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"Are you preparing your breakfasts over there?" the Knight asked
solicitously. "We are. I'm getting ready for toast, sausages, and
coffee. Fresh eggs and milk. What do you get? Oh yes, I've seen
themthose hard beans in plastic sacks from the United Nations. They
look like bird turds. Do they taste like bird turds? We've seen you
trying to claw each other for bags of those turds in the food lines. Do
even birds do that? Besides, you have to soak these bird turds first,
which I don't know how you do with all your water turned off. We've seen
you guys standing in lines. You have to fill empty plastic detergent
bottles with water and run home, just to make a cup of coffee. I'll bet
the Frenchies don't have to do that! Ask to take a look inside those
cute little white tanks they have. I'll bet they have espresso makers
inside."
The Knight sounded disconcertingly tender, almost candied. Irena and
other women she knew, including her mother, had tried to imagine what he
might look like.
"A sexy voice usually means an old mole," Mrs. Zaric had advised.
"It's all they have."
But Irena envisioned a round-shouldered man with curly black hair damp
from the shower, a curly-lipped grin studded with a cigarette, and
sleepy-lidded cobalt eyes behind curls of smokethe blue-eyed bad boy
who flattered with insolence.
"And what," the Knight continued, "do you make out of that canned
American army meat the Yanks have left over from Vietnam? The Yanks send
you food that Americans wouldn't give to their dogs. Look at those
pictures in American magazines of Americans fluffing up juicy food into
their dogs' bowls. Doesn't it look delicious? Wouldn't you just about
die for a bowl of American dog food?"
The Knight paused to share another indulgent chuckle.
"Americans love their dogs. Love them more than Muslims, Jews, and
Gypsies. Pray to Muhammad that you come back in your next life as an
American dog. Leap into their laps! Lick their faces! That's the life!"
One of the first U.N. commanders to come to the city was Indian. He was
aghast when he read the English translation of the Knight's routines.
The general had gained most of his soldierly experience in his country
trying to quell riots that had been inflamed by flowery ethnic
harangues.
"Oh, the kid is just a comedian," said Radovan Karadzic, the Bosnian
Serb leader with great Chrysler-like swells of silvering hair. "I know
him a little. You would enjoy him. Perhaps we'll have a drink sometime,
if that doesn't offend Krishna. The KnightNecko is his real nameis a
nervous little wisp. He wears thick black glasses to cover a nervous
twitch. Kids like to shock, you know? I am a psychiatrist. I have
insight that other political leaders lack.
"Besides, Commander"and here Dr. Karadzic leaned in, as if confiding
something personal"he doesn't mean your Muslims. He means ours. Turks.
Yours have an ancient, noble history. Ours are descendants of turncoats,
who have professed their faith for only a few hundred years, then expect
to be treated like the ancient Greeks. I am the only man who should take
offense at the Knight. Each of his little monologues takes up time that
could be used to read my poetry!"
Excerpted from Pretty Birds by Scott Simon Copyright © 2005 by Scott Simon. Excerpted by permission of Random House, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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