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she were playing the violin, because this type of life was still new; and the poet gazed on her with pity in his beautiful eyes.
    That afternoon Amir had chauffeured the American to the morgue, where he had set about first seeing and then knowing that those children were dead—thank God he’d never known them, so he wasn’t compelled to feel much, at least not immediately; he could write about their openmouthed yellow-green faces without being hindered in his work by personal considerations. The details, being precious in and of themselves, since they were the manifestation of the real, would array themselves, and express the sad horror they represented, without his needing to be tortured by it. A photojournalist may look at his negatives ten years later and only then be infected with the anguish they record; for word-workers it is the same only different. He knew enough not to expound on this subject at Vesna’s, even to the poet, who continued praising Vesna in the guise of describing Olga Ilic, while the lost American sat listening to other conversations around him, trying to remember them forever, so that something, anything, could be made of this:
    We still have ten crates of tracers from the Viktor Bubanj Barracks.
    Why won’t we harden that checkpoint?
    Bald Man says they’re shelling Konjic worse than ever.
    Was he there?
    Of course he was, shitface. Bald Man goes where the brigades can’t.
    Then why doesn’t he liberate Konjic for us? Armchair hero—
    . . . Killed them both on the Vrbanja Most, after giving their guarantee. And ever since then my sister’s not right in the head. She and Zlata were classmates—
    Don’t worry, brother. We’ll get our revenge. Those Serbian girls are going to learn how to make Bosnian babies.
    A shell came hissing, and everyone fell silent. The experienced soldiers relaxed first, shrugging their shoulders as they listened for the explosion, which sounded far away when it finally came.
    Mirjana’s fingers were shaking. She saw the American look.— Nerves, she said with a smile.
    He said: I envy the people who can understand what they hear. It must give them a few extra seconds of peace—
    The brunette nodded, her ringed fingers flashing as she raised the glass of slivovitz to her lips, and then she said: At the beginning it was funny for us, and we didn’t even know what a grenade was, so we would be on the balcony trying to look. So we learned that this kind made a buzzing sound, and one made a hissing sound, and on the ninth floor of our building there was this one Serb who would always cheer anytime there was a bombing; he would shout,
oh, they got it!
I remember how he would cheer—
    What happened to him?
    Oh, he’s still there, but he doesn’t cheer, at least not so loudly, because we got fed up—
    Now Amir approached him and said: Enko’s waiting for you on the landing.
    The American went out.
    Give me an advance, said Enko.
    How much?
    All of it.
    Sure. I’ll be back in five minutes.
    Make it two hundred.
    It’ll have to be dollars.
    How much?
    A hundred.
    That’s not right.
    Well, it’s what’s on me just now.
    When are you going to give me those binoculars?
    At the end. I’ll be right back.
    Rather than disturbing the fighters who were smoking cigarettes just outside Vesna’s bathroom, he ascended two more dark and silent flights of stairs—far enough to give him time to hide his moneybelt from Enkoor anyone. Without incident he removed and flashlight-verified the banknote. The American walked back into Vesna’s. Enko was glaring and smiling at a blonde in a cheap print dress. The blonde was giggling. Jasmina, weeping openly, rushed into the bathroom. Mirjana rolled her eyes. Vesna was laying out crackers on a little plate. Amir met the American’s eyes, saying nothing.
    Enko, I have something for you, said the American.
    Shut the fuck