David Bezmozgis - The Free World

Alec felt the eyes of the other men on him. Their eyes were full of impatience, smugness, and rebuke. Their eyes said that he was behaving badly, dishonorably.

— Who said I was worried? Alec said. What’s there to worry about? Just because it’s night, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and I don’t know what the hell’s going on?

— This isn’t the middle of nowhere, Minka said. It’s a famous touristical destination.

— And what do you need to know, anyhow? said Dmitri. Are you some kind of child? You need to have everything explained to you? Wait one fucking minute and you’ll see.

Alec concluded that there was nothing more to say. He had no grounds to complain. He’d been sober when he signed up.

Snatching the briefcases from Alec’s hands, Dmitri said, Here, give me those fucking things so we can get down to work.

Minka said, Let’s step inside and do this.

Carrying his two briefcases, Minka lifted a leg, stepped over a low stone ledge, and effectively “entered” the ruin. Since there were no walls to speak of, everyone could still see him just the same as before. Where they were, the terms “inside” and “outside” were arbitrary. Even so, everybody filed in. All eight briefcases were lined up. Angelo and the Italian kid switched on the flashlights Alec hadn’t noticed they’d been carrying. They shone the beams on the briefcases and on the floor. The pale floor bounced the light back into their faces. It also roughed in the dimensions of the ruin and picked out details in the floor itself. Alec saw the vestiges of a crude mosaic. He discerned two objects composed of small black tiles — one looked like a lemon, the other like a candelabra.

— Let’s get to it, Dmitri said.

Iza Judo, who’d been standing next to Alec, stepped forward and released the clasps on one of the briefcases. He lifted the lid and Angelo turned the beam of his flashlight onto the contents. Alec saw dozens of slim objects, each wrapped in green felt. Iza reached inside, withdrew one of the objects, and unwrapped it for Angelo. Angelo fixed his light on it and Alec saw a glint of gold. Held this way, Alec was now able to identify it as an icon. He was far from an expert in icons, but to his eye it looked impressive, authentic, probably valuable, and certainly contraband. These were the sorts of things that could never have left the Soviet Union through legitimate channels. Somebody somewhere had bribed a whole legion of customs agents.

— Bene? Bellissimo? Iza asked.

— Benissimo, Angelo said, taking the icon in hand for closer inspection.

Alec looked around at the other men. Minka and Dmitri were opening the clasps on the other briefcases and examining the icons. The Italian kid also reached inside and took one. As he fixed his light on it, Iza eyed him apprehensively.

— Ei! Iza said. È Gesù Cristo. Molto caro.

Iza turned to Dmitri and warned, Watch he doesn’t damage that. That’s a fragile thing and he’s pawing it like a piece of ass.

Dmitri, unflappable, ignored Iza and made no move to caution the kid.

— Now this is more like it, Minka said, admiring the icons and clucking his tongue approvingly. You know who would have liked this?

He said this to everyone and no one in particular.

— Who’s that? Iza asked.

— My grandfather. A shame he didn’t live to see it. It would have warmed his heart. In Minsk, everyone knew of him. Isn’t that so, Dmitri?

— Sure.

— You remember him, right?

— Could be.

— Sure you remember. He did business with your late father.

— A big fat guy?

— Like a steamer. Twice as big as Angelo. Lived to be eighty-five. He used to tell stories about what it was like before the Revolution. His father traded, smuggled, made a good living. My grandfather learned from him. Those were some clever Yids. He told me, You know why the Bolsheviks closed the synagogues? Because they wanted to stop the trading. It had nothing to do with religion; it was because Jews made deals in the synagogue. All those musty Jews sitting in the dark, mumbling in their strange tongue — the tsar’s agents had no idea what was going on in there. But a lot of the Bolsheviks were Jews and they knew. So they turned the synagogues into theaters, stables, and warehouses. Oh, how my grandfather hated Soviet power. He missed the old days when a Jew could come to the synagogue and do some business.

Minka paused as though out of solemn respect for his departed grandfather.

— If he could look down and see us now. Just like our ancestors. Jews in a synagogue once again, doing business. That’s why we left that Soviet shit heap. Isn’t that so, Dimka?

Dmitri picked up another icon and didn’t bother to answer.

— You know how old this synagogue is? Minka asked.

Sensing a limited audience, he’d put the question to Alec.

— Old, Alec said.

— Very old, Minka said. Older than these icons. Maybe older than Christ himself.

The beating started soon after. Dmitri, Minka, and the Italian kid rained blows down on Iza Judo. They beat him savagely, the Italian kid even using his flashlight to strike Iza on his hands, shoulders, and back, after Iza curled up in a ball to protect himself. Briefly, Iza had put up valiant resistance. He’d hurled himself at Minka and wrenched Minka’s hand until he’d howled with pain. Beneath the howl, Alec had heard the crisp sound of a twig snapping. Minka fell back temporarily, but Iza hadn’t been able to seize the advantage. Dmitri and the Italian kid descended on him with insatiable ferocity and quickly overwhelmed him. They kicked and punched him indiscriminately until he sank to the ground, and they kept beating him as he curled up, grunting and moaning pitiably.

Alec had been stunned by the display; he’d stood and watched, unable to budge or to speak out. The whole thing had flared up so quickly and the scene itself seemed so unreal. Much of it transpired in the dark. He intuited what was happening mostly from the sounds. But then a car would pass on the road and its headlights momentarily illuminate the grisly scene. Or the beam of the Italian kid’s flashlight would slash across Dmitri’s face or Iza’s body as he beat him with the heavy metal barrel.

One minute, everything had been calm, even jovial, with Angelo approving the icons and Minka spouting his nonsense about his grandfather and the synagogues. If there had been any evidence of hostility, Alec had thought it was directed at him. But then Angelo had started to negotiate the terms with Iza. Angelo claimed that he’d expected a certain number of icons and that Iza had brought fewer than this number. Iza had objected, saying that he’d brought precisely the number they had agreed upon. Dmitri, speaking on Angelo’s behalf, offered Iza less money since he’d fallen short in the quantity.

— The hell I’m going to take less, Iza had said. I did my part. Don’t try to jerk me around.

— If Angelo says you’re short, then you’re short.

— Angelo can say whatever he likes. He can say the earth is flat. He can say day is night. That doesn’t make it so. We had a deal, and now he’s making up tales.

— Here’s how it stands: you should take what he’s offering, before you get nothing at all.

Alec had watched Iza swell with rage, his neck engorging, like a bullfrog’s.

— You say how it stands, Iza fumed. I say differently. If I don’t get the money I was promised, fuck this, the deal is off. This fat shit can go crawl back up his mother’s cunt. I got others who’ll pay what the icons are worth. Maybe more.

— Who’s going to carry the cases back, Iza? To what car? That’s not the way this works.

It was at this point that the situation crystallized. Everyone realized it. Including Iza, though evidently too late. Alec saw a hunted look enter his eyes. He lost the arrogance of the predator and took on the edginess of the prey.