Abraham Timler

“There was a woman, probably going to work, coming toward him down the street…She had seen the black Pobieda, Mitya at the wheel, Sascha in his leather coat sprawled in the back seat, and Khristo, swaying for a moment on the sidewalk. She stopped, then moved around him in a wide circle, walking close to the wall of the building. She kept her eyes on the pavement in front of her, but then, just for a bare instant, she glanced at him, then looked down again, and he realized that she knew who they were. She knew what they were, what he was, and she was afraid of him.”

“Khristo sighed. The night made him sad. The history of Kulic’s nation was like that of his own. The fighting never stopped. The conquerors kept coming. Other Kulics, other Khristos, all the way back through time, wandered the world. Away from love, away from home. They were destined to be eternal strangers. Melancholy adventurers, guests in other people’s houses. From now on, forever, there could be no peace for him, no ease, none of the small domestic harmonies that were the consolation of plain people everywhere. His pleasures were to be those of the soldier in a distant outpost – a woman, a bottle, a quick death without pain. Those he could look forward to. And, though his heart might swell with the poetry at the fire of a perfect sunset, there would never be the special one beside him to share such joys.”