Hasib Čolaković was jealous of everything that breathed and of a few things that did not. Of the baker, because he gave Hanifa extra bread. Of the postman, because he rang too early. Of the mirror in the hallway, because she combed her hair in front of it more often than in front of him. For three months he had been checking her phone and following her to the market on Mala Tepa, in a cap pulled over his eyes, sure that no one could see him. The whole street saw him. The neighbor women waved to him from their balconies, and he waved back, convinced it was mere courtesy.
On Saturday Hasib went to the tavern by the well, to, as he put it, give his vigilance a little rest. He returned at two past midnight, carrying his shoes in his hand and trailing the smell of rakija down the entire street. Hanifa heard him from the corner. She got up, put on her housecoat, locked the gate from the inside, and left the key in the lock on the inner side, so that his key could not have got in even if it wanted to.
First he knocked politely. Then less politely. Hanifa appeared at the window on the second floor. "Who is it?" "Your husband," said Hasib with dignity, holding onto the gate. "My husband has been in bed since eleven," she said. "You are someone who smells of rakija and of another woman's kitchen." "Hanifa, open up, or I will go to my mother in Čapljina!" "If you are anyone's son, go to her."
Then Hanifa opened the window all the way and raised her voice. "Neighbors!" she shouted. "There he is again! Every Saturday he comes at this hour, and tonight he even has the nerve to bang on the gate as if this were his house! Ask him where he has been! He smells of someone else's perfume!" Hasib gaped. "You are lying! I was in the tavern!" "In the tavern, of course," answered Hanifa, so gently that it carried to the other end of the street. "Every time in the tavern."
One after another the lights came on in the windows. Hata from across the street came out on her balcony in a long robe and said it was a disgrace. Idriz, the shopkeeper from the corner, in slippers and an undershirt, claimed that a week ago he had seen Hasib laughing with some woman in front of the bakery. Hasib shouted that it was his aunt. "Aunts don't laugh like that," said Hata. "Mine does," said Hasib. "Please, Hanifa, open up." His voice was thinner than he would have liked.
"Why did you follow me to the market for three months?" Hanifa asked from the window, quite softly now, as if they were alone. "I thought you were missing something." Hasib was silent. The street was silent with him. Somewhere someone sneezed. "I promise," he said at last. "I will not look at your phone again. I will not follow you again. I will not even wear the cap again." "And the tavern?" "The tavern stays," he said, and someone on a balcony giggled. "But I will come home before midnight."
Hanifa looked down for a long time, and then she came downstairs, slowly, and turned the key. The gate opened with a creak the whole street knew. Hasib came in with his head bowed, unsteady on his feet, and opened his mouth to say something more. She laid a finger on his lips and said the street had heard enough from him for one night.
On Monday morning Hanifa set out for the market. At the corner she stopped and looked over her shoulder. Hasib was standing in front of the bakery, without his cap, pretending to read the prices. He did not follow her. He only raised his hand, like a man greeting someone he is meeting for the first time. From her window Hata called out: "That's good, Hanifa. If he comes home late again, just knock for us."