she was, dead center in Irena's sights when she squeezed out her last shot.
For queen and country.
She felt the thump of the shot clap her shoulder like the fist of an old teammate, as if to say, “Way to go.”

“Mist and foam” was all Irena told Tedic later.

23.

ONE MORNING IRENA
heard someone calling her name outside on the staircase, and Aleksandra shouting back, “Careful out there, whoever you are! You could get shot looking for her!” Then, after a moment, she shouted again. “Third floor! If she's home, she's heard you. Now, off the damn staircase!”

A man's right to endanger his own life stamping up their building's staircase was circumscribed—Irena and Aleksandra had talked it over, and established the principle firmly—by the fact that his appearance might attract the attention of snipers and mortar crews across the way.

Irena was home; she opened the door speculatively. A short man with an eggshell head and an unclipped mustache that bobbed above his mouth in time with each word walked carefully down the hallway toward her until his words could reach her.

“Scary lady down there,” he said.

“You have to know her,” said Irena.

“No, I don't,” said the man. He had stopped in front of the door and was close enough for Irena to smell the wet dirt on his shoes.

“Are you Irena?” he asked. She nodded.

“Zaric?” Irena nodded again.

“Number Three High School basketball team?”

“Are you scouting for the Bulls?” she asked.

The man hesitated for a moment, then, realizing the joke, slapped a palm against his baggy pants.

“I'm a cabdriver,” he said. “A friend wants to talk to you.”

“Where?”

The man threw his right hand over his left shoulder, two, then three times.

“Over there somewhere,” he said. “Across the way. I'm Zoran Vikic, by the way.”

“Who?”

“Zoran Vikic.”

“No. Who wants to talk to me?”

“I don't know.”

“And you are,” asked Irena, “related?”

Mrs. Zaric had been napping against a wall, but by now she had awakened and was standing behind her daughter.

“I told you. I'm a
cabdriver,
” he repeated testily.

Mrs. Zaric stepped in front of her daughter. “I'm afraid I don't quite—” she began.

“Cabdrivers have radios,” Zoran said. “It's the only way both sides of Sarajevo can talk. Some friend of yours over there has something to tell you. The friend found a cabdriver over there that radioed your name. Correction: your friend
paid
a cabdriver. That's how we make a living now. That driver put out a call, and I heard it. Your friend said you had probably left Grbavica and that you had a grandmother over here near the synagogue. So I asked at the synagogue.”

“Excuse me.” Mrs. Zaric stepped in. “He asked for my daughter? I am Dalila. My husband is Milan Zaric. Not us?”

Zoran Vikic shook his head a little too proudly. “First time I heard of you. The Serb driver over there says his guy asked for Irena. Said she is pretty. Come on down now, he's waiting.”

Mrs. Zaric turned to murmur something to Irena. “Tomaslav,” she said softly. “He got over there somehow, and no one knows who he is.”

The driver tapped his wrist impatiently, even though he had no watch. “Come on, he's waiting.”

“Tomaslav is in Chicago,” Irena finally answered. “Remember Aunt Senada's letter from Cleveland.”

“How long do you think you can fool me?” Mrs. Zaric lashed out suddenly. “I know that my son and my sister are keeping something from me. And you, too. Tomaslav couldn't hide his jerking off and he can't hide that he's coming here. Don't think you kids are the only ones with secrets,” hissed Mrs. Zaric.

“I'll remember that,” Irena shot back. She took heavy, hesitant steps down the staircase, as if she were walking on a sprain. With each step, she wondered what she would say over the cabdriver's radio to Coach Dino.

         

IT WAS A
Sarajevo Taxi, a Marlboro-red Lada, practically as small as the flip-top box. Zoran reached in for the radio above the dashboard. “Talk standing,” he commanded. “If shooting breaks out, we can run better.

“This is thirty-four over here,” he announced. “Eighteen, this is thirty-four, near the synagogue. I found the package, and have it here.”

Thirty-four then paused and clicked the microphone twice. “Eighteen, thirty-four, do you read? Over.”

Mrs. Zaric had an arm around her daughter. The radio squealed once more before a coarse voice sizzled from the speaker.

“Thirty-four, eighteen here,” he said. “Good, good. I have shipper here. Shipper is here and wants to say hello. Over.”

Zoran held the microphone out to Irena, like a small revolver. “Squeeze the trigger on the microphone to talk,” he explained. “Let it go to listen. When you're done saying something, say ‘Over,' so they know you're done, and let up on the trigger.”

“Perhaps I should speak first,” said Irena.

It was her best hope to alert Coach Dino to her mother's presence. She wanted to stop him from declaring through the fizz and pops that he longed to squeeze her ass in his hands, which is what Irena was expecting—and hoping—to hear.

But when the voice hissed out of the radio, it belonged to a girl.

         

“
HELLO?
”

It was a young voice. Maybe Coach Dino had taken the precaution of bringing along a friend. Maybe—the possibility was so likely that Irena was seething as the mere suggestion burned in her brain—Coach Dino had made a new friend. Or perhaps it really was Tomaslav. He might have found an old friend on the other side of town who would do the speaking to protect his identity.

“Hello?” the girl said again. Then, after some audible coaching, she said, “Over?”

“Hello, yes,” said Irena. “Over.”

“Irena? Hello, Irena? Over.”

“Yes, over. I mean, yes, this is me. Who is this, please? Over.”

The voice might have said something, but it was blocked. Irena kept forgetting to release the trigger after saying “Over.” She held it down and repeated herself.

“This is Irena, yes, Irena. I am Irena. Over, over.”

“Irena! Irena, this is Amela. Amela Divacs. Something has happened! Princess Diana and Prince Charles are separated!”

Seconds passed as Irena wheeled around to look at her mother. The muscles in Mrs. Zaric's face had tightened into the look of a frightened cat.

“Over.” It was Amela's voice, or someone pretending to be Amela.

The driver dipped his head to signal that Irena should squeeze to respond.

“Princess Diana and Prince Charles are
what
?” And then she remembered: “Over.”

“Separated,”
said Amela. “The first step of divorce. It's all in the news here. Over.”

“What about her two boys?” asked Irena. “Over.”

“They'll live with her and see Prince Charles on weekends,” Amela answered. “Over. Wait. But some of her friends worry that the Queen might try to keep them. Over.”

“How does she look?” asked Irena.

“Diana? Over.”

“Diana.” Irena forgot to depress the trigger, but Amela's voice came back regardless. And it
was
Amela, Irena realized; they knew each other's timing.

“She looks very sad. Her picture—you can imagine the news here—is all over. Over.”

“Where are you?” asked Irena. “Over.”

“We had to move out of Grbavica,” said Amela. “Things got rough. We are now on Alexander I Street. Are you at your grandmother's? Over.”

Mrs. Zaric had turned her back and was walking in small circles away from the cab to give her daughter at least a semblance of privacy. But Zoran motioned her back.

“Not that far,” he said. “Snipers can see over there.”

“Yes,” said Irena. “Her old apartment. She's dead. Over.”

“I'm sorry,” Amela said. “Was she old? Over.”

“Yes. But she was shot,” said Irena. The microphone trigger slipped once under her finger. “Just before we got here. Over.”

“Mr. Dragoslav is dead,” said Amela. He was a small man with a plum-shaped beard who taught physics. “He was in the army and got shot. Over.”

“Nermina is dead,” Irena told her softly. “Over.” It was a moment before Amela responded, and her voice was so quiet that it threatened to fade out.

“Was she a soldier? Over.”

“She was waiting for bread. Over,” said Irena. But she went on—that sounded so stupid. “People have to wait outside for bread and water now. We put up a note for her parents, and it's still up. They must be dead, too. Over,” she said.

Excitement—unexpected, with a tinge of elation that Irena realized she had not heard for months—came into Amela's voice. “But I'm calling with good news,” she said. “Pretty Bird. We have Pretty Bird. Pretty Bird is fine.” Her voice disappeared into the static. When it came back, Irena heard trembling. “I'm sorry,” said Amela. “I forgot to pass off to you. Penalty, penalty. Pretty Bird is fine. Over.”

Irena had to lower the arm with the microphone. She slumped against the taxi.

Mrs. Zaric, arms clasped around her own shoulders, crept back into her daughter's conversation. “Pretty Bird? She said Pretty Bird?”

“That's what I heard.”

Mrs. Zaric mouthed to the driver, “Our bird.”

Amela came back. “We figured he was gone with everyone else. But a few months ago someone came running. They said Pretty Bird was back at the basketball court. I couldn't believe it. I said, no, couldn't be. But it was. He was perched on the hoop. He must have flown back. Over.”

“We tried to keep him,” said Irena. “But we ran out of food. We had to let him go.” Irena knew that she had let up the trigger of the microphone before finishing that thought. “Is he there now?” she was finally able to ask. “Over.”

“At home,” said Amela. “Our apartment. We thought—you weren't here—he is safe with us. We will keep him for you. Until all this is over. Over.”

“Does he make his sounds? Over.”

“For sure,” said Amela. “Washing machine, coffeemaker, phone.”

All sounds he can't hear here, thought Irena.

“I think—it's sad, but he's so smart—we hear him going
p-kow, p-kow, boom,
like the shells, at night,” Amela said. “Over.”

That's how they sound going out, Irena thought to herself. “Take care of him” was all she could manage. “Please. Over.”

“Until you can,” said Amela, and after a couple of clicks and pops she added, “How are you? Over.”

“We are”—she clicked the trigger up and down—“fine,” Irena said finally. “There are problems.”

“Here, too.”

“Our team?”

“All gone somewhere.”

“Emina? Danica? Miss Ferenc?” Then Irena remembered. “Over.”

“Can't find them. Lucky we don't play Number One tonight. Over.”

“Coach Dino?” Irena had deliberately saved his name to attach casually after a roster of old teammates.

“You hear about him,” said Amela. “He wins rifle matches in the army. Over.”

Mrs. Zaric was motioning with her hands.

“Your parents?” asked Irena. “Over.”

“Good. Father is in the army, but he doesn't do much. Thank God. Over.”

“Mine too! Digs trenches!”

“With those elegant hands!”

Irena didn't know that Amela had noticed her father's hands.

“I have to be in the army, too,” Amela added. “Over.”

“What do you do? Over.”

“Office stuff. Not much. No school. Over.”

“I work in a brewery,” said Irena. “Office work. The U.N. keeps it open. Over.”

“Fantastic! The U.N. Cute French soldiers? Over.” Irena and her mother flashed smiles at each other.

“A few.”

“Get to drink what you make? Over.”

“We're paid in beer and cigarettes,” Irena said, laughing. “Over.”

“Sounds great! We're paid money. Worth shit. Over.”

Mrs. Zaric had to turn away from Irena when she heard her daughter's laugh chiming alongside Amela's from the radio speaker.

“I have to go,” said Amela. “Driver has to go. Did you hear? Madonna wrote a book called just
Sex.
” She used the English word. “Over.”

“She is so wild!”

“She is fantastic!”

“I love her!”

“Fucking incredible!”

“Have a few old
VOX
and
Q
's here,” said Irena, “That's all. Over.”

“Me, too,” said Amela. “Sometimes old stuff comes in. We will take care of Pretty Bird. Can you talk again?”

“Yes! Yes, over.”

“Maybe,” said Amela, “I can get him to talk into the microphone! Can you talk Thursday? Same time? Over.”

Irena calculated that she would either be home after a night in her roost or waiting to boost herself up in the afternoon.

“Yes,” she said, casting a glance at Zoran, who shrugged and nodded. “Yes, fine. Over!”

“Take care, then,” Amela said. “Driver says to say ‘Over and out.' Pretty Bird makes a refrigerator sound. Over, out!” she shouted through the pops and bubbles.

“Over, out, love to Pretty Bird!” said Irena. She dropped the microphone to her chest and reached for her mother's hands. “Pretty Bird” was all she could say.

Mrs. Zaric just squeezed her daughter's fingers. “Pretty Bird” was all she could manage, too.

         

ZORAN REMINDED THEM
that he was not with one of the humanitarian agencies in town—he had to be paid. He said the price was a carton of cigarettes. Mrs. Zaric said he was being ridiculous. She had heard that some of the French soldiers in town were selling short calls on the satellite telephones some units carried for one hundred U.S. dollars. “To places like London and Chicago,” she said. “This was just to the other side of town.”