I paid for the lunch, and we walked toward Victory Square. Georgi bought a couple fried doughs from an old man in a kiosk. We crossed the streets, passing the ideal socialist couple holding their torch, and entered Victory Park. I didn’t know why Kaminski didn’t just come to me for this information. He could have learned the details of the case from me-I saw no reason to hide such things from him. But no-I’d already hidden information about Nestor Velcea from Sev. And why? Brano Sev knew: The fear had gone to my head.
“So when are you going to have that brilliant writing ready for me?”
We were on a bench, staring through the trees at the Culture Ministry building, which had been white, but was being painted gray by a crew of workmen on scaffolding. “You’re still going to print it?”
“Of course.”
“This experience hasn’t frightened you away from your publishing?”
Georgi licked his sugarcoated fingers. “All it’s done is remind me how much I like being alive.” He held up an index finger. “Alive, Ferenc. Not one of the walking dead.” He placed the finger in his mouth, and sucked.
48
I called to tell Magda about Georgi’s safe return, and that I might not be in that night either. Then I called to be sure Vera was in. There was no longer any hesitation. On the drive over I wondered if Magda knew about Vera, and I wondered if she knew what I knew about her. It was all a hopeless puzzle that could only be solved by two adults sitting face-to-face and speaking the truth. But neither of us was adult enough to do that yet.
Vera was fixing dinner when I arrived. She had strapped a soiled apron all the way around her narrow waist, down to her bare knees, and she held her wet hands like a surgeon’s. She got on her toes and kissed me, her wrists holding my neck.
I tossed my coat on the bed and found her bent over the open oven. I held her hips and rubbed myself into her. She groaned, reached back, and parted the apron. She was naked underneath.
Afterward, we had pork and zucchini by candlelight. The candle seemed out of place. It was something that belonged to the world of romance, but what we did could not be called romantic.
“You like the wine?”
“Delicious.”
“Did you know that Karel’s going to be gone another week?”
“Is that so.”
“Seems the Yugoslavs are fond of his poems. He’s been invited to Split to give a reading and take part in their ‘Week of Culture.’ That’s what they call it.”
“So what do you have planned for the Week of Culture?”
“I’m planning to stay in, entertain a guest.”
“Someone I know?”
“Maybe.”
That night we did the closest thing to making love we would ever do. We stroked one another’s bodies, as if comforting the flesh, and kissed more than we ever had. For a long time we just lay together, embracing, sometimes whispering tender words. She said beneath her breath, “I don’t have to say it, do I?” and I told her she didn’t. She smiled and slid under me and took me in herself. She didn’t need to tell me she loved me, and by the next morning I was glad she hadn’t.
We ate toast and jam with our coffee. I noticed, with a little shame, that Vera looked a mess in the mornings. Some women are this way. In the afternoons and evenings, they’re radiant. But catch them before they’ve had a chance to put themselves together, and their looks turn to ash. Magda always looked like herself. Her hair could be pillow-pressed and her makeup gone, but there was an essential beauty to her that always came through. Vera looked as if she had taken off a mask.
“This is nice,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
“The coffee’s good.”
“I mean, this. Breakfast, sunlight coming in, sitting here with you.” She nodded into the cup she brought to her face.
“You’re right,” I lied. “It’s wonderful.”
“Remember what I said before about us not talking?”
I nodded.
“Well, I forgot to mention that sometimes I’m wrong.”
I smiled at her smile.
She watched me a moment. “You’ve never asked me about my Swiss professor. Not interested?”
“I knew you’d tell me when you wanted.”
“I want.”
I leaned back in my chair.
“It was very strange with him,” she said. “I was a virgin-Karel and I had only kissed before-and this professor was forty-five. Very experienced. And very…unexpected. He had what he called toys. ”
“Toys?”
“Handcuffs. A riding crop for horses.”
Stupidly, I said, “He rode horses?”
“He’d never ridden one in his life.”
I put down my fork.
“It’s strange for a girl when her first lover uses all that Western decadence. It makes her feel dirty, but she also learns to love the filth.”
“Did you?”
She nodded. “But after a while it frightened me. I felt like I didn’t have any more control of myself. I ran back home like a little girl. That’s what the professor said when I told him I was returning: You’re just a scared little girl.”
“So you ran home and married Karel.”
She looked at her hands on the table, at her tarnished wedding band. “I married him as fast as I could.” She blinked, eyes damp. “And I still don’t know.” Then she smiled. “Want to learn some more philosophy?”
“Next time. I have to leave.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone thinks he’s going to get a next time.”
I gave Vera a proper kiss good-bye, but when I made it to the car and sat behind the wheel, I stopped. I was suddenly very heavy, a swarm of leaden feelings buzzing in my limbs. I did not want to return to Vera again, and I did not want to go back to Magda the way things were. We had both avoided our problems for so long that I doubted we even deserved happiness anymore. I hated our immaturity, and knew I had to be the one to start climbing out of it. I had to try to be mature, to face at least part of this problem. Immediately.
The Militia radio hissed through the Sixth District-no one was talking today-and on the stairs to Stefan’s apartment I noticed the brown drops. I leaned down and touched them-dry, blood.
I took the steps two at a time and saw that his door was ajar, but not broken. I took out my pistol. There was no sound. Then I kicked the door. It popped open and the first thing I saw was more blood on the wall. A brown burst. It was on the wall and sofa and rug, where Stefan lay. He was facedown, one hand extended awkwardly as if reaching for the pistol that lay between him and the sofa. His head was turned to the side, eyes open, mouth pressed against the blood-soaked rug.
The building was unbelievably silent. No noise from other apartments, only my footsteps squeaking against the floor and rug as I leaned over him. Then my head cleared a little, and I checked the other rooms. They were empty, but the bedroom window, despite the cold, was open.
I sat on the couch and looked at Stefan. I looked at him a long time.
49
