Yalta Boulevard by Olen Steinhauer Page A
Authors: Olen Steinhauer
Tags: The Bridge of Sighs
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entries. In September, he 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 Franković: 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
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 Franković: 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
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