had taken his mother to Dukla in order to help her file divorce paperwork-again, Bieniek’s morality erupted: Does no one know the purity of commitment anymore? Apparently not, because in December Rasko split with his longtime girlfriend, Anita Gargas.
He went through more, but these papers told him nothing of importance. The answer, perhaps, was not here after all, and he was wasting a precious day burrowing through the inconsequential ramblings of a dead man. The window was dark-it was already evening. And he was expected for dinner. In his jacket pocket he found Bieniek’s passport-the wide face, the mole. He closed it again, then sat on the floor.
There were two pages on Zygmunt Nubsch, most of it mundane. Each morning he drove to the factory in Dukla, picked up his order, and delivered bread to state shops in the region. He and his wife, Ewa, attended church regularly and sometimes joined the Knippelbergs and all their children for picnics in the countryside. And, like so many men, he made the pilgrimage to Pavel Jast’s smoke-filled shack. 1 February 1967: There is a story going around that, at last night’s game, Zygmunt lost more than his shirt. He was drunk, and when he ran out of money, asked for credit. Jast refused, said he was tired of Zygmunt not being dependable. He wanted something more than money. Zygmunt knew what he meant. The same as with Tomasz Sakiewicz’s daughter. So he shrugged and bet his wife’s life on the hand. The story is that he lost… 3 February 1967: Saw him on his bread rounds today. He looks sick and pale. It seems the story is true… 6 February 1967: He’s smiling again. This evening he was in the center with Ewa. She’s alive, but now she’s the one who looks ill. Maybe he told her that her time is limited-or maybe he made another deal with Jast, and it’s only the knowledge of how close she came to death that’s ruining her.
There were voices in the cloud-deepened darkness. A woman’s shout from behind a closed door, the whisper of two children hidden in the shrubs, and a man’s cigarette-congested cough somewhere ahead, to the left. But he ignored them all, even the snow that leaked into his shoes, the images in his head as clear as a memory of that night with Dijana Frankovic: Pavel Jast’s smoky, cold shack, men around the dirty table, drunk, sweating over their game of Cucumber. Zygmunt, an old man with less sense than he should have, looks at what he thinks is a winning hand. But he’s cleaned out; there’s nothing left to bet. No more credit, you deadbeat, says Jast. Give me something more than money.
With the logic of a drunk and the narrow-mindedness of a villager, Zygmunt remembers Tomasz Sakiewicz. But all he remembers through the vodka haze is that Tomasz won his hand. He made the ultimate bet, and won.
So Zygmunt can, too. He says, Ewa’s life.
They all pause, because even though this happens, it’s rare, and never taken lightly. Jast even leans forward, cigarette smoldering between his fat lips, and squints. You’re sure about this, Zygi? A bet is a bet.
Yes, says Zygmunt. A bet is a bet.
“Hey!”
It was the man with the smoker’s cough, wandering up from the bus stop. The illumination from the church lit the dirty snow around the man but kept him in shadow. “Yes?”
He was tall, with a very long nose. “You’re Iwona’s son, right?” He slurred the words.
“Yes, I am.”
Gravel crunched behind Brano; three more vague forms approached. All men.
“Why’d they let you out, Comrade Security?”
“Because-”
“Because you can’t jail your own!” shouted a voice behind him, and laughter followed.
They were all very drunk.
Brano stepped back, but each direction brought him closer to one or another of the drunkards. So he waited. The first man was at his face now, looking down on him, those large nostrils flaring. “You’re a nasty son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
A second one-fat, his old soldier’s coat too small for his belly-had reached Brano’s left side. Both stank of home-distilled rotgut.
“You come here and slice up a respected member of our little village.”
The third, hovering on his right, nervously rubbed one palm with the fingers of his other hand.
“In fact,” said Brano, “that wasn’t-”
The fourth, whom he never quite saw, threw a hard fist into Brano’s kidney. The fat one grabbed his left arm, twisted, and pulled it down. Brano swung with his free hand, catching a chin, then tumbled into the snow.
What followed was a battery of sharp pains and stunned blows to the head and futile attempts to use what skills he had long ago been taught and had often practiced. But those times he’d fought one man, maybe two, and there was a universal rule of fighting that, once a certain threshold is reached, talent and training are of no importance-the greater numbers always win.
He didn’t know how long the blows were delivered and the alcohol-heavy spittle rained on him, but when they finally tired and wandered away after a last kick in the ribs, he could not move. He no longer felt the gravel digging into his back or the snow that had soaked through his clothes. His arms were as heavy as trees. He blinked teary eyes at the black sky, unable to make out the crescent moon breaking through the clouds.
He hurt, but he’d been hurt enough times to know how to deal with pain. Pain was mental; it could be coerced and tamed. He compressed the aches into a dense ball that he moved to his heavy hand. He breathed steadily, the cold night burning his lungs. Now all he had to do was move, pick himself up and figure out how to walk. It was simple, the kind of thing an infant learns to do. But, like Zygmunt Nubsch after he looked at Jast’s winning hand, it took him a long time to learn to walk again.
His shoulder felt as if it had been ripped out and shoved back in, but he was able to let himself inside through the kitchen door. He heard their voices drift from the living room. A little laughter, and Mother’s sudden, “Is that you, Brani?”
He leaned against the counter and tried to take breaths. “Yes,” he said, then said it again, louder.
“Late,” came Klara’s unsurprised voice.
He found a glass and filled it from the tap, his shaking hands barely able to bring it to his lips. He sucked it dry, then looked at the muddy footprints he’d tracked across the floor. His head was pounding.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Lucjan said to someone.
Feet approached the kitchen as Brano refilled the glass. Then he turned and saw his mother stop, her face crumbling. “ Brani! ”
She was on him then, a white rag magically in her hand as she mopped the blood and grit that had smeared across his cheeks and forehead. “Brani, Brani,” she whispered.
Klara was standing, stunned, in the doorway. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.
Lucjan’s voice: “ What? ”
He hadn’t realized how much blood was on him until he took off his wet, spotted clothes in the living room. Before accepting a robe, he was for a moment naked in front of them, Mother kneeling, wiping his legs dry. He wasn’t sure what he felt, shame or more, but the pain he’d been holding in his hand seeped from his grip and spread through him again. He thought his head might explode.
Then he was in the robe and stretched out on the couch. There were sores on his face and bruises developing across his chest. Both his knees bled. He told them what had happened, ignoring their dubious silence. He shrugged, sending a sharp ripple through his back, and said that he supposed his attackers thought they were making some justice.
“Savages,” said Mother.
Klara lit a cigarette and stared at him. Lucjan patted Brano’s foot, which was the only thing that didn’t hurt. “Tomorrow we’ll teach them a lesson.”
He sneezed, shooting agony through his temples. “Don’t-don’t worry about it. I’ll survive.”
“Maybe you will,” said Klara.
“I always do.”
He was able to get up again and, with Lucjan’s help, make it to the dinner table. They served him his food, and whenever he began to reach out a hand they asked what he wanted and got it for him. As she passed him a plate with butter, Klara muttered, “You’ll survive until you don’t.”
Brano smiled while Lucjan, sitting next to him, used a knife to carve him some butter. “You’ve become a pessimist. I doubt your god would be too pleased with that.”
Klara considered that, then said, “Brano, you and your kind will survive until drunk men in the street have had
