He was in the middle of surfacing when suddenly he felt a hand grabbing on to his leg, dragging him back down. He panicked, kicking out wildly with his other leg at whatever had taken hold of him, but the hand would not let go. What was this? Was the earth reclaiming him for one of its own? Miroslav felt the last bit of air in his lungs draining away. He stopped fighting. He became certain he would die, that he would return to the bottom of the river and lie there forever.
The hand released him. Miroslav pushed upward, breaking the surface and gasping for air, the mud pouring down from his lips. Miša came up next to him, laughing.
“You’re such a fucker, Miša,” said Miroslav, panting, punching out at his brother.
“It wasn’t me — it was the river troll.”
“You could’ve killed me.”
“Lighten up, burazeru.”
Next to where they had dived into the water, a man appeared on the shore. They floated on their backs, and Miroslav felt the anger draining from him. It was difficult to be angry when floating on your back.
He looked back at the man on the shore.
“Miša,” he said to his brother. Miroslav started to swim over to where they had left their things, and suddenly he realized that the man was going through their clothes. Even from that distance he could see the man’s eyes: wild, like a horse’s eyes. The man had to be a gypsy. The gypsy had Miroslav’s wallet in his hands; he was opening the wallet and taking out his money.
“Hey!” yelled Miroslav. “Hey, stop!”
He was swimming back to shore when he felt a wave against his side and saw his brother shoot past him. Miša sprinted out of the water toward the gypsy, who looked up, startled at the sight of a giant running at him. And then Miroslav saw that the gypsy had a knife. He tried to warn his brother, but Miša didn’t hear him; he ran right at the gypsy and tackled him. They both fell, but Miroslav could see in the way his brother’s body recoiled in midair, like a snake’s, that he had been hit with the knife.
“Miša!” he screamed. He ran up the beach and saw the blood, saw his brother sitting on the ground in shock, one hand cupped to his chest. The gypsy turned to Miroslav. One of the gypsy’s eyes was no good — it was the color of milk and pointed off crookedly to the side.
“Jebi se!” yelled the gypsy and wildly whipped the blade at him. Miroslav jumped out of the way, his hands paddling the air to protect himself. His body was suddenly filled with a great electricity, the pads of his fingers throbbing with current. He saw something moving to his left, and then Miša was charging at the gypsy.
“Get away from him!” roared Miša, swinging at the man with one of his hands. The punch missed badly, and then the gypsy was hugging Miša, and Miroslav saw him stabbing his brother in the side of the rib cage, just under his left arm.
Miroslav was overcome by a wash of intense and very clear anger toward this man who was trying to do his brother harm. For the second time in his life, he felt mind and body part ways. He watched as his hands reached down and grabbed the dead limb of a willow tree, grasping the gnarled piece of wood as if he had always known it would be there. He watched himself as he swung the branch with all of his might. He watched as the gypsy, sensing movement out of the corner of his eye, turned back to Miroslav just as the limb came at his head. He watched the look of surprise on the man’s face, and then there was a grotesque sound of crunching bone, followed by a soft, inward squish, like a cantaloupe popping, and the man crumpled to the ground and did not move again. It felt as if he should react and writhe and scream from such a blow, but he did not. He was perfectly still. The right side of his face had folded into itself, the blood pouring out of a deep cut just beneath his eye.
Miroslav watched himself standing there, heaving, and then he was himself again. He went to his brother, who was lying naked on the beach. Blood was coming down from the wounds on his chest, across his belly and onto his thighs.
“Are you okay?” he asked, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Miša swore. “Do I fucking look okay to you?”
“Not really.”
Miša pulled himself into a sitting position, wincing heavily with the pain. He looked at the gypsy, lying still at their feet. “What about him?”
“Fuck him; we need to get you to a hospital.”
“But he’s. .?” Miša did not have a word.
Miroslav went over to the gypsy. He hovered a hand above his head, as if this would reveal some sign of life. He realized that such a gesture was silly. Before, there had been a living person. Now, it was obvious there was nothing.
“He’s dead,” said Miroslav.
“Dead?” said Miša. He winced again. “Like dead dead?”
“What other kind of dead is there?”
“What do we do? Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“Miša! It’s not our fault. He came at us. You saw it. He had a knife. Look what he did to you!”
“I don’t want to go to jail,” Miša moaned.
“Miša, calm down. No one’s going to jail.”
Miroslav looked at the dead man lying on the riverbank. He reached down and searched the gypsy’s pockets. He found the money that the man had taken from them, and much more. He thought about it and then took it all. Then he grasped the gypsy’s dirty hands and dragged him into the river. The body was surprisingly heavy. When they were deep enough, the water eased the body away, and a slow current began to carry it downstream. The gypsy floated, the river turning him slowly in circles, just the tips of his shoulder blades poking out of the water. They watched until the body disappeared around the bend.
Miroslav came back to his brother. “We don’t say anything to anyone about this.”
“Ya,” said Miša. “Okay.”
“Never. I’m serious. It stays here. Nobody can know.”
“Ya. Okay. Nobody.”
“You swear?”
Miša reached down and wiped the blood off his chest. He offered his hand. “I swear.”
They shook.
“Can you stand?” asked Miroslav.
“I think so.” Miša got up, wobbling. His face was pale, his eyes loose in their sockets. They dressed carefully. Miroslav tied his shirt around his brother’s chest and helped maneuver him back to the road, where a truck from Žepa picked them up and drove them to the small medical clinic in Višegrad.
They told the doctors that Miša had been speared by a bull.
“A bull didn’t do this,” said the doctor. “Do you think I’m stupid? Are you trying to say I’m stupid?”
Lying on the examining table, Miša looked terrified.
“Do you want us to show you the bull? We can go show you the bull,” said Miroslav. “I’m telling you, he was a crazy bull. Someone should really watch out for that animal, because this will happen again.”
The doctor looked at him.
“Are you the one who did The Nutcracker? With the puppets?”
“Yes,” said Miroslav. “And robots. Puppets and robots.”
“Did you see it?” said Miša from the table. “It was—ah!” He tried to sit up but collapsed back down again.
“You must have a real imagination,” said the doctor.