The map of his life

In the left front pocket of his trousers he keeps his folding money. It's not much; just the few marks left over from his government pension after he pays the rent. In this pocket he also has some old prayer beads, carried out of habit.

In the interior pocket of his coat is his wallet, a thin slab of old leather, worn shiny and smooth, molded to his body shape. In the wallet is an out-of-date driver's license, a current library membership, a faded photograph of he and his wife on holiday in Rome, an old ticket stub from the 1984 Winter Olympics, and identity papers establishing him as Rijad Cengic, a widower, a citizen of Bosnia, living in apartment 4 at Kundudziluk 32 in Sarajevo.

In the right front pocket of his trousers are a few coins and a ring with three keys. The first key is to the front door of his building. The second key is to his mailbox in the foyer. The final key is to his apartment.

In his apartment, on the kitchen counter, is a dish drainer holding a single plate, a single glass, and a single knife, fork and spoon. On the two-burner stove is the cast iron skillet in which he fries his morning egg and toast and the teapot in which he boils the water for his six daily cups of coffee.

In the hallway of his apartment is a bicycle, an old French Motobecane, which he no longer rides. It's too much work to carry it up and down the stairs. Besides, he's never in a hurry these days; he has time to walk. On the wall above the bicycle is a hat and coat rack. On one peg of the rack hangs a dusty cap that had belonged to his son, who had gone down by the river to the Marlboro factory on a summer evening in 1993 to buy cigarettes and had never returned.

In the bedroom of his apartment is a bed whose mattress is indented on the right side...his side...of the bed. Covering the bed, spread smooth as she'd have wanted, is the quilt his wife had finished in July of 1995, three years into the seige and just a few weeks before she went shopping at the Markale market where a mortar round killed 68 people and left her splayed open on the street like a butchered lamb.

On the dresser in his bedroom is a portrait of his family, turned yellow by the sun from the window. He and his wife standing behind his son and daughter, all of them smiling. In a drawer of the dresser is a small bundle of letters and postcards from his daughter, who now lives in a house in Astoria in the borough of Queens in New York City.

In the slump of his shoulders is the weight of his years. On his face is the map of his life.

posted by greg @ 12:15 PM