Then Jan said, “I’m not sure I understand. You seem to believe a lot of bad things about me. Why aren’t I in jail?”
Brano considered this. When he first arrived in Bobrka, he believed that sticking to his cover story, that he was simply a factory worker on vacation, would be simple enough. But no one in this town really trusted that, least of all Jan-he’d clearly been waiting for Brano’s arrival. There was nothing left to hide. So he said, “Arresting you isn’t my job. I was supposed to find out why you came back.”
“And what’s your conclusion?”
“My conclusion is that I really don’t care.”
“Is that true?”
Yes, Brano realized-it was true. “I came here to do a simple job. But immediately my one contact double- crossed me-he framed me for murder. And now that I’ve proven my innocence, the Ministry doesn’t care. I went into this with all good intentions, and now,” he said, looking for the right words, “now I have the suspicion I’m being used, but I don’t know why.”
“Maybe it’s all about Pavel Jast,” said Jan. “Maybe he framed you in order to improve his position with Yalta. He probably wants to get out of Bobrka and go to the big city.”
“Did you tell him much about yourself? I mean, the things you don’t tell me.”
“I’ve told you much more than I told Pavel Jast.”
“Then that isn’t the answer. He could only improve his position if he arrived in the Capital with all the information on you that I couldn’t get.”
“But he could also improve his position if he stopped me from doing what I plan to do.”
“Which is to return to Vienna.”
“Or maybe I want to go to Moscow.”
They both laughed out loud, and Brano admired this clever man who could subdue his own fears and laugh with a man who might, at any moment, kill him.
Jan nodded past Brano’s shoulder, toward the road, his smile fading. “Isn’t that Captain Rasko?”
Brano turned, peering through the winter dusk he hadn’t noticed descending. The white Skoda was parked behind his Trabant, and Rasko took awkward, high steps through the snow toward them. They helped close the distance, and when they met, Rasko’s face was pinked by the wind. “Hello, Jan,” he said.
“Tadeusz.”
Rasko nodded at Brano. “Can I have a word with you?”
“I’ll talk to you later,” said Jan as he retreated toward the cows.
“What is it, Captain?”
Rasko was wearing a heavy coat-blue, Militia regular issue. He buttoned the top button. “I went over to the Nubsches’.”
“And?”
“And nothing, Comrade Sev. They’ve left. Taken a lot of clothes and gone away. I called the Dukla factory, and it seems Zygmunt abandoned his bread truck on the side of the road this morning. They don’t know where he is.”
“They fled.”
“They’re your alibi, Comrade Sev.”
Brano looked into the captain’s dark, steady eyes, then wiped his hands on his pants. “They’re still my alibi. They left because they were guilty. It’s obvious.”
“Not to Yalta.”
“What?”
Rasko arched a brow. “They’ve been in touch the whole time you’ve been in Bobrka. Seems they don’t trust you completely. And when I told that colonel about the Nubsches’ disappearance, I was given leave to arrest you again.”
Brano’s hands jumped involuntarily from his hips. “Colonel Cerny?” He settled them down again. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“We live by our orders, Comrade Sev.”
That was a well-rehearsed line from the Militia Academy, the kind of motto only repeated at official functions. Now Brano Sev was hearing it in a field littered with blank-eyed cows.
He cleared his throat. “Give me a little more time.”
“It’s difficult.”
“No, it’s not. Tomorrow. I’ll have something for you by tomorrow.”
Captain Rasko squinted into the wind a few seconds, waiting for something more-a bribe, perhaps, or some sign of desperation-but Brano waited him out. The captain nodded. “All right. Tomorrow.”
As Rasko made his way back to his car, Brano turned back to Jan, who-magically, it seemed-had disappeared.
The captain was right. The Nubsches’ home, which he entered by reaching through the hole Rasko had broken in the window, was cleared out. Clothes had been thrown around the bedroom in a frantic act of packing, and remnants of a quickly thrown-together meal littered the kitchen: bread crumbs, cheese, salami. He went through each room, his calm slipping away, trying to find anything-a coat, perhaps-that connected them to Jakob Bieniek. But after tearing apart cabinets and wardrobes and searching under all the furniture, he realized it was useless. When he slammed the door behind himself, broken glass fell and shattered on the concrete steps.
As he drove through the darkness, he labored with the mass of facts that were filling him with an acute sense of zbrka. What he’d said so casually to Soroka-that he was being used-now felt real. Cerny was pressuring him, either to get results or to flee-he didn’t know which. There was no ready answer to the why of Jast’s frame-up nor the why of Cerny’s phone calls. Was it possible the colonel believed Brano had killed some nondescript milkman? Or was he only following the Lieutenant General’s orders?
Again, the question: Why?
His mother was settled in the dim kitchen with Lucjan’s vodka when he returned. Her head rolled back as she tried to get him into focus. “He returns!”
Brano sank into a chair without removing his overcoat. “Are you drunk?”
“What do you thing?” she said, slurring “think.”
“That can’t be good for you.”
Her eyes were shiny. “Don’t start telling me what’s good for me. You’re on your way to jail.”
“You know?”
“The whole town knows. My criminal son.”
“Criminal son,” he repeated, and reached for the vodka bottle. There was a dirty water glass on the table that he filled to the rim. “But I didn’t do it.”
“What do I know about that? You don’t tell your mother anything.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Just like you told me about your Tati.”
“I did what I could.”
She looked at him for a little while, then spoke slowly. “You know, Brani, I’m an old woman now. I know a few things. I know, for instance, that life is sometimes too long. There are a lot of years. What do you think would have happened if you hadn’t made your father leave?”
“You know what would have happened. He would have been sent to prison. I had no choice.”
“Yes,” she said, and brought her glass to her cheek, pressing it into the soft flesh. “He would have gone to jail, but for how long? A couple years, maybe five. Then, my dear son, my husband would have been returned to me. We would have been a family again.”
He did not answer.
She said, “You think your life is going to be one way, then it isn’t. Your son leaves for the Capital, then your husband leaves the country. Your daughter marries an idiot who can’t give you grandchildren.” She took another drink and set her glass down. “Tell me, Brani. Do you think this is the family I always hoped for?”
He lifted his glass to his lips.
She passed out in her chair, and Brano carried her to bed. He undressed her, then pulled the duvet to her chin before kissing her forehead. He felt very much like a father at that moment-at least, how he imagined fathers felt-
