There was a time when I wanted to learn Brommin. It was back when I was spending every day at Yuri Karamov's house.
It feels like a lifetime ago now that I sat and watched his family interact in that fast-paced lull of their language. I remember how attentively I would listen to them. How I would go home and practice in front of a mirror, pretending I belonged somewhere in their world.
Petra was the only one at home I could put it to use with. It was our little secret. When you're young, you're naïve enough to believe that you can outsmart your parents. That was I wanted to do. I wanted them out of my business. I was so stifled at home, I wanted to tell Petra to sneak me more sweets, or to stop putting peas on my plate without being understood by neither of my parents. That was the depth and scope of my ambition. I was young, and didn't know any better.
One day, I was downstairs trying to impress our cook by counting the words and phrases I had learned in Brommin on my fingers. She wasn't paying me much attention. She nodded to be considerate, but it was clear her mind was on the task at handâpreparing dinner. Neither of us heard my father step into the kitchen.
Petra had momentarily frozen in place. I hadn't caught on to what was wrong until I felt my father's hand on my shoulder. Nothing more than a light touch, but it was enough to make my heart plummet.
- Ru, why don't you head up upstairs to my office and wait for me there, I'm going to have a talk with Petra, okay? My father had said. He never asked. He had a talent for disguising his demands into benign requests that fooled you into believing you could talk back to him. I had learnt the hard way that there was no use in trying to explain.
I dared one last glance at Petra before I exited the kitchen. Her mouth had been pursed into a small line, her shoulders set defensively.
I had never attempted to speak Brommin since.
But there were moments like the one I was faced with when I stepped off the train from Rujga, that made me wish my father's discipline hadn't beaten the courage out of me. What greeted me at the platform in Dronesk was a group of Brommian guys, approximately six of them at first glance. I would, as I passed them, recognise their faces. Several went to my high school, but I couldn't tell what year. I only knew that they were upperclassmen.
They sported shaved heads and baggy jeans, reminiscent of 90s hip-hop. It was what the fashion had been like for the Flatlanders back then. They were loud and rowdy and drew the eyes of passers-by.
The train station in Dronesk was far removed from civilisation. It lay east of the flatlands, about an hour from downtown on foot. The ground was sprinkled with gravel; the platform raised on a block of concrete. Off to the perimeters were bushes that grew into sparse trees the further the eye travelled. It was a barren area which had once held the ambitions of housing people in communal apartments. Slabs of concrete stacked on top each other like Jenga. An homage to a Soviet nobody wanted to remember. The idea was still debated now and then in the town hall, but the budget, like so much else in Rujga Province, had been undercut by one corruption scandal after the other, the hope crushed under dwindling promises.
There was nothing for a group of idling young men to do, but to sit on the benches of the platform and dally away their time. They were engrossed in themselves, their Brommin banter a harsh contrast against the timid murmurs of the commuters.
One by one, the people who had gotten off the train with me disappeared from the platform. They either went on the connecting bus heading downtown or had drivers pick them up.
I had my flip-phone raised to my ear, waiting for the dial to go through to my driver when the last bus of the evening departed from the train station. The call went to voice-mail for the third time. I left a short message before I disconnected and put my phone back in my back pocket. Our driver knew when to pick me up, I wasn't worried. At least, that's what I tried to convince myself as I took a seat on one of the benchesâin the long line of benchesâat the platform.
I made a conscious decision to sit at a comfortable distance away from the group of Bommian. To be more precise, three benches away from them. Within reason in terms of politeness. Nothing that would have merited any suspicion.
There was little to do to kill time but to listen to their shouts and laughter. Their voices reverberated off the surrounding concrete. I put my hands in the pockets of my jacket and feigned a confidence I didn't feel.
Somewhere along the passing of time, I noticed that their conversation had turned into murmurs followed by long intervals of silence. I glanced over at them, and sure enough, I caught their collective gaze. Some sat on top the backrest of the bench, others squatted on the concrete. There was this one guy, seated properly on the bench who stared back at me with a hard-set expression. His face was illuminated a ghostly yellow by the strip lights. He didn't look so much threatening as he did attentive.
A cold release of relief washed over me when their conversation picked up again. I fiddled with the plastic wrapper of the pack of cigarettes in my pocket, just to have something to direct the surge of intimidation that arose in me. The heel of my foot tapped a light rhythm against the ground. I tried not to make it clear that their stares and their murmurs trodded on my jittery nerves.
I heard them say an expression in Brommin that I remembered. I made the mistake of looking back at them.
- Hey! Do you have a lighter? A guy with a hoody asked. They were all looking at me, waiting for a response. Those who the light illuminated their faces had a smirk drawn on their lips. My heart lurched in my chest.
I made it look like I was searching my pockets. I feigned that I came up empty-handed. I gave the guy a sympathetic shrug and turned my attention back to the ground before my feet.
In the best of circumstances, that's where our interaction would have ended, but I could sense that that wouldn't be the case. The platform was engulfed by a foreboding silence. A guy seated next to the guy with the hoody spoke up, - Hey, do you have a phone I could use?
He was older than the rest of them and had a guttural voice that was so raspy it sounded like he was speaking in Brommin. His question was met with snickers and friendly jabs. At first, the tense atmosphere seemed to have lifted, but then the guy who had asked the question stood up from the bench to stalk towards me. I had to force every muscle in my body against the instinct to tense up.
- Do you? I heard several more footsteps behind him but I couldn't say how many more of them had gotten up, his stocky frame blocked my view. He stopped a meter away and even then he towered over me. His hair was cut so short his scalp showed. His face was bumpy from aged acne scars; his smile, territorial.
It was then that I realised I wouldn't be heading home without encountering some kind of confrontation. I braced myself.
- Excuse me? I asked. I was too proper, too Arash. I realised that whatever I said, or didn't say at that moment, would have escalated the situation either way. The second he'd risen, I reasoned that it was better to pretend that I had misheard him and at least give him the chance to retract his intimidating steps.
He didn't take the hint. Instead, his smile widened. - Your phone, what model is it?
More snickers, this time much closer. The guys behind him spoke in Brommin. One of them, the guy that had been looking at me attentively before, came to stand next to the agressor. He looked younger. I had seen him in school and wondered fleetingly whether he was a senior.
- You're a freshman, aren't you? He asked. When I said nothing, he taunted, - What? You scared or something? You fuckingâ
- He's that count's son, someone in the back shouted.
The older guy's smile thinned on his lips.
- What? The one in that fucking castle in the mountains?
I got up on my feet, - I don't want any trouble.
During the seconds my eyes had darted away from them they had seemingly multiplied in number. They circled me from the front; six guys in varying sizes and shapes, all of them standing in intimidating stances. I straightened my back and made the mistake of staring down the one I had come to know as their ring-leader. The guy who had asked to see my phone. He took a step closer to me.
- So you're...Wait, you're a Konstantin? He looked towards his lackeys who flanked either side of him for confirmation. He gave them a wry smile before he turned back to me.
- He's the guy we learned about in history class...or should I call it Arash class? His friends howled and snickered in the background like a flock of hyenas. Their sounds bounced off the concrete and revved the engine that was my heart into overdrive.
- Do you have any idea what your people did? The ring-leader asked. He had a large forehead and when he frowned, it created deep furrows on his brow.
- Hey, I said, standing my ground. Closing in all around me was a red-hot panic that threatened to chip away my calm composure.
- Back off. My pulse pulsated in the palm of my fisted hands.
- Back off? The ring-leader took a step closer, - Really? Back off? He shoved me back into the bench.
- You want me to back off? He hissed, towering over me. We met knee to knee.
- Why don't you start with backing off from our land, hmm?
To his cronies, he said, - We ought to teach the count's bastard a lesson. He followed it with some Brommin, to which they answered back in Brommin. I didn't wait for them to decide what they would do. Adrenaline fueled my movements. Before I knew what I was doing, I had the ring-leader by the collar of his sweatshirt. I landed an uncalculated punch to his face. My fist connected with his cheekbone and temple instead of the meat of his cheek. The pain in my knuckles registered as an afterthought over the roar of adrenaline in my head.
I didn't stand a chance against them, to begin with. It was six to one. I remember the fear for my life that seeped into my bones when he grabbed hold of my jacket and forced me up to my feet.
- You jhiésk.
Pain seared my abdomen as he kneed me, just below my solar plexus. I doubled over, wheezing in air. I prepared myself for another strike. We had transgressed the point where it was a matter of if, I counted on the blow I took to my face.
Someone's hands came around my back and held me in place. Their brute force threw me off balance. I could barely hold myself up from the pain as it was. My face throbbed. A sharp pain, similar to a brain freeze, persisted to shoot through my nose. I hadn't even taken a decent breath when I suffered several other blows to the face and torso. The last punch knocked the residual oxygen out of me as it connected with my diaphragm. I grunted, staggering back. I felt a hot trickle stain my lips, tasted its metallic tang as I tried to breathe through my mouth. Every breath through my nose felt like someone was shooting molten lava up my nostrils.
The ring-leader shouted syllables that melted together into discordant chants over the ringing in my ears. Hands were groping me, clawing their way up my legs, to the sides of my thighs, to my butt. I tried slithering away, but it was futile. A foreign arm serpentined around my neck in a chokehold. He flexed his bicep and squeezed the bulge of my throat. I writhed against his grip to get a breath through my airways. My efforts mounted in shallow gasps that did nothing to soothe my panic.
I was suffocating.
The tip of my fingers numbed as I clawed frantically at my assailant's arm. Adrenaline seeped out of my body; pain became exaggerated in every muscle fiber. That when I felt my phone being pulled out of the back-pocket of my jeans. And just as their voices started fading in and out, the pressure around my windpipe lessen. I coughed and gulped my first real breath of air.
The night was cold and felt like a thousand pinpricks on my face. The lights blared mercilessly down on me, making the world sparkle with stars in my vision while other parts danced with black spots.
My phone was dangling in my face. The ring-leader loured at me. He moved like a lagging panoramic video before I blinked away the double vision.
- I'll be taking this now, he said while dangling the phone by its antenna between his thumb and forefinger.
- You know where to come find me if you want it back.
- Oh and bring company. We love having you inbred circus freaks as guests. He pulled at my hair, forcing my head backwards. He couldn't have stood more than ten centimeters away. Têtè-a-têtè. I couldn't move.
- We'll make sure you won't walk away with so much as an ounce of pride. I won't just take your phone, I'll take your clothes, your money, your dignity. Soon the BKA will come for your castle too, so sleep with one eye open little prince.
He cackled and tapped me on the cheek. His fingers pulled at my hair before he eventually disentangled himself. The force around my arms let go, and I fell to my knees. I was down on all fours, too focused on getting air into my lungs to think of what might transpire afterwardsâwhat they might do to me. Luckily, I heard their voices, their laughter, and their name calling ebb into faint murmurs. Their footsteps were withdrawing.
Dark liquid dripped onto the concrete.
I wiped away the wetness from my upper lip with the back of my hand and registered the crimson streak of blood. I did my best to wipe my nose clean with a handkerchief from my pocket. The whole left side of my face and my nose were throbbing. Thankfully, nothing seemed broken or out of place. I steadied myself against the station wall before heaving myself up on shaky legs.
I started walking, my ears ringing in the eerie quiet. At that time of night, I didn't want to wait around for the driver and risk the Brommian returning, so I set my steps onto the route taking me downtown. My breathing came out in puffs of clouds before my face. The night air was crisp with just enough bite to fuel my steps into a brisk walk.
The sky glittered with an infinite amount of stars the further I distanced myself from the train station lights. My footfalls on the gravel were the only sounds in my ears. It was an unnatural quiet. Perhaps the most natural thing this far out from civilisation.
For the first time in my life, I understood what it felt like to walk home battered and bruised. I had got beaten to the point where I had feared losing my life.
I blinked away the tears blurring my vision and inhaled a deep breath that transformed into a choppy half-laugh-half-sigh on the exhale. Life tasted fantastic. I licked the wound on my lower lip, and look up at the sky, at the luminescent moon that followed my every turn.
I had my life intact. The outcome could have been that much worse had one of them had a lethal weapon. I didn't doubt whether they would have killed me. I saw the ring-leader's disdain stare back at me in my mind's eye. I'll never forget his lour, the way he had forcefully tilted my head back and called me a circus freak, his face centimeters away from mine.
Thinking back on it, I don't think I was upset over anything the Brommian had done, or what they had stolen from me. On the contrary, I understood their hatred for the Arash that much better. I had always known there were certain factions of our society that disliked usâmy family and the Arashâbut for the first time; I had it confirmed.
I came to understand that they saw themselves as Robin Hood, as having a rightful claim to what they thought had been taken away from them. A part of me understood that what had occurred at the train station could have happened to anyone that was Arash. The way those guys had been seated had been a mating call for aggravation and assault. I had just found myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet, at the same time, it was a bitter pill to swallow, especially when my every breath hurt and my face was throbbing.
I aged in that long trek home as I pondered questions that I had never been forced to think about. I reasoned the whirlwind of emotions until they yielding to logic. Until I saw both sides of the coin. It occurred to me how a person like myself, someone who had grown up shielded and privileged, without the exposure to someone like Yuri Karamov and his community, might have been filled with hatred for those Brommian guys. That is, had I not had experiences to offset that negative one. I knew Brommian who had treated me like family, and who had been my closest friends. The same couldn't be said for most Arash. They all shared the same, single, negative narrative amongst each other; gave it epithets, breathed life into it, and kept it burning like a vigil light.