The Confession

26

Most of the art admirers were choked around the drinks table, far from the paintings. It was an older crowd than I was used to, white-haired members of the Culture Ministry with red pins wedged in their lapels, their wives, and only one beard in the whole room. The wood-framed paintings were more of what we’d seen at Antonin’s: the virtue of the working life. Young, fresh proles working wrenches on machines and pushing shovels into the hard soil. Names like Comrade M. Harvests a Record Yield and A Five-Year Plan in Four. Emil and I had to shove to get drinks for our wives, and when we returned a couple of officials were flirting with them. One worked in the Interior Ministry, and though he wore no leather coat, he knew the effect the name of his ministry, which had long ago been put in control of the Ministry for State Security, had on people. He whispered it. The other was in the upper ranks of the Pioneers. Magda mentioned we had a daughter. “So how does she like it?” he asked. “We try to give young ladies the confidence to make their lives an active, purposeful affair.”

“She loves it unequivocally,” Magda lied, and brought up a weekend camping trip that Agnes returned from in tears, but left out the tears.

“So which one is Vlaicu?” I asked.

The Interior Ministry official nodded at the one man with a beard. He was noticeably younger than the rest, and already drunk. He shook hands and nodded at their comments and laughed. He knew how to work a room. “Would you like to meet him?” the official asked.

All six of us migrated over and cornered the artist. “More admirers, Vlaicu,” said the official.

When we shook hands, Vlaicu’s brilliant, green eyes shifted over to Magda. “What do you do?” he asked her.

She smiled and shrugged. “I work in a textile factory.”

“Aha. So what do you think of my representations of factory life?”

She gazed at the walls a moment. “A little clean, maybe.”

He laughed and clapped his hands together. “And what about the rest of you?”

Lena held her drink to her lips. “I sit around.”

Emil said, “The two of us are militiamen.”

Vlaicu nodded in mock-admiration and asked if it was a difficult job.

“Tiring,” I said. “You should paint our work. It could be interesting.”

“Maybe a little sensationalistic.”

“Paperwork? Trust me. It’s not sensational.” The two officials had wandered off, and Emil seemed to want to get this going, so I said, “We’re working on a case regarding someone you know.”

“Oh yes?” He bobbed his eyebrows. “Someone sinister?”

“Antonin Kullmann.”

His eyebrows dropped. “You’ve found him? Where is he?”

“He’s dead,” said Emil.

Vlaicu’s eyes flicked back to me as his lips twitched, ready for this to be a joke. But our expressions convinced him otherwise. “I can’t believe it.”

It was real shock, I had no doubt. His hands floundered out to the sides, and he stepped forward, then back. Magda and Lena went off for more drinks.

I grabbed his arm lightly. “Come on.”

We made it through all the greetings of the crowd and out to the dark, chilly sidewalk.

“Can you tell us about him?” asked Emil.

The hand that brought the cigarette to his mouth shook. “Of course. Yes.”

I said, “How long has Antonin been missing?”

“Two weeks? Maybe three. I’ve been so busy. We had drinks together.”

“You two close?”

“Not really. State painters drink together because the others won’t drink with them.”

“Did he tell you anything about fearing for his life? We have a letter of his that suggests this.”

Confusion crossed his face, his eyes losing focus. “No, nothing. He didn’t discuss his personal life much. Except his love life.”

“Did he have much of a love life?”

“Well, he didn’t have a lot of women, if that’s what you mean. But love…” He scratched his beard, still confused. “Well, he had found it.”

I said, “Zoia.”

“Exactly. But she left him.”

“She remarried, didn’t she?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “A clerk.”

“We couldn’t find the record of the marriage.”

“Probably because she changed her name. She thought Zoia was too provincial a name. So she changed it to Sofia.” He grinned around his cigarette. “ That’s a provincial name.”

“Do you know the name of her husband?”

“Mathew Eiers. Never met him, but Antonin hated the man. Eiers probably hated him, too, because he was still trying to get Zoia back.” He blinked at the sidewalk, then looked at us. “You don’t think Eiers-”

“We don’t think much yet,” said Emil. “Does the name Josef Maneck ring a bell?”

“Sure. Curator-turned-drunk. He was before my time, though. He and Antonin still talked sometimes. I think Antonin felt sorry for him-I mean, without Josef maybe he would’ve never had a career.”

“Did he help support Josef?” I asked. “Financially, I mean.”

Vlaicu held up his cigarette. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he did.”

A low figure came limping out of the darkness. It was Stefan. He raised a hand when he saw us, and Vlaicu looked briefly worried as he realized there were now three of us.

“Why didn’t you invite me along?” asked Stefan.

I shrugged.

Stefan looked at Vlaicu. “This is the artist?”

“I’m the artist, yes.”

I could smell the alcohol on him, probably from his favorite Turkish bar.

“Why don’t you go say hi to Magda,” I told him. “We’ll be in in a second.”

“Magda’s here?”

“Why do you think I didn’t invite you?”

I watched his face carefully, trying to read anything from it. I read confusion, maybe a little surprise, but I wasn’t sure. He went in.

“You guys come in all types,” said Vlaicu.

“About Antonin,” I said. “Is there any way we can get in touch with his friends? Some you know?”

“I didn’t know his friends. I have a feeling he didn’t have any. Not the easiest guy to get along with.”

“No one?”

He rubbed his beard. “Might try a Nestor-Antonin mentioned him last time we talked.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know his last name, but when he and Zoia moved to the Capital they roomed with this Nestor. An overeccentric painter, Antonin told me. He was released from a work camp last summer-that’s all I know.” He looked at the sidewalk again, rubbing his arms. “I need another drink.”