Confrontation, thought Chemayev, would be the safer choice—he did not want this man sneaking up on him.
“What is this all about?” He gave a pained gesture with his jacket, flapping it at March. “This thing you’re doing. This… Clint Eastwood villain thing. What is it? Have you been sent to kill me? Does Polutin think I’m untrustworthy?”
“My oh my,” said March. “Could it be I’ve made an error in judgment? Here I thought you were just another sack of fish eggs and potato juice, and now you’ve gone all brave on me.” He extended his arms toward Chemayev, rotated them in opposite directions. The tattoos crawled like beetles across his skin, causing his muscles to appear even more sinewy than they were. In the half-light the seamed lines on his face were inked with shadow, like ritual scarifications. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Why don’t we have us a chat, you and I? A settling of the waters. We’ll pretend we’re a coupla old whores tipsy on lager and lime.” He dropped again into a cross-legged posture and with a flourish held up his right hand—palm on edge—by his head. Then he drew the hand across his face, pretending to push aside his dour expression, replacing it with a boyish smile. “There now,” he said. “What shall we talk about?”
Chemayev lowered into a squat. “You can answer my questions for a start.”
“Now that’s a problem, that is. I fucking hate being direct. Takes all the charm out of a conversation.” March rolled his neck, popping the vertebrae. “Wouldn’t you prefer to hear about my childhood?”
“No need,” said Chemayev. “I used to work in a kennel.”
“You’re missing out on a grand tale,” said March. “I was all the talk of Kilmorgan when I was a lad.” He gathered his hair behind his neck. “I foresee this is not destined to be an enjoyable conversation. So I’ll tell you what I know. Your Mister Polutin feels you’re on the verge of making a serious mistake, and he’s engaged me to show you the error of your ways.”
“What sort of mistake?”
“Ah! Now that, you see, I do not know.” March grinned. “I’m merely the poor instrument of his justice.”
Chemayev slipped off his shoulder harness, folded it on top of his coat; he did the same with his money belt. “So Polutin has sent you to punish me? To beat me?”
“He’s left the degree of punishment up to yours truly,” March said. “You have to understand, I like to think of myself as a teacher. But if the pupil isn’t capable of being taught… and you’d be surprised how often that’s the case… Then extreme measures are called for. When that happens there’s likely to be what you might call a morbid result.” He squinted, as if trying to make out Chemayev through a fog. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Petrified,” said Chemayev.
March chuckled. “You’ve every right to be confident. You’ve got about a yard of height and reach on me. And what?… Maybe a stone and a half, two stone in weight? By the looks of things I’m vastly overmatched.”
“How much is Polutin paying you?”
“Let’s not go down that path, Viktor. It’s unworthy of you. And disrespectful to me as well.”
“You misunderstand.” Chemayev tossed his shirt on top of the >money belt. “I simply wish to learn how much I’ll profit from breaking your neck.”
March hopped to his feet. “You’re a hell of a man in your own back yard, I’m certain. But you’re in a harsher world now, Viktor old son.” He gave his head a shake, working out a tightness in his neck. “Yes, indeed. A world terrible, pitiless, and strange. With no room a’tall for mistakes and your humble servant, Niall March, for a fucking welcome wagon.”
Chemayev took great satisfaction in resorting to the physical. In a fight all of the vagueness of life became comprehensible. Frustration made itself into a fist; nameless fears manifested in the flexing of a muscle. The pure principles of victory and defeat flushed away the muddle of half-truths and evasions that generally clotted his moral apparatus. He felt cleansed of doubt, possessed of keen conviction. And so when he smiled at March, dropping into a wrestler’s crouch, it was not only a show of confidence but an expression of actual pleasure. They began to circle one another, testing their footing, feinting. In the first thirty seconds March launched a flurry of kicks that Chemayev absorbed on his arms, but the force of each blow drove him backward. It had been plain from the outset that March was quick, but Chemayev hadn’t realized the efficiency with which he could employ his speed. The man skipped and jittered over the uneven terrain, one moment graceful, dancing, then shuffling forward in the manner of a boxer, then a moment later sinking into an apelike crouch and lashing out with a kick from ground level. Chemayev had intended to wait for the perfect moment to attack, but now he understood that if he waited, March was likely to land a kick cleanly; he would have to risk creating an opening. And when March next came into range he dove at the man’s back leg, bringing him down hard onto the stones.
The two men grabbed and countered, each trying to roll the other and gain the upper position, their breath coming in grunts. March’s quickness and flexibility made him difficult to control. After a struggle Chemayev managed to turn him onto his back and started to come astride his chest; but March’s legs scissored his waist, forcing him into a kneeling position, and they were joined almost like lovers, one wobbling above, the other on his back, seemingly vulnerable. Chemayev found he was able to strike downward at March’s face, but his leverage was poor, the blows weak, and March blocked most of them with his arms, evaded others by twitching his head to the side. Soon Chemayev grew winded. He braced himself on his left hand, intending to throw a powerful right that would penetrate the Irishman’s guard; but with a supple, twisting movement, March barred Chemayev’s braced arm with his forearm, holding it in place, and levered it backward, dislocating the elbow.
Chemayev screamed and flung himself away, clutching his arm above the elbow, afraid to touch the injury itself. The pain brought tears to his eyes, and for a moment he thought he might faint. Even after the initial burning shock had dissipated, the throbbing of the joint was nearly unbearable. He staggered to his feet, shielding the injury, so disoriented that when he tried to find March, he turned toward the trees.
“Over here, Viktor!” March was standing by the fountain, taking his ease. Chemayev made to back away, got his feet tangled, and inadvertently lurched toward him—the jolt of each step triggered a fresh twinge in his arm. His brain was sodden, empty of plan or emotion, as if he were drunk to the point of passing out.
“What d’ye think, sweetheart?” said March. “Am I man enough for you, or are you pining yet for young Tommy down at the pub?” He took a stroll away from the fountain, an angle that led him closer to Chemayev but not directly toward him. He spun in a complete circle, whirling near, and kicked Chemayev in the head.
A white star detonated inside Chemayev’s skull and he fell, landing on his injured elbow. The pain caused him to lose consciousness, and when he came to, when his eyes were able to focus, he found March squatting troll-like beside him, a little death incarnate with curses in the black language scrawled across his skin and long dark hair hiding his face like a cowl.
“Jesus, boyo,” he said with mock compassion. “That was a bad ’un. Couple more like that, we’ll be hoisting a pint in your honor and telling lies about the great deeds you done in your days of nature.”
Chemayev began to feel his elbow again—that and a second pain in the side of his face. He tasted blood in his mouth and wondered if his cheekbone was broken. He closed his eyes.
“Have you nothing to say? Well, I’ll leave you to mend for a minute or two. Then we’ll have our chat.”
Chemayev heard March’s footsteps retreating. A thought was forming in the bottom of his brain, growing strong enough to sustain itself against grogginess and pain. It pushed upward, surfacing like a bubble from a tar pit, and he realized it was only a mental belch of fear and hatred. He opened his eyes and was fascinated by the perspective—a view across the lumpy rounded tops of the cobblestones. He imagined them to be bald gray midgets buried to their eyebrows in the earth. He pushed feebly at the stones with his good arm and after inordinate labor succeeded in getting to his hands and knees. Dizzy, he remained in that position a while, his head hung down. Blood dripping from his mouth spotted the stones beneath him. When he tried to stand his legs refused to straighten; he sat back clumsily, supporting himself with his right hand.