Yalta Boulevard by Olen Steinhauer Read Free Book Online Page A

window; Pavel Jast had arrived.
    Comrade Colonel Cerny had given him the name of his contact, shown him a photograph, and added, An idiot, a gambler, and a drunk, but useful . That seemed about right. He could read those characteristics in the swagger Pavel Jast shared with all small-town informants, as if the entire People’s Army were marching behind them and would back up any stupid thing they did. So Brano returned to the paper as the fat man burst in, muttered something indecipherable to the two old men, then clapped a hand on the counter and demanded a vodka. He held the muddy glass to his lips as he rotated, leaning back to survey the tiny space. In the translucent window-reflection, Brano saw Pavel Jast’s eyes settle on him. Jast produced a cigarette and winked at the two old men before approaching.
    “Hey, you. Comrade . Got a light?” He winked a second time in the old men’s direction.
    From his pocket Brano took a book of matches marked HOTEL METROPOL and handed it to Jast without looking away from the window.
    The first match faltered, but the second hissed and sparked until the cigarette was lit. Jast exhaled smoke and the stink of earlier vodkas, and Brano’s eyes watered as he accepted the matches back. But this was a different book of matches, white and blank. Jast said, “From the Capital, eh? Aren’t you Iwona’s boy?”
    Brano drank some more beer, then laid a few koronas on the counter. He turned to Jast for the first time and saw the red web of punished veins beneath his flaccid cheeks and nose. “I am,” he said.
    Another wink at the old men, who seemed unsure they liked the performance. The bartender ignored everyone. Jast grunted, the shot glass pressing into his chin. “Well, you’re not in the Capital anymore, comrade.”
    “I didn’t notice,” said Brano, and only after he left did it occur to anyone in the bar that this had been a joke.
    On the way back to his mother’s house, he clutched the matchbook in his pocket, turning it over and opening and shutting it while he watched faces along the road. Zygmunt, the old man who delivered his mother’s bread, seemed to be avoiding his gaze, but Captain Rasko acknowledged him as he stood in the mud with a young woman whose puffy lips made her look like the victim of abuse. He hadn’t expected to come across Lia Soroka out in the open, but he managed the surprise by nodding back at Rasko and at Jan Soroka’s unsmiling wife.
    He didn’t take out the matchbook until he had passed his mother’s front door. He flipped it open and read the sweat-smeared pencil scrawl inside the cover:

     
    Klara brought a large dish of pork cabbage rolls, and Lucjan ducked his head as he followed her in with his vodka, sealed in a used liter-sized soda bottle. Lucjan was nearly two heads taller than Brano, ruddy in the face, his wide shoulders stretching the back of his shirt, but his handshake had almost no strength at all. Mother took the vodka from him and disappeared with Klara into the kitchen.
    Lucjan tried to smile. “Klara says you’re on vacation.”
    “That’s true.”
    “You don’t know how long?”
    “A week, probably. Just long enough to get some rest.”
    “Must be nice, having that kind of relationship with your manager. He doesn’t care?”
    “He’s a good friend.”
    “Known him a long time?”
    “Are you always so curious?”
    Lucjan let out a nervous laugh, then settled on the sofa and began to roll a cigarette, his big fingers fumbling with the thin paper. Brano watched. “She told me you’re doing well at the cooperative.”
    “Klara’s an optimist.”
    “But you’re doing administrative work. That’s a good sign.”
    He licked the paper and sealed the cigarette. “What about you? You’re not used to working a factory job, are you?”
    “Not so different. There are orders, and I follow them. 1 do all right.”
    “That’s the answer I’d give, too.” He offered the damp cigarette, but Brano shook his