The Confession

47

On the drive back, I considered what Urlovsky had said. Josef Maneck and Antonin Kullmann had turned in Nestor Velcea because they were jealous of his talent-Kullmann didn’t want to compete against a better artist. I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t imagine someone doing such a thing when the reward would have been so undependable. Was Nestor so self-centered to really believe this?

Moska was posting notices on the bulletin board behind my desk when I came in. “There was a call for you. That friend of yours-Georgi?”

I ran to the phone.

“My blessed friend! I’m in only one piece, and I’ve got an appetite that could stall a Volga.”

We met in a restaurant near his apartment. It was an old place that writers in the prewar days used to fill with smoke and wine and literary arguments. Behind the bar were grainy photos of well-dressed men in stiff collars at tables, a few wearing looser, more artistic clothes, toasting the photographer. The great Romanian poet Eminescu sat next to our national poet, Pasha, and not a single blow was being exchanged-Georgi pointed this out as we edged our way to our own table. He was positively buoyant, and waved to people he recognized, then ordered cutlet and a long series of sides that came to him like flashes of inspiration. “Roasted potatoes! Yes, and…peppers!”

“You will stall a Volga.”

He winked at me. “I’m just so happy to be alive.”

He was too distracted by everything around him-the smells, the decor, the women. Only after he had dived into his food could he, between mouthfuls, begin to tell me.

“I thought it was over. You can be sure of that. They stuck me in a cell without a word. It was no bigger than a water closet. I remembered the prayers Mother taught me when I was a child. Pieces, though, never an entire prayer. And in that little concrete room I whispered whatever I could remember. Do you know, I even worried that if I couldn’t remember a single prayer from beginning to end, God wouldn’t take me? I thought my soul would be doomed because of bad memory!”

He laughed at this, fully, expressively, though it didn’t seem particularly funny to me.

“Time stops in a cell without windows. You know this, it makes sense, but when you’re in it, it’s a whole new reality. So I waited. There was nothing. No food, no voices, no sounds at all-they’re soundproof, those new cells they’ve got. Incredible.” He took another mouthful and spoke as he chewed. “But they kept the lights on. Even at night. I couldn’t even guess the time.”

“So they didn’t talk to you?”

“I think it was the second day I heard from them. The guards woke me up and took me to another room on the next floor up. It was an office with a desk, and a chair in the middle of the room. I was told to sit down. Then the guards left. That room was not soundproof. I could hear someone shouting in the next room. No no, please no — that sort of thing. Christ.” He shook his head. “I was crapping my pants, you can believe it.”

“I believe it.”

“Then he came to me. Tall guy, he smiled a lot. Russian. He walked around my chair and started talking. Conversationally. As if we were old friends.”

“Okay.”

“He talked about nightspots in town. He was fond of The Crocodile-you know that place?”

“A nightclub?”

“Russian-run nightclub. I’ve never been there. He suggested I go on Tuesdays, like he does-when some vaudeville act does their comedy. This is the conversation he started with. I suppose it was to relax me, but it didn’t. Then he started talking literature. Seems he’s a fan of our writers. He brought up some names, then he said he’d been reading your old novel recently.”

I reached for my drink, my fingers cold and my rings heavy. “Did he have a mustache?”

“Yeah. A thin one. He asked if we were good friends, but I told him we were just acquaintances. I didn’t want him to ask too much.”

“Good.”

“But he knew we spent a lot of time together-of course they’d seen you bring me to them.”

I waited while he dug into the peppers, then spoke through a full mouth.

“But he left that alone for a while, and asked about my poetry. He wanted to know why I hadn’t published anything for years. He’d seen my old book, thought it was pretty good.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t suggest he read my self-published pieces. I told him I wasn’t inspired much these days.”

“Did he believe it?”

Georgi rested his wrists on the edge of the table. “Ferenc, I have no idea what he thought about anything I said.”

There was a lot of noise in the restaurant, voices and clattering dishes and scraping silverware.

“After a while he asked about you again. He asked if I’d read anything you’d written lately. I said no. He told me he’d had a peek, and that it was brilliant stuff. I didn’t ask him how he’d gotten his peek.”

“I know how he got it.”

“You know this guy?”

“He works out of our station. I know him. Go on.”

Georgi stretched an arm over the back of his chair. “He also praised your Militia work. The man was full of praise, I tell you.”

“It’s his tactic. He’s good at it.”

“Don’t I know. But he asked about the case you’re working on. I said I didn’t know anything about it. But you’ve helped him? he asked. Helped him find Nestor Velcea? ”

“He said that name?”

Georgi nodded. “I didn’t think it possible, but I was even more terrified than before. I said I hadn’t helped with anything, and he shook his head. Come now, let’s be truthful. He had me in a corner, you see?”

“He did,” I agreed.

“I had no choice.”

He waited for me to agree with that too, so I did.

“He was staring at me, with those eyes. I admitted I might have helped once.”

Now it was coming out.

“He pressed on about it. How had I helped? What did you need? So I told him you were looking for someone else, not Nestor. I made up a name. God help me, I did.”

“What was the name?”

“Gregor Prakash.”

“Who?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I told him he was a painter I’d never met. A formalist. And the Russian asked what information I’d given you. By then it was easy. The lie was begun. I told him that Gregor lived over in the Fifth District, and if he was any kind of painter at all, he’d go to the bar on the corner of Republic and the Eighteenth of January.”

“Incredible,” I said. “And he bought it?”

“What do I know?” He picked up a cube of roasted potato with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “All I know is he sent me back to my cell. This morning a guard took me out to the street and told me to keep walking.”

I paid for the lunch, and we walked toward Victory Square. Georgi bought a couple fried doughs from an old man in a kiosk. We crossed the streets, passing the ideal socialist couple holding their torch, and entered Victory Park. I didn’t know why Kaminski didn’t just come to me for this information. He could have learned the details of the case from me-I saw no reason to hide such things from him. But no-I’d already hidden information about Nestor Velcea from Sev. And why? Brano Sev knew: The fear had gone to my head.

“So when are you going to have that brilliant writing ready for me?”

We were on a bench, staring through the trees at the Culture Ministry building, which had been white, but was being painted gray by a crew of workmen on scaffolding. “You’re still going to print it?”

“Of course.”

“This experience hasn’t frightened you away from your publishing?”

Georgi licked his sugarcoated fingers. “All it’s done is remind me how much I like being alive.” He held up an index finger. “Alive, Ferenc. Not one of the walking dead.” He placed the finger in his mouth, and sucked.