The Cellist of Sarajevo Read Online Free PDF

far side of the street is the Energoinvest Tower. A few years ago it was one of the city’s largest high-rise office towers. Now it’s in ruins, shelled out of existence. Everything around him is a peculiar shade of grey. He’s not sure where it came from, if it was always there and the war has simply stripped away the colour that hid it, or if this grey is the colour of war. Either way, it gives the whole street a bleak feeling.
    There are about twenty people waiting at the intersection to cross. Some step out and begin to run as though there’s a rain cloud over this part of the street and they don’t want to get any wetter than necessary. It almost seems routine to these people. Or at least that’s how it looks to Dragan. There are others who hover for a second and then run as fast as they can until they reach the other side. They make this brief frenetic dash and then keep walking as though nothing has happened.
    Dragan is one of those who waits behind the protection of a concrete wall for a sign or a feeling that it’s okay to cross. He’s never quite sure what could possibly happen that might make a difference, but sooner or later he always feels that the time to cross has come. So far he’s still alive, so he figures that whatever it is he’s doing must be right.
    Since the war began Dragan has seen three people killed by snipers. What surprised him the most was how quickly it all happens. One moment the people arewalking or running through the street, and then they drop abruptly as though they were marionettes and their puppeteer has fainted. As they fall there’s a sharp crack of gunfire, and everyone in the area seeks cover. After a few minutes, though, things seem to go back to what they now call normal. The bodies are recovered, if possible, and the wounded are taken away. No one has any way of knowing if the sniper who fired is still there or if he has moved, but everyone behaves as though he has gone until the next time he fires, and then the cycle repeats itself. It doesn’t appear to Dragan to make much difference whether the shot hits or misses. It may have in the beginning, months and months ago, but not now. Now people are used to seeing other people being shot in the street.
    Of the three people Dragan has seen killed, two were hit in the head and died immediately. One was hit in the chest and then, about a minute later, the neck. It was a much worse death. Dragan is afraid of dying, but what he’s afraid of more is the time that might come between being shot and dying. He isn’t sure how long it takes to die when you’re shot in the head, if it’s instantaneous or if your consciousness remains for a few seconds, and he’s sceptical of anyone who claims to know for certain. Either way, it’s a lot better than gulping air like a fish in the bottom of a boat, watching your own blood gush into the ground and thinkingwhatever thoughts people have when they see themselves ending.
    He’s reached the intersection and can’t go any farther without exposing himself to the hills. There’s a small group of people milling at the edge of the street, none of them crossing, none of them turning back. They all watch as a man on the other side begins to cross. He hunches a bit as he runs, a cigarette hanging from his lips. Dragan recognizes this man. His name is Amil and he works, or used to work, at the news kiosk outside Dragan’s old building. Dragan hasn’t seen him since the war started, hasn’t even thought about him.
    As Amil reaches the other side he stops running and puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The collar of his leather jacket is flipped up on one side, and his hair is shorter than Dragan remembers it being. Amil is only a few metres from him, and if he looks up he’ll see him. Dragan turns and faces the wall behind him, as though examining it, and waits until Amil passes. It doesn’t seem as though Amil noticed him.
    When he’s gone Dragan thinks about what he’s just