The Confession

44

The poet Kaspar Tepylo shared a room with a minimalist painter. There were canvases of large blue squares on red backgrounds stacked in a corner and a bowl of cigarette butts beside a jar of dirty brushes. “Never live with a painter,” he advised me. “The messes are incredible.”

We walked through to his sparse bedroom, a mattress and desk covered with neat stacks of paper. A few books were lined up beside a radiator that didn’t seem to be working. He offered me the desk chair as he settled his tall, thin frame on the corner of the bed. He scratched a concave cheek. “So what is it, Ferenc?”

Like everyone, he was a friend of a friend, an unsuccessful poet who was assigned to work on construction sites and scribbled lines at night. “I need to talk to Nestor Velcea.”

“What’s Nes been up to? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“I just need to ask him some questions. It’s about a case.”

“What kind of case?”

“A murder.”

“Oh.” He stood up and found some cigarettes on the desk. “I haven’t seen him since, I don’t know, early September. He stayed here for a while after he came back from the camps. Here in this room.”

“Then he left?”

Kaspar nodded. “Told me he’d found a place. But he never gave me the address.”

“Any ideas?”

“I’ve asked around, but he’s not staying with anyone I know.”

“Tell me,” I said. “What’s he like?”

He ashed on the floor and sat back down. “He’s different now than he was. More withdrawn-which for him is saying a lot. He never told me what happened in the camps, but he’s got a terrible limp. And he’s missing this little finger here.” He held up his left hand and pointed at it, then took another drag. “I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me. He just smiled. To tell the truth, he made me nervous.”

“But you let him stay here?”

“I couldn’t turn him away, could I? I remember how he was before he was sent away. He was supposed to have been a good painter. A lot of promise.”

“You didn’t see his paintings?”

He shook his head. “Never let me. He always said they weren’t finished, but I think he was just scared of criticism. I suppose that’s why he didn’t spend time with other painters, just writers. He said he found painters boring.”

“But he used to live with Antonin Kullmann.”

Kaspar shrugged. “When you’re broke you have to make concessions.”

“Why was he sent to the camps?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Nestor was never political. He couldn’t stand the idea of painting for political reasons. It was all propaganda, he said, no matter who was making it. I think he was a little too insistent on this, but to each his own, right?”

“I suppose.”

“And he told me he never signed his paintings. This was strange, too. How did he put it? Yes: He didn’t want his identity to overshadow the integrity of the work. I think I know what he meant-but again, it’s a little extreme.”

“So when he was picked up, it was a surprise?”

“To everyone. A few of us filed a protest at Victory Square, but that did no good.” He looked at his long ash. “Until the Amnesty, we heard nothing.” He tapped the cigarette, and the ash dropped to the floor. “You know, he has family in the provinces. The south, somewhere, I’m not sure. Maybe he went back to his village.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Why not?”

I got up and took my hat from the desk. “Get in touch with me if you hear from him, will you?”