Yalta Boulevard (7 page)

“It doesn’t,” said Brano.

“Makes you wonder what goes on behind the windows,” Klara said. “They’re still living their lives.”

“They’re eating their mothers’ meals,” said Mother.

“And having more sex.”

“
Lucjan
,” said Klara.

Lucjan shook his head. “What they’re doing is playing cards. That’s what.”

Mother frowned.

“There’s a lot of gambling?” asked Brano.

Lucjan’s face shriveled. Klara looked up.

Brano opened his hands and gave a smile so small that it could be seen by no one. “I’m not going to arrest anyone for it. That’s not what I do.”

Lucjan shrugged. “Everyone does it, right?”

“I do it myself,” he lied.

“But not like here, I hope,” said Mother.

“Like here?”

Lucjan looked at his plate. “It’s like in a lot of villages. These peasants run out of money, and the bets get a little strange. You know.
I’ll bet my horse on this hand
. That sort of thing.”

“Not so strange,” said Brano. “The same as betting your watch.”

“But what about your child?” Klara asked.

Occasionally, Brano had heard of this sort of thing during his years in the Militia office in the Capital, though it happened more often in the countryside: men betting the life of a daughter, a wife, a mother. It was a repulsive element of the old world that socialism had not yet wiped clean. But he pretended it was news. “Child?”

Klara went back to her plate, her face as red as the Comrade Lieutenant General’s, but not from drink.

“Some guy,” said Lucjan. “An idiot. He was drunk, and he bet his little girl’s life on a hand of cards. Can you believe it?”

“So what happened?”

Lucjan smiled. “He won! Thank God.”

The silence that followed felt long, and they each looked at him: first Lucjan, before facing his plate again, then Mother, who gave a fragile smile. Finally, Klara’s stoic gaze held him for a long time before returning to her food. It was a look Brano could not quite decipher, but it gave him a sudden, overwhelming feeling that he was far from home and among strangers.

After dinner they returned to the living room and worked slowly on the vodka, Mother filling the silences with gossip Brano had already heard the night before. His sister and her husband had probably heard it all as well, for they only grunted into their glasses as she chronicled the love affairs of the town.

Then, with enough liquor warming him, Brano said, “A while ago, I took a trip to Vienna.”

“Vienna?” said Mother. “I didn’t know you went there.”

“I did, for a little while. Work. A friend of mine was having a party. There was some food, but it was gone quickly, and everyone began drinking heavily. I ran into the woman he was dating—she read tarot cards for a living.”

Lucjan snorted. “Tarot cards?”

“She was very nice to me. She had been drinking quite a bit. Someone was playing an acoustic guitar and leading the room in song.”

“You
sang?
” said Klara.

“No.” Brano set his glass on the table. “After a while, this woman asked me to dance.”

“Did you dance?” asked Mother, looking around. “Have you ever seen Brani dance?”

“Never,” said Klara.

“I did dance, but not at first,” said Brano. “She continued to stand very close, watching me. So I asked her where my friend was. She said she had told him to go to hell. She’d told him he was a bore and she never wanted to speak to him again.”

Lucjan leaned forward. “She
told
him that?”

“Well, if he was boring—” began Klara.

“There’s a difference between the truth and civility.”

Klara shrugged at Mother, who smiled back.

“It was none of my business,” said Brano. “But I tried to defend him to her. She would have none of it. Finally, she grabbed my arms and pulled me close to her and said,
Brano Sev, I love you’
”

“She
didn’t
,” said Mother.

Klara grinned. “This is fantastic!”

Brano shook his head. “I told her she was mistaken. We’d only met once before, and she didn’t know who I was at all. She couldn’t be in love with me. It was impossible.”

“Nuts, that one,” said Lucjan.

“We danced a little, and by then it was very late. Most everyone had left. I wanted to get out of there, but she was clutching on to me. So I told her I’d walk her home. She was drunk, and it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Lucjan clucked his tongue. “I bet it did, you rat.”

Brano looked at him. “On the walk to her apartment she told me she had a vision of her future, living on a lake with an older man standing behind her, protecting her. It was fate, she said, and she said that man was me.”

“Was you,” echoed Mother. Klara winked at her.

“I got her to her front door, where she snatched my hat from my head and told me I’d have to come up and let her read my future if I wanted my hat.”

“Your
future!
” Klara burst out laughing. “This is priceless!”

Brano didn’t smile. He looked from one face to the other.

“So?” said Lucjan. “Did you learn your future?”

He shook his head and lied again. “I took my hat from her and went home.”

“Sure you did,” said Lucjan.

“I assumed that by the next morning she’d be so embarrassed by what she’d done that nothing else would happen. But I was wrong. She was still convinced she was in love.”

“And you saw her again?” asked Klara.

“Never. I left the next day. But she got my address and started writing me letters.”

“With your future?” asked Mother; then, realizing she’d made a joke, she started to laugh.

“It was a very strange experience.”

“You still get them?” asked Lucjan. “The letters.”

“Sometimes, yes.”

Mother touched the bun of her hair. “Here I was trying to set you up with some nice girls, and you’re involved in an international romance!”

“There’s always a surprise with Brano,” said Klara. “He sits there, mute as a stone, then comes out with the strangest stories.”

“But I wonder sometimes,” he said, lifting his glass again, “do you think I was wrong to say that?”

“Say what?” asked Lucjan.

He focused on Klara. “To say she couldn’t be in love with me. Do you think I could have been wrong?”

“There’s all kinds,” said Klara.

Mother nodded. “You just can’t know, can you?”

Lucjan licked his lips. “How come that kind of thing never happens to me?”

Klara elbowed him in the ribs.

The others had left and Mother was asleep by the time Brano put on his coat at the front door, pulled his hat over his forehead, then went down the front path, through the gate, and into darkness.

Bóbrka on a moonless night was a land of unpredictable pits and obstructions. He stumbled in a few potholes and ran into carts left on the side of the road. Despite all the koronas poured into the oil complex in the forest, no one had thought to equip the village roads with light poles. The center was barely visible by the muted light from some windows and by the spotlight illuminating the church. He stopped, looked around, and began walking east, toward the woods.

He’d never quite understood that night with Dijana, nor the letters she’d sent after he left. He’d even received one just before leaving the Capital for Bóbrka.
Brani, why this silence? What we have it is good
. He remembered standing at her door, and her saying in her stilted Serbo-Croat version of his language, I
want for to read your future
. Though she spoke German well, she chose out of adoration to speak his language to him, which she butchered mercilessly.
Brano Sev, I am in the love with you
.

He emerged into an open field littered with blackened pump-jacks tipping their heads like chickens, then continued up a gravel road to the Emilia 4 pump, a high wooden tower built four decades before on the Canadian model and lit up like the church, though now it was used as a meeting room for officials in from the Capital. As a child, Brano had often climbed up inside it, alongside Marek, and across the roof of the low administrative building that stretched along the tree line. As he approached he heard what he’d heard the previous night: drunken howls from far off.

The door to Emilia 4 was unlocked, and when he closed it behind himself, the cold darkness was an unwavering black. He heard the labored breathing of unhealthy lungs close by. Brano lit a match and stared into the grinning, red-veined face of Pavel last. Jast’s hands were stuffed in his pockets, and he reeked of vodka. “Evening, Comrade Sev.” He stuck out a thick hand.

“What’s the name of your friend?”

“You know who I am, I know who you are. What’s the point?”

“Your friend’s name, Comrade Jast.”

The big man dropped his hand. “The glorious Archduke Ferdinand, Comrade Sev.”

“Thank you.” The match was burning his fingers, so he blew it out and slipped it in a pocket. “Let’s go outside.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder behind the administrative building, where the trees threatened to swallow them. Jast took out a cigarette, but Brano asked him not to light it. “Of course, of course,” muttered last.

“So what do you have for me?”

Jast sucked on the unlit cigarette. “Soroka’s been staying in his parents’ house—that’s the two-story one just past the church.”

“Cream colored?”

“Yes, yes. His wife and boy go out to take care of errands—shopping, that sort of thing—but Jan I almost never see. A couple times I visited the house—clandestinely, you realize, just looking through the windows—but all I ever saw was the Sorokas eating and listening to the radio.”

“Radio?”

“Nothing like that. Just a receiving set. If he’s sending, I wouldn’t know.”

“What do the villagers say?”

“Villagers.” He sniffed. “They’ll say anything if it’s entertaining enough. Wienczyslaw thinks he’s working for us, preparing to turn Bóbrka into a New Town—tear down all the homes and build block towers. Armand has the paranoia to think he’s working for the Poles, to redraw the border and take the region back. Only the old folks believe his cover story.”

“The one about the woman, Dijana Franković.”

“Exactly.”

“And you?”

“I try not to think too much. He’s working for the West—I’ve been told enough by Yalta to know that. But what does the West care about a dump like Bóbrka? Our oil deposits aren’t big enough to be important to anybody. All I can think is that he’s going to try to take his family back with him.”

“That was my assumption,” said Brano. “How do you suggest I make contact?”

Jast took the spit-damp cigarette from his lips and then replaced it. They had stopped and were facing one another. “He does go to church.”

“Every Sunday?”

“On the two Sundays he’s been here it’s been regular. It’s the one thing I’d depend on.”

They began walking back in silence, until Jast brightened and took something from his pocket.

“Here—look at this!” He handed over a ballpoint pen, and in the light bleeding around the buildings Brano saw on it the image of a shapely blonde in a red evening gown.

“Yes,” he said.

“Turn it over.”

Brano did so, and watched the evening gown slide down her body, revealing breasts, hips, and the dark spot between her legs.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“Very nice,” he said as he returned it.

“Got it from a friend who visited West Germany. The things they make there!”

As they rounded the corner of the administrative building, Brano noticed two men approaching the wooden tower.

“Damn,” whispered Jast. “The night watch is usually longer at the bar.” He turned back and waved for Brano to follow.

They entered the woods, where Jast soon found a barely discernible trail, cursing when he ran into low branches, his heavy feet snapping everything they touched. As they progressed, Brano explained the method of their future meetings. The cue would be an empty matchbook left under the bus stop bench. “We’ll meet in the graveyard at eleven that same evening. Does this suit you?”

“Pretty morbid, yes, but it suits me fine. Damn!” He flailed his arms against unseen branches, then fell. Brano crouched, reaching out a hand. He heard Jast’s voice. “What the hell?” And then, “Jesus Christ, what—” Then nothing.

Brano lit another match, which shook as his eyes focused. Pavel Jast also saw what he had tripped over, and leapt up, muttering, “
Oh fuck oh fuck
.”

On the ground was a shirtless man, short and heavy, mouth gagged tight over a beard, his stomach and chest and arms covered by numerous tiny cuts. They had bled, tinting the white body pink. Brano touched the sticky, dead wrist, then the still-warm chest, and glanced at the well-tailored black pants and scuffed shoes. He dropped the match and lit another, while Jast jumped from foot to foot, babbling words Brano could no longer make out.

Before they split up at the edge of the woods, Jast told him how to get to Captain Rasko’s home. Brano returned to the dark village, which was no longer haunted by howls from the forest, continued past the church, and near the Militia station opened the wooden gate to a low one-bedroom. He knocked on the loose front door, then did it again. Something fell behind a window; a light came on. The lace curtain was pulled back slightly. Finally, Captain Rasko stood in the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of a gray robe, his black hair sleep-pressed into an angle. “Comrade Sev,” he said, not bothering to hide his disappointment.