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Paul entered the back room with fury I could not only see on his face but also hear it, a sound of a swarm of angry bees, only more homogenous, more ominous. The dull hum of his anger morphed with the clamor of restless customers demanding their orders in the front of the shop.
I turned the peeling machine off and took out a handful of potatoes not larger than golf balls. They were perfectly round. Paul looked at me, then at potatoes in my hands, then again at me. The small brown eyes behind square glasses radiated a mixture of disgust and disbelief I remembered seeing somewhere far in my childhood.
He grabbed another sack from the pile and emptied it into the machine while I stood there looking at the miniature potatoes in my hands. They reminded me of those my mother would throw in the oven with half a chicken, drenched in sunflower oil and a good pinch of salt. Her trick was to add a splash of cream some ten minutes before they are done. I wondered what my friends were doing right now back home. It was early autumn, they are probably hanging out at the bank of Sana, there is probably a bottle of cheap wine and a guitar, Emir would bring the guitar, he always does, water is green and inviting, Grbo is in the thick of it with his stale jokes, girls are laughing anyway, they always do even though the jokes are fucking awful, Grbo has a gift of some sort.
I wonder if they mention me ever. I never imagined my first paid job would involve peeling potatoes. But then, I also never imagined my country would disappear. Indeed, early nineties were years in which many a Bosnian saw unimaginable turn into mercilessly, overwhelmingly inevitable. It was overwhelmingly inevitable I would ultimately have to get out of the family construction business into which I was forcibly recruited by my father hours after my mother and I arrived from Yugoslavia.
