The Atlas

THAT'S NICE

Now I want to know who will pay for the car, said the rental agency man. I have been to the bridge to get the car and it was very dangerous with all those bombs.

That's nice, I said.

In America you could not leave the country before you paid for this type of damage, he said.

I don't like to be threatened, I said. If you threaten me I won't help.

He sat there in my hotel room and stared at me while I sat on my bed looking back at him on that Sunday morning.

Why did you go there? he said. You must tell me why you drove that dangerous bridge.

Why don't you ask Mr. A., I said politely. He was driving.

He's dead, the man said. (I could see that he had no sense of humor.)

Well, then, why don't you ask Mr. B.

But he is also dead.

I guess you're out of luck then, I said.

We stared at each other some more, hating each other more every minute, and the church bells tolled outside, and then he got out an album of color photographs which portrayed the car from every angle.

As you see, it is completely damaged, he said. Destroyed.

Which photo is your favorite? I said. Why don't you give me your favorite one and I'll take it to my agency.

At first he wouldn't do it. He hated to part with any of the glossies in that collection so pure and complete, but at last he selected a good one that showed how the driver's side had been smashed and twisted and riddled.

That's nice, I said. That's very artistic. Here. I'll show you a couple of nice pictures, too.

I got up and went to the other bed and took the envelope of contact prints.

This is Mr. B. after I pulled him out of the car, I said. Isn't that nice? He was my friend for nineteen years. And this one here is Mr. A. Here they both are in the front just before I pulled them out.

Mr. A. was driving? the rental man asked.

That's right. See how the first burst got him right in the head? I'll be happy to make a copy for your collection.

He looked away. — So you will stay here in Split?

No, tomorrow I'll go back to Mostar, I said. It's so nice there.

Why? Why do you go back to that dangerous place? — That was what I expected him to say because that was what everybody else said, but he did not say it. He was not so interested in future whys because he was first and foremost a rental man.

When do you come back? he said. I'll be waiting for you.

Tuesday night. That's when Mr. B.'s family is arriving for the funeral—

So they will be in this hotel? he said, eyes lighting up for the first time. What room number?

I want you to understand something, I began.

I already understand everything, he said. But who will pay for the car? Ten thousand six seven hundred dollars! Who will pay for that? I ask you, who will pay?

No, you don't understand everything, I told him. What you don't understand is that if you bother Mr. B.'s family with this matter in any way I will not help you anymore. His mother is old and has a bad heart.

Then who will pay?

I did not sign the rental agreement, I said. Legally I have no responsibility. Morally I do, so I will try to—

You are also responsible, he interrupted. You also chose to go there. I have rented to journalists before. I know how you are (this last he said with stunning contempt).

I promise you, if you disturb Mr. B.'s family in any way you will receive no help from me, I said. I will not be happy. Right now I am very happy because I enjoy talking to you so much. If you bother anyone but me I will be quite unhappy. Then maybe I will not be very nice.

You were very lucky, he said. So you must pay.

We understand each other there, I said. What you say is very true and relevant to all walks of life. Thank you for imparting your philosophy to me.

His cellular phone rang just then, so he had to go off to Sunday dinner with his family. He was eager to go now because the food would soon be getting cold. Before, his business with me had been quite urgent. I offered to buy him a drink and show him still more photographs of my friends' mutilated bodies, but he would not stay. So I sat alone on the bed, looking at the damage estimate, which was typed in a language I could not read, and I was unable either to laugh or to cry.