After the First Death Read Free Page A

He tightened his lips, kept his cheeks taut. He was furious that Artkin should think that killing someone—who? a bus driver? a nothing?—should bother him. Or perhaps Artkin was taunting him again to keep him keen, on edge, sharp. Either way, Miro was angry. He was not a child anymore. And inflicting death did not bother him. Neither did the contemplation of the act. He had been waiting for four, almost five years now. How else could he justify his existence, make his life meaningful before it was taken from him? His brother, Aniel, had died too soon, before making his mark, before fulfilling his promise. No, Miro was not apprehensive about the delivery of death; he worried only that he would not do a professional job.
    “Let us review the plan,” Artkin said, formal and precise, but the sneer always close to his lips. Like Elvis Presley when he sang certain songs. Miro allowed his eyelids to half close now, not really listening to Artkin rehearse the plan yet again. Miro had learned the trick of humming silently, running a song through his mind,and he did this now, an old Presley song without the sneer in it, “Love Me Tender,” not like some of Presley’s more raucous songs. Artkin did not like distractions, particularly when he was outlining plans. He liked to review plans the way other people like to play cards. And he did not approve of foolishness like Miro’s fondness for Presley’s music or other American diversions: those television cartoons, for instance, that Miro lost himself in every Saturday morning if a television set was at hand. Miro continued to hum soundlessly as he listened to Artkin review the plan. Overtaking the bus, driving to the bridge, killing the driver, waiting for the first message to be delivered. Suddenly, Miro thought: What is the driver doing this minute? Did he have any premonition of his death? Did he know that tomorrow at this time he would be mute, silent, still forever?
    Silence fell in the small room as Artkin completed his recitation. Miro looked out at the sleepy street below. Main Street. Hallowell, Massachusetts. United States of America. So far from his homeland. But we have no homeland, Artkin always said, and this was true. Still, Miro was gripped by a clutch of lonesomeness that was so intense his stomach lurched and he turned from the window. He wished this small cramped room that smelled of urine and grease and gun oil contained at least a television set. For diversion at moments like this, sudden moments when homesickness came without warning.
    “We are forever homesick,” Artkin had once said in a rare moment of tenderness, “because our land does not exist anymore, gobbled up and occupied by others.”
    “What is your name?”
    “Miro.”
    “No, your real name.”
    “Miro Shantas.”
    “No, not this name, not this fake name you have taken. But your real one.”
    “I have not taken a fake name. My name is Miro Shantas.”
    “Look, this is not an exercise. I am not testing you. I wish for you to say your real name.”
    Miro slitted his eyes, studying Artkin, trying to determine if Artkin were really serious about his name or whether he was playing some kind of game. He had to admit that Artkin’s face was dark and intense, his eyes brooding; there was nothing playful in his attitude. Miro looked away, toward the jukebox where someone was studying the selections. The restaurant was small; barely a restaurant, more like a quick-lunch diner, a place for truck drivers, transients. Like us, Artkin said. We never stay, and where we linger even for a moment, we must never rest or let down.
    Miro’s coffee was cold as he sipped it. He wished the fellow at the jukebox would slip in the coin and start the music. Something by the Bee Gees, maybe. Or Elvis.
    “So,” Artkin said, patient, waiting, the most patient man in the world. “Tell me your real name.”
    Miro decided to make his own test, play his own game, for once.
    “But you know my real name,” Miro