Hoffner turned back to the flat and now saw through to the kitchen. There was an icebox, sink, stove, small table, and a man seated at one of the three chairs. He was older than the woman from the street, though not much bigger, and he was peering over at Hoffner. An opened newspaper lay across the table.
The man said, “You have a key.” It was a statement, nothing more.
Hoffner needed another few moments. “Yes,” he said. “The doctor-she gave it to me.”
The man continued to peer across at him. The face showed no fear, no distrust, not even curiosity. It was a look devoid of content. “Are you English?”
Again Hoffner needed a moment. “No.”
“German?”
“Yes.”
The man nodded. “You look German or English. I don’t mean it to offend.”
“It doesn’t. Does she do this often?”
“Do what?”
“Allow people to stay.”
The man thought a moment, then shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”
“And you live here?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d be aware of it.”
The man waited. This seemed to make sense. He pushed the chair back and stood. He was a good head shorter than the doctor. “I have some hard eggs in the shell,” he said, “if you’re hungry.” He stepped over to a cabinet, pulled out a plate, and set it on the table. He went to the icebox.
It was always small men who gave Hoffner trouble when it came to age. The back was ramrod straight, but even then he put him at close to eighty. The hair was a fine white.
“She mentioned some clothes,” said Hoffner. It seemed inconceivable that they would have once belonged to this man, but given the circumstances and the last few minutes, Hoffner was open to anything.
The man placed two eggs on the plate. “There’s a closet in the other room. I can show you.” He placed a kettle on one of the burners, lit the gas with a match, and then pointed Hoffner in the direction. “It’s through here.”
Hoffner followed him down a short corridor and into a bedroom. A simple metal-spring bed jutted out from the far wall, with a small table, washing pitcher, and basin next to it. A wooden armoire stood along the near wall. The man unlatched the armoire and pulled open the doors.
He said, “They might be wide in here”-he ran his hand across his chest-“but otherwise they should fit well enough.”
Shirts and trousers hung on hangers, with two pairs of boots wedged underneath. The man stared at the clothes and then placed his hand on one of the sleeves. He stood quietly for several seconds. He closed the doors and said, “You’ll want a bath first.”
Hoffner stood in the doorway. “I’m called Nikolai.”
The man looked over. It was the first sign of emotion to reach his face. “You have a Russian name.”
“Yes. My mother.”
The man showed a moment’s surprise, then approval. “Mine as well,” he said. He seemed to grow taller with this. “I’m called Dmitri Piera. I am the father of your doctor. I’ll go run that bath.”
Hoffner slept first, two hours-maybe more-long enough to feel a different kind of heat when he woke. This one left pockets of cooled air to breathe and made sitting remarkably pleasant. He had bathed in the tub and now wore a shirt, suspenders, and trousers from the armoire as he sipped from a glass at the kitchen table. Both father and daughter had been right about the chest.
Piera offered coffee but said tea would be better. He also explained the other smell. Hazelnuts. He was guessing someone had peppers.
“It might be
Hoffner set his glass on the table. “I need to thank you for all this.”
Piera set his glass down as well. “She gave you the key, and the clothes were here. She’ll tell me why when she gets home.”
“You have great faith.”
It was the first hint of a smile to cross Piera’s face. “You’re in the wrong house for that.”
“She’s a good doctor.”
Piera dropped a piece of sugar into his glass. “Were you injured?”
“No.”
“Then how would you know?”
“She’s not?”
Piera stirred the tea with a spoon and set it by the glass. “Not easy for a woman to be a doctor.”
Hoffner thought it brave to show this kind of pride in a child. He said, “The clothes-there was a husband?”
Piera took a sip. “There was, but they aren’t his. He was small like me. That’s a long time ago.” Piera was happy to leave it at that. He was on his feet again, opening a drawer at the counter and pulling out a thick wedge of bread. He found a slab of butter inside the icebox and brought it to the table. An old army knife appeared from his pocket. He opened it and began to slice the bread.
“She doesn’t like that I use this,” he said. “She has a proper knife, but what can you do?” He smeared a piece with butter and handed it to Hoffner. He did the same for himself and took a healthy bite. The sound of the door opening brought a momentary lift to the air. Both men listened as the door clicked shut. Piera ran his tongue along his teeth and swallowed. He said, “We’re in here.”
Mila appeared at the archway. She held a bag filled with something, and her hair was now loose and pulled back over an ear. Hoffner imagined the skin had a remarkable smoothness. She stepped over and gave her father a kiss on each cheek. She looked at Hoffner.
“You found the clothes,” she said. “And a bath. That’s good.” She set the bag on the counter and began to pull out the contents: vegetables, fruit, something in a brown paper wrapping.
“You should sit,” said Piera.
Mila continued with the food. “They had fish and escarole. And we have fruit and some cream.”
Hoffner was on his feet. “I can help with that. I also have to thank you-”
She shook him off easily. “No, I enjoy it. And no, you have no reason to thank us. Just sit.” Hoffner did as he was told, and Piera took another sip of his tea. Mila said, “They’re changing the vouchers again, so tomorrow I need to stop down at Casa Cambo and see what we can get.”
Piera said, “You’ll tell them you’re a doctor?”
“I always do.” She reached up for a pan hanging over the stove. “Did you tell him about your son, Nikolai?” She might have spoken with the same ease of only moments ago, but Hoffner heard something else in it. She set the pan on one of the burners and said, “Nikolai has a boy. How old did you say he is?”
This wasn’t something she was likely to have forgotten. More than that, Piera was suddenly rigid in his chair, staring at his glass.
Hoffner said, “Twenty-five. You’re sure I can’t help you?”
Mila poured a drop of oil in the pan and unwrapped the fish. “He was filming the Olimpiada,” she said, too casually. She rinsed the pieces under the tap. “And now he’s gone missing. Nikolai has come to find him. His son.” She lit the burner with a match and gently placed the pieces in the pan. “I usually do just a bit of garlic and salt. That’s all right?”
Piera’s jaw clenched. “That’s enough,” he said quietly. He stood and moved out from behind the table.
Mila pressed the back of a fork onto the fish. She stared down into the pan. “The clothes look good, don’t they?” she said, but her father was already past her. He was in the living room when she finally looked up. It was impossible not to see the frustration and sadness in her eyes.
Hoffner stood quietly. For some reason, he felt shame. Not that he knew what role he had played in getting them here, but the knowing or not knowing was never essential. Shame relied on a kind of empathy-deep, blind, and unthinking until the moment it was too late-and all the more startling because it was so rarely his. That he felt it
