Comic Sans by Michael Smith

Comic Sans by Michael Smith

“A sniper takes a pot-shot at a General visiting the front line and misses. ‘We know exactly where he is, sir,’ says one of the soldiers. ‘He’s been up there for weeks.’ ‘Then why don’t you eliminate him?’ asks the General. The soldier replies, ‘Because if we got rid of him they might replace him with someone who can actually shoot straight.’”

I step back from the microphone and, through the glare of the spotlight, briefly try to gauge the audience’s reaction. I’m six minutes into my stand-up routine and am knocking them dead. Once you’ve got a crowd warmed up with your best jokes at the start, it’s easy to keep them laughing with mediocre ones later on. The collective nature of group laughter ensures even a poor joke will be met with more laughter than it merits, once an audience is in the mood. I return to the microphone.

“Then, the General surveys the landscape again and spots more of the enemy on the horizon to the North. ‘Fetch me my red shirt,’ he says to his lieutenant. ‘If I’m wounded fighting, I don’t want the men to see me bleeding.’ ‘Excuse me, sir,’ replies the lieutenant, ‘but the enemy is also approaching from the South, East and West.’ ‘In that case,’ says the General, ‘forget the red shirt, and go get my brown trousers.’”

The laughter, probably supported by alcohol, continues and I know I’m going down well. But there’s still that guy at the back. He’s not even smiling.

“The General then turns his attention to the prisoners-of-war his troops have captured. ‘I have good news for you. Today you’re going to have a change of underwear.’ There’s a smile or two from the prisoners. The General continues, ‘Johnson, you change with Jones. Jones, you change with Thompson …”

With laughter and applause, a comedian’s two best friends, I quit while I’m ahead.

“You’ve been a great audience. Thank you, and good night.”

As I leave the stage, the compère bounces up to the microphone, “Let’s hear it one more time for Alan Benny, ladies and gentlemen.”

It’s early-Autumn 1992 and, along with my best friend Clive, we’re doing the rounds of London clubs and pubs as warm-up acts for some has-been comedian with a name but no talent. He’s on his way down but Clive and I like to think we’re both on our way up. Paying our dues, as they say, before hitting the big time.

Every performance night I meet Clive in a shared dressing room during the interval and discuss how it all went.

“Did you see that sullen guy at the back? Never even cracked a smile all through my act.”

“Yeah, weird,” replies Clive, “I noticed him as well when I was on. He didn’t even smile at my cheese routine.”

“I’m not surprised, it’s rubbish.”

In need of a drink, we head for the bar and, once there, bask in the warmth of the compliments that are flowing in our direction from satisfied customers.

“There he is,” says Clive as he nudges me, “Nobody wants to sit with the miserable bastard,” and adds mischievously, “Let’s go join him.”

As we approach the table, he is staring long and hard at his near empty glass. He looks up. He’s dressed like a 25-year old, but the face suggests at least ten years older.

“Hi, I’m Alan, and this is Clive. Mind if we join you?”

In an accent that I locate roughly as south-east European, he replies, “Is free country, I think.”

“Did you enjoy the show?” I ask provocatively, as we sit at the table.

The stranger looks up at me, his eyes lock onto mine like a missile about to be launched.

“You shit.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You hear. You shit. You joke about war; war no joke.” He finishes the remainder of his drink and slams the glass down on the table.

“Er, can we, er, get you another one?” asks Clive.

“Sure. I have to wait here for … friend; so you buy me drink. Vodka. Good stuff, no cheap shit.” As Clive moves to the bar to buy the drink, I try to strike up conversation.

“You’re not from ‘round here then?”

He ignores my stupid question. “You want to know why you shit? I tell you why. You know nothing ‘bout war, but you make joke. Before two weeks I have come to England from Sarajevo. You know Sarajevo? We have war there. We have snipers shooting innocent peoples from the hills.

“You know what ‘Pazite, Snajper!’ means? There are signs everywhere in my city. It means ‘Beware, Sniper!’ You know who Admira Ismić and Boško Brkić are?” I shake my head. “No! No one in west know them. But they were Bosnian-Serbian couple shot dead just walking street in Sarajevo. Boško was friend of my cousin. You make sniper joke. Where I come from, sniper is no joke. Sniper is death.”

Clive returns from the bar. “What’s your name?”

“Miran.” He attacks the vodka, and then nods his head slightly, “Is not shit. Is not good, but is not shit.”

“Hey, I’m sorry about the sniper joke. I had no idea, really.”

“No one have idea. No one know what happen in Sarajevo.”

“Why don’t you tell us a little about it? If that’s okay,” suggests Clive.

Miran assesses us both, as if we’re a rusty, second hand car he’s about to buy. “You really know nothing about Sarajevo?”

Trying to look as ashamed as possible, we shake our heads.

“Okay, I still waiting here for … friend, so I tell you about my city; then you know how shit your jokes are.” He leans forward and lowers his voice.

“United Kingdom made of different countries, yes? England, Scotland, blah, blah. Yugoslavia also made of different countries. You have Queen to hold everything together; we had Tito. When Tito die, we all want our own country back but different peoples are mixed together. We all hate each other now. Serbs are everywhere and they want Bosnia for themselves. They want Greater Serbia. We not want Serbs in charge. We defend Bosnian government. But Serbs are everywhere, and they are round Sarajevo, my city.

“War really start on 6th April. Bosnian government expect a, how you say, international peace-keeping force. We wait, but none arrive. At start of May, Bosnian Serbs blockade whole city. At end of summer, artillery shell hit crowded market in west of Sarajevo. Fifteen peoples killed and many wounded. The hills round the city are full of Serb snipers. They are now even in parts of city, shooting from buildings. They control parts of city, important parts, and they control most of food, water and electric. The city is getting smaller and smaller. We are a small Bosnian island in a sea of Serbian shit, and world is watching us drown.”

“So, you’ve escaped to Britain, then?” I ask, and immediately regret it.

“You know shit. I no escape. I here to buy … things. Things my peoples need. Things to defend themselves.”

“Is that why you’re waiting here for a friend. Is he your contact?”

After a pause, Miran answers quietly, “Yes, but she late.”

“Look, I’m really very sorry for those war jokes. If I’d have known …”

“S’alright. You know nothing. You no care.”

“I feel as though I should care. But what can we do?”

“You can do shit. United Nations do shit. You just comedian. Your jokes kill no one. We can only help ourselves. You can no help us; what you can do?”

“Is it really that bad in Sarajevo?” asks Clive, “How do people, your people, live like that from day-to-day?”

“Serbs can fire shells at us. They can snipe at us. But they can never break us. We make life for ourselves in city. We cut down the beautiful tress that are in our streets so we have wood for fire to keep warm. We share food, sometimes only baby food. But, most of all, we make sure our lives go on as normal as we can.

“They try to kill us, and they try to kill our culture. On night of August 25 incendiary shells fall on city. National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina – destroyed. One and half million books – all gone; including Bosnian written culture, 700 papers, some from nineteen century – gone. Bastards.

“So we keep culture alive in ruins of our buildings. We have music. Our proud musicians play in cellar away from sniper so our people are … entertained. We have orchestra down there! Can you believe? Musicians play and they forget. People listen and they forget. For a short while … until next shell hits.”

Miran becomes quiet and seems lost in troubling thoughts.

“Another drink?” asks Clive. “My turn,” I offer, “Same again, Miran?”

“Sure.”

I return to the table with the next round and Miran is still quiet, until,

“I thinking, it not such a bad idea. You two in Sarajevo. You entertain us. You make jokes. My people like jokes. They make good jokes. And, they like new jokes. But no sniper joke shit. If my peoples see … entertainers from west … in Sarajevo, they know world not forgotten us.”

Clive and I go back a long way, and we both know what the other is thinking. I know Clive is thinking of his wife and children, scared of the prospect, looking for a reason to say no. Clive knows that as I’m single, I’m thinking of the adventure, excited by the prospect, looking for a reason to say yes.

“Can you let us think about it, Miran? How about we meet you in here tomorrow night?” suggests Clive.

“Sure. But I bring good drink. Drink from my country; Rakija or Šljivovica, not this cheap vodka shit.”

& & &

The following morning, Clive phones me with three pieces of information.

“Listen, mate. First of all, I’ve been reading about the war over there and discovered that the Bosnians are just as guilty of war crimes as the Serbs. They’re led by some sort of commander, called Mušan Topalović, who’s led a campaign of mass executions of Serbs. I know you want to go but, if you do, you got to take care. Secondly, you’ll need new material. Jokes that don’t require a high level of English. And no war jokes. Do you want to borrow my cheese routine?”

“Thanks, Clive, but your cheese routine stinks.”

“Ha, ha, very funny, what are you a comedian? Third, I’ve been thinking about how you could make something a bit more special out of your visit. Since 1991 there’s been an independent medical team helping out the people there, no matter which side they’re on. There’re called Médecins Sans Frontières, which means Medics without Frontiers; so call this comedy tour ‘Comic Sans Frontières’?”

“Mmm, not a bad idea. Has a nice ring to it. But why?”

“Have you thought how you’re going to finance this jaunt?”

That night, Clive and I meet again with Miran.

“You try Šljivovica. Is good, very good.” and he starts to unscrew the bottle top.

“Actually, Miran, you’re not allowed to drink your own booze in the pub. The landlord won’t like it.”

“He no like drink from my country? I tell him he serve shit vodka. Maybe I let him find out how real drink taste? So, you two come to Sarajevo with me?”

Clive and I look at each other.

“I can’t, Miran. I have a wife and two kids. They’d just worry all the time about me going into a war zone.”

“I too married. I understand. And you?”

“I’m not married, Miran, and I love to travel. But I’ll need time to raise the money to travel.”

“Ah, you need donors?” says Miran, as he pushes full glasses towards us.

“Donors? Oh, you mean sponsors.”

“It’s your language,” replies Miran.

We spend the next two hours discussing the situation in Sarajevo, how I will get there, what I can expect to find once I’m there and, to my relief, how will I get out again afterwards. Clive promises to help with the fund-raising, promoting the ‘Comic Sans Frontières’ idea to gain maximum impact. He also promises to keep in touch, if possible, once I’m over there.

& & &

It is early-Spring 1993. The winter has been spent fund-raising, and carrying out research into the situation in Sarajevo. The evening television news reports do not paint a good picture, and I am prepared to admit to Clive that maybe I was a little hasty to accept Miran’s offer.

“Listen, mate, you won’t be the only westerner there. There’s all sorts of news teams, cameramen, reporters; but they don’t have the advantage of having someone like Miran to help them.” Clive’s reassuring is only partially successful.

“I’ve not heard from Miran since early January, and his arrangements for my travel are sketchy to say the least.”

“Things are changing daily over there. He can’t make firm arrangements weeks in advance. Come on, Alan, it’s not like it’s a package holiday to Majorca.”

We head to the pub and are surprised to see Miran sitting in the corner, alone with a bottle.

“Are things still on, then,” I ask, ambivalent to his answer.

“What you know about guns?”

“Er, nothing really,” I reply, trying to hide my concern.

“Good. Then you don’t have to tell lie as we cross border. Border guards know people from city. They sense when someone is hiding something. You will be all innocent for them. We get through. With your help.”

“I think they used to call them stooges in the old days,” observes Clive.

“Stooges? What stooges?”

“Oh, nothing. Just an old word for what Alan will be doing. Drink?”

While Clive is at the bar, Miran begins to explain the details of my travel arrangements into Sarajevo. It seems I am to be the friendly face of a medical relief force bringing much needed supplies to the wounded of Sarajevo. This is true – in part. Stored secretly with the medicines in a three-van convoy will be ammunitions. No guns, though, they are going via a different route. For my own safety, Miran gives me few details. Except that, we leave in three days.

The night before I am due to leave, I have a meal at Clive’s home with his family. Being there, I can understand his decision not to go to Sarajevo and, for the first time, I understand the love he has for his family. Previously believing I was free to do as I wished in life, I find I’m actually jealous of what he has. Maybe this is to be my last taste of adventure – one final fling? I’ve usually fought against the urge, but maybe now I’m ready to find the right partner and ‘settle down’?

On the morning we leave I am exciting to be traveling to a war zone in a convoy. In reality, as the days pass, there is much tedium as we just try as best we can to eat up the miles. From the Italian port of Ancona we sail to the city of Split and then continue by road eastwards, through the highly dangerous Herzegovina. At the checkpoint into Sarajevo, we meet our greatest challenge on the journey so far. Miran has already explained to me that about 40% of the goods we have with us will be taken, and will then find their way onto the black market. He will do the negotiating and, as arranged, I will be the innocent face of a west European aid worker, volunteering to bring supplies into the ravaged city.

“Why don’t I just tell them the truth about being a comedian?”

“Because no one believe you.”

& & &

Inela, sits in front of a cracked mirror, idly combing her short blond hair, remembering a time when she didn’t have to run for cover from snipers in her own streets. Her parents’ apartment overlooked a park. There was food in the larder. There was laughter with friends. There was hope.

Inela’s remembrance of better times is broken when her roommate, Marija, bursts into the room.

“You got to see this,” exclaims Marija, “Look!”

Inela takes a piece of paper from Marija and reads.

“This is nonsense. How can they do such a thing? Don’t they know what’s going on here? Anyone would need to be crazy to do such a thing.”

“Oh, really? I thought you’d be excited. I am. This is a great opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what? Certainly not to escape from this hell hole.”

“It’s an opportunity to restore a little bit of normal life to this … existence. We can’t fire guns at those snipers, or stop the shells from falling on us, but we can show them that we’re not going to be beat.”

Inela reads the paper again. “It’s only two weeks away. Do you really want to enter?”

“Sure. But not on my own. Please, Inela, enter with me.”

For the first time in many days, Inela laughs. “Are you crazy? Me in a beauty contest?” She looks again in the mirror and shakes her head. “This hair alone would make the judges laugh. And where exactly are we going to find make-up? It’s hard enough to find food and fuel.”

“It’s not about winning the contest, and it’s not about looking beautiful. It’s about showing those Serbs that they can’t beat us.”

“What’s the point in that? They won’t know about the beauty contest.”

“No, Inela, but we will. And our friends will. It will show that, despite all that is going on around us, we can still have a life, not just an existence. I’m going to enter the contest, and I think it will do you good to enter as well. Please?”

“I’ll think about it. But first we’re going to have to find some make-up and something good to wear. Oh, and shoes! We must find good shoes!

“Where will this competition take place? I can see the address on this paper you brought, but I don’t remember there being a big hall on that street?”

“No, there isn’t, but I will take you there tonight so you can see.”

Later, under the cover of darkness, Marija leads Inela through several gaps knocked in walls to make access possible around this part of the city. They skirt several buildings this way. Marija carries a torch, but is careful in which direction she points it.

Eventually, they reach a larger hole in a wall and Inela hears for the first time the sound of an orchestra practising. Inside they move tentatively towards a set of steps leading down to a floor below street level. The torch is extinguished, no longer needed as there is light coming from a large room. They enter. Here she sees and hears an orchestra practicing Beethoven’s third Symphony.

“I had no idea … How long has this place been open?” asks Inela.

“I discovered it only a couple of days ago. People call it ‘Our Place’. Wonderful isn’t it? It is a place of hope. I love it. Come, there’s more.”

Marija leads Inela to other rooms that originally were cellars of different buildings but, thanks to the knocking through of walls, have now become a complex of inter-connecting rooms located safely underground.

Here they drink and socialise. After about half an hour, a man Inela doesn’t recognise steps up to a microphone on a small wooden stage at one end of the large room that acts as a dance hall.

“Ladies and gentlemen, good evening. It is wonderful to see so many of you here. We will be entertained by some of our local, Sarajevo talent this evening. But first, a very special guest. Our friend Miran was visiting England recently and found a very funny comedian who he persuaded to visit us here in Sarajevo. Please give a warm welcome to a very brave man, Alan Benny.”

Alan walks up to the microphone to more applause than he’s ever received before.

“Good evening. I hope you don’t mind but I’m going to have to speak to you tonight in English, my mother tongue. It’s called my mother tongue because at home father rarely got a chance to use it.”

To his relief there is some laughter, followed a few seconds later by further laughter, as the joke is translated for those members of the audience not so fluent in English. This pattern of double waves of laughter continues throughout his routine, and he uses the slight pauses to look out over the audience. They are predominantly young and, he is surprised to note, well dressed. They clearly value their evenings out, oases of calm in a life spent looking down a barrel. After ten minutes he wraps up his set with the best parts of Clive’s cheese routine, and finishes with “You are the best audience I’ve ever played to. Thank you. Good night.” To rapturous applause he leaves the stage and, probably by force of habit, heads for the bar.

“You very good. Very funny. Here, free beer. Cheers.”

“Thank you. Cheers.” replies Alan, surprised by the barman’s generosity with drink, particularly in a city where the residents must queue daily for fresh water.

Looking for somewhere to sit, Alan moves to the table occupied by Inela, Marija and their friends. They point to an empty chair at the table and clearly want him to join the circle.

“You are very funny,” purrs Marija, looking him directly in the eye.

Alan gladly returns the look, “Thank you.”

As the evening progresses, and the group of friends are entertained by local singers, guitarists and pianists, they learn that Alan has come to Sarajevo to make people laugh. He doesn’t mention Miran or the ammunition, but they admire his courage and he basks in the warmth of being a kind of hero.

Around midnight, Marija whispers something to Inela, who nods in agreement. Marija then turns to Alan and, with the most wonderful smile he has ever seen, not just a smile with the mouth, but with the eyes as well, she asks him,

“Alan, I have a favour. In a few days, in this place, will be a beauty contest. It is called Miss Besieged Sarajevo ’93. Inela here and I will be entering the contest. The organisers need a compère for the evening. Would you be willing to do that, and maybe tell some jokes during the contest?”

Alan smiles, “It would be an honour.”

There is unanimous approval of the idea around the table, and after more drinks and laughter, members of the group make their dangerous way back to whichever bombed-out shell they are trying to turn into a home.

Back at their shared flat, Marija and Inela discuss the evening and the forthcoming contest. Marija is keen to discover what Inela thinks of Alan.

“I don’t think my opinion of Alan is important. If I said he has the head of a horse, the manners of a pig, and smelt of old cabbages, you would still be dreaming of him tonight. Am I right?” Marija replies with a smile.

& & &

May 29, 1993, the day of the Miss Besieged Sarajevo contest. Alan acts as compère and starts the proceedings with a few jokes.

“I don’t understand women. I will never understand how they can take boiling hot wax, pour it on to their upper thigh, rip the hair out by the root – and still be afraid of a spider.

“They say beauty comes from within. From what I’ve seen backstage, this is true. From within bottles, jars, tubes …”

And so the contest begins. Despite the horrific conditions outside the building, everyone inside has one aim in mind – to make the evening as near ‘normal’ as possible. It is a way to mentally fight the pain of everyday life under siege. It is therapy.

Following the first round of the competition, nerves are stretched in the backstage locker room, and Marija and Inela share the remains of a bottle of Rakija to help them through the waiting. Eventually both are informed by the organiser that they have made it through to the final six. They change into bathing costumes, and the final round of the competition begins.

A few minutes after the last contestant has left the small stage, the judges pass a piece of paper to Alan to inform him of their decision. He is pleased to announce that Marija is third. As she returns to the stage to receive her sash and flowers they hug, possibly a little longer than is usual on such occasions. Alan greets, but doesn’t know, the runner-up, Dijana, and then announces,

“And the winner of Miss Besieged Sarajevo 1993 is.” He pauses for dramatic effect, “Inela Nogić.”

What happens next is where this contest deviates from the norm of beauty pageants. With composure that is itself beautiful, Inela accepts the sash and flowers. There’s no false, practiced smile, just elegance, grace, and the trace of a tear wiped from her smiling face. When other beauty queens would be gushing about the myth of world peace, Inela glides to the side of the stage and disappears momentarily. Before the pageant, all contestants had agreed that whoever the judges chose as the winner would collect a rolled-up banner and, with the help of the others, unfurled a message for the world to see via the few amateur photographers in the room. The message on the banner is simple, clear and direct,

“DON’T LET THEM KILL US“

& & &

With the conclusion of the contest, Alan knows his time in Sarajevo is coming to an end. According to the information received from Miran, he has soon to leave the city. Through his black market contacts, Miran has been informed of a new tunnel dug so supplies can be smuggled into the city and people smuggled out. It is an opportunity Alan should take. But this brings a dilemma – Marija.

For a few days in early June, Marija and Alan are happy to spend as much time as possible in each other’s company. They discuss their backgrounds and their hopes for the future. Both feel the frustration of confinement within the battle-scarred buildings of Sarajevo, and they plan a future together without the daily threat of death.

“I’m constantly amazed at your optimism,” remarks Alan.

“We have a stubborn refusal to be demoralised. The only way to fight this ridiculous fanaticism we see from both Serbs and our own people is to try to live the life we want; a happy, hopeful life. If we become miserable, they have won.

“Do you know, Alan, what I’d like to do more than anything else right now? I’d like for us to go for a walk together in the sunshine. In peace time we could have a coffee at Oloman’s, or maybe eat kebabs in Mrkva. But today we just go for a simple walk.”

“Aren’t you worried about the snipers?”

“I cannot live my whole life scared of dying. That is not living, that is only existing. There are safer routes where it’s difficult for the snipers to see. Come.”

They walk together, hand in hand, through what was clearly a wonderful city before war arrived, uninvited. Marija explains the former purpose of each major building.

“This is the hospital where I was born.”

Alan looks at the shell of a building, and wonders how it could ever have been a place that saved lives. An abandoned, burned-out ambulance sits in front of the hospital. They move on, passing rows of large, metal wheelie bins arranged in a row to offer protection from snipers to those who choose to walk the streets.

“Marija, I’ve been thinking about my … no, our next move. I should really return to England while the opportunity exists through the Sarajevo tunnel. Of course, I want you to come with me. I want you to escape all this. But, I suspect you might want to stay here in your city with your friends? I’ve waited so long to find love, I don’t want to lose it now.”

Marija is quiet for what, to Alan, seems like a worrying length of time; and then, “This war has taught me that we must grab happiness the moment we find it. You know, this war started with a wedding,” says Marija with a confident smile. “It was in the suburb Baščaršija and the groom’s father was killed and a priest was wounded. But, maybe, for us, it can end with a wedding?”

“Are you proposing? That’s normally my job, isn’t it?”

“In Sarajevo, at this time, nothing is normal.”

In the hills above Sarajevo a sniper crawls with his rifle to a vantage point, sees a couple hand in hand in the street, and takes aim.

He gently squeezes the trigger …

& & &

“The war is just a backdrop, it could be any war, the point is the vitality of the human spirit to survive, laugh, to love, and to move on,” ~ Bill Carter (American journalist who lived in Sarajevo for six months in 1992-93)

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Michael Smith 2024

Author’s Note: This story is purely fictional, but based on a real event. The names of the two contestants I have kept intact, but nothing about their true personalities should be inferred from my completely fictional narrative. All other characters exist only in my imagination.

Editor’s Note: This story was previously published in author Michael Smith’s first collection of short stories titled ‘Fonts’ which is available for purchase on Amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CF4C8FS5