“I didn’t ask.”
This, he understood-the Ministry would want to pretend they didn’t know he was here.
The cell was no more than a large closet with a lock on the outside, a small, high window, and a mop in the corner, the room Rasko had been stumbling around in when Brano first met him. A low bench below the window was the only furniture.
“You want coffee?”
“If you’re making some.”
Rasko stepped out. Brano watched the door close, heard the lock slide into place, then wiped his hands dry on his knees. He climbed on the bench to look out the window but could see only patches of blue sky. So he settled on the bench again and, as he often did when in need of assurance, remembered her.
He remembered their long walk back to her apartment that night, her drunken complaints about the zbrka of the modern world. He remembered that she had a long body, pale but dark around the eyes, and he remembered leaving her apartment after their sex, the kiss she had placed on his cheek, leaving damp marks he could not bring himself to wipe off. Brani, she’d whispered, this not the end from all for us, then drew back, smiling.
Weeks after the Lieutenant General’s interrogation, he had begun receiving her idiosyncratic love letters with the apprehension of a man fearing the unknown, and sometimes on the way home from the factory he wondered if he’d find her at his apartment, waiting with a smile.
I not knoing what you will to say when this getting to you. Maybe you are thinking I am little crazi, I dont kno. We have only 1 night-not I night but 2 hour!
But no, dragi. I not kno what you was thinking, but that night it was for me very good. I am not so sentimental person, no. I more practic that what people think.
She wrote, That night when we was together Bertrand he die. Police dont kno who kill him, but was no accident. He die in Volksgarten. It make me start to thinking. You kno death, it do this. I start to thinking why I am in Vienna? I not like Vienna. I love in the world only 1 thing only. You, Brano Sev. Are you understand me? In the world this one thing.
She told him that she was a Vojvodina Serb from Novi Sad, born in 1939. Her father, a professor of economics, was in prison from 1954 to 1957, though she couldn’t explain why. Was only what Tito say, if he think you enemy, you is in prison. Dijana studied economics as well, and in 1959 married Dusan Frankovic, a medical student who also played in a jazz quartet called “Sol,” or Salt. Two years later, her father died from injuries sustained in prison, and the following October her mother killed herself.
I then 22. I sudden tired for econometrics. I stop talk with friends and I read on Carl Gustav Jung and on other things, like occult. That when I learn tarot first. Dusan, he not understanding why am I so quiet and not interesting, and we fight. So in 1963 I go. I start to thinking Yugoslavia is a country from losers, so I go. My husband he very sad, of course, but now is ok. He marry again.
She told him everything, and he was surprised by the things he told her. He said that he would try to get back to Vienna, and if that didn’t work, he would get her a visa to visit him. He even believed the promises himself.
Rasko brought two cups of coffee and sat with him a moment. They sipped in silence, pursing lips over the hot liquid and looking at the smoke-darkened walls. Brano said, “The other day, I noticed you talking with Lia Soroka.”
Rasko nodded into his coffee’s steam.
“Do you mind telling me about her?”
He tilted his head from side to side. “What’s there to tell?”
“Why she’s come back here.”
“Because her husband is here.”
“And you believe that?”
“I take things as I see them, Comrade Sev. I’m a simple man.”
“Have you talked with Jan Soroka?”
“Of course. He registered when he arrived.”
“What did he tell you?”
“The same thing he’s told everyone. He was with a woman.”
“And you believe that as well?”
“I see no reason not to believe it.” Rasko stood up, holding his cup near his chest. “Is there anything else you need? I have some paperwork to attend to.”
“Just tell me when the call from Yalta comes through.”
For months he’d tried through regular channels to get papers to visit Dijana in Vienna, and it wasn’t until his second refusal that he approached Cerny for help, in November, during one of their regular weekend drinking sessions in the old man’s First District apartment. Cerny had spent most of the afternoon complaining about the diet his doctor had put him on to regulate his diabetic condition. The man says I can’t eat rugalach-what kind of claptrap is that? Brano admitted he didn’t know, then broached the subject that had been on his mind all week. Colonel Cerny shook his head. I’ve been waiting for this. I thought you’d ask earlier.
I’m asking now, Comrade Colonel. All I need is travel papers.
Let me put you out of your misery. The answer is a strong no. That you could even ask after what happened in Vienna… this woman has already gotten you drummed out of the Ministry, and don’t fool yourself. She’s only a path to more failures. I’m not going to have one of my oldest friends compromised by a spy.
She’s not a spy.
A Yugoslav living in Vienna? What makes you think she isn’t? We have reports she’s been entertaining KGB agents in her apartment. The girl likes sex-I’m not a prude, but what’s she up to? She’s certainly not reading their fortunes. He shook his head. The Lieutenant General thinks you worked, through her, for the Russians. How would it look if you went back to her?
But she’s not a spy.
Cerny doubted that. We’ve read her letters to you. They’re something to look at. She needs a good lesson in grammar instead of making intrigues against my oldest friend. My God, man, she’s half your age!
Brano had argued more, testing the limits of Cerny’s patience, but the man had an answer for everything. There were photographs of Dijana Frankovic with Russian agents in her apartment-Cerny had been to Vienna and seen them himself. She was clever, Cerny told him, clever enough to outsmart the very clever Brano Sev. Maybe, Brano, you’re just getting old.
So Brano had put her letters into a box behind his wardrobe at home, keeping them as a reminder that, in this life, luck does not come without requiring something of you, sometimes requiring something you cannot give.
Rasko tapped the frame of the open door. “It’s the call.”
Cerny’s voice was labored. “Do you realize you took me from my wife’s grave?”
“I’m sorry, Comrade Cerny.”
“You’ve really done it this time.”
“But-”
“It doesn’t make sense,” he continued. “ You don’t make sense to me. Killing a nonentity like this Jakob Bieniek. You know how much I hate psychological pedantry, but it seems to me you’ve got a very self-destructive impulse. This really isn’t important to you, is it?”
“Comrade Cerny,” said Brano, “you’re absolutely correct, this makes no sense at all, which should make it plain that I am innocent.”
“Innocent?” Cerny sounded amused.
“I was framed. And I know who did it.”
“Who, then?”
Brano glanced back; Rasko was not in the room. “Our informer, Pavel Jast.”
“That’s ludicrous!”
“It’s true. I believe he’s turned against us. He wanted me in jail so he could help the Sorokas escape. I expect he’s leaving with them.”
Cerny paused. “What about Soroka? Whether or not he remains in the country is a minor concern. I want to know what he’s up to. Any results?”
“I’ve spoken to him once, but as yet there are no results. I’ve only been here four days.”
