The Confession

7

The next day, Emil and I walked back to Woznica’s neighborhood and split up at the Tisa to canvass the local shops for information. I talked to a fishmonger, two bakers, a keysmith, and two bartenders, all with no luck. They had never seen Comrade Woznica’s wife-him, yes, but never her. “Not once?” A shrug and a shake of the head. Maybe years ago, they couldn’t be sure. The second bartender, a man nearly as large as I, with a shock of black hair marked by little thinning spots, had never even met Malik Woznica. I took the news with a handful of pumpkinseeds and turned to go, but recognized a figure hunched by the far wall. The name took a moment to materialize, but it did come, along with a cool wave of repulsion.

“Oh god damn, ” he said when he saw me.

“Martin.” I didn’t stick out my hand because I didn’t want to get that close. His dry nose was peeling.

“Comrade Inspector,” he mumbled, then finished his shot. “You’ve found me, now I must go.”

“I’m not looking for you. Josef Maneck’s case is over.”

“Tell that to your goddamn friend.” He started to stand, wobbled, and settled back down.

“Is that why you’re in this neighborhood? Has the other inspector been asking questions?”

“Don’t tell.” This time he made it to his feet and put a purple stump of finger to his lips. “Don’t say I was here. Be a pal?”

He didn’t look back as he tumbled out the door.

The bartender told me he’d been coming in there a week, maybe more, and I knew then that Stefan was still obsessed with that old suicide. The thought brought some small satisfaction. Stefan, perhaps, was spiraling into darkness.

Emil met me at the Georgian Bridge, and as cars passed we huddled against the cold and compared notes. It had been the same for him-they’d seen the husband but not the wife. “Talked to Woznica’s pharmacist, though.”

“Tell me.”

“Picks up his morphine every week, like clockwork. He told me those first weeks he’d been suspicious-it’s no small amount for one man.”

“What convinced him?”

“How big Woznica is. And how extreme his condition. The pharmacist said it’s gotten worse this half year or so.”

“So he’s been taking more?”

“I asked him that. It’s increased, yes, but only because of his tolerance. In essence, Woznica’s been on the same dosage for the last five years. But it’s no longer helping-we’ve both seen how he shakes.”

We leaned against the iron rail, the wind battering us, and faced the Canal District.

“How about Svetla?”

Emil shook his head. “Hasn’t seen her. And listen to this: He’s never filled a prescription for her.”

“Never? A sick woman?”

Emil buttoned his jacket higher. “I think we should visit Comrade Woznica again.”

But he wasn’t in. On the way back down, we spoke with Ioana Lipescu. She was in her seventies, with a little red hammer and sickle pinned to her blouse. She had a great toothless smile that remained with her as she served us tea and sweet breads, but she could offer little more. Woznica hadn’t lied-she was nearly deaf. But she had fond words for Svetla Woznica. “ Beautiful — you’ve seen? Such a gorgeous girl. Some of those Russians can be. You wouldn’t think so. But I remember she had a mouth on her. Before she was sick, yes. She knew how to complain, you can be sure.”

“Complain?” asked Emil. “What about?”

She had him repeat it a few times, then placed her spotted hands on her knees. “You know how they are. This city’s not Moscow, we don’t claim it is! We like easy living. She liked to dance. Out all the time, what a frustration for him.”

A weak constitution, an angel. Now, a dancer. A complainer. I leaned forward. “When did you last see Svetla?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a long time. Could it be six years?”

“Six months?” Emil offered.

“Six months, yes.” She adjusted her pin and licked her gums. “I used to dance. Oh, I used to dance.”

“I bet you did,” I told her as we got up to leave. Then I repeated it. Louder.