Last Stories and Other Stories (9780698135482) Read Online Free PDF Page A

shirtless but already wearing his gun, strode into the bathroom and shut the door. Then he returned to the bedroom, rubbing his forehead and yawning. After another quarter-hour the girl came out, fully dressed, and darted shyly into the bathroom.
    Listen, said Enko. I need another advance.
    Why not?
    Give me a hundred.
    How about fifty?
    I said give me a hundred.
    If I give you a hundred, then after that fifty I gave you last night, we’re square for today, which is fine by me. The only thing is, I don’t have much cash on me in case we need to eat.
    Don’t worry about that, said Enko.
    All right, said the American. He took up his bulletproof vest. Jasmina had just left the bathroom, so he locked himself in there, dropped his pants and removed another hundred Deutschemarks from the money belt. Of course he had lied to Enko, who probably knew it; there was no safe place to leave cash, so he carried it all. Like the others, this was a good new banknote, the kind that the people here preferred. He folded it three times and dropped it into his pocket. Then he lifted the heavy vest over his head, lowered it into place and snugged the two tabs across the torso panels. Over this he zipped up the light windbreaker, to make him less conspicuous to snipers. It had always seemed to him elementary logic that the wearer of a bulletproof vest would be in and of himself a target.
    Jasmina stood at the dining room table, with her purse in her hand. Enko’s mother ignored her.
    Enko was staring at him. No doubt he wanted his advance. The American said: Do you have a second?— Enko rose and followed him down the hall. The American gave him the money.
    What’s all this secret bullshit? said Enko.
    I keep my finances private, said the American. That’s how I like to do things.
    Fine, said Enko. Amir’s downstairs.
    Where are we going?
    The frontline, if you promise not to shit your pants.
    I’ll do my best.
    We need petrol. That’s what the money’s for. On the way we’ll drop Jasmina at her cousin’s. Let’s go.
    The American shook Enko’s mother’s hand.— Come back, she said. I’ll pray for you.
    Enko was whispering something in Jasmina’s ear. She giggled.
7
    Here everyone runs, said Amir. This corner is very dangerous. Serbian snipers shoot from the hills. We must speed up here.
    Okay, said the American. Enko was in the back seat with his pistol on his lap.
    The car turned onto the sidewalk, then rushed across a pedestrian bridge.— This place is very dangerous, said Amir.
    I think I can see that.
    Amir’s ancient M48 rifle jiggled between the seats, the barrel pointing ahead.
    Now they were on a straightaway, and a single bullet struck the car somewhere low on the left side of the chassis, harming nothing so far as they could tell. Nobody said anything. Amir slammed the gas pedal to the floor. No more bullets came. The American felt that slight sickness which always visited him on such occasions: in part mere adrenaline, which was intrinsically nauseating, that higher form of fear in which his mind floated ice cold, and a measure of disgust at himself for having voluntarily increased his danger of death. Over the years, the incomprehensible estrangement between his destiny as a risk-taking free agent and the destinies of the people whose stories he sometimes lived on, which is simply to say the people who were unfree, and accordingly had terrible things done to them, would damage him. Being free, however, he would never become as damaged as many of them. And, like Enko, he did get paid for his trouble. Mostly he broke even or better. On this day, of course, he was simply considering how to live out the day while writing the best notes he could. His mind subdivided checklists into sub-lists, in hopes ofpreparing him for anything: If Amir gets shot, I’ll take the wheel, but he’ll be in the way, so I’ll hold the wheel steady with my left hand and