Love and Obstacles by Aleksandar Hemon Read Free Book Online

myself steered by the haulers . . . ); packs of Marlboros (rather than the usual crappy Drinas); and a single contraceptive pill I had gotten in exchange for Physical Graffiti, a double Led Zeppelin LP that I no longer cared about, as I had moved on to the Sex Pistols.
    I was an unwilling virgin, my bones draped in amorous flesh. Consequently, I held a belief, not uncommon among adolescent males, that beyond the constraining circles of family, friends, and prudish high school girlfriends lay a vast, wild territory of the purest sex, where the merest physical or eye contact led to copulation unbound. I was ready for it: in preparation for the journey, I had tested a number of scenarios in my hormone-addled mind, determining that the crucial moment would be when I offered her the pill, thereby expressing my manly concern and gentlemanly responsibility—no female could say no to that.
    “You look like a smart kid,” the Sarajevan said. “Let’s see if you can figure out this riddle.”
    “Let’s hear it,” the Serbian said.
    “It has no head, but it has a hundred legs, a thousand windows, and five walls. It is never the same, but it is always almost the same. It is black and white and green. It disappears, and then it comes back. It smells of dung and straw and machine oil. It is the biggest thing in the world, but it can fit into the palm of your hand.”
    The Sarajevan watched me, wistfully stroking his three-day beard, as though remembering himself when he used to be my age, before he boarded the drunken boat of adulthood, before he knew the answer to the riddle.
    “It’s a house,” the Serbian said.
    “No house has a hundred legs, you stupid fuck,” the Sarajevan said.
    “Don’t call me stupid,” the Serbian said, and rose to face him, his hands rolled up into fists.
    “All right, all right,” the Sarajevan said, as he stood and embraced the Serbian. They hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks several times, then sat down. I hoped the riddle was forgotten, but the Sarajevan would not let go; he poked my knee with his shitty shoe and said: “What is it, kid?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “An elephant,” the Serbian said.
    “Shut up,” the Sarajevan said. The Serbian leapt up, ready for a punch; the Sarajevan got up; they embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks; they sat down.
    “Respect,” the Serbian muttered. “Or I will crack your fucking skull open.”
    The Sarajevan ignored him. “What is it?” he asked me. I pretended I was thinking.
    “Everything,” the Serbian said. “It is everything.”
    “With all due respect, brother, that is probably not the correct answer.”
    “Who says?”
    “Well, everything usually does not work as an answer to any riddle, and it does not disappear and come back.”
    “Says who?”
    “Everybody knows that doesn’t happen.”
    “I say it does.”
    “ Everything cannot fit into the palm of your hand.”
    “I say it can,” the Serbian said, and got to his feet, his fists clenched as tightly as ever. The Sarajevan stayed in his seat, shaking his head, apparently deciding against smashing the Serbian’s face in.
    “All right,” he said, “if it is that important to you, it is everything.”
    “Because it is,” the Serbian said, and then turned to me. “Isn’t it?”
     
     
    The blazing clarity of dawn: light creeping from beyond muddy fields; a plane leaving a white scar across the sky; drunken soldiers howling songs of love and rape in the next compartment. The two men had quieted down, exhausted by their babbling, and I dropped off. When I woke up, they were gone, leaving the stench of sweaty mindlessness behind. I checked my pocket for the money, then wrote down the conversation and the riddle as I remembered them, and there were many other things to note. On this trip, I was happy to experience, everything was notable.
    In Zagreb, I boarded a bus to Murska Sobota. The quaint hills of Zagorje, the picture-postcard houses and occasional