Pretty Birds by Scott Simon Page B

Mick Jones had left the Clash to begin BAD II, or that Magic Johnson had gotten sick and could no longer play basketball. But sleeping through the pops of mortars and the rattle of machine guns; taking care not to sit above the line of the windowsill; opening old canned goods and dividing a few ounces of waxed beans into four cold meals; keeping all spigots open so that when the Serbs teasingly turned on the water for an hour they could spring up to capture it in tubs, cups, and bottles—all of that became their daily custom.
    â€œHell must also have its routines,” Aleksandra Julianovic said to Irena.
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    THE SERBS WOULD turn on the water only to keep Bosnians up all night, anxious and itchy, hoping to hear a splash. Turning on the water in a Sarajevo apartment building was like strewing bread crumbs around trees to attract famished pigeons. Serb snipers knew that if they turned on the water briefly, they could shoot into almost any bathroom window and hit or scare a Bosnian concentrating on an old milk jug under the bathtub spigot.
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    THE ZARICS HAD to decide what to do about the windows. The windows in each bedroom of Grandma’s apartment faced the mountains and the snipers. They could leave those windows alone, and go into the rooms only when they had to forage for possessions to sell or burn.
    The window in the bathroom also faced the mountains. It was small, high, frosted, and risky. They could only hope that it would not be noticed across the way. To compress any profile he might offer a sniper through that window, Mr. Zaric decided always to sit on the toilet when relieving himself.
    The center of their puzzle was the three large windows in the living room on a side of the building that faced away from the mountains at an angle. Mr. Zaric made a drawing on the inside flap of one of his mother’s old romance novels. He sketched out lines and arrows, and concluded that the plane was still broad enough to tempt a sniper. People in surrounding buildings, and in apartments on other floors, could be heard hammering doors, crates, and tabletops across their windows.
    â€œAh, but that must be so gloomy inside,” said Mrs. Zaric. “Like living in a cave.”
    Mr. Zaric agreed. “So unlike our glamorous present surroundings.” This earned him the laugh he had sought from his wife.
    â€œSnipers have a city full of targets to choose from,” said Irena. “Why would our windows be looked at in particular?”
    â€œBecause they’re there,” said Mr. Zaric. “Still there.”
    â€œPretty Bird would always be asleep,” said Irena. “I think darkness turns on some kind of sleep channel in his brain.”
    â€œWell, if we don’t cover the windows,” said Mr. Zaric, “I don’t know how long I can scuttle over the floors like a crab.” He hunched up his shoulders and let his arms dangle to make his point.
    â€œThat’s a baboon,” said Irena. “They go from tree to tree.” Pretty Bird obliged with a trill.
    â€œWe can stand up in the hallways when we need to,” said Mrs. Zaric. “In shifts. You love schedules.” It was her turn to win a laugh. “Sing. Dance. There’s room enough for Toni Kukoc to stand up in our hallways.”
    Mr. Zaric began to rock back on his heels in the hallway, as if he were about to deliver a judgment from on high. “You’ve convinced me,” he said finally. “In the end, it all pivots on advertising. Covering the windows with a door is like putting up a billboard for those bastards across the way. We might as well install a bloody blinking sign that says, ‘Hello, mate! Someone is living in here. Fire away!’ I think,” he went on, “that the windows ought to stay. At least for as long as they last.”
    â€œI give you my word,” said Mrs. Zaric. “You will never