“Zrinka?” said the other nurse, her eyes still on the television. “She’s been gone three years.”
“Where’s her file?” said Katja.
“Arendt,” said the one at the television.
“Arendt?” Gavra asked.
The first nurse shrugged. “Doctor Arendt. You think so, Klara?”
“He was Zrinka’s doctor,” said Klara.
“Can we speak to the doctor?” Gavra asked.
“Not here you can’t,” Klara said to the television.
The other nodded. “He’s in the Capital. Left how many?”
“Eight.”
“That’s right. Eight months ago. Took his patients’ files with him.”
“You find the doctor,” said Klara, “and you’ll find your file.”
“And where,” Gavra said, “do we find the doctor?”
The first nurse hesitated. “Well…”
Klara didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “Bottom drawer, next to the thumbtacks.”
Doctor Arendt lived in an airy third-floor Habsburg apartment over a post office, facing a cobbled Fifth District street. When he opened the door, he froze for an instant in the face of the two uniforms.
“What can I do for you?”
Katja gave him a reassuring smile. “Just a few questions, Comrade Doctor. About an old patient of yours. May we come in?”
Arendt recovered from his surprise and ushered them in. Once they reached the living room, he offered tea, which Katja accepted but Gavra didn’t; he was still working on the subtleties of intimidation.
Arendt was an old man, and when he brought Katja’s tea, some spilled into the saucer. He settled in his musty purple armchair and put on a smile. Gavra couldn’t decide whether it was true or not-this man was a psychologist, so it could have meant anything.
Katja sipped her tea, then said, “We’d like to see the file on a patient of yours. Zrinka Martrich.”
Arendt shrugged. “I haven’t seen her in three years.”
“Still,” said Gavra, “we’d like to see the file.”
Arendt climbed out of his chair again and went to a wardrobe standing by the bedroom door. Inside were rows of out-of-date files. Zrinka Martrich’s folder was thick, covering the seven years, Arendt explained, that she was kept at the Tarabon Residential Clinic. Gavra began to leaf through the heady mix of typed and handwritten memos, cardiograms, dietary records, and interview transcripts but closed it again. “Can you just tell us about her?”
He was back in the chair, placing a glass ashtray on its arm. He lit a cigarette-Kent, Gavra noticed. American, the preferred brand of all doctors. Arendt said, “Zrinka arrived at the Tarabon clinic a decade ago, back in sixty-five. Fifteen years old. She’d been through a tragedy-both her parents committed suicide. The experience, as you’d imagine, scarred her. She blamed herself.”
“She thought she murdered them?” asked Katja.
“In a way, yes. You see, Zrinka believed she had influenced them.” He paused, touching his lip, smoke rising into his eyes. “This is going to sound ludicrous to you.”
“Go on, Doctor,” said Gavra.
He took a drag. “Zrinka Martrich had delusions. In particular, a very strong delusion of ‘thought broadcasting,’ which means that she believed her thoughts could be heard by other people. The difference between Zrinka and schizophrenics who usually suffer from this was that she didn’t believe the people were listening in. She wasn’t afraid of mental spies or anything like that; she wasn’t paranoid. She instead felt that she could speak, with her mind, to other people, and that by doing this she could manipulate people into doing her will.”
“So she was crazy,” said Katja.
“Well, it wasn’t that simple.”
“How do you mean?” said Gavra.
The doctor tapped ash and brought his hand to his ear, as if he had trouble hearing. “At first, yes. For the first year she showed characteristics of hysteria, violent panic, and once tried to kill herself. But by the second year she seemed to… adjust. She stopped displaying the normal characteristics of delusion. Zrinka became completely lucid. Her thoughts were clear; they all made sense. This sort of thing is extremely rare.”
“And she left the asylum,” said Gavra. “You cured her?”
The doctor took another drag. “I never cured her of her delusions. I tried, many times, but she always maintained her calm. Over the next six years. Six years of weekly talks.”
“So why did you let her go?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “She was transferred to another clinic in seventy-two. It was out of my hands.”
Katja sat up. “What other clinic?”
Rokosyn. It’s small, in the mountains. I didn’t want her to go, because it’s a research institute. Their only interest is observation. Their excuse was that in seven years I’d done nothing for her, so she might as well serve the state. I was unable to keep her.”
“What happened to her then?” Katja asked.
The doctor tapped off some ash. “I’ve checked, but there are no records. The last documents I have are her transfer papers to Rokosyn, from three years ago.”
In the silence that followed, Gavra went to the window, looked down into the street, then turned back. The light from the window behind him left his features in darkness. “Would it surprise you if I told you she was spotted in the airport three days ago? She made a telephone call to the Hotel Metropol, then boarded a flight to Istanbul.”
The doctor’s mouth fell open, revealing badly made false teeth. “The one that exploded?”
Gavra looked at Katja; Katja nodded.
“Yes,” said Arendt, staring at his thin rug. “It would surprise me.”
Gavra came closer. “Did she display any political passions when you knew her?”
He shook his head. “Absolutely none. She was apolitical. I also tried to cure her of this, but…well, it’s difficult.”
“Of course it is.”
Katja said, “Does she have any relatives who might know more?”
“Only her brother, but I doubt he knows anything more.”
“Brother?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes. Adrian Martrich. I told him about the Rokosyn clinic as well.” He noticed their faces. “You didn’t know she had a brother?”
Peter
1968
There is something comforting about being taken prisoner by amateurs. They make mistakes all the time. Though he realized their mistake quickly, Peter did not at first move. He remained on his cot and listened to the undertones and footsteps in the corridor, trying to ascertain his position here. The sonata came to mind. Themes in a sonata change roles depending on the melodies around them or the key they’re in-a light, airy melody becomes ominous in a minor key. Peter had gone from incompetent farm boy to demure, silent music student, then co- conspirator-albeit a minor one-in the making of socialismu lidskou tvar. Then, for mere days, he’d been a refugee until, for just a few moments that night in the field outside eske Bud jovice, he’d become a fool.
And that role, like a change in key, had colored the roles that followed. Prisoner, suspect, traitor-and now, fugitive.
Peter climbed out the window and jumped two floors to the bushes below. Bare branches scratched his sore face, but he had no trouble getting up and running through the warm dusk, past unsuspecting students, down Pod
