today.”
Because it was close, we walked to Comrade Malik Woznica’s apartment down by the Tisa, where the colder winds blew. Built on old bomb-damaged buildings, these were the new riverview homes filled with apparatchiks and officers. There was a noticeable lack of cabbage smell in the stairwell, and the doorbell, instead of buzzing, emitted a soothing sequence of three tones. Emil smiled when he heard them.
A white-haired man shorter than Brano, but three times heavier, opened the door and started speaking immediately: “Comrade Inspectors, so very good. Please please, yes, come in, yes, right this way. A drink? Come on, a drink between friends. Yes?” His smooth face was pink beneath his sleep-deprived eyes, and as he spoke his chubby hands flew around. It wasn’t nervousness, I didn’t think; it was simply too much energy. “Come, come, sit, no, yes-take a look. Isn’t it a lovely view?”
He left us standing at two large, double-paned windows, gazing out at the Tisa. The river changed colors depending on the sky, and today it was gray. The Georgian Bridge, off to the right, crossed into the dilapidated Canal District and continued to the southern bank.
“All Mag and I see are more blocks. What’s your view like?”
“Come by and see for yourself,” said Emil. “It’s breathtaking.”
On a wall, beside the old portrait of Mihai, was an austere photograph of Comrade Woznica and his wife. She was much younger. Her nose turned up, and her eyes were spread a little wide, but even through the formal pose you could tell what had attracted him to her. What had attracted her to him-besides the comforts of Party lodging- was less apparent.
Woznica returned with a tray of glasses that tapped together as his overexcited hands shook. We joined him around the coffee table. Vodkas, with fresh limes squeezed into them. Despite all the improvements, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a lime.
“So,” I said, after we’d touched glasses to health, “can you tell us about your wife?”
Woznica took a deep breath that seemed to drain his energy. “Well. This happened three nights ago-”
“Friday night,” offered Emil.
“Yes, yes.” He leaned back into the sofa. “I had returned from a special meeting of the Pharmaceutical Section-distribution problems, very troublesome-it was late for me. Eight at night? Yes. Eight, eight-thirty. I came in and called for her. Svetla, I called. That’s my wife. Svetla. There was no answer. Very surprising. But I went into the kitchen, and that was what worried me. The cabinets, yes, they were open- all open. And the pots and dishes and forks and spoons-they were all over the floor!” As he talked, his hands were on his knees, the sofa, his glass, his chin, his ear. “I called her name loudly- Svetla! Svetla! But still no answer! I ran through the apartment, checking everywhere, but no, she was nowhere. And now, three days later, still no Svetla.”
Emil set down his empty glass. “Her clothes? We were told-”
“Yes yes,” he answered, nodding and flushing. “I should have said before. Some dresses were missing. Whoever took her is prepared to hold her a long time.”
I shot Emil a glance; he caught it.
“What about the neighbors?” Emil asked. “Have you talked to them?”
“I have, Comrade Inspectors, I have.” He seemed proud of his foresight. “But the downstairs neighbor, Comrade Ioana Lipescu, is so terribly deaf she never heard a thing. She’s very old-her husband, who I knew from the Ministry, died a year ago. We live on the top floor, and these walls keep out noises. I was going to talk to the family on the ground floor, but to be terribly honest, I don’t want word getting out. At least, not until we’ve found her. For a man like me…” He finally ran out of words.
“Of course,” said Emil.
“And relatives? Are there any we can speak to?”
Woznica opened his hands. “Feel free to speak with her father, but he returned to Russia a year ago, after we married.”
I took out my notepad to make this seem like a bureaucratic question. “You and your wife-how well have you been getting along recently? Any arguments? Disagreements?”
He took it very well. A sad smile came over him, and he shook his head more slowly than I would have thought him capable. “Comrade Inspectors, my Svetla is an angel. Truly. I don’t say this as a husband; I say it because it is true. She is very agreeable. We are always of a like mind on all issues.” The smile was gradually disappearing. “My Svetla, you have to understand, she has a weak constitution. This has been a hard year for her, the last months-yes, six months-spent in bed. In June I took her to the baths at Trebon, I thought it would help. And for a little while, yes, it seemed to. But then she suffered more, the poor thing. She’s too weak to get up on her own, you understand? I have to help her exercise in her room so her muscles-so they don’t degenerate. In the Health Ministry we know how to take care of people. I know you ask the question because you are good investigators, you have to ask. But my Svetla, were she to decide to do so, is too weak to pack her clothes and leave me.” The smile was returning, though his eyes were wet. “And why should she want to leave me? I give her everything I have. I nurse her. She is my little angel.”
3
We took a quick survey of her windowless bedroom-a vast, too-soft bed, half-full wardrobe, wide-mirrored vanity filled with all kinds of blush and mascara and lipsticks. If she had left on her own, she wasn’t interested in doing her face. On the outside of the bedroom door was a pale square with four screw holes where a lock had once been. Woznica explained: “The previous tenants had, yes, a child. Sometimes, you know, they had to lock him in.”
I could never imagine locking Agnes in her room.
“What do you think?” Emil asked as we walked back to the station.
I stopped for a crowd of teenagers in exercise shorts to jog by. “How can he be fat with so much energy?”
“If you can afford it, anything’s possible.”
Emil was the one militiaman who knew this firsthand. Lena had brought an unnationalized fortune to their marriage, and though they lived among the rabble, one look at Lena gave them away. She visited the station in current Western fashions, new hairstyles, and though she wore little jewelry, the long neck beneath her black, bobbed hair was hereditarily built to support a string of pearls. Her drinking problem, and the fact that he had saved her life, were the only reasons any of us could figure for her choosing a clumsy peasant like Emil for a life mate.
“It looks like shell shock,” he said.
“Those shakes?”
“Was he in the war?”
“That would be a long time ago.”
He shrugged. “Let’s check his file.”
Files on public officials were kept in the basement of the Central Committee on Victory Square. We caught a bus from Woznica’s neighborhood, got out at the vast circle of roads around a huge statue of a man and woman holding up a torch, and made our way to the columned Central Committee building. Before it stood the Lenin of all capitals, a recent gift from Our Friend, arm elevated like the couple in the middle of the square, stepping into the future, the wind raising his jacket. A guard stood smoking at the small side door, beneath the emblem of the hawk at rest. The sight of our Militia certificates did nothing to excite him.
The records room was down a dark, musty corridor, and Milos, the old Slovak record keeper, wasn’t known for his helpfulness. Beneath a large, smiling Mihai, he scratched the gray stubble on his cheek. “I don’t imagine you have the proper forms, do you?”
“What forms?” I asked.
Milos opened his hands. “Read your regulations, comrades. Article seventeen-fifty. Permissions for all Militia inquiries must be prefaced by signatures from your superiors. Isn’t that old Karl Moska?”
Emil shook his head. “Subsection three,” he quoted: “‘This article pertains to investigations not previously authorized by Militia decrees G-34 or G-72.’ These are blanket decrees which cover Homicide Department
