The uniformed jaran did not acknowledge that I was speaking Bosnian to him. Silently, he checked my invitation, then compared the picture in my American passport with my sullen local face and seemed to think it matched reasonably well.
His head somehow resembled an armchairโwith its deep-set forehead, armrest-like ears, and jutting jaw-seatโand I could not stop staring at it. Farther up the hill, one could see yellow lace threading the fringes of the woods, marking a wilderness thick with mines.
Inside, however, all was asparkle. The walls were a dazzling white; the stairs squeaked with untroddenness.
On the first landing, there was a stand with a large bronze eagle, its wings frozen mid-flap over a hapless, writhing snake. I had once misaddressed him as Johnny and had been pretending it was a joke ever since. Maybe he wasโwho am I to say?
I snatched a glass of beer and a flute of champagne from a tray-carrying mope whose Bosnianness was unquestionably indicated by a crest of hair looming over his forehead. I swallowed the beer and washed it down with champagne before entering the already crowded mingle room. I tracked down another tray holder, who, despite his mustached leathery face, looked vaguely familiar, as though he were someone who had bullied me in high school.
