內戰過后，遲來的吻

Many saw it coming. Ethnically charged graffiti began appearing on buildings around town. The local newspapers published the locations of bomb shelters. A classmate told me not to sleep in my bedroom because it faced military barracks.

But in my 12-year-old mind， our town of Mostar was too beautiful and the people too good to one another for there to be a civil war here. Besides， that spring was promising to be the greatest time of my life： I was happily in love for the first time.

I had noticed Marko at school and was attracted to his mischievous eyes and playful smile. One afternoon， while walking home from a piano lesson， I spotted him coming down the hill on his skateboard. He stopped just short of running into me. I dont remember us saying much. We just stood there and smiled. But thats all it took to seal the deal of our mutual affection， and we became inseparable.

Marko was Croatian and I was Serbian. Soon， our ethnic groups would find themselves on opposing sides of a bloody civil war. But for the moment， none of that mattered. What mattered was how good it felt to be acknowledged by him， to be let in on his secrets and jokes， to take on the same adventures.

The day the war started， Marko and I walked home from school together. He told me that if war broke out， his family would go to Split， Croatia. He asked what my family would do.

I had no idea. Right then my plans extended only to 6 p.m.， when I was supposed to meet him and the rest of our friends. With that agreement， we parted.

Less than a half-hour later， as I was walking upstairs to our apartment， an explosion shook the building. The blast threw me down the stairs， and the building went dark.All I knew then was that I had to find my family. I got up and stumbled outside. People were rushing every which way. Some were crying， some bleeding. I ran to my aunts place， where my mother was.

My plans for the evening were obviously ruined and I suspected it would be a while before I would be free to plan anything else. I had to get in touch with Marko， and tell him I was O.K. That we were O.K.

I snuck out into the hallway to use the telephone. I dialed the number， terrified by having to speak or explain to whom I was calling. Markos father answered. Lightheaded with anxiety， I asked for Marko. I dont know what I hoped to hear from him. Maybe that whatever was happening outside had no bearing on us. No ethnic squabble or civil war could ruin what we had. At the very least， I thought he would ask if I was O.K.

He didnt. In fact， Marko barely said a word. We exchanged a few awkward syllables， and then I hung up.

The next day my childhood home was gone， destroyed in the blast. Two weeks later， my brother， cousins and I were sent to another town.

From our exile， I wrote Marko long， never-to-be-sent letters describing the anger， sadness and displacement I felt. A few weeks later， when it became clear to my parents that what was happening in and around Mostar was not a minor squabble but a full-fledged war， they decided to take what was most important—my brother and me—and leave for good.

We settled in Belgrade， Serbia. For years， I continued to think about my Marko， the memory having become synonymous with lost innocence and never-again-possible perfection. Those brief days of happiness shone brightly through the tragedy that followed. When I started dating， I jokingly told boys that I had this unfinished relationship and couldnt fully commit.

Yet the few times I traveled back to my hometown after the war， I didnt dare look Marko up， though I knew how to get in touch with him.

What if he didnt even remember me？ What if those lost years had obliterated all we shared？ What if my being a Serb and his being a Croat was more of a barrier now than when we were children？ Most of all， though， I feared that nothing would have remained of the bright-eyed boy who followed me home from school on a skateboard and chased me down the spiraling stairwells.

So I filed my Marko memories away. Then one morning， 16 years after fleeing my hometown， I opened my email at home in San Jose， Calif.， to find Markos name in the inbox. His message read， “If you are Nikolina from Mostar then I have been your boyfriend since 5th grade. Please get back to me， so we can figure out what to do.”

Those two lines were all it took to dispel my fears. Marko was still the playful boy I had loved.

We spent the next few weeks emailing feverishly， telling each other everything we remembered of our childhood romance. He also told me some things I didnt know， like how much he had obsessed over wanting to kiss me. He also told me that for years he had beaten himself up for not saying more when I called.

It was a couple of years before I could get back to Mostar. When I did， Marko and I met at the usual spot， at the bottom of the hill where he first approached me on his skateboard.

We would not have recognized each other on the street. Yet we understood something about each other that no one else did or could. Like the first time， we stood for a long while just smiling.

Marko and I talked for hours， recounting our youth， our shared sense of dislocation and the many acts of infidelity we had committed against each other over our nearly two decades apart.

Like the Ottoman bridge， our lives had been shattered and then put back together. We were still gathering pieces， only now we had one fewer piece to look for.

Marko and I touched hands， leaned in and kissed. For that moment， it was as if nothing had been lost.

很多人都目睹了戰爭的來臨。種族主義的大字涂鴉開始出現在城鎮的各處樓房上。本地報紙發布了躲避炸彈的避難所位置。一個同學叫我不要睡在自己的臥室里，因為它面朝軍營。

但在12歲的我的觀念里，我們的城市莫斯塔爾如此美麗，人民如此友愛，這兒不應該爆發內戰。況且，那個春天充滿希望，是我一生中最美好的時光：我幸福地陷入了初戀。

我在學校注意到了馬爾科，我被他淘氣的眼神和頑皮的微笑迷住了。一天下午，在鋼琴課后走路回家時，我看到他踏著滑板從山上溜下來。他在幾乎撞到我之前停住了。我記得我們沒說多少話。我們只是站在那兒相視而笑。但這足以讓我們對彼此產生好感，我們變得形影不離。

馬爾科是克羅地亞人，而我是西伯利亞人。要不了多久，我們各自的民族同胞就會成為血腥的內戰中不共戴天的敵對雙方。但當時，這些都不重要。重要的是，能夠和他相識，能夠分享他的秘密和小笑話，能夠和他一起冒險，我感到很快樂。

戰爭爆發那天，我和馬爾科一起從學校走路回家。他告訴我如果戰爭爆發，他們一家會搬到克羅地亞的斯普利特。他問我的家人會怎么辦。

我不知道。當時我的計劃頂多安排到了傍晚6點，在6點我會和他還有其他朋友見面。帶著這個約定，我們分別了。

我們分開還不到半小時，在我爬樓梯回我住的公寓時，一聲爆炸響把樓房都撼動了。爆炸把我甩下了樓梯，樓里變得漆黑一片。當時我只知道我得找到家人。我站起來跌跌撞撞地走出去。人們混亂地四散奔逃。一些人在哭，一些人在流血。我跑到姨母的住處，我母親在那里。

我那天晚上的計劃顯然告吹了，而且我懷疑要過好一陣子我才能有自由做任何計劃。我得聯系馬爾科，告訴他我一切安好。告訴他我們的關系一切安好。

我溜到走廊里打電話。我撥了號碼，想到萬一要向對方解釋為什么打這通電話，心里就發怵。接電話的是馬爾科的父親。焦慮讓我神志不清，恍惚中我說找馬爾科。我不知道自己想聽他說些什么。也許希望他說，無論外面發生什么，對我們都沒有影響。沒有任何種族沖突或內戰能摧毀我們的感情。至少，我以為他會問我是否安好。

但是他沒問。事實上，他幾乎沒說話。尷尬地交流了只言片語之后，我就掛斷了。

第二天，我兒時的家就沒有了，在爆炸中被摧毀了。兩周后，我和弟弟、堂兄弟姐妹們被送到了另一個鎮。

從我們流亡在外時起，我陸續給馬爾科寫了很多永遠都不會寄出的長信，描述了我的憤怒、悲傷和流離失所之感。幾周之后，我父母悉知在莫斯塔爾內外爆發的并不是小沖突而是全面戰爭，他們就決定帶上我和弟弟——這對他們是最重要的，走為上計。

我們在西伯利亞的貝爾格萊德安頓下來。好幾年里，我一直在思念馬爾科，我的那段記憶成為了遺失的純真和不可再現的完美的代名詞。那段短暫的幸福時光被隨之而來的悲劇反襯得熠熠生輝。后來我開始約會時，我開玩笑地告訴男孩子們我還有一段未了的情緣，因而不能完全投入新戀情。

然而戰后我好幾次回到家鄉，我都不敢去拜訪馬爾科，盡管我知道怎樣能聯系上他。

萬一他甚至都不記得我了呢？萬一這些分離的歲月讓他忘掉了我們的共同記憶呢？萬一我是個西伯利亞人而他是個克羅地亞人這點，比起兒時更是一個障礙呢？盡管我最害怕的是，他不再是踏著滑板跟著我從學校到家、從盤旋的樓梯井追著我跑下來的那個眼睛明亮的男孩。

因此我把關于馬爾科的記憶塵封起來。后來，一天早上，在我逃離家鄉16年之后，我在加州圣何塞的家里打開電子郵箱時，在收件箱里發現了馬爾科的名字。他在郵件里寫道：“如果你是來自莫斯塔爾的妮可琳娜，那么我從五年級時起就是你的男友。請回復我，然后讓我們來想想怎么辦?！?/p>

只需這兩句話，我的擔心就煙消云散了。馬爾科仍是我愛過的那個幽默男孩。

接下來的幾周里我們熱切地互發電子郵件，告訴對方我們記得的所有童年羅曼史。他還告訴我一些我不知道的事，例如他日思夜想地想要親吻我。他還告訴我，我給他打電話時他沒有多說幾句話，有好幾年他因此后悔得痛打自己。

又過了幾年，我才得以回到莫斯塔爾。我回去以后，和馬爾科在他第一次踏著滑板接近我的山腳老地方見面。

要是在大街上，我們都認不出對方。然而我們都理解對方身上一些別人不理解或理解不了的東西。像初次相識那樣，我們久久地佇立著，僅僅是相視而笑。

馬爾科和我聊了幾個小時，重拾青春年少的記憶，聊我們共同的背井離鄉之感，以及分開的近20年里我們各自做過的許多對彼此不太專一的事。

我們的人生就像奧斯曼時代的古橋，被炮火擊碎之后又被砌了回去。我們仍在尋找碎片，眼下還差一塊。

馬爾科和我攜手，依偎，親吻。那一刻，我們仿佛從未缺失過什么。