The Confession

by Olen Steinhauer

  “I know.”

  “Once a year, that’s not enough for any woman.”

  I looked at her a moment more, at her hard, determined expression, then gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  6

  Ágnes listened to a staticky American crooner while she half read a civics schoolbook on the sofa. Pavel was asleep beside her. She wrinkled her nose when I kissed her. “You stink. Are you drunk?” When she took off her glasses to examine me, she seemed very much like a grown woman.

  “No, I’m not drunk.” But I slurred the last two words. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I told Stefan to come see us more often. Is he all right?”

  “Stefan was here?”

  “He called. But not for you. He wanted Mama.”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it.

  “After she talked to him she was crying. Is something wrong with Stefan?”

  I looked around. “Where is your mother.”

  “She went out.”

  “What about girls’ night?”

  She put her glasses back on and returned to the book. “I guess she meant other girls. She went to see her friend Lydia.” After a moment, she looked at me again. “Daddy, are you all right?”

  Later, as I lay on the sofa in the dark, a sheet over me, staring at the ceiling, she arrived. First the key clicked in the lock, then light spilled in from the corridor. I waited until she had locked it again. “Where were you?”

  I heard her gasp, then the keys being set down. “Out. With Lydia.”

  “Come over here, Mag.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “This is important.”

  Her shadowy form moved over to me, and I sat up. I patted the sofa for her to sit.

  “Where were you?”

  Her profile was black, but I could see her thinking about it. “I told you, Ferenc.”

  “We’ve got to talk about this.”

  Her profile tilted so she was looking at her hands. “I just need to figure everything out. I don’t know what I want anymore.” She paused. “I can only do this on my own. Can you understand that?”

  I put a hand on her knee.

  “Don’t. Please.”

  I took back my hand. “We used to talk about these things together.”

  She turned to me, but I couldn’t make out her expression as she stood up. “Yes. We used to.”

  7

  The next day, Emil and I walked back to Woznica’s neighborhood and split up at the Tisa to canvass the local shops for information. I talked to a fishmonger, two bakers, a keysmith, and two bartenders, all with no luck. They had never seen Comrade Woznica’s wife—him, yes, but never her. “Not once?” A shrug and a shake of the head. Maybe years ago, they couldn’t be sure. The second bartender, a man nearly as large as I, with a shock of black hair marked by little thinning spots, had never even met Malik Woznica. I took the news with a handful of pumpkinseeds and turned to go, but recognized a figure hunched by the far wall. The name took a moment to materialize, but it did come, along with a cool wave of repulsion.

  “Oh god damn,” he said when he saw me.

  “Martin.” I didn’t stick out my hand because I didn’t want to get that close. His dry nose was peeling.

  “Comrade Inspector,” he mumbled, then finished his shot. “You’ve found me, now I must go.”

  “I’m not looking for you. Josef Maneck’s case is over.”

  “Tell that to your goddamn friend.” He started to stand, wobbled, and settled back down.

  “Is that why you’re in this neighborhood? Has the other inspector been asking questions?”

  “Don’t tell.” This time he made it to his feet and put a purple stump of finger to his lips. “Don’t say I was here. Be a pal?”

  He didn’t look back as he tumbled out the door.

  The bartender told me he’d been coming in there a week, maybe more, and I knew then that Stefan was still obsessed with that old suicide. The thought brought some small satisfaction. Stefan, perhaps, was spiraling into darkness.

  Emil met me at the Georgian Bridge, and as cars passed we huddled against the cold and compared notes. It had been the same for him—they’d seen the husband but not the wife. “Talked to Woznica’s pharmacist, though.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Picks up his morphine every week, like clockwork. He told me those first weeks he’d been suspicious—it’s no small amount for one man.”

  “What convinced him?”

  “How big Woznica is. And how extreme his condition. The pharmacist said it’s gotten worse this half year or so.”

  “So he’s been taking more?”

  “I asked him that. It’s increased, yes, but only because of his tolerance. In essence, Woznica’s been on the same dosage for the last five years. But it’s no longer helping—we’ve both seen how he shakes.”

  We leaned against the iron rail, the wind battering us, and faced the Canal District.

  “How about Svetla?”

  Emil shook his head. “Hasn’t seen her. And listen to this: He’s never filled a prescription for her.”

  “Never? A sick woman?”

  Emil buttoned his jacket higher. “I think we should visit Comrade Woznica again.”

  But he wasn’t in. On the way back down, we spoke with Ioana Lipescu. She was in her seventies, with a little red hammer and sickle pinned to her blouse. She had a great toothless smile that remained with her as she served us tea and sweet breads, but she could offer little more. Woznica hadn’t lied—she was nearly deaf. But she had fond words for Svetla Woznica. “Beautiful—you’ve seen? Such a gorgeous girl. Some of those Russians can be. You wouldn’t think so. But I remember she had a mouth on her. Before she was sick, yes. She knew how to complain, you can be sure.”

  “Complain?” asked Emil. “What about?”

  She had him repeat it a few times, then placed her spotted hands on her knees. “You know how they are. This city’s not Moscow, we don’t claim it is! We like easy living. She liked to dance. Out all the time, what a frustration for him.”

  A weak constitution, an angel. Now, a dancer. A complainer. I leaned forward. “When did you last see Svetla?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, a long time. Could it be six years?”

  “Six months?” Emil offered.

  “Six months, yes.” She adjusted her pin and licked her gums. “I used to dance. Oh, I used to dance.”

  “I bet you did,” I told her as we got up to leave. Then I repeated it. Louder.

  8

  The corridor on the fifth and highest floor of Unity Medical was as crowded as Georgi’s party. Old babushkaed women, a farmer with a leg ending in dirty bandages at the knee, pregnant girls, fevered children, and young, chain-smoking men pacing as best they could. There was a smell of decay, of rotting, but I couldn’t locate its source. I wondered how the hospital corridors in Budapest were looking at that moment.

  We had avoided the nurses’ station at the end of the corridor, where a heavy, smocked woman leaned into a telephone, trying to slow the flood of patients.

  The third door on the right had a corroded bronze nameplate: DR. SERGIUS BRANDT.

  The doctor didn’t seem aware that we had entered. He was bent over a young, pregnant woman in a chair that faced the door, one hand beneath her blouse, holding her swollen belly. She looked past his shoulder at us, reddening beneath her freckles. “Doctor,” she whispered, but he wouldn’t be distracted. He shifted his hand and hummed a few bars of something. “Doctor.”

  He straightened, tugged down his white lab coat, and turned to face us. His glasses magnified his eyes, and his short-cropped white hair was thin and soft. “You,” he ordered us, “wait.”

  We remained by the door as he finished with the woman, whispered some kindness, accepted a bottle of white wine from her, and kissed her cheeks. When she passed between Emil and me, she kept her eyes on the floor.

  The doctor sat and made a few marks in a folder, then closed it. B
ehind his head was a framed photo beside his medical certificates: two blond boys—twins, perhaps his. Almost in the corner was a tiny, framed Mihai—put up as an obligation. He took off his glasses. “You can see I don’t have a lot of time, Inspectors.”

  “We’ll try to be fast,” I said. Out of habit we pulled out our certificates, but he waved them away. “We want to know about one of your patients.”

  “Then ask.”

  He had a way about him. His curtness was commanding, yet not insulting. He was a man living under the weight of great responsibilities.

  “Comrade Malik Woznica,” said Emil.

  “And his wife,” I added. “Svetla.”

  Doctor Brandt started to reach for his file cabinet, then stopped. “Of course—Malik Woznica suffers from nerve problems of indeterminate origin. This is public record.”

  I stepped closer to the desk. “We understand that his condition’s become worse in recent years.”

  The doctor frowned, then got up and left the room. When he returned he held two yellow folders—one thick, the other nearly empty. He opened the thick one, replaced his glasses, and read over the top page. “Who told you his condition was worse?”

  “His pharmacist,” said Emil.

  Dr. Brandt shook his head. “Ask someone with an education, okay? I’ve examined him regularly for five years, and his condition has plateaued. I’ve increased his morphine dosage, but only to counteract his tolerance. There’s been no change in his condition.”

  “What about his wife?” asked Emil.

  There were only a few sheets inside the thin file. “Last time I saw Svetla Woznica, she was fine. A sore throat, nothing more.”

  “How long ago was that?” I asked.

  He looked for a date. “Eight months ago.”

  When he saw our surprise, he took off his glasses, and his eyes shrunk.

  “I’d ask what this is about, but I’m hearing too many terrible things these days. God knows there’s no reason to compound them.”

  On the drive back to the station, I went over the particulars again: “Svetla Woznica, a woman too weak to leave the house, disappears with some clothes, leaving the kitchen a mess. Malik Woznica is also ill, and requires morphine in order to function.” I stopped behind a pair of coffee-colored horses that would not move, no matter how much the farmer in front of them pulled the reins. “And now, we have contradictions.”

  Emil stared at the swishing tails. “The family doctor can’t verify her condition, because he hasn’t seen her. The neighbor thinks of Svetla as a complainer. Not how her husband describes her at all.”

  “Maybe that’s just nostalgia,” I said. “On his part, or hers.”

  A couple other farmers had joined the first. They pulled on the reins, pleaded with the horses, and struck their ribs with sticks. Behind, another Škoda’s horn blared.

  “And Comrade Woznica’s own condition has worsened over the last half year.”

  “Which is almost the amount of time,” Emil said, “that the good doctor has not seen Svetla Woznica.”

  Their patience at an end, the farmers beat the horses on the rump, the ribs, and the face. Some bystanders joined in, one of them a teenage boy in his exercise uniform. There were more horns screaming behind us.

  “For a half year,” I muttered, and by saying the words aloud, it crystallized in my head. “Svetla’s been taking her husband’s morphine for the last six months. She’s an addict.”

  “And Malik Woznica’s been protecting her.”

  “Nursing her. But it still doesn’t explain her disappearance.” I tapped the horn to hear it squeak. “When Comrade Woznica gets home from work, we should be there to greet him.”

  The horses would only move after blood had been drawn. It flowed along their rib cages and over their eyes. One bucked, then shot forward, the other following, and a crowd of men and boys with sticks and boards chased after them.

  9

  Kaminski was waiting for us. He’d already assembled Moska and Stefan, both of whom looked worried, and after we arrived Leonek sauntered in. The Russian waved us over to Brano Sev’s desk, but Sev himself was nowhere to be seen.

  There was a demonstration, he told us, in one of the housing units near the Tisa. “Hooligans.” He shook his head. “Now, we’ve no plans to do anything to these people. Let them shout their heads off. We just need a show of support out there, to make sure they don’t set fire to themselves.” A smile, a half laugh, then he opened his hands, the right index finger jerking. “A lot of our regular Militia have called in sick. I don’t know. The flu or something. And we need more warm bodies out there. Can you spare an afternoon?”

  Moska waited for the affirmation that didn’t come, then said, “They can spare an afternoon.”

  Within the half hour, all of us—except Kaminski—were in the dim rear of a van, rattling through cobbled streets. There were no windows, so we looked at each other and at our hands.

  “Where’s Sev?” asked Leonek.

  Moska shrugged.

  Stefan and I were preoccupied by our mutual vicinity. The cut on his forehead had healed and disappeared. His beard had grown out in a blond mess, and I wondered what Magda thought of it. I tried not to wonder about anything else. Emil, beside me, was quietly accepting this new aspect of his job. Leonek cracked open the rear door and nearly tumbled out. We pulled him back in. “We should have turned left back there,” he said in a high whisper. “I bet they’re just taking us to prison.”

  “No one’s going to prison,” I said.

  “Sit down,” Moska said as we clattered through a pothole. “You’ll hit your head.”

  “I’ll get out of here is what I’ll do.” But after a moment he sat down again.

  The demonstration wasn’t as large as Kaminski had us believing. There were maybe fifty students and workers milling around the entrance to an apartment block, a few with signs that said SOLIDARITY and EYES TO BUDAPEST and FIRST HUNGARY, THEN US! There were murmurs of anxious conversation, and groans whenever more militiamen arrived in white, unmarked vans like the one we’d taken. Some were in uniform, some not. Kaminski was on the edge of the crowd, speaking with a commander from another district. He smiled when he spoke, opening his hands and moving them around in explanation. The commander then walked to a van and spoke to three young militiamen—boys, really—who began gathering short black clubs from the van.

  More groans from the crowd, some worried faces. One stared at me a long time, a stout man with oil stains up and down his work clothes. Farther back was a student who I thought I recognized from Georgi’s. I stood beside Moska. “What’s going on here?”

  But he didn’t answer. His repulsed expression was clear enough.

  “I’m not touching that,” said Leonek when a club was offered to him.

  “Orders,” said the boy.

  Moska touched Leonek’s shoulder. “Take it, Leon.”

  Stefan stared at his own club, as if he’d never seen one before. “It’s like the Americans say.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “On the radio. They say that we club and shoot demonstrators. I was beginning to doubt them.”

  I put my own club under my arm. It was stiff and awkward. Then I looked at all those faces looking back at me. I saw some fear, but primarily hatred. Particularly in the students. A few in the back were trying to start a chant. Russia out of Bu-da-pest!

  A couple others picked it up, but it was a weak effort; our presence was draining their resolve. But as it went on—Russia out of Bu-da-pest!—the repetition began to endow them with courage. I noticed a familiar face in the rear of the crowd, open mouth shouting, helping raise their excitement. Round cheeks, straight teeth, three moles: Brano Sev, only half-disguised in a blue worker’s cap. He and a few others raised fists above their heads, their voices turning to mist. But I could see only him.

  Wives and mothers leaned out of windows and shouted for their men to come back in. From above they could see there was no esca
pe through the ring of militiamen and white vans. But no one heard them. The chanting rose, the students shouting bravely, taken by a fever, by the knowledge that this was their moment of glory—they would not stop shouting until the last Russian tank had left Budapest. Then—a thump on the van beside me. The raised fists held rocks that began to rain on us. Brano Sev’s piece of ragged concrete cracked a windshield.

  The commander bellowed something that must have been an order, because we were all moving forward, clubs held tightly, to round them up. The chant dropped off, and when we reached the demonstrators their open hands tried to push us back. Palms pressed into my chest, faces flashed by. Someone was behind me, stopping my retreat, and we were in the midst of them, in faces and hands and shouts and sweat. Someone hit me in the jaw, and I instinctively struck out with my club. The snap of bone. A student dropped at my feet. I looked around for Emil or Leonek, or anyone, but saw only angry workers and students climbing over each other to get away. Above, women covered and uncovered their faces, screaming. This was too much. I pushed backward through the crowd, outward, elbowing anything that tried to stop me. Something hit the back of my head and I swung the club again, turning, and saw a militiaman floundering on the ground, his ear bleeding. I pushed through them, but the crowd seemed to go on forever, hysterical demonstrators and militiamen, who swung their clubs as if such a small tool could bring silence. Then I was out, and Kaminski stood shouting at me. I couldn’t hear his words, only saw his large mouth, spit-damp, his own club pointing me back into the riot. He reached for me. I grabbed his shoulders and flung him against a van and kept going.

  I crossed the street and stood in front of an apartment door, then sat down. Windows slammed shut above me, then I heard gunshots. I thought I would be sick, but wasn’t. From where I sat, I saw a row of white vans, bloody men being thrown into them, and a block where women cried from their windows. Two unconscious bodies were carried into a van. I stared at my rings.