Yalta Boulevard by Olen Steinhauer Page B

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