I don’t know why I didn’t ask more. Sitting there with Brano Sev, my desire for simplicity was acute. Ludvik Mas, or Peter Husak, was in Istanbul. That was all I needed to know. Brano opened his envelope and slid a roll of audiotape to me.
“This is a record of part of my conversation with Peter Husak back in 1968. You may find it of interest.”
But all I wanted was simplicity. “I don’t need it.”
“I think you’ll find it useful for understanding.”
“Understanding what?”
“The why of your boyfriend’s death, Katja. And perhaps more. We are sometimes faced with inexplicable moments in our past, and they plague us over the years until we’re no longer able to function. But if we find an explanation…”
“I didn’t think Ministry officers subscribed to psychology, Comrade Sev.”
Brano actually smiled. “Not officially, Comrade Drdova. Here.”
From the envelope he also took a small bundle of koronas and a fresh maroon passport. An external passport.
“Take this,” he said.
On the front page of the passport was an old photograph of me, with my name.
“Comrade Drdova, do you have any travel plans?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. At that point I honestly didn’t know. “I might.”
“Well, if you do, remember that time is of the essence. Also, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay in touch. Give me a call.”
“I don’t know if I can promise that.”
“A call is only a call, Katja. Over a telephone you don’t have to say anything you don’t wish to say, whereas I can be particularly helpful. I’ll be sure to remain near my desk.”
“Okay, Brano.”
With those words, something moved in me. Though it would soon return, the confusion left, and I felt like a worker receiving instructions that made my entire life a simple matter of obedience.
For that one instant, I felt good.
Gavra
It took a half hour for the Militia technicians to arrive, and Gavra waited for them by the dead American, chain-smoking. Details were accumulating-a hijacked plane, a delusional woman, and the cryptic Ludvik Mas-who, it appeared, killed a German terrorist, a doctor, and an American spy. Now Adrian Martrich was living under the threat of execution.
In the world outside the Ministry, the why of these murders wouldn’t be of importance. A single man had killed three men in the space of a day and was after a fourth. It didn’t matter how the killings were connected to a hijacked plane or to a sick woman who had called from the airport. In the real world, Ludvik Mas would have been picked up and locked in a cell. And Gavra would be allowed to treat him just as he’d treated Wilhelm Adler in that factory office.
But this wasn’t the real world. This place was much more elusive, and more threatening.
The men took photographs, carted away the body, and mopped the floor clean.
By the time he returned, Adrian was playing a Smak record and had set two cold vodkas on the coffee table. He smiled at Gavra. “How was your day, dear?”
When the momentary surprise faded, Gavra smiled as well.
They didn’t speak at first, only settled into the sofa and sipped their drinks, while over the speakers Smak’ s progressive jam session settled Gavra’s nerves. They toasted their health; then Adrian refilled their glasses and settled next to him on the sofa, close. Gavra said, “Tell me about your sister.”
Adrian spoke of a wicked childhood in Chudlove. He described their father’s sudden, rabid fits of anger. The two times he broke his son’s arm. The day Adrian walked in on him on top of his struggling sister-Zrinka was ten.
Gavra set down his glass.
Adrian told him of the time their father tied their mother to the radiator and made the children watch what he did to her. He told Gavra that she, in turn, focused her frustration on the children. When Father was gone for days on alcoholic rages, Mother blamed them for his disappearances and locked them in the cellar. Then, when Adrian was twelve, they both killed themselves. In the backyard. With knives.
“Did you see the bodies?”
“I watched them do it.”
Gavra drank, shaking his head. “Your sister?”
“She was at school.”
“No wonder.”
“No wonder what?”
“That she believed she had made them kill themselves. She must have dreamed and hoped they would do it. Then, one day, they did.”
Adrian gazed at him a moment, then continued. “It was after that that she became hysterical. The local Militia chief-a fat, useless man-sent her to the Tarabon Clinic. I, on the other hand, lived as a ward of the state in an orphanage outside the Capital, in Zsurk. The less said about that place, the better.” He quieted, then said, “I still can’t believe she’s dead,” and laid his head on Gavra’s shoulder as “To ak”-the Wheel-went into a speed-drunk guitar solo.
Gavra felt his muscles relax beneath Adrian’s ear, and when Adrian asked if he would sleep there with him, Gavra took a quick, loud breath and turned to look at the crown of Adrian’s head. Adrian raised his face close to Gavra’s and kissed him.
Their sex was strange for Gavra, who seldom had affairs inside his own country. He was used to single nights with Turkish boys found at dance clubs, Austrian men picked up from underground bars, and once even an American businessman he met at the airport bar in Frankfurt. During those brief encounters, each participant knew exactly what he wanted; the enjoyment was always visceral. Though in the mornings he was sometimes annoyed or disgusted by his choice the previous night, he never regretted a thing.
With Adrian, the reasons were elusive. Adrian had, in the space of a few days, lost a sister and had his own life threatened. He was looking for comfort. Because of this they acted as if they’d known each other many years. At first they only kissed, and in bed they gripped each other tightly. For the first time in his sexual life, Gavra felt as if he wanted something more than the wonderful violence of sexual organs and wasn’t sure why.
Was that love? He didn’t know, and it was beside the point-because afterward he passed out, the stress of the last days overcoming him, and slept hard, like a peasant after a long day working the land.
He woke alone in Adrian’s bed to the sound of the front door buzzer. The clock told him it was nine, and he could smell coffee.
“Who is it?” he called.
“It’s your girlfriend,” Adrian said. “Katja’s on her way up.”
Gavra sprang out of bed, scooped his crumpled clothes in an arm, and swept past Adrian on his way to the bathroom, saying only, “I slept on the couch.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
While washing himself in the sink and dressing, he heard Katja being let in and offered coffee. Then, in answer to no question at all, Adrian told her, “He’s in the bathroom.”
Gavra nodded in the mirror. Okay. Katja didn’t reply, but Adrian felt the need to awkwardly add, “He slept on the couch.”
“Oh,” said Katja.
Shut up, Adrian.
But Adrian didn’t shut up. “Did you hear about the excitement last night?”
Gavra fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, grimacing.
