The Skinner's Revenge. Chris Karsten

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      His father picked up the book on the table.

      “I borrowed it from the library,” he said, “to go and show them.”

      “How will a borrowed book protect you?” His mother sounded unconvinced.

      “It’s a volume of poetry,” his father said, as if a book of poems could protect him against snipers’ bullets.

      “Don’t go his mother begged, her fingers fumbling with the beads of her rosary.

      “It’s a volume of Aleksa Šantić’s poetry,” his father continued.

      “Will they know him?” his mother asked. “Will those savages know about Aleksa Šantić?”

      “He’s one of them. The Serbs still sing his ballads.”

      “Ballads about love in a city of death?”

      “Perhaps they’ll spare the library if they see it also contains the poetry of Aleksa Šantić.”

      His father paged through the book. Milo saw he was using a receipt as a bookmark – a receipt for two bicycle wheels.

      His father looked up when his mother said: “You want to save a building with a book in your hand? You’ll risk your life for books?”

      “At the Eastern Institute only ash and soot remain of more than two hundred thousand documents and manuscripts in four alphabets, some of them from the eleventh century.”

      “It’s not your job, Tomislav. You’re not a saviour of books and buildings. You’re my husband, the father of our children. We need you.”

      “I can’t be a man if I close my eyes, or a father if I fold my arms.”

      “I love you, Tomislav, but you’re a librarian, not a hero.”

      His father sat with the book in his hand, the volume of poetry by Aleksa Šantić, from the library where he worked. He looked like someone who spent his life among books. His long fingers were made for turning the pages of old, delicate documents. His skin was thin and yellow, like parchment. Behind the lenses of his spectacles, his eyes were pale as water, as if reading had drained all of their colour.

      “I’m not a hero, and there’s very little risk. They gave me permission to state my case in Lukavica. With Aleksa Šantić’s volume, I want to show them that the National Library is a repository for all Balkan documents, including those by Serbian authors.”

      “And you trust them?”

      For as long as Milo could remember, the Gospa rosary had been within reach of his mother’s hands, no matter how busy she was.

      “They’re not all savages, Milka.”

      “No? Their mortars destroy churches, cathedrals and mosques, they shoot people queuing for water and bread, their snipers kill mothers with babies crossing the street, or family members mourning at a child’s grave. What do people like that care about books, Tomislav?”

      “I have to try,” Milo’s father insisted. “If I don’t succeed, if they laugh at me and chase me away, I haven’t gained or lost anything.” He was silent for a moment. “Two days ago a mortar fell through the library atrium’s glass dome. It didn’t explode and not much damage was done. But that’s just the prelude.”

      “I’ll go with you, Tata,” Milo said suddenly.

      He looked at his mother and saw the defeat on her face. She’d had the same expression at the funeral of his grandfather Juro. He’d been in a queue of people at the water pump in Bistrik when a mortar exploded next to them. At Grandma Brana’s funeral his mother had been totally crushed. Grandma was killed when two 120mm mortars exploded near the bread queue in Vase Miskina Street. His father had had to summon Dr Buzuk to treat his mother after Jasmina’s death. That had been the worst.

      “You’re not going, Milo,” said his mother.

      “Just to the near side of the bridge, Mama.”

      “I want to go too! Can I go with Tata and Milo?” asked his sister Kaya, nine years old.

      After Jasmina’s death, Kaya trailed behind him wherever he went, even got into his bed at night to sleep with him.

      “You’re both staying here,” said his father. “You have to look after your mother.”

      “Just to the bridge,” said Milo. “I’ll wait for you under the bridge. I’ll be safe.”

      “If Milo goes, I want to go too,” Kaya insisted.

      “Kaya, you’re staying here,” his mother said decisively.

      The children’s mother had delicate features and a slender figure. In Sarajevo everyone was slender, except the UN soldiers with their blue helmets. And the overfed Serbian commanders.

      “Mama … ” Kaya whined.

      “What time, Tomislav?” asked his mother.

      She liked to tell the story of how they’d taken Milo with them when they’d gone to get the rosary. He was two years old and couldn’t СКАЧАТЬ