wasn’t sure. He knew what kind of man he was, he said, and maybe she didn’t, but he wanted to tell her, because someday she would realize this and leave him. He told her he was an old man who had spent years dulling his emotions until they were almost nonexistent.
“But they exist?”
“Yes, somewhat.”
“For me they exist?”
“Da.”
She nodded into his chest and said that she understood his doubt and knew the kind of figure she cut. “People, you know, they not always trusting for my… honestly?”
“Your sincerity?”
“Da. My sincerity. But this is because I am too much sincerity too much of the time.”
He said he could see that.
“I am not blind,” she said. “I can to see your faults. And the future… what knows? Maybe we can to be together only one week, maybe five years. Maybe we cannot to live together. I don’t know. All what I know is this, Brano Sev. When I am with you, it feels like correct. And when you is not here, I want you to be with me. You understand?”
He took a breath. “Yes. Yes, I understand.”
“Was not like that with Bertrand. And for certainly not with Abel. Good men, but…” She shrugged. “Maybe it just pheromones.”
“Pheromones?”
“Da,” she said. “Smell. Maybe only you have smell what for me is very good.”
He liked that theory, because it was biological and felt unchangeable. But when he slept, the doubt returned, making him restless, and when he woke, he kept his eyes shut, listening. He heard her steady, quiet breaths. Then he turned his head toward the sound and opened his eyes. The morning light lit the dribble of saliva that had drained from her lips into the pillow.
He made his way quietly across the creaking floor to the bathroom. He urinated and brushed his teeth with her toothbrush but avoided looking into the mirror. He didn’t want to compound his overwhelming doubt. What he wanted was to leave, so he crept back into the bedroom, where she still slept, a calf sticking out of the sheets, her toes curled tight. He put on his underwear and brought the socks into the living room, where he gathered the rest of his clothes. He put on his shirt, buttoned it, and pulled on his pants. Then, as he was tying his shoes, he heard her. “Dragi?”
He looked down at the shoelace knots he’d been mishandling. “Yes?”
“Dragi, where are you?”
He went to the bedroom doorway. She was wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Why you have on your clothes?”
“I always get up early.”
“Come here.” He walked over to the bed and sat beside her. She looked up at his face. “You are going?”
“Just getting breakfast for us,” he lied.
She stretched her arms high over her head and yawned. “That is not bad idea. But wait,” she said, and unzipped his pants. She stuck her fingers inside, tugging on him. “I want we make more sex now.”
He was naked again, and back in bed. His flight instinct had dwindled to nonexistence during their sex, so that now he couldn’t imagine leaving. They smoked using an ashtray balanced on Brano’s stomach. “You know, I knowed this. I knowed at Ersek Nanz’s party. I can see we will be together.”
“You mean you could smell it?”
“Da,” she said, letting out a little laugh. “I could smell it.”
“Do you want breakfast now?”
“Coffee, da, and cigarettes.” She lifted her pack from the bedside table and showed it to him; it was empty.
“I’ll get some more.”
“Then I will make for you coffee. You like?”
“Da.”
He dressed, then trotted down the stairs and out to the street, unable to control his grin. He didn’t see Ludwig’s men around, though he knew they were there. This, finally, was something worth reporting. Where the road split just past the tram station was a tobacco shop, and he bought cigarettes and the day’s Kurier. When he returned, he found Dijana in the kitchen, naked, preparing coffee. He settled on the couch and opened the newspaper but watched her. She was not shy with her body, and sometimes she glanced over her shoulder to smile at him, or to slap her own behind then laugh. He watched her arch over the counter to reach for the sugar, and at that moment he felt sure that she had been right all along. Because, da, it was the right thing.
“I can read the paper?”
“Of course,” he said, and brought it over to her. She lit a cigarette and began reading on the counter while he reopened the personals. As he did every day, he scanned them quickly, but this time one caught his eye.
Franz F, «Gedicht-I»
Franz F, “Poem-1”: Lieb + Ebenbild sterben in Kampfgas.
Warte ich auf Lawinen? Schlau… hab dich!
Acht Jahre! 00 Leute, 0 Reich! Love + image die in War-gas.
Do I wait for avalanches? Sly… gotcha!
Eight years! 00 people, 0 empire.
He didn’t understand the poem, and that made sense. This was written not for a surface meaning but for a hidden one, the small grammatical blunder of the first line- in instead of im — helping draw his attention. And the code
was simple. Brano looked at the date on the newspaper-11 April 1967.11-4-1967. Poem, minus one. 11-4- 1966, or 1-1-4-1-9-6-6.
“You are finding a lover?”
Brano could feel himself reddening. “No,” he said. “Just reading poetry.”
She smiled, rocking her head as she returned to the world’s headlines. “So my Brani like poetry…”
Brano got up after a while and, on her bedside table, found a worn pencil. He took it, with the newspaper, to the toilet, closed the door, and began underlining letters based on the code 1-1-4-1-9-6-6. Li eb + Eb enbild st e rben i n Kampf gas.
War te ich auf La w inen? S c hlau… h ab d ich!
Ac ht Jahre! 0 0 Leute, 0 Reich!
L–I-E-B-E-N-G-A-S-T-E-W-C-A-B-D-A-C-0-0
The first part made sense: a meeting place-Liebengaste WC; the bathroom of the Liebengaste, a restaurant north of Mariahilfer, on Neubaugasse. But the rest-ABDAC00-did not. Which meant they were numbers. He
transformed the letters into numbers, based simply on their alphabetic order, and found 1241300. A date and time-12 April, 13:00.
“You will live in there?”
He looked up at the door, and when he spoke he found he had little air to work with. “No, Dijana. I’m coming.” He tore out the poem, dropped it between his legs, and flushed the toilet.
12 APRIL 1967, WEDNESDAY
He returned to Web-Gasse the next morning, with the excuse that he needed to bring over clean clothes. Dijana frowned when he said he’d rather go alone. “But why?”
“You want me to get tired of you?”
She punched him in the stomach. “You better not.”
He loaded some clothes into a small bag he found at the back of his wardrobe, then followed the old routine, sitting in Eszterhazy Park, trying to read the last pages of his French Marxist tract. A different man watched him
