What Was Left in the Basket

The bus to Banja Luka left Sarajevo at six in the morning, and by Travnik the snow was falling so thickly that the driver, Pero, turned on every light and stopped talking. The passengers sat each in his own coat. At the front were Ratomir Rakita, who owned a carpentry shop, and his wife Pavica, and next to them Pantelija Pušina, a retired school inspector, who held his briefcase on his knees as if someone might ask him to show it. In the back row sat a woman in a red scarf, with a large wicker basket covered by a clean cloth. Her name was Olga Pandža.

They knew her, or thought they did. Pavica had recognized her at the station. "That's the one who sings at weddings," she told her husband in a half voice, so that it carried to the third row. "And cooks for them. She must be coming back from some arrangement." Ratomir nodded. Pantelija looked out the window, because his granddaughter sang in a choir and he held firm opinions about singing. Olga heard everything and looked at her gloves.

Near Jajce the road disappeared. Pero stopped the bus in front of a drift, said the plow would not come before evening and that nobody should move. It turned out that nobody had anything: Ratomir had only drunk coffee, Pavica had eaten two candies, Pantelija had left his sandwich on a table in Sarajevo. By noon they had gone silent, and by two they had begun to grumble. That was when Olga took the cloth off the basket.

Inside were a cheese pie, still warm because she had baked it at four in the morning, bread, boiled eggs, apples and a jar of peppers. She said it was for a wedding in Banja Luka, but a wedding could not eat snow. She divided everything into equal portions, and Ratomir, who an hour earlier had nodded at talk of people who live off other people's celebrations, ate two. Pavica asked for more peppers. Pantelija said only "Thank you, madam," looked her in the eye and at once looked away.

Around five a tractor with a plow came through the blizzard. It was driven by a thin man from the nearby village, Radan, and the first thing he said was: "You're Olga, the singer." His son was getting married that night, the wedding had already started, and the cook who was supposed to come had not arrived. He would clear the road to Šipovo within the hour, but only if Olga came to cook and sing until midnight. Olga said no. Three years ago she had sung at his sister's wedding, and he had said then that one singer did not deserve full pay.

She said no more than that, but the passengers needed no explanation. "Madam, it's only one night," said Ratomir. "People are truly hungry," said Pavica. "My daughter is waiting for me in Banja Luka with her family," said Pantelija. Pero said he was not forcing anyone, but he too would like to get home. Olga looked at the floor of the bus. When she raised her head, everyone was looking at her, without a single word, like a courtroom.

So Olga went to the village. She cooked until one after midnight and sang "Moj dilbere" and two songs the groom's grandfather loved, while the passengers sat in a corner of the hall, ate lamb and did not look at her. Radan paid her half the price and said he called it a favor. At two in the morning the bus set out along the cleared road.

Ratomir fell asleep, Pavica burrowed into her scarf, Pantelija rummaged in his briefcase. Nobody offered Olga a seat at the front, or tea from a thermos. "A person has to know what to laugh at and with whom," Pavica whispered to her husband, paying no attention to the back row. Olga sat with the empty basket on her knees and covered it with the cloth, though there was nothing left inside. Pero turned up the radio. Somebody was singing, but not her.