The Confession

42

Brano Sev was at his desk. I pulled up a chair.

“Ferenc,” he said.

His flat, round face was eternally young. He was somewhere in his forties now-none of us knew his exact age-and in those years all his deeds had done nothing to his face. It must have been useful for him, having an innocent face to hide his corrupted hands. “Listen. I have a friend who’s been called in for a document check. I want to know what this is about.”

He considered the directness of my request, turning it over in his head, looking for motives. All state security men work the same. “That’s confidential information.”

“It’s important I know.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s my friend.”

“And what would you do with this information?”

I paused. “Ease his mind.”

His fingers stroked some blank papers on the desk. He sniffed the air-perhaps he smelled Vera. “Let’s suppose it is what the summons says: a document check. Then everything is fine. But if there is something more involved, something that takes a longer time…if that’s the case, then what will you do?”

I was walking into a trap. I could see this. But I couldn’t just stand up and leave. “I’d tell him to prepare himself.”

“That’s a lie, Ferenc. We both know it. You would advise him not to go, perhaps even to leave the country. It’s what you did to Svetla Woznica.”

In the silence that fell between us the shock settled into my bones. Nothing I did was a secret, nothing had ever been. I looked into his eyes, but couldn’t keep up my strength. He had the ability to hold a stare indefinitely, and I imagined, as my stomach turned over, that this was the way he looked at his victims in the interview room.

“Ferenc,” he said quietly, “maybe the fear has gone to your head. I wouldn’t assume to know what you’re feeling. But I am aware of everything you do. This thing with the Woznica woman was child’s play to figure out-her release form and a few questions at the train station were all it took. I know, but more importantly, so does Comrade Kaminski. I’d worry less about your friends and more about yourself, and your family. This friend of yours, this Georgi Radevych? He’s a drunk and a fraud, certainly you can see this. He’s loud and stupid. You’re not stupid, Ferenc. You’re just confused.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but he was turning away from me again, opening a folder.

I leaned over the toilet bowl and waited for the sickness that didn’t come. I couldn’t still myself. Then I sat down and tried to breathe regularly. There was graffiti scratched into the gray-green paint of the stall, and I focused on the men with enormous penises and large-breasted women bowed to service them. I closed my eyes.

When you know you are being watched, every movement takes on great significance. My stumbling walk down the corridor to the bathroom had been on a stage, with a crowd of thousands watching. Bent over the bowl, there was laughter, and when nothing came, hoots and catcalls. I was never alone, and never would be.