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didn’t hurt. It wasn’t meant to hurt. It was the blow of a tenor striking a waiter, and it was meant simply to demonstrate the proposition I am someone who can slap your face .
    Veiko returned the hand halfway, to a point in line with Nikko’s nose, pointed with an index finger, and shook it firmly twice. Lifted his eyebrows, raised his chin. Meaning Naughty boy, see what happens when you curse your betters ?
    Nikko let him have it.
    He could toss a hundred-pound sack of fish onto his shoulder. The shot was open-handed and loud and the force surprised even Nikko. The feathered cap flew off and Veiko staggered back a step. He stood absolutely still for a long moment, the red and white image of a hand blooming on his cheek.
    Both brothers went down under the first rush.
    There were no shouted commands or battle cries; it was an instinctive reaction, blind and furious, and it no longer had anything to do with military formations or political slogans. It had become entirely Vidin business, Bulgarian business, Balkan business.
    There was an initial rain of blows, ineffective flailing punches that hit the Stoianevs, the ground, other troopers. Khristo’s mind cleared quickly; he tried to curl into a ball, tried to protect head and groin, but he could barely move. There were five or six of them on top of him, and it was a lot of weight. He could smell them. Licorice mastica , garlic, boiled cabbage, bad fish, bad teeth, uniforms sweated and dried and sweated again. He could hear them. Grunting, panting, soon enough gasping for breath. Khristo was a moderately experienced fighter—in Vidin it was inevitable—and knew that street fights burned themselves out quickly. He did not thrash or punch. Let them get it out of their system.
    Nikko was fighting. He could hear it—his brother cursing, somebody’s cry of pain, somebody yelling, “Get his head!” Damn Nikko. His crazy boiling temper. Punching walls when he got mad. Damn his wise-guy face and his fast mouth. And damn, Khristo thought, turning his attention to his own plight, this fat, sweaty fool who was sitting on his chest, trying to bang his head against the cobblestones. In just about two seconds he was going to do something about it—dig an elbow into fat boy’s throat, drive it in, give him a taste.
    Then Nikko screamed. Somebody had hurt him, the sound cutKhristo’s heart. The street froze, suddenly it was dead quiet. Then, Veiko’s voice, high and quivering with exertion, breath so blown that it was very nearly a whisper: “Put that one on his feet.”
    For the first time, real fear touched him. What should have been over was not over. In Khristo’s world, brawls flared and ended, honor satisfied. Everybody went off and bragged. But in Veiko’s voice there was nothing of that.
    They hauled him to his feet and they made him watch what they did next. It was very important to them that it be done that way. There were four or five of them clustered around Nikko, who lay curled around himself at their feet, and they were kicking him. They kicked as hard as they could and grunted with the strain. Khristo twisted and thrashed but they had him by the arms and legs and he couldn’t break free, though he ground his teeth with the effort. Then he ceased struggling and pleaded with them to stop. Really pleaded. But they didn’t stop. Not for a long time. At the last, he tried to turn his face away but they grabbed him under the chin and forced his head toward what was happening and then he could only shut his eyes. There was no way, however, that he could keep from hearing it.
    The moon was well up by the time Khristo reached home. A shack by the river, garden vines climbing along a stake fence and up over the low roof. With Nikko on his shoulder, a long night of walking. He’d had to stop many times. It was cold, the wind had dried the tears on his face.
    The uniformed men had left in a silent group. Khristo had stood over his brother’s body. He’d felt for a