The Confession

41

I did not forget where I was, but that morning it was still a surprise to see Vera’s sleeping face behind the nest of her black hair. I started to dress.

“You’re going?”

“To work.”

She got up on an elbow to watch me tie my shoes. “Should I ask?”

I looked at her.

“If you’ll be coming back. Karel’s out until Friday.”

I didn’t know if I would come back, if it was a good idea or a horrible one, or if by tonight I’d even want to. “You’ll be here?”

When she shrugged, the sheet came off her shoulder. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”

I kissed her forehead, then, almost as an afterthought, her lips.

Georgi was waiting for me on the front steps to the station, hat in his hands. He looked like he hadn’t gotten much sleep, and I assumed I’d missed a party. We shook hands.

“I’ve got worries, Ferenc.”

He took a folded envelope from his pocket and handed it to me.

It was a summons to appear, the next day, at the state security headquarters on Yalta Boulevard. The reason: DOCUMENT CHECK.

I took him to a cafe and fed him brandy. “It could be nothing, Georgi. You know this. It could just be a document check, like it says.”

“Don’t tell me that. Rubin Blazkova-you know him? A forger, but that’s beside the point. He received a summons two weeks ago. No one knows where he is anymore. You’ve got to help me.” He could hardly hold his glass.

It surprised me how calmly I was taking it. I suppose I was trying to counterbalance his fear with cool, rational words. When I sat in certain positions I could smell Vera on me, and I wondered if he could smell her, too. “I’ll come by tonight, okay? This isn’t until tomorrow morning, so I’ll work on it today.” I patted his cheek. “Don’t worry so much.”

“I’m a poet, remember? I can’t take torture.”

“Nobody can take torture, Georgi.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” He finished his drink and shook his head. “I don’t want to end up like Nestor Velcea.”

I looked at him. “What?”

“I don’t want-”

“Nestor Velcea-you know Nestor Velcea?”

He shrugged. “Of course I do. Didn’t you meet him?”

“What?”

“He was at that party, a couple months ago. When Louis was in town-that’s why he was there, to see Louis. The two of them go back a long way.” He paused, looking at me.” I’d never met Nestor before, just heard of him. Friend of a friend, you know. He was in the camps- that’s where I don’t want to end up.” I must have done something shocking with my face, because he leaned forward, for the moment forgetting his own terror. “What is it?”

All I could manage was: “Friend of what friend?”

“Well, the poet Kaspar Tepylo, of course.”