It landed square on the painter’s jaw, sending him to the ground, where a pendant of dark amber spilled from his shirt onto the foot-worn grass.
He spat blood, then rolled away before his attacker could land another punch. “You’re drunk, Dariusz Baran. Go home and sleep it off,” he shouted, the boom of his voice deep but composed.
Dariusz lunged for him again, but the painter evaded, sending Dariusz face first into a table of gorzałka.
“Tata, stop, please!” Nina called to him, tears welling in her dark eyes. She extended a hand toward the men with whom he’d been drinking. “Take him home, won’t you? Mama will take care of him.”
They nodded and agreed amongst themselves, trudging drunkenly to their comrade, who hadn’t moved from his bed of cups, bottles, and spilled gorzałka. Hefting his
