The Confession

70

I drove to the Fourth District and parked a street in from the river. The Saturday morning sun was just beginning to come out, casting everything in a gray shroud, and a cold wind swept up the Tisa. I quickly found the door to his building. I hadn’t really looked at it before, but now I had time. It was large, polished oak, with a bronze handle in the center. His wide, riverview window was on the top floor. The light was on.

I could have gone right up and taken care of it, but that would have been unnecessarily risky. The deaf woman below him could be up early, and might see me going up or down the stairs. So I buttoned the top of my coat, sniffed, and leaned against the railing by the Tisa, fooling with my rings.

I did not think as I waited. I did not reflect on the past or the future; I did not plan. So many of the things I’d planned and committed to had fallen apart, and now I was finished with that. I simply waited, and would act according to the moment. When some early risers passed-merchants on their way to work-I did not think about them. All I noticed was the light changing from gray to yellow, then gray again as clouds filled the sky.

He opened the door a little before nine, and I turned toward the water to hide my face. Once he was halfway down the street, I followed.

He moved slowly, his white hair and sunburned head bobbing over his heavy body, and tugged now and then at the lapels of his trench coat. His shortness was apparent when he passed others on the slowly filling street. He stopped at a newspaper kiosk and bought the day’s Spark, then scanned headlines, his pace slowing more until he turned into a cafe two streets east of his building.

I waited outside, holding down my thirst. I didn’t need the coffee-adrenaline kept me awake-but my mouth was parched, and I needed a bath.

He was in there for three-quarters of an hour, then returned to his apartment. When it was clear where he was heading, I stopped at a kiosk and bought cigarettes and a bottle of water. I moved my post to his side of the street, so that if he decided to look outside, he wouldn’t notice the big man who did not take his eyes off the front door.

It occurred to me as I waited that I did not have to hold my emotions at an arm’s length anymore. They were too far away to matter.

I was lucky. In less than two hours he was on the street again. He turned the west corner and began looking through his keys while standing beside a green Sachsenring P240, a new model I admired. Once he found his keys I had passed behind him and was getting into my skoda.

We drove westward, following the Tisa out of town, then north. There weren’t many others on the road, and I had to keep a good distance. We passed Uzhorod and moved into a long stretch that slid slowly up into the mountains. Pine trees popped up around us, and with one hand I took my map out of the glove compartment. The only major town along that road was Perechyn, but it wouldn’t appear for another hour and a half. We were the only ones on the road.

I imagined he was heading to the dacha where he had taken his wife to find out what all he could do to her. But I didn’t want him to arrive-I didn’t want to leave clues in an obvious place.

He was a slow, careful driver, so it was easy to change gear and close the distance between us. The road curved as we gained altitude, and trees kept us from seeing what lay around each turn. I pulled the sun visor low and tailgated him. In his mirror I could vaguely make out his nervous face checking for the reckless driver behind him, but I stayed close. Finally, he did what I wanted: He slowed, drew to the edge of the road, and stuck his hand out to wave me around. I took his offer, and as I passed turned my head in the other direction.

Shadows of trees hung over the road as I took the turns abruptly, wanting to give myself enough space. The road was narrower than in the plains, and now and then a warning sign told me that it could not accommodate two-way traffic. At one of these points I stopped and placed the car at an angle. I got out, opened the hood, and leaned underneath it.

I heard him come up behind me, apply brakes, then honk. I kept my head beneath the hood. A second honk. Then, the sound of his door opening and his heels crunching pebbles.

“Is there some trouble? Maybe if you’d slow down, you could-”

I straightened and faced him.

Sometimes when people are stunned, there is a hesitation before the actual recognition. For Malik Woznica there was no pause. I saw the shock, then the back of his head as he ran to his car.

But his legs were short. I caught his coat as he was pulling the door open and jerked him back, then kicked the door shut.

He was saying No, no, but there seemed no reason to reply. I pulled him, kicking, away from his car, turned him toward me, and punched him hard on the brow. His head buckled back, flesh trembling. I ignored the pain in my knuckles and gave him another one that knocked him out and sent blood dribbling down his face. I dragged him to my car, opened the trunk, and stuffed him inside. It was difficult getting his legs in, but after a couple tries I could fold them properly. I slammed the door shut. I jogged to his car and drove it off the edge of the road, into the trees, wiped off the wheel, gearshift and handles with my shirt, then returned to my own car and closed the hood. I turned it around and began driving south again.