The Confession

30

The Eierses lived out on the edge of the Fifth District. These low homes were still as they had been for a hundred years: a stone suburb of clay-roofed houses that were charming because of their style and infuriating because of their plumbing. Emil had decided to stay behind, and Stefan sat in the Mercedes passenger seat, switching the radio on and off, listening to bursts of static.

“Just turn it off, will you?”

He did, then watched the homes pass. “What do you think of this case?”

“I don’t know what to make of it. An art curator is killed, then his prize artist. Now, the artist’s ex-wife.”

“I’d like to know why Josef Maneck started drinking,” he said.

“Back to that.”

“He was doing well for himself, he was respected. Martin said he couldn’t live with himself-why? Maybe Eiers knows.”

Mathew Eiers looked nothing like a clerk. He was a dark man with broad, massive shoulders, and at home he wore a tight-fitting undershirt that showed off his thick biceps. Which made it all the stranger to see him burst into tears at unexpected moments. I offered him a cigarette. He shook his head. “And please, don’t smoke in the house. Health.”

He had laid Zoia, or Sofia, on their bed, and at the foot of the bed was a weight bench. Above the bed, on the wall, was a crucifix. She was dressed in a short, fashionable black dress. I nodded at it. “Is this what she was wearing, when…?”

He straightened the hem over her thigh. “It is.” Then he started to weep.

She looked a little pale, but asleep. No great beauty, she had a certain peasant attractiveness. Short, dark hair and a rounded chin. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her arms, her hands and neck, seeking clues, but I didn’t want to touch her. There was some discoloration around the neck, a bruise. “Do you know what caused this?” I asked.

He leaned over her. “I didn’t notice that. What-what do you think?”

“I don’t think anything yet, Comrade Eiers. Please sit down and tell us what happened.”

Mathew Eiers settled on the weight bench, tears under control now. “We spent the weekend in the country with my parents. She was in a good mood, she liked to travel. You know, we had a good time every time we traveled.” He looked at her closed eyes. “We got in late last night. This morning was, well, as it always is. Blessed. I went out to buy the paper, and when I returned she was-” He looked at me. “But I don’t under stand.”

“You found her here?”

“In her chair, in the kitchen. I tried to make her heart start again. I’ve heard of it. You hit right here.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “But it didn’t work. Nothing worked. So I cleaned her off and put her to bed.”

“You cleaned her off?”

“Her face.” He touched his own. “She had…fallen. Into her breakfast.”

“What was it?”

“Porridge. She eats it every morning. It’s good for her.”

Stefan had been standing in the doorway, keeping notes. “Did you eat the porridge as well?”

“Never,” he said, holding down the sobs. “I eat yogurt. Fresh yogurt from the country. It’s for the bones.” Then he looked again at his wife, sniffing. “Oh Lord. You don’t think it was…?”

“We should check on it,” I said. “Tell me. Were the doors unlocked when you went for the paper?”

He shook his head. “I locked the front door when I left-I had to use the key to get back in. I checked the back door, too, after I found her. Both were locked.”

We looked into the bag of oats, but if it was poisoned, we’d never know without the lab.

“You know,” I told him, “we were planning to come see your wife today before hearing about this.”

“What?”

“About her ex-husband, Antonin.”

He straightened and his voice leveled off: “What does he want?”

“He’s been murdered, Comrade Eiers. Before he died he had been in correspondence with your wife. He mentioned in a letter the sense of his mortality. It’s vague, but perhaps he knew who was going to kill him. Perhaps she knew.”

“Or maybe you know,” said Stefan.

Mathew Eiers glared at the floor. “I would have liked to do that.”

“To kill him?”

He looked as far from tears as we would ever see him. “I didn’t, no, but I could have. She still saw him now and then. Sofia thought I didn’t know, but husbands know these sorts of things, right? They didn’t make love, I’m sure of that, but she wasn’t honest to me about it. I could either do something about it or not.” He shook his head. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?” asked Stefan.

He concentrated on the floor and spoke slowly: “Because I didn’t want to lose her. Sofia had left him for me. She could choose to go back just as easily. I knew this. It didn’t matter how evil he was.”

“Evil?” I said. “Isn’t that a little strong?”

“That’s what Sofia told me. She used that very word. She never told me why, but she said that his evil deeds had made him a star in the Capital. His fame was at a terrible price.”

Stefan didn’t seem to understand. “But if she thought he was evil, why would she still see him? Why would she go back to him?”

He smiled for the first time. “Come on, Comrade Inspector. Don’t be naive. You don’t go to bed with someone because you know they’re pure. And sometimes you don’t love purity. Sometimes you do everything precisely be cause of impurity. Sometimes you can’t help it.”

We let that sit a moment. The living room was stuffy; he’d sealed it against unhealthy drafts.

“Let’s try some names on you,” I suggested. “Did Sofia ever mention a Josef Maneck?”

“Maneck died some time ago, didn’t he? He was a business associate of Antonin’s-you know, the art business-before he fell off the wagon.”

“Any idea why he did that?” asked Stefan.

“What?”

“Fell off the wagon.”

Mathew shook his head.

I cleared my throat. “How about a Nestor?”

“Nestor Velcea?”

Stefan wrote it down.

“I never met him, but Sofia called him the greatest artist she’d ever known. She and Antonin lived with him their first year in the Capital, until he was sent away.”

“To a work camp,” I said.

He nodded. “Yes. I suppose he got one of those summonses from Yalta Boulevard. You know- document check. She never really told me the details of what happened-it was a sensitive subject. Understandably.”

“Understandably,” I said. “But he’s supposed to have been released.”

Mathew frowned. “Really? From the way she praised him, I wouldn’t mind meeting this guy. His paintings are supposed to be better than Antonin’s early work, but I’ve never seen them. He was a little weird, she told me. He refused to show his work in public and didn’t even sign his paintings. A little mixed-up in the head, maybe.”

Stefan cut in: “I still don’t understand why your wife thought of Antonin as evil. Didn’t she say why?”

“My wife wasn’t a gossip, Comrade Inspector. She stated her opinion and left it at that. I respected her for it.”

While Stefan retrieved the bag of oats, I used the bathroom. There was another crucifix beside the mirror, and on the floor was a book by an American weightlifter named Atlas. It was all in English, but there were photos of this massive man throughout, showing how to lift weights, which kinds of food to eat, and how to live in order to grow into a healthy old age.

I drove Stefan back to the station, then took my writings out of my desk and put them into my satchel, not looking up as Kaminski strolled in. The Russian positioned himself by the door, hands in his pockets, watching us a while before speaking. “There was a little confusion today. We tried to reach all of you by the new radios, but had no luck.” He held up his hands. “It’s a new system, we understand this, and there will be bumps along the way. But, guys, the radios have to be left on in order to function. This only makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“But what about that noise?” asked Stefan. “They hiss like mad all the time.”

“Then you turn the volume down,” Kaminski explained. “Not all the way, but some. The call-in will be loud enough for you to hear it.” He took a step toward my desk. “Any questions, Ferenc? I can get Brano to show you how to use it again.”

“No thanks.”

“It’s no trouble,” said Sev, rising from his own desk.

“I get it. Really.”