The Confession

17

Homicide investigations work in starts and stops. Clues move them forward; the absence of clues takes the drive out of them. When this happens, you move on to the next case, or complete paperwork.

Markus Feder called to say he’d received the body but wouldn’t have anything for us until Monday. The waterlogged shoe in my drawer was useless until then. Emil and I had neither another case nor backed-up paperwork, so, to avoid Moska thinking up more paperwork (something he had a great talent for) and to keep myself from dwelling on the train that had by then reached Moscow, I helped Emil pick up his wash from the laundry. We carried the tied bundles to his apartment.

He lived a little farther back from the Tisa than Woznica, but still clearly in the upscale Fourth District. Lena’s money had paid for the entire top floor, for renovations, and no doubt the functioning elevator as well. The view, as Emil had promised, was breathtaking. Red clay-tiled roofs crisscrossed in a jumbled mix that reflected how the Capital had grown over the centuries: piece by piece. I could spot the ragged shards of a couple buildings not yet rebuilt from the war. Beyond were the two spires of the Georgian Bridge and the roofs of the Canal District, speckled by holes. To the left, low plains rose eastward to the Carpathians.

They had lived here for seven years, and after Emil’s grandfather died, his grandmother came to live with them. She had passed away three years back, and since then this space big enough for five families had housed only two people.

We settled into the plush, modern sofas-thick white cushions shaped like boxes-and began to drink. This was a serious thing with Emil. When he first joined the Militia, he had been a child who couldn’t hold his liquor, and a bullet in the stomach had slowed him even more. But eight years with Lena had seasoned him, and now he treated drinking as a respected ritual. There were the thin, openmouthed glasses that felt ready to shatter, the polished tumbler into which he delivered crushed ice with an elegant silver spoon. “You develop a taste for it,” he told me. “The ice has got to be crushed, at least that’s what they say. Then the gin. Wait a minute-it’s got to get to know the ice. Then the vermouth. This,” he said as he shook the mixture with both hands, “is something special. They drink it in New York City.”

He called it a martini, and it tasted like flowers.

“The place I go to ran out of olives a few days ago, but you get the idea.”

I smiled.

The first one put me over, and the second kept me moving. Lounging in that huge living room, gazing at the painting above the radio set-a stern, white-bearded old man-I thought I could get used to this. Leonek had told me once that Emil’s home had always made him uncomfortable, but I couldn’t see why.

Were I not a little drunk, I might have kept quiet about it. But by the third drink, as we were touring the apartment and he opened the door to the darkroom, he asked. I told him everything. He switched on a red overhead light as I talked and touched the prints hung up to dry like clothes. Images of the burned body, snapshots of Lena that made her look younger than she really was, views of the countryside. His face darkened as he listened, the red lights deepening his cheeks. “So I called Moscow. It’s been arranged.”

“What are you going to do when Woznica finds out?”

The gin was making me unconcerned. “Don’t tell. He won’t know.”

Emil waved that away. “A couple well-placed questions, and he knows it all. Have you thought about this?”

“You think I should have handed her back?”

“Of course not. But there are other ways.”

“What ways?”

“Go after him. It’s possible.”

“It’s not possible. He might as well be a politicos.”

“What about papers? You could have gotten papers from Roberto in Supplies. He’s got connections, and he’s helped me out before.”

“It would have taken too long.”

Emil closed his eyes as he considered possibilities. Then he opened them. “Maybe you’re right.”

In the living room, Emil described the effect of the Hungarian uprising on his marriage: “Lena’s starting to go crazy.”

“She’s afraid?”

“Not of the Russians. Not that. She wants children.”

I looked into my empty glass, fearing for any child with that woman as a mother.

“We’ve been trying for years. Once it did work, but-”

“Miscarriage?”

“Four years ago. I don’t want her to go through that again.”

“What does this have to do with the Magyars?”

“Nothing, not really. She’s just feeling her mortality. She needs to give her love to someone other than me.”

“Watch out she doesn’t leave you.”

He went silent, so I looked over at him. He was staring into his glass. “Each of us has his own marriage, Ferenc.”

Lena showed up with a shopping bag on her arm and a smile on her face. “The very comradely Inspector Ferenc Kolyeszar. How did Emil ever get you here?”

Her beauty was beginning to wear from her drinking, but there was still something about Lena Brod that gave the illusion of a woman in her prime. She glided over in a cloud of perfume, her dark hair stroking my cheeks as she kissed them. “You’re looking well, Lena.”

She winked at me, her mascara thick but precise. “When are you going to bring your extremely well looking wife over for dinner?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

“I hope. What are you drinking?”

I looked blankly at my empty glass, then at Emil.

“Martinis,” he said. “Here’s yours.” He was already pouring it.

The conversation turned to shopping. Lena had recently traveled to Paris, and it saddened her when she had to shop here. “That’s the tragedy of our situation, do you realize? Look at this material.” She showed us a black blouse she had found. “It’s so thin. And do you know how many colors I had to choose from? Two. Black and blue. Doesn’t that tell you something?” Then she began a monologue on the virtues of capitalist department stores, her hands turning continually in her lap until Emil put his own hand on them.

“I don’t think Ferenc cares too much about shopping.”

She touched a red nail to her chin and looked at me.

I shrugged.

Lena stood up. “I’ll let you boys discuss homicides, then.” She grabbed a bottle of vodka from the bar and marched into another room.

“She okay?”

Emil took a sip. “She’ll be fine.”

But there was nothing more to talk about. He fell into one of his unself-conscious silences, distracted by other matters, and it only made me self-conscious. So I reached for my hat.

I drove slowly and carefully through the early dusk. The apartment was empty. I lay down in the empty bedroom. It was still a lovely novelty: a bed. Its breadth was amazing, the even firmness of the mattress, the headboard. I breathed in deeply to cleanse my head, and caught a faint whiff. I was unsure. I rolled facedown and sniffed. I thought it was the drunk, webbed parts of my imagination, but no-this was a very definite, heavy stink: sex. I put my nose into the duvet, then pulled it back and smelled the sheets. Its strength went to my head. I’d slept with Magda those last couple nights, but we’d slept beside one another, touching only hands.

I considered, briefly, taking it all out on Stefan as I should have done before. Our years of friendship meant nothing in the face of this. I could drive to his apartment, whether or not she was there, and beat him until there was nothing left to love. But I used the only real weapon I had. I grabbed the spare pillow, took an extra sheet and blanket from the wardrobe, and made up my bed again in the living room.

When she saw it that evening, she did not say a word.