by Carrie Arcos
But in the frenzy of freedom, a group of us went to the Miljacka River that runs through Sarajevo. Normally we wouldn’t go because we would be shot on sight. Today the boys stripped to just their underwear and dove off the Latinska Bridge. It’s their famous bridge here. The one where someone was shot and WWI began. How come our histories are always connected to war?
The locals speak of the bridge with pride, but it is like a puny version of our beautiful bridge back home. I stood on it, fully clothed. Don’t worry, Mama, I wouldn’t embarrass you with immodesty. I stared down at the dirty gray river, which is nothing like the beautiful green Drina.
I watched the kids swimming. Dalila—you would like her; she is the opposite of me, fun, charming, outspoken—she floated on her back, calling out for me to join.
The wind picked up while I stood there watching, sending a memory rushing through me. Do you remember the time when we went fishing, just me and you? I don’t know where Dad and Benjamin were. We only caught one fish, and it was so tiny. It flapped around in the belly of our boat. Its gills gasped, working for air. I didn’t want to touch it, so you laughed and scooped it up easily. You removed the hook, unfazed by the blood, the cut of its scales. You held it up to me and asked if I wanted to kiss it before you released it again. I grimaced in horror, squeamish at the idea.
You laughed. You laughed so hard you dropped the fish and then I screamed and jumped up. And the boat rocked and in my trying to avoid the fish, I slipped and fell overboard. And you were laughing and laughing, but I got so mad. I wouldn’t take your extended hand. I struggled on my own. When I got back into the boat, I pouted. You tried to get me to laugh with you. But I sulked the whole way home.
Today I stood on a bridge and heard your laugh. I had forgotten how you loved to laugh. And I so desperately regret that I didn’t laugh with you that day.
Love,
Nadja
Nadja didn’t like the feeling of regret. She didn’t like indulging in memories either. Writing to her mother relieved her of some of the pain she felt, but nothing could repair her entirely. It didn’t help to remember. It didn’t help to remember that day with her mother. It didn’t help to remember the bridge back home, how Marko made her pose for picture after picture in front of it that one day. How she’d laughed as he did.
She could hardly remember how to laugh now.
July 17
“EXCUSE ME,” THE woman says behind me. “Are you okay?”
I’m sitting cross-legged in front of the mural of faces. I think I’ve been sitting this way for a while. I have no idea what time it is. I’m sure I should be getting back soon, but I’m afraid that if I move, she will vanish. Just disappear from the wall. Maybe she’s only a figment of my imagination. But I keep turning my head one way and then the next, and each time I come back, she’s still there. Still pinned to the wall.
Lost.
“Did one photographer put all of these together?” I ask.
She nods. “A French photographer named Klema.”
How on Earth did a French photographer get my mother’s picture?
“Are you sure?” I ask her.
“Yes.”
“Okay. It’s just that . . .” I point to the wall and then to the picture that has my full attention. “That woman is my mother.”
The woman bends close to peer at the photo. “Really?” she says, surprised.
“The photo was taken over twenty years ago in Bosnia. Do you think the French photographer took it? Or do you think maybe he found it?”
“This is an exhibit created by Klema, but I don’t believe all the pictures were taken by him.” The woman straightens. “It’s more of a collaboration. I’m not sure of his process. I do know that all of the photos show people before and after war and hardship.”
“I thought the photographer of mine was a guy named Marko. I have a copy of it too. His name is on the back—”
“Here, let me help you up.” She extends her hand, and I take it. “I can’t have you sitting on the floor.”
I notice there are others in the gallery now.
“Come,” the woman says.
I follow her to the desk, and she motions for me to sit in a chair. She could lead me anywhere, and I would follow. It’s like I’m in a daze.
“I can make a few phone calls, see what I can find out. Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please.”
She bends down and pulls out a water bottle from underneath her desk and gives it to me.
Another woman asks her a question about purchasing one of the pieces, and she’s off to help her. Meanwhile I sit and try to absorb what is happening. What are the odds that I would find my mom’s picture up on the wall in this gallery? It doesn’t make any sense. I look around, suddenly worried this is some joke. I wait for someone to pop out and surprise me. But nothing happens.
“Okay.” The woman returns to me when she’s finished helping the couple. “Why don’t you write down your contact information. This might take me some time. I have to first contact Klema’s publicist.”
I stare at her.
“I mean, you’re welcome to wait, but it could take time. A few days. A week. Maybe longer.”
“Oh.” I can feel my face fall, and my cheek aches. I feel exposed.
She pushes the paper toward me. I write down my full name and number and even my address.
Outside the gallery, I glance up and down the street, not sure which way I should go. I feel lost. Someone may as well take my picture and tack it up on the wall.
I pick one direction. No reason. It’s only because I have to move.
Up ahead, someone waves. He must have me confused with someone else. Until he gets closer and I see it’s—
“Joseph?”
“Hey,” he says.
“You found me,” I say. Tears come to my eyes.
He laughs. “It wasn’t that hard. You told me where you’d be.”
“How’d you get here?” I ask.
He tilts his head to the side. “I told you I’d be in Dorchester, remember? That’s where my family’s from. Not too far from here. I took the T.”
“Oh, right.” I don’t remember, but I don’t care. I’m just glad he’s here.
“You hungry?”
Suddenly I am ravenous. I remember my face. But if Joseph notices I’m not wearing my bandage, he doesn’t say anything. “Yes,” I say, “starving.”
“Come on, let’s get some food.”
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
We grab some sandwiches and then go to the Common and sit on a bench that overlooks the water with the swan boats. The gardens are to the left of us. We eat and people watch.
“So, what’s going on?” he asks.
I tell him about the exhibit with my mom’s picture on the wall. I tell him about the box I found. I tell him everything.
After a long moment of watching the geese in the water, Joseph says, “You know this can’t all be coincidence, right?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Check it out.” He brings his legs up on the bench and faces me. “You survive a terrorist attack, find that box of your mom’s and a photo you’ve never seen, take a photography class that gives you an assignment that leads you to an exhibit with that exact photograph? Not to mention meeting me, a guy from Boston who can show you around afterward.”
“Don’t tell me you believe in destiny or fate or something. Or, like, the universe is conspiring on my behalf.”
“Nope.”
“Good,” I say. I’m not in the mood for a trite explanation. Though what he said makes me wonder: what is the probability that all those things would happen?
“The universe has nothing to do with it, because the universe doesn’t care about you,” he says. “The universe is a cold, da
rk place. It’s not a person. It’s not alive.”
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. “All right, then. If it’s not coincidence, what is it?” I ask.
He takes a breath. “It’s love.”
“Love?” I roll my eyes. “Joseph—”
He holds up his hand. “When you saw that photo on the wall—what did you feel?”
“Shock.”
“Yeah, but when the shock wore off?”
“I . . . I felt like crying,” I admit.
“Why?”
“Because . . .” I shake my head. It’s hard to put words to.
“Come on.” He nudges the side of my arm.
I take a bite of my sandwich, stalling. I let my eyes follow two little kids chasing each other. “It felt like someone had put it there just for me. It felt like a gift.” I turn to him. “That’s weird, right?”
He smiles. “No.”
We watch the swan boats for a few moments.
“There is one thing I know to be true,” he continues. “Across every religion I’ve studied, even though each one believes differently about God, in some way or other, nearly every religion connects God with love. And if the best definition of God is love and love made everything—the universe, the oceans, all the animals and plants, you and me—then love guides and connects everything.”
“That doesn’t sound very Buddhist of you.”
“Well, I forgot to tell you. I’m no longer studying Buddhism.”
“Oh, now you’re studying another religion?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I haven’t really committed yet. Though I’m leaning toward Jesus. Out of everyone, he got the love thing.”
I wonder if Joseph is right. This does seem too intentional to be random. But there’s something strange about how he jumps from question to question, one religion to the next. And it doesn’t seem to be giving him peace. Then all of a sudden, I understand.
“Can I say something?” I ask Joseph.
“Sure.”
“I think you’re hiding.”
He looks at me strangely. “What’re you talking about?”
“What you told me at the beach about Seb, that was terrible. A terrible accident. But you can’t just go from religion to religion looking for answers to explain away why something tragic happened. Looking for some kind of penance. You need to face his parents.”
He turns away from me.
“Talk to them. Ask for their forgiveness and then forgive yourself. And then live. Live out the truth you’re learning. You already know more than most people. But what good is all that knowledge if you don’t use it? If you don’t take what you learn and use it to change your life?”
He turns back to me and just stares, a little openmouthed. Then he stands up and walks away.
Shit. I must have really pissed him off. And I feel a little bad about it, but not really. If he can spout all of his wisdom at me, then I can speak some truth back at him.
I’m not sure if I should follow him, so I decide to stay on the bench. Less than a minute later, Joseph turns around and walks back. He stops right in front of me. I look up at him.
“I was going to tell you to back off, that you have no idea what you’re talking about. But . . .” He shrugs. “You’re right.” He holds out his hand, and I take it. He pulls me up. And then he hugs me. It only hurts a little.
He releases me quickly, and I stand there, awkward. The air between us has changed drastically, and suddenly, I’m not sure how to act around him, what to say.
“So, this is kind of close to where you grew up?” I ask, looking around the Common.
“Pretty close, yeah. You ever been to Dorchester?”
“No, never have.”
“You’re not missing much. Typical Boston neighborhood. Markets. Parks. Big Haitian community, which is probably why my grandparents moved there. My parents moved us to Providence when I was in sixth grade. But I still have family here. We were at my aunt’s today.”
“Cool,” I say. “My parents met around here. I think it was in Cambridge? My dad went to med school at BU.”
“Good school. My mom did her undergrad there. Were you born here too?”
“No, in Providence. They left Boston right after they got married, and I came along nine months later. Well, eight months, actually.”
“So you’re one of those love children.”
The way he says it makes me laugh.
“Pretty much. I wonder, though . . . if she felt like she had to marry my dad because of me. Like she didn’t have a choice.”
“Even if she didn’t, does it matter?”
“I don’t know . . .” Only the fact that it might explain the distance between us. How she feels that I screwed up her life. Me the unwanted child that she suddenly had to care for. That narrative makes sense in my head. It explains our disconnect. I was never wanted to begin with.
I change my answer. “Yes.”
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Joseph offers to drive me home, and I accept. Instead of talking, we listen to music, and it’s nice to be able to sit in comfortable silence with someone. I spend most of the ride looking out the window, thinking about everything. Mom. The picture in the gallery. My life and the world in general, and whether I’ll ever get back to feeling completely safe and secure in my own skin and community.
Gramma opens the front door as soon as we pull into the driveway. Before I say anything, Joseph is already out of the car and walking up to introduce himself.
“Hello,” he says. “I’m Joseph, a friend of Zara’s. You must be her grandmother.”
She shakes his extended hand. “Yes. Nice to meet you, Joseph,” Gramma says. “I thought you were taking the train, Zara?”
“Yes, but I ran into Joseph, and he offered me a ride back.”
“Thank you, Joseph. Would you like to come inside for some lemonade?”
“No, ma’am, I need to get going. But thank you.” And then he kind of bows, which makes me want to laugh. “I’ll see you later, Zara.” He backs away toward his car.
“Later,” I say.
Gramma watches him. “What a pleasant young man. Good manners,” she says, holding the door open for me. “And handsome.”
I turn my head back to look at her, and she laughs and scoots me inside.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“Working. How was the gallery?”
“It was good,” I say. But I keep the part about the picture to myself.
“Good,” she says. “And the train ride?”
“Nice.” She waits for more, so I add, “I felt nervous being around so many people at first, but I didn’t freak out or anything. I put my headphones on, listened to music. No one seemed to notice my face. And the exhibit was exactly what I needed.”
She smiles wide.
Benny runs into the living room with Vovo trailing behind him.
“Zara. You’re home!”
He speeds past me and grabs a package by the door. “You got a package.”
My eyes widen.
“It came this morning,” Gramma says.
“What is it?” Benny asks.
“Oh, just some photography magazines,” I say.
I ruffle his hair as I take the package from him and head straight to my room. I close the door behind me. My heart races, and my back tingles. The package is heavy. I sit on my bed and open it. The original documents are there, but now there are also fresh, white pages of English too.
I take a deep breath and start reading.
1994
Summer
Sarajevo
BiH
AFTER FARIS DIED, Amir often stared at Dalila and Nadja as if he was trying to solve a difficult problem. His eyes had a faraway look. His brow, jagged c
reases, as if someone had carved them. At night, Ramiza tried to iron them out with her hands as she massaged his head. But they always returned in the morning.
He came home one day from the hospital and announced that they were leaving. The war had taken his only son; it would not take his daughters. Nadja wanted to correct him. She had a father. She had a mother. She had a brother.
The girls packed one bag each, mainly stuffed with a change of clothes, underwear, some photos and their identification papers.
Afterward, Nadja and Dalila stood shoulder to shoulder on the side of the house. Dalila took a puff of the cigarette and exhaled as she passed it to Nadja.
Dalila was quiet, which meant something was wrong, but Nadja didn’t ask her. She just smoked.
After a while, Nadja felt the weight of Dalila’s body lean against her.
“I know all I talk about is leaving, but now that it’s really here . . .” Dalila stared ahead. “Where will we go? Sarajevo is home.”
Nadja had left home years ago. Her real family long gone. Now as she stood on the precipice of another departure, she felt like this would be how her life always was. That she would always leave and never find. The wound of her displacement so deep, home was now unknowable to her.
“Sarajevo has never been home,” she said.
They smoked some more. The cigarette eventually a small stub between them. But it was as if the very word, the concept of home, evoked something in Nadja—something she had worked hard all these years at forgetting. In that moment, her mind betrayed her. With the reality of leaving again upon Nadja, the memory of when she was forced to leave Višegrad swelled inside. And like a rushing river, memory picked the lock and forced itself free.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
She stood in the street unable to move. The old green truck carrying her dad and brother like they were livestock bumped and swerved as it disappeared down the narrow street. People around her whimpered. Somewhere, far or close, she couldn’t tell, there were gunshots.
The truck, she thought. I have to follow the truck.
But her legs wouldn’t listen. They had grown deep roots in seconds.
