36 Yalta Boulevard tyb-3
Page 33
“Here.” The Lieutenant General handed him the manila folder. “You can dispose of these as you like.”
Inside was a stack of photographs. Half of them were of Brano, from a grainy distance. Brano in that Bobrka bar with Pavel Jast, Brano exiting the safe house on Felberstra?e, Brano with Ludwig in the Cafe Mozart, Brano with Dijana outside the Web-Gasse apartment. Others were completely devoid of people. Brano looked at him.
“Seems our man fancied himself an artist,” said the Lieutenant General. He sniffed. “Wasted a lot of film on empty streets and parks.”
“Who took these?”
“You lost my man a number of times, but he’s persistent. I suppose that makes up for the artistic streak.” He winked. “You never thought you were actually alone, did you? No, Brano. You’ll never be alone.”
Brano gazed at the photos. Him in the Carp with Ersek Nanz, him in a nighttime street with Jan Soroka. Then, in the back, he found another one of Jan. He was with Lia and Petre in a street with English signs. Brano held it up.
The Lieutenant General took the picture and squinted at it. “Just thought you’d like to know what happened to your friend. His wife had a change of heart.”
“I see.”
“And I suppose you heard about Fraulein Frankovic?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Like our photographer, she doesn’t give up easily. She’s been sending you letters, hasn’t she?”
Brano nodded.
“I heard she visited the embassy again on Friday, with Ludwig. They both want to know what happened to you. Any message you’d like us to pass on? Want them to know you’ve been made a colonel?”
Brano shook his head. “They won’t care about uniform decoration.”
During the last week, as he recovered in his apartment from the bruises of the interrogation, he had received two visits from Regina Haliniak. She brought him the news she overheard from her desk-after his return, everyone seemed to know his story. She was sympathetic, arriving with food she had cooked in her and Zoran’s kitchen. She made him sit while she shaved him, and sang folk songs while she ran his bath. She had seen photographs of Dijana Frankovic and told Brano that he was a fool. He could have given his information on Cerny to Romek and stayed in Vienna with Dijana. Everyone at Yalta had the same question: Why did he come back?
The Lieutenant General asked him the same thing. “You could have even been of use to us there.” Brano shrugged, groping for an answer that he didn’t have, and the Lieutenant General shook his head, perhaps disgusted, then left.
Brano descended the steps back into the metro, joining a crowd of young people with hair not quite as long as the Viennese youth’s, and faced the cool wind that preceded the gray train. He got on, holding tightly to the leather straps as the floor shook beneath him and the train tilted into turns.
He got out in the Eighth District, where the gray towers spread out as far as the eye could see. He weaved between old cars in the cracked parking lot, on his way to Unit 57, Block 4.
The elevator brought him to the twelfth floor. When he stepped out, he noticed that at the end of the hall a small child-the neighbors” girl-was staring at him. She held a ball in her hands. He gave her a smile, but it was too slight to be noticed, and she turned and disappeared through her door.
He hung his coat in the foyer, then found a bottle of water in the kitchen that he brought to the living room. He looked at the coffee table, where Dijana’s last, unopened letter lay. The writing on the envelope was erratic-some characters slanting to the left, others to the right-and perhaps that was why he hadn’t opened it.
The telephone rang.
“Hello?”
“Brani?”
“Hello, Mother.”
“You’re still coming tomorrow?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Why should I, dear?”
He nodded into the phone. “You got my letter?”
She didn’t answer for a moment, and he wondered if she was going to cry. He’d written her a story about her husband’s flight west in 1948, about how he ended up in a displaced persons camp in Frankfurt and died the next year of tuberculosis. But she didn’t cry. She only said, “Afternoon tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll prepare something good.”
“You always do, Mother.”
He hung up, then sat a moment on the sofa, staring at his small television. He turned it on and flipped between the two channels, settling on a repeat of the May Day parade down Mihai Boulevard. He’d always avoided such celebrations, but next year, he promised himself, he would attend. Then he looked up at a sound.
Clicking, from the front of the apartment. Like a lock being turned. He stood and walked quietly to the foyer.
Beside the coat rack, he waited, listening. More clicks, and then a quiet groan beneath the cacophony of trumpets from the television. But the sound was in the kitchen, and he knew then that it was only the water heater, trying desperately to raise the temperature. There was no one here at all.
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