decision—it was all a feint, right up to the point when the two bribed security guards had released Khristo’s arms—but the challenge was turned aside: a political decision had been made and that was that.
The brownnoses won. That was always the way of it, Khristo thought, and there was a lesson to be learned there if one wanted to see it. Kulic was right, it was different here. Gazing at the cloudy, starry sky, he felt captivity as a slight pressure at the base of the throat and swallowed a few times, but it would not go away. Twenty years old. Life already twisted into a strange, contorted shape, like a tree growing in sand. When he’d been Nikko’s age hehad harbored a secret contempt for his father. A slave of the fish buyers, the landlords, the Holy Fathers, he’d seemed yoked to his life like a patient ox. Now and then a sigh, but never a protest, never a curse. Khristo had believed one could tear the yoke from one’s neck, cast it into the Dunav, be free of the weight that had to be hauled from dawn to dusk every day of the year. He’d believed his father lacked the passion, the human fire, to shed his burden, and he was ashamed to be the son of such a willing beast. Now he knew differently, of course. He’d learned something about yokes.
“Do you hate them?” Kulic cut into his sorrow. Seemed almost to know what he had been thinking.
Khristo shrugged, not trusting his voice. Kulic punched him twice, lightly, on the upper arm. “Doesn’t pay to think about it,” he said.
He didn’t hate them. He didn’t think he hated them. Though the fury that had possessed him when he’d “shot” Petenko would bear some thinking about when he could get away alone. But he didn’t hate them. He was afraid of them. He was afraid of them because they were, in some sense, madmen. A boat carpenter in Vidin had gone mad with sorrow after his wife died and had spent all his days down by the river building endless mounds of stones, constantly correcting the height of the piles to make them all perfectly even. They were like that. They practiced a kind of witchcraft and called it science. When you went to get your papers stamped, you slid them beneath a curtain to a waiting official—you were not to see the faces of those who controlled your destiny. Like Veiko, they dealt in fear. Like Veiko , he thought ruefully.
Kulic continued, taking Khristo’s silence for assent. “If you cannot go back, best go forward. What else is there?”
“You too?” Khristo said.
Kulic nodded sadly. “All of us. That’s my guess.” He slumped backward and stared up at the sky. “I was one of the Komitaji . You know what that is?”
“The committee?”
“That’s what the word means. Called the Black Hand in Macedonia, something else in Croatia—you know how it is where I comefrom. Back in November, they murdered the king of Yugoslavia in Marseilles, King Alexander. The assassination was managed by a man called Vlada the Chauffeur. That action was accomplished by Komitaji . Some call us bandits, others, partizans .” He shrugged and spread his hands.
“You knew the people who did that?”
“Not personally. But I knew who they were. My group was active on the river. From the Iron Gate all the way up to the Hungarian border, including the city, Belgrade. And the truth about us was that some days we were bandits, other days, partizans . But always Komitaji . Bound by the oath of blood. Tradition of centuries—all of that. When we bury our dead, we do not close the coffin until it is in the grave. How is this? the visitors say. Oh, we answer, too cruel to shut out the last glimpse of sky until the very, very end. They like that idea. But the truth is different. Komitaji have always hidden guns in coffins, so the king made a law, and now it’s a good country to visit if you like to see the occasional corpse being carried through the street.”
He laughed for a moment, remembering a particular national madness that
The brownnoses won. That was always the way of it, Khristo thought, and there was a lesson to be learned there if one wanted to see it. Kulic was right, it was different here. Gazing at the cloudy, starry sky, he felt captivity as a slight pressure at the base of the throat and swallowed a few times, but it would not go away. Twenty years old. Life already twisted into a strange, contorted shape, like a tree growing in sand. When he’d been Nikko’s age hehad harbored a secret contempt for his father. A slave of the fish buyers, the landlords, the Holy Fathers, he’d seemed yoked to his life like a patient ox. Now and then a sigh, but never a protest, never a curse. Khristo had believed one could tear the yoke from one’s neck, cast it into the Dunav, be free of the weight that had to be hauled from dawn to dusk every day of the year. He’d believed his father lacked the passion, the human fire, to shed his burden, and he was ashamed to be the son of such a willing beast. Now he knew differently, of course. He’d learned something about yokes.
“Do you hate them?” Kulic cut into his sorrow. Seemed almost to know what he had been thinking.
Khristo shrugged, not trusting his voice. Kulic punched him twice, lightly, on the upper arm. “Doesn’t pay to think about it,” he said.
He didn’t hate them. He didn’t think he hated them. Though the fury that had possessed him when he’d “shot” Petenko would bear some thinking about when he could get away alone. But he didn’t hate them. He was afraid of them. He was afraid of them because they were, in some sense, madmen. A boat carpenter in Vidin had gone mad with sorrow after his wife died and had spent all his days down by the river building endless mounds of stones, constantly correcting the height of the piles to make them all perfectly even. They were like that. They practiced a kind of witchcraft and called it science. When you went to get your papers stamped, you slid them beneath a curtain to a waiting official—you were not to see the faces of those who controlled your destiny. Like Veiko, they dealt in fear. Like Veiko , he thought ruefully.
Kulic continued, taking Khristo’s silence for assent. “If you cannot go back, best go forward. What else is there?”
“You too?” Khristo said.
Kulic nodded sadly. “All of us. That’s my guess.” He slumped backward and stared up at the sky. “I was one of the Komitaji . You know what that is?”
“The committee?”
“That’s what the word means. Called the Black Hand in Macedonia, something else in Croatia—you know how it is where I comefrom. Back in November, they murdered the king of Yugoslavia in Marseilles, King Alexander. The assassination was managed by a man called Vlada the Chauffeur. That action was accomplished by Komitaji . Some call us bandits, others, partizans .” He shrugged and spread his hands.
“You knew the people who did that?”
“Not personally. But I knew who they were. My group was active on the river. From the Iron Gate all the way up to the Hungarian border, including the city, Belgrade. And the truth about us was that some days we were bandits, other days, partizans . But always Komitaji . Bound by the oath of blood. Tradition of centuries—all of that. When we bury our dead, we do not close the coffin until it is in the grave. How is this? the visitors say. Oh, we answer, too cruel to shut out the last glimpse of sky until the very, very end. They like that idea. But the truth is different. Komitaji have always hidden guns in coffins, so the king made a law, and now it’s a good country to visit if you like to see the occasional corpse being carried through the street.”
He laughed for a moment, remembering a particular national madness that
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