Page 15 of Spread Your Wings
Howard pointed to a corner not yet occupied by cameras. “We should set up. The votes will come in all day.” The people of the former Yugoslavian territory were taking the first step toward democracy—voting to become an independent nation.
As they worked, large groups of people shifted around the atrium. Sammy saw a couple of people wearing distinctive clothing—an orange vest, a pink ski parka—several times. Others blended in or wandered the atrium once and disappeared. One element remained: the armed guards were never far away.
Tima interviewed anyone who walked close enough to the camera. Sammy wrote her translations into his notebook.
“No Serbs,” Tima said as Howard took down the tripod around ten in the evening, once the crowd had dissipated. “I interviewed Croats, and Bosniaks, but no Serbs. The boycott was real.”
“Is it possible they went elsewhere?” Sammy asked.
Tima shook her head. “I expected them to boycott in the rural areas, but here in Sarajevo, this is a political standoff.”
Later that night, Sammy typed his notes into the computer and faxed a printed copy to Atlanta. They had a group email, but it wasn’t always reliable.
He stayed awake until three in the morning. He attacked the keyboard with a flurry of words, but backspaced almost as often as he hit the other keys. The white characters on the screen swam against the blue background. He could barely keep his eyes open, despite the caffeine. When he’d written everything he could without the exact results, he stood and paced the room to stay awake.
“The final votes are in,” Tima said, handing him a fax. “Sixty-three percent turnout, ninety-nine percent voted for independence. We are now the Serbian Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina.”
“Congratulations.”
Tima shook her head. “Sixty-three percent. Not good news. Too many people stayed home, and there are reports of voter suppression.” She cleared her throat. “Mumu was looking for you earlier.”
“Yeah?” Sammy was too tired to find the sexy Bosnian. He needed his bed and hours of uninterrupted sleep. Even so, he perked up when he heard the nickname.
“He didn’t look too good. Vasily took him to the hospital.”
Sammy tried to focus on Tima’s face, to see if she was telling the truth. Her features swam inside the circle of purple. He still couldn’t tell. “Is he sick?”
“Injured would be a better word.”
“Injured? What hospital?” Sammy took a step toward the door and tripped. Tima caught him and pushed him back into his chair.
“You won’t do him any good right now, anyway,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “Get some rest. If he is still in hospital tomorrow, I will take you to see him.”
“Thanks,” Sammy said, rubbing his eyes so he could focus on the screen once more. He typed the last paragraph to summarize his report, printed a final copy, and faxed it to Atlanta. Then he went to bed. Despite his exhaustion, he tossed and turned, worrying about Mustafa.
He woke around noon, still groggy and listless. He showered, shaved his three-day scruff, and downed two more cups of coffee. Then he headed to the office to find Tima and Howard. They stood at the fax machine, watching as each new line printed news from home.
“Nice job,” Tima said, handing him another fax from CNN Headquarters.
Sammy studied it.
“The referendum is just the beginning of the story. We will keep the team in Sarajevo for the full three months. If, on Mayfifteenth, the country has stabilized, we will bring you home.” May fifteenth marked the end of Sammy’s stay in Sarajevo, regardless, but Howard and Tima both grinned as he read aloud.
“Job security,” Howard said. “And another day off.”
Sammy always felt strange working on Sundays, anyway.
“I can drive you to the hospital,” Tima said. “Mumu is still there.”
“Let me grab my coat,” he said before Howard asked any uncomfortable questions.
The hospital smelled like every other hospital Sammy had ever entered. The scent of coffee near the entrance quickly gave way to antiseptics. The hallways gleamed. The bright yellow walls gave the place a false sense of cheer.
The patient rooms were two-toned, coffee brown on the bottom and cream on top. The privacy curtain matched the coffee brown color. It took Sammy a moment to recognize the scene on the curtain. Roots sank into brown earth on the bottom half, while vines sprouted and bloomed over the top half.
In the bed, Mustafa looked like death warmed over. The white gown and sheets contrasted the deep purple bruises on his face, chest, and arms. Bandages covered the top of his head, some of them tinged with blood. Uncle Vasily hovered over him with a Styrofoam cup. Vasily maneuvered the straw to a place where it wouldn’t rub against Mustafa’s cut lips while he drank.
“What happened?”
