The Taste of Translation

  They stared into their illusion, saw only reality, and walked on, playing the same trick through the alleys of Bascarsija, past the mosque, cathedral and Orthodox church. They window-shopped the fine streets, stood before their favourite bookstore, shared roasted chestnuts from a street vendor who existed only in time past.

  But were unprepared for the return circuit via Tito Street, past street stalls selling the salvaged and looted, the family heirlooms and stolen goods. Anything, everything, to raise cash – for the forged papers needed to escape or to bribe this one or another, or to barter for survival basics on a market too black to be believed.

  Kisha hurried past the stalls laden with icons, altarpieces, books, manuscripts, past the wandering locals and the UN soldiers who haggled in their template blue helmets.

  I feel sick, said Samir, hands deep in his pockets, his collar turned up against a sudden inner chill. Selling our treasures to peacekeepers who can’t keep the goddamn peace. Our culture either goes up in flames or out on the next air transport.

  She looked back, bit her lip. You don’t think Baba’s icons could be over there, do you? You don’t think her place was looted before it was hit?

  He sighed, took her arm, steered her steadily in the direction of home.

  Don’t go down that track, Ki-. Don’t even think to look – you’d drive yourself mad haunting these mafia-fed halls. And you wouldn’t have the money to buy it back in any case. It’d break your heart all over again.

  He was right, she knew. But still she felt the pull toward the cloud of unknowing.

  Ten

  Kisha got back from work, tipped the canisters of water into the bath, brought a junky paperback novel out from the living room pile to light the stove on the balcony. But first, she cut a cigarette in half, lit its filter end and flipped aimlessly through the pages of this evening’s choice.

  How could she ever have bought such a thing? Who was the Kisha who had bought such a thing?

  She shook her head at the folly of it all, sat down, her back against the wall. The book’s firing could wait, her desire for coffee could wait. She needed to remember who that Kisha was. It seemed important somehow. Important to confirm that the face she surveyed in the remnant of bathroom mirror, with circles beneath the eyes so dark it had the haunted look of a hunted gazelle, had a sister somewhere hidden. A sister who belonged to a time before now.

  Whether she could be resurrected was irrelevant, only that her memory conjured. Who was the younger sister with the girlish laugh who bought junky paperbacks?

  She tried to reverse the process – instead of then to now, she enacted a now to then. The transformation of tobacco to ash couldn’t help, this was more complicated alchemy. She needed to deconstruct memory to reconstruct it, an attempt to rewind the tape of her life to a time before this endless looping. Before the endless sameness, the dull mediocrity, of life trapped in a city in a slow dance with death had announced itself at her door.

  Perhaps the junky paperback was too specific a memory to dredge, she thought. But generally, she coaxed her mind. Generally. Come on. Surely you aren’t totally inept, surely you aren’t so punch-drunk from the shelling that you can’t resurrect a before, an ante-now.

  Once, yes, there had been a world which was perfect, normal, perfectly normal. A world where she was excited by her studies, in love with a beautiful man. A world where an abundance of potential lives swirled about them in visions of a shared future. But she had to work to sustain the thought, the memory of that pre-world. She had to ignore the muted voices, the numbed desires and drained hopes of now. Hope drip-dripping onto a bloodied pavement, hope slowly walking into a sniper’s deadly sights.

  She worked hard to put away the images of lost hope and conjure in their stead a memory, a story. Decided to look in her favourite drawer, the one marked S. And yes, it came. As surely as if it were –

  Now.

  A lecture theatre. A room full of students. Three people at a table.

  She remembered the scene well. It was the first time he had appeared in her life, as a professor on an examination panel. Her stomach tumble-turned again, beyond the reach of war, siege, hunger, cold. Tumble-turned with nerves at this, her final oral exam in the quest to enter graduate school, to continue her studies in comparative literature and linguistics.

  She sank into the memory, surrendered to its pleasure. Her tutor, Haris, gave her small nods from the top table, while she sat at the back, tense, fidgety, her knees jiggling in time to an unheard rhythm. Alphabetically, the students proceeded to the front of the room, chose three cards at random from a pile on a desk and spent the requisite fifteen minutes preparing their colloquium responses.

  Mirvic! he called.

  She took her place at the desk, looked into his eyes this first time. A question about Hesse: The wanderer in search of the meaning of life – discuss. And she had begun. It was all there, within, ready to be brought out.

  Relief! Leaving the faculty building, she walked out and into the sunshine of a summer’s day, spun round and laughed. In the end, it had been so easy!

  Haris came, pulled her into a hug. You’ll make a brilliant grad student, he confirmed. We were all very impressed. Come on, let me buy you a coffee. And they went to the small café near the river where Marko waited tables.

  So? he asked, balancing a large tray of orders effortlessly on one hand.

  She grinned and he gave a whoop in response. Cigarette lit, she sat back, closed her eyes. I can’t believe it was so simple, she said. What a gift! Hesse!

  Know why? said a male voice from above.

  He stood, haloed by the sun.

  Oh, professor! Sorry. She sat up straight and stubbed out her cigarette.

  Haris laughed. Come on, Kisha, you’re out of school now. Samir, he indicated to the empty chair. Please join us.

  He extended a hand. Nice to formally meet you, he said.

  Um – likewise.

  But tell me, he said pouring coffee from the small copper dzezva into his cup. Do you know why I chose Hesse?

  He lit a cigarette while she shook her head dumbly, took his time answering.

  Haris had mentioned he had an excellent student who was passionate about Hesse’s work and keen to continue her studies. How fortunate that you randomly chose a card from the pile on the desk so I could test the extent of that passion.

  Kisha laughed and raised her cup in a toast. Here’s to Hesse staying my guardian angel now and evermore!

  She smiled. In the here and now she smiled into the memory of there and then. The beginning of a then, for them. The true beginning, before the beginning. For when she had asked some months later if he would supervise her master’s thesis – on Hesse, of course – he declined.

  Another part of their beginning, that end. She had gone to sit in the café with her disappointment and confusion, alone except for Marko waiting tables between lectures. To sit with her coffee and look out on a rain-drenched river which flowed, ever-constant, despite the petty troubles of a 22-year-old girl.

  What’s up? Marko said on his next drift past.

  Kisha sighed. Just a bad day, she said as he sat down at the table and wiped greasy hands on a napkin trailed from a back pocket. Tell me a story, M. That’ll get me laughing.

  He screwed up his nose. Sorry, Ki-. I wish I could but I’m coming off shift now and have to run to a class.

  She was far away, back in her thoughts, and didn’t notice when he brought a second coffee, kissed her lightly on the hair, said goodbye. She just sat and stared out through a rain-spattered window onto a river’s disinterest.

  How could she have been so wrong about him? That day of the colloquium, all the lectures she’d attended since, the conversations they’d had. And now, when she thought it possible –

  No. Impossible. No explanation. Just a: I’m sorry, Kisha, but no. And then a second time: Sorry, but I need to get back to this marking.

  There it was, done. Dismi
ssed from his presence.

  What of all the times she had stayed back to talk to him, to remain in his presence as long as possible – just to hear him speak, tell of the things he knew, soak in the bath of his voice, fragrant with knowledge?

  She sipped cold coffee and remembered a day not long past. He at the front of the lecture hall gathering papers, full of his thoughts, oblivious to the noisy exit of happy chatting students. A popular teacher to be sure, a brilliant mind, only ten or so years since he himself had been one of them. But reserved, singular, an important topic was needed to draw him into conversation, something interesting on which he could reflect.

  She had walked down the steps slowly that day. Why, she didn’t know. But all of a sudden, she had begun to feel self-conscious in his presence. Her question rehearsed, she walked slowly, to stay calm, composed, to arrive at his desk sober, not like some young flighty thing. All of a sudden, she wanted to think he took her seriously. All of a sudden it seemed to matter what he thought of her. And in the end she had not asked her question, had simply walked past and said: Thank you.

  Kisha humphed, stubbed out her cigarette. Thank you. For what? How could she return to class now he’d refused her request? When it was clear he thought so little of her? Had she been blind to his opinion all this time because of her desire to be close to his knowledge, to share the same airshed? Had it blinded her to the fact he was polite in her presence, nothing more? Her face burned with the thought, the shame of it.

  She lit a fresh cigarette, stared out at the grey of the river and grey of the sky. Suddenly thrown into disarray by the colour and shape of an overcoat crowding her line of vision. She stood sharp to attention, met the coat owner’s eyes.

  There he was, separated by a thin sheaf of glass, standing on a damp terrace, his old felt fedora dripping rain onto his shoes.

  She sat back down, stared at the tabletop.

  May I join you?

  He placed a folder in front of her, lit a cigarette, sat back in his chair. You dropped this in my room in your haste to leave.

  She looked at the makings of a thesis proposal between them. I – er – sorry – no, wait! she flashed. In my haste? You were the one who wanted me out of there!

  Samir let the smoke exit his body slowly, lazily, surveyed her anger. I won’t debate you, Kisha. At the very least, the folder gave me the chance to seek you out and explain my decision.

  She folded her arms. What – you needed time to make up an excuse? I caught you off-guard, did I?

  He inclined his head. Yes to the second question, no to the first. What I needed was time to formulate the truth. In my own mind at least before sharing it with you.

  She hugged the folder to her quickening heartbeat, didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say.

  It’s already resolved, she mumbled into the folder’s edge. No explanation necessary.

  She wanted to leave but movement eluded her. A push and pull kept her rooted to the chair, mouth firmly clamped to the folder’s edge.

  Kisha. His voice was soft. He reached out, touched her hand. A soft sparrow peck, then withdrawn.

  I would be more than happy to spend some time with you, if it would be of value, if it’s what you want, he said. I know it takes time to discuss certain – he paused – concepts. But I can’t be your supervisor. It would be – again the slight pause, a tremor gone before she had time to register its presence – inappropriate. But I could spend more time with you, in a more relaxed way, if that were acceptable?

  It wasn’t a long speech. And in reply, she had no way of articulating how her joy in learning was so snug-wrapped in the joy of his teaching. They seemed to reside in her like Siamese twins, overlain by something more, something beyond, something that tugged at her belly, trip-wired her knees. She had no way of describing this, or even understanding it. But words bubbled up nevertheless, and she whispered into a void of slow-materialising consciousness. You melt me.

  He moved closer. What? he said. I can’t hear you.

  She repeated it more softly the next time, and the one which followed, till only her breath remained. You melt me.

  His hand touched hers again, the other rested against her cheek. She melted into his fingers, fused into his skin.

  It’s OK, he said into her mouth. We won’t fly too close to the sun.

  A mortar exploded nearby. She opened her eyes to dark. Had she fallen asleep? Or been so deep in reverie that time had slipped between the pages of the book in her hand?

  The next explosion closer. It rattled doors and cupboard frames, forced her back to the hallway mattress where she curled, retreating further into a song of memory as the building shuddered.

  Later – how much later? – the apartment door opened. First tentative steps over the threshold, out of gloom into gloom.

  Kisha? Ki-?

  I’m h-here.

  He felt his way over to the mattress, lay down, curled into her back, kissed her hair, neck, ear.

  She could hear his shallow breath, feel his quaking hand seek the warmth of her belly, smell the sweat on his skin. Mortars whistled down from the mountain to rock them in waves. Gradually his breathing slowed.

  I really had to run – we were clearing out some of the offices when it started. Damn them. I had to drop everything and run.

  Was it down your way?

  Didn’t you hear? It’s been going on for an hour or more. Basically followed me home.

  She turned to face him, kiss his sweat-soaked eyes, lie together forehead to forehead.

  Yet, I’ve been in the most delightful daydream, she admitted. Memories of how we met, our first conversation, that sort of thing.

  Tell me where you got up to and we can take it from there.

  And so they stayed locked together while the wall zittered at their back, plaster cracked from the ceiling, showered them in porcelain white and the window plastic sucked in-out with each fresh pounding.

  All night they went on, occasionally drifting into sleep but soon enough rousing with: Oh, and do you remember when – ?

  At daybreak, she woke fully, no more memories on her lips, woke fresh, into silence. A silence not empty but full, pregnant, complete.

  Ready to birth what we share, she thought. The idea of a longer-than us.

  Eleven

  The door opened and Nada tumbled straight onto the hallway mattress.

  You don’t mind, do you? she mumbled. I was coming over the bridge and nearly slipped in. I’m so tired, I don’t think I could make it home.

  She trailed off as Kisha covered her with a pair of thick blankets.

  Tell Kasim when you see him at the centre, OK? So he doesn’t worry. She sighed and snuggled deeper into the warmth. It was such a lousy shift. We got shelled three times. The wounded were lined up in the corridors, we could only manage patch jobs.

  Oh, she roused herself on one elbow. If you’ve got time could you rinse out my coat? It’s in bad shape – I fell hard against a guy I was treating during the last attack. Wasn’t pleasant for either of us.

  Sure, said Kisha, pushing her prone. Now sleep!

  She could picture the hell of Nada’s 24 hour shift, could picture it from Baba’s time and her regular visits to donate blood. She could see it, smell it, hear it – the torches and miners’ lamps used for operations without monitors or X-rays, anaesthetists hand-pumping oxygen with rubber bladders.

  She washed the coat out in the bathtub, rubbed the stubborn patches with a cake of soap. By the light of a candle, the swirled soup of her work could have looked like a bath filled with wine or rose petals, ready for a relaxing restorative soak. It could have been, but wasn’t, and she fought hard to contain the nausea rising from her empty gut.

 

  We’re going to celebrate the New Year, Samir announced to the room mid-morning.

  What?

  When was the last time we had a party with everyone here? His reasoning was sound.

  Plato laughed. We’
re always partying – coffee, cigarettes, homemade cognac, a few candles, some music if the electricity decides to join us. We have parties all the time!

  Samir waved a hand of exasperation. I mean a real party. With a proper guest list and a proper meal and – well I don’t know – party games maybe?

  They stared at him.

  Come on, he said. We’ll write invitations and everything.

  On what?

  Toilet paper!

  No! squealed Kisha. Don’t waste it!

  Marko arrived into the discussion. Comrades, he said, kissing each cheek, throwing a packet of cigarettes into each lap.

  Where’s Miki?

  Oh, he groaned, sliding down the wall and coming to a bump on the mattress where Nada squeaked in protest. He’s found himself a woman to keep him warm. I think she fell for the fleur de lys tattooed on his head.

  Nice, said Samir. Another of the well-known fringe benefits of military service. And lit a pay-day cigarette to prove his point.

  I need a woman, Marko whined.

  Maybe you could do a Miki, Susu said. And if that doesn’t find you a girl, you could always share his. I swear I can never tell the two of you apart.

  Don’t shave your head! Kisha cried. It wouldn’t be you without that shaggy mane.

  You could put a wanted ad up in Tito Street, Nada suggested, pushing him off the mattress. You see everything there – requests for stoves, shoes, winter coats. The occasional woman.

  But how would she find me?

  Give our address, Kisha offered. I’ll take applications, make a shortlist. What do you want – full hips or pretty smile, CV or recent photo?

  Everything.

  Has anyone actually got full hips these days? Plato wondered.

  You’d be surprised, said Nada. Is age a criteria?

  Marko shrugged.

  Well, it’s just that the grannies seem to hold fat longer. It’s genetic.

  No! he shrieked. No grannies.

  You said woman, she grumbled.

  Such a party. All the usual suspects, supplemented by Samir and Plato’s undergrads, any of the doctors not on shift, plus some of the internationals from the humanitarian agency.

  Are you sure? Samir had asked.

  Well, they’re nice, Kisha shrugged. And it’s a chance to show them how the other half lives.