The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway Read Free Book Online Page B

man luck and backtracks about fifty metres, heading north, just to be sure he’s well away from the stretch where the men on the hills are shelling. He turns east when he hits the Sweet Corner, named after the cluster of pastry shops located here at the turn of the century, right on the dividing line between the eastern and western architecture of the old town.
    As he enters the old Turkish neighbourhood of Baščaršija, he feels as though he’s returning to the scene of a crime. He hasn’t been here since the day the library burned, and though he’s still some distance from it, he can feel its proximity. For some reason the mess of shattered roof tiles and crumbled bricks in this part of town bothers him more than it does in other places. There are a few people in the streets, and down one narrow alley he sees a group of tin-men with small displays of itemsfor sale. For months now they’ve been turning bullets and shell casings into pens, plates, anything they can sell. One man has built a small wood-burning stove, and even though he knows it’s almost certainly more than he has, Kenan wonders how much he would sell it for.
    Hardly anyone lives in Baščaršija. For half a millennium, it has served as the city’s marketplace, its streets organized according to the type of trades conducted there. But in recent years this strict discipline had broken down a bit, with more and more shops selling merchandise designed for tourists. Now there are no more tourists, and the shops are closed just like everything else. To his north is the Sebilj, a gazebo-shaped public fountain that serves as a meeting place, or did. Its location, placed firmly in the middle of a large plaza, makes it an exceptionally poor place to be at present. Only pigeons are brave or stupid enough to congregate at its base.
    As he passes the Sebilj, staying as close to the cover of buildings as possible, Kenan hears one of the pigeons squawk and sees the others flutter away. The pigeon skids towards him, seemingly moved by a gravity that pulls at it from the side. Kenan stops, confused, and watches as the pigeon disappears into the alcove of a doorway just ahead of him. The squawking halts abruptly, and after a few seconds a piece of bread flies out of the alcove. He looks closer and sees it’s attachedto something. Gradually the birds begin to return, and as one ventures closer to the bread he sees what’s happening. Someone is fishing for pigeons.
    He takes a few steps forward and looks into the alcove. There an old man holds a short fishing pole, his face intent on the plaza and his piece of bread. The man sees Kenan and waves slightly, not wanting him to disturb the line.
    “How’s the fishing today?” Kenan asks, trying to keep his voice low so as not to startle the birds.
    “They’re biting well,” the man says, keeping his eyes on one grey bird who’s eyeing the piece of bread.
    “Do you need a licence this time of year?” he asks, smiling so the man understands it’s a joke.
    The man looks at him, as if to discern whether he has some sort of official capacity. Eventually he smiles back. “Of course. You need a licence for the fish, and also for the pole.”
    “Where do you get the licence?”
    The man points at the hills. “Up there you can get one. Just keep going up until you find the office.”
    The pigeon is close now. It seems to have its doubts, but another one is coming up behind it and its indecision is under pressure. It moves towards the bread.
    “Is it expensive?” Kenan asks.
    The man shakes his head. “No, but the lineup’s very long. It could be quite a wait.”
    The grey pigeon hops ahead of its rival and lunges at the bread. It swallows it whole, and for a moment nothing happens. The pigeon appears pleased with itself. It has managed a small meal. Life is good. Then it’s jerked hard from the inside, and it gives a sharp squawk as the man reels it in. The pigeon tries to fly away, but the man yanks in the line