The Unquiet Dead (33 page)

She went on in a calmer voice, “I doubt there's an art institution in the world that wouldn't benefit from greater patronage, but we've been fortunate in our grants. We planned on a small scale and we're well within reach of our goals.”

“I'm glad.” He smiled into her hair. The earth was suddenly beautiful; the lush accumulation of blooms hummed with praise through the courtyard. He let the field of silence stretch between them. “Will you send me an invitation to the opening?”

“Are you sure you want to come?”

“I can't think of anything I'd like better.”

“Then I will. Esa,” she said urgently, “if Chris is all that you say he is, does it matter so much if he fell or was pushed? Isn't the service of his death enough? Can't you leave it alone?”

“What if it was Melanie Blessant, as a shortcut to Drayton's will? Or Dennis Blessant himself, to put an end to any possibility of losing custody of his daughters? Motives wholly unconnected to Drayton's true identity?”

“What if it wasn't?” Her large clear eyes sought out the sliver of moon on the horizon. “What if his crimes came home to his doorstep? Don't his victims deserve some form of redress?”

“I think what we owe his victims is the truth. Whatever it turns out to be.”

Mink shook her head. He felt the movement against his chin.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking how absurd it would be if this man who posed as our friend and benefactor—this dangerous war criminal—buried himself in this corner of the world only to be murdered by the woman he intended to marry.”

“It's not the right narrative, is it?”

“So do tyrants meet their end. In these strange, ignominious ways.”

“We've no evidence that he didn't fall. We can't place anyone at the scene, we can't prove or disprove anyone's alibi.” Abruptly, he remembered Rachel's caution. “I think I'd better go. I still have some work.”

And this wasn't the way a man of his convictions should proceed. Not if he wanted from Mink what he'd once had with Samina. However tempting the night, the walled garden, the woman.

“One night you'll stay longer,” she said.

His ship of joy set sail, his silent restraint forgotten.

“Ask me again when this is over.”

 

33.

We saw our sons and husbands off to those woods and never heard anything about them again.

Today no man from our family is older than thirty.

It was their last dawn.

He and Hakija had survived the night on the bus to witness a final dawn. The air in the bus was soft and warm, his brother was still asleep. The killing had stopped for the night.

He thought of observing Fajr prayer in that moment. He thought of words his mother had taught him when he was small.

“Say: I seek refuge in the Lord of Daybreak, from the evil of that which He created. From the evil of the black darkness whenever it descends.”

He wouldn't dream of praying now, not with Chetniks all around them. A prayer was as good as a death warrant. He could think of it, though: the Sustainer of the Rising Dawn had seen them through to the morning.

The engines roared into life, as Hakija jerked awake. He put his hand on his brother's neck and cautioned him to silence. Hakija wanted water but there was no water. If he put his head out the window to ask, a Chetnik would shoot him.

The bus moved on, heading north. He recognized the valley town of Zvornik. He knew the fates had been no kinder here. He couldn't afford to think about Zvornik or Srebrenica or the people left behind at Poto
č
ari when his mission was survival.

The bus turned off the main road and his stomach fell.

If they weren't going to a camp to be exchanged, where were they going? He tried to measure the time by the sun but quickly lost track. He was thirsty. He admitted to himself that he was also terrified. He wasn't alone. Every face on the bus reflected the same fear back to him. The uncles and older boys who might have comforted them could only think of themselves. It made him think of the Day of Judgment when not a single soul would speak up for another.

Was this their judgment, then?

They pulled up in front of a school in the village of Grbavici. He counted the vehicles in the convoy. Five buses, six trucks. As the men were made to disembark, terror rose like a wave through his body, strangling his throat, expiring through his fingertips. The bus meant life. The school, he knew, was the end of the road.

He whispered into Hakija's ear. “They're letting us rest now, don't worry. Just don't say anything out loud. Pay attention to me. I'll tell you when it's time to go.”

Soldiers milled all around them. He was careful not to catch anyone's eye. He pushed Hakija before him through the crowd into the gym, where the men were packed in tight. The heat and fear coming off the other men's bodies seared his skin. Clammy and sick, he clung to his little brother.

Chetniks came into the hall, laughing and talking. They passed water around the gym. A wave of energy pulsed through the men who fought for the water. He and Hakija were close to one of the Chetniks. The soldier saw them and pushed a bottle at them. He grabbed it and pulled Hakija into his chest, where he forced half the bottle down his brother's throat. The men around him caught sight of their prize. They shoved Hakija aside and the bottle fell from his grasp to spill on the floor. Like the others, Avdi dove down and licked it from the floor, his dry tongue taking swift swipes like a cat. They shoved at him and pushed him, each fighting for his turn. He heard his brother's high-pitched call. He clambered out from beneath the crush of bodies and fought his way back to Hakija's side.

“Did you drink?” he asked. Hakija nodded. “Me too.”

They grinned at each other, two survivors of the ride to Grbavici. He grabbed his brother's hand and moved him through the crowd as close as he could to the back of the gym. His watchful eyes had realized an opportunity. Like the other boys, they were shorter than everyone else. They couldn't be seen from the front.

Then a rustle went through the crowd. Someone whispered, “The general.”

He craned his neck to see. Around the crush of emaciated men, he saw the reason for this new wave of fear. It was Mladi
ć
himself, slapping his men on the shoulders, laughing with some, rolling back on his heels.

“We are taking you to a camp,” he said.

Avdi didn't believe him. Especially when they picked two men out of the crowd and told them to blindfold the others as they passed through the door.

The crowd in the gym began to narrow into a river, men pressing them from all sides as they were taken to the door, blindfolded and led back to the trucks and the buses. Around them in the gym, men were fainting. The heat of the day was building.

He tried to fight the tide, Hakija's hand slippery in his, but the crush was too great. There were too many Chetniks in the building now, corralling them from the back and the front.

When they arrived at the door, he squeezed himself and Hakija through before the other men could blindfold him. He needed to see. If he didn't see, he wouldn't know the moment for escape.

“Don't worry,” he whispered to his brother. “We've had water, next we'll have food. Remember? The general gave out chocolate at the gate.”

He said it to reassure Haki. To himself, he thought: it was a taste of sweetness before dying. Some of the children had taken it. He'd known that no matter how hungry, he must not take anything from the hands of the executioner.

There was a terrified murmuring on the bus, but like the men themselves, it was weak and subdued. This time the distance the bus traveled was short. When Avdi peered through the window, he saw that the Chetniks had brought them to a field in the raging heat. It was a pretty meadow, a place where children must have played before death had come to his country.

He knew what was coming. He could see the bodies in the field where the Chetniks had their guns cocked.

“Are we going to die?” Hakija asked him, almost calm.

“No,” he whispered back, fiercely. “I didn't bring you all this way just to die. You stay by my side. You move when I move. Don't do anything else.”

Rows and rows of men were lined up in the field. He could smell the blood leaching up from the earth. It made him want to vomit. If Hakija hadn't been with him, he would have given himself long-denied permission to faint.

The moment the Chetniks turned their attention to the next load of men to disembark, he grabbed Hakija's hand and squeezed in between two of the rows. They couldn't run, but maybe the first round would miss them.

He waited for the Chetnik commander to give the order.

“Now!” he hissed.

He threw Hakija forward and tugged his body beneath his own. The men behind them fell on top of him just as he landed on the shoes and legs of the man in front of him.

None of the bodies moved. They lay still and quiet: a perfectly arranged series of corpses.

Pinned beneath warm, bleeding bodies, his hand made a furtive search of his brother's torso. No wetness, no wounds. Lord of Daybreak, Lord of the Angels, his maneuver had worked. Haki's face was turned sideways. He could see his tears. He licked them up quickly. There were Chetnik boots behind them. The soldiers were patrolling for survivors.

Blood from the neck of the man who lay on top of him dripped onto his face. Moving his hand a little at a time, he brushed the blood over his brother's spotless face.

“Don't move,” he said directly into Hakija's ear. “Don't breathe.”

His brother obeyed him, eyes closed, body frozen. For a second, he thought Hakija was really dead.

He couldn't think of any prayers so he said his mother's name over and over again in his head. Shots fired all around them. Haki flinched but the bodies around them covered the small movement. Boots receded in the distance.

“Is anyone alive?” a soldier called.

“Please,” a man answered weakly. “I'm alive. Please help me.”

The soldier went over and fired a single shot.

Another group of men was led from the buses to the field. There was another volley of shots, another round of thudding bodies hitting the earth. The scent of the meadow turned sick with decay. And still he listened.

“Please,” an old man called, as his turn came to be lined up. “Children, we didn't do anything. Don't do this to us.”

He was silenced by a shot.

Someone else begged for his life. Another shot followed.

A man cried and murmured for his daughter.

“Fuck your daughter.”

“Better yet, let us fuck her.” Another shot.

The other men stayed quiet. They knew it was a game now. Speak and die. Stay silent, die. Move. Die. Lie still. Die. Stay on the bus. Die. Stumble through the field. Die.

Death was the only outcome.

He and Hakija lay facedown in the blood-soaked grass. Underneath their bodies, he held his brother's hand, stroking his palm. The hours passed, the heat of the day building to an excruciating crescendo. They both lost consciousness after a time. When Avdi woke again, it was to feel the ants crawling over his face, his arms, his legs, their tiny incursions unbearable as they delved in the stickiness of blood. He felt them in his mouth. His body itched to scream.

After a time, the sun went down. Now the field was lit by the bulldozers the Chetniks had brought to dig the graves. Newly drunk, they were braying at each other, firing sporadically, shooting at men already dead as a diversion.

He checked his brother's face. Hakija's eyes were closed, there was no sign of life.

He spoke into his ear. “Are you all right?”

Haki's eyelids flickered.

“Good. We have to move soon. Before they come to bury us.”

“Everyone is dead,” his brother said.

“I know. But we're still alive. Wait for my signal.”

It began to rain, a steady, drilling, persistent rain. The soldiers had moved to a distant part of the meadow, firing at random. He turned Hakija's face toward the rain and opened his own mouth. The rain began to wash the ants away. He felt the heaviness of the body that covered his. It was slowly stiffening, turning cold. All this time, he'd been determined not to look. Now he thought maybe he should. Maybe he would be able to tell someone that their brother or father or son hadn't made it. Before their bones disappeared into the earth, he would know what had happened to at least one man among these thousands.

He looked at the corpse's face. It was thin like his own, narrow like his own, hungry like his own. Marked by the madness of terror like his own. He was a boy in his late teens wearing tennis shoes. He would have taken his papers if there were any but none of them had any papers. The Chetniks had stripped every trace of their identity. They would bury their bodies nameless and faceless.

He memorized the face, pondered the young man's shoes.

“You are my brother,” he thought of the man whose body he had used as a shield. “I won't ever forget you.”