Read The Cellist of Sarajevo for Free Online Page A

in his hands.
    It’s true that he’s not a young man, though he’s young enough. It’s true that he’s in poor physical condition, has three children to look after and has no skills that are of use to an army. But they would take him. Men who are much older, have larger families and are less suited to combat have enlisted. But Kenan hasn’t. He knows the real reason.
    He’s afraid of dying. He may very well die at any time, whether he’s in the army or not, but he feels that as a civilian his chances are lower, and if he’s killed it will be unjust, whereas for a soldier death is part of the job. If he ends up in the army, he knows that sooner or later he will have to kill someone. And as afraid as he is of dying, he’s more afraid of killing. He doesn’t think he could do it. He knows he wants to, sometimes, and that there are men on the other side who certainly deserve to die, but he doesn’t believe that he could perform the physical mechanics of it all. It takes courage to kill a man, and he doesn’t possess such courage. A man who can barely leave his family to collect water without falling down outside the door could not possibly do what Ismet does.
    Kenan isn’t sure whether Ismet can sense this tension within him. He’s never brought it up, never known quite how to, and as time passes the fact that Ismet is fighting to save them all and Kenan is not has grown larger and larger.
    Today Ismet looks particularly tired. His green jacket, with its insignia stitched on by his wife, is covered in mud, and he hasn’t shaved in a while. Thanks to a recent wound, he walks with a slight limp, more noticeable because of his great height. His hair is longer than he usually wears it, but still the colour of coal. The bags under his eyes remind Kenan of a hound, the kind that chases down escaped prisoners in movies.
    The two men embrace, and Kenan is glad to see his friend. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he has been expecting and dreading the day that Ismet doesn’t come back. “How are things?”
    Ismet grins. “They are as others want them.” He gestures towards the relief centre. “Any news?”
    Kenan shakes his head. “I was hoping for some meat this time. Perhaps a nice steak, or a lamb.” This is a running joke between them.
    “Bah. You don’t need that. If you want meat, eat a centipede. You’ll get all the feet you can stomach.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offers it.
    Kenan refuses. Though he’d like one, he knows Ismet probably has only this pack, maybe one other, given tohim by the army instead of pay, and when they run out he’ll feel it more. Kenan has given up smoking, viewing it as a luxury he can’t afford, and he thinks he can stick with it.
    “Go on, take it, don’t be a martyr. It’s not my last one.” Ismet pulls a cigarette from the pack and thrusts it into Kenan’s hand. “Do it as a favour to me.”
    The tobacco makes him a little light-headed, but it’s good. He’s missed this. “Thanks.”
    The two men stand in the street, saying nothing, enjoying a brief moment of silence. There is much to talk about, but none of it can be said, none of it is worth saying. After a while, Ismet puts his hand on Kenan’s shoulder. “Good luck with your water. I’ll call in on you tonight or maybe tomorrow.” He digs his hands into his pockets and continues up the street.
    Kenan watches him as he disappears around the corner, then picks up his water canisters and walks down the hill. His street runs into another, where there’s a mirror that allows cars to see if anyone’s coming. It’s one of the few unbroken pieces of glass around, and every time Kenan passes it he’s surprised to see it still undamaged. He finds it almost funny. There are hardly any cars on the roads, as those that aren’t damaged beyond repair are inoperable due to the scarcity and resulting high price of fuel. What few moving cars there are have become the favourite targets of the menon