TE22 Potpourri

Lejla Kalamujić

Call Me Esteban

Grandma, Grandpa, and I would take it to Šid every August. I still remember the blue lunch packs: sandwich, juice box, a yellow plastic knife wrapped in a soft paper napkin. I kept the bags in my room like other kids collected pebbles and shells on the beach. Just before Zenica, the door opens. The conductor enters the compartment. White shirt, navy pants, cap on his head, black bag hanging fromhis shoulder. I hand himmy ticket, he thanks me, inspects it carefully, runs a finger over it. He returns the ticket, wishes me a good trip, and leaves. I open the window; it gets stuck halfway. I smoke and gaze out at the surrounding houses. The wind pierces my eyes and nostrils. The old train and rusty suburbs cling to one another. The first traces of fog thicken the air. I close the window and lie back down. ** Locomotive 2 A dull thud awakens me. The train car shakes. Drowsy, I peek into the hallway. Not a soul. The train has stopped. I go to the 226 “To Šid?” he asks. “To Šid,” I reply.

window, trying to see through the fog. I recognize Doboj. The rail workers unhook the locomotive of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina and pull it ontoanother track. Then they haul over the locomotive of Republika Srpska. Connecting it to the first car takes about twenty minutes. The train’s wheels screech in the darkness. We set off. I get a text message from my great aunt asking how it’s going. Slow, I think. Too damn slow. Another conductor enters my compartment. White shirt, navy pants, cap on his head, black bag hanging from his shoulder. I hand him my ticket, he thanks me, inspects it carefully, runs a finger over it.

“To Šid?” he asks.

“To Šid,” I reply.

He returns the ticket, wishes me a good trip, and says I can stop by the snack bar if I want. I thank him. I take my backpack down from the rack. Some coffee would do me good. The other passengers are napping in their compartments. The train lists gently, first to the left, then to the right. I can hear the rumbling of the radio coming from the snack bar. I enter, and a waiter with a dirty rag slung over his shoulder nods at me. Small tables in the shape of an ironing board line the perimeter. A stool is affixed to each side of the table. I order espresso.

“We don’t have any,” the waiter says. “Just Bosnian coffee.”

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