Then his mouth fell open, and he took a step back from the microphone.
The picture disappeared, replaced by a red screen. At the bottom, in white letters, we were told that there were technical difficulties. We were asked to be patient.
ELEVEN
•
Gavra had met Tomiak Pankov only once, in 1985, when General Brano Sev brought him along to one of the Great Leader’s many hunting retreats up in the Carpathians. They joined his entourage of sycophants, and the old man related jokes he’d recently heard from King Hussein of Jordan. The jokes were funny, but Pankov didn’t deliver them well, so the laughter all around him was forced. The president didn’t seem to notice.
Despite that, Gavra was struck by how personable the man was. He knew Gavra’s name and had personally asked Brano to bring him along as a reward for some recent work he’d completed with distinction. They all dressed in brown hunting clothes shipped in from London and went out to track deer. They had little luck, the deer by now used to the marauding group of Party faithful toting shotguns, so Andras Todescu, Pankov’s personal advisor, stepped away from the crowd and spoke into a radio. A few minutes later, three stout bucks went galloping past, and Pankov raised his shotgun, shouting, “This one’s mine!” He shot and missed. “Damn,” he muttered and started to run. Everyone followed, and Todescu again spoke into his radio.
Over the next hill they saw another deer—the woods were suddenly alive with game—and again Pankov aimed and shot wildly.
From that distance, Gavra knew he’d miss. Amazingly, though, the deer stumbled a moment and fell.
“Got that bastard!” shouted Pankov.
“Superb,” said Brano, winking at Gavra.
“Magnificent,” said Todescu.
Knowing what was expected of him, Gavra also offered congratulations, but he saw what had happened. The deer had fallen toward the hunters, as if shot from the opposite direction, and as they approached the shivering animal Gavra scanned the trees. Up on the high branches of a pine, hidden by camouflaged clothing, a Ministry sharpshooter lowered a long, laser-sighted sniper’s rifle.
This is what he remembered as he stood in the cold, staring up at Tomiak Pankov talking to the crowd. He couldn’t hear anything the old man said, because the air was saturated with angry noise. “Death to Pankov!” shouted some; others, “Patak murderer!” and “Down with the tyrant!”
That memory was the only thing he could dredge up to explain why Pankov had been stupid enough to call this rally just after the killings in Sarospatak. Tomiak Pankov had for decades allowed himself to be tricked by his subordinates. They helped him believe that he was a world-class hunter and magnificent jokester. It was no surprise they could also convince him that his people loved and feared him.
His assistants certainly knew better, though. Why would Andras Todescu advise him to speak on television? Had the years of devotion finally dulled the sycophants’wits as well?
People jostled into him, and he pushed back. The amnesia slid away, and the exhilaration of the crowd lost its effect. He instead noticed the warm stink of so many bodies in the same place, then he saw what I saw on television: Pankov stopping in midsentence. Pankov stepping back from the microphone, confused.
The crowd roared and pressed forward. Ahead, on the Central Committee steps, soldiers struggled to hold them back, but Gavra saw one, then five, then twenty people breaking through their lines. He looked up—the terrace was empty. He was suddenly very frightened.
He turned and started pushing through people. Fights broke out between burly workers still in their factory garb and students in layers of sweater. The factory workers got in a few good punches before being overwhelmed, the students swarming and bringing them down. Gavra fought only to get through the crowd that became tighter and firmer with each step. If he wanted to survive, he had to get home. Now.
When he finally reached Yalta Boulevard again, the soldiers were no longer in their perfect line. They were grouped on one side as the captain ran back and forth, yelling at them to keep their positions. But they had seen everything. And now, hundreds of people were swarming the Central Committee steps, kicking against the massive front doors. Then everyone looked up.
From the roof of the Central Committee, a fat helicopter began to rise. It was heavy, lurching in the air, but it managed to gain altitude, then swung around and started to move eastward.
The crowd saw it, too, and the cheer that went up was deafening. Singing erupted; Gavra recognized the tune—the pre-Soviet na-tional anthem, which had been banned these last forty years.
Look! Look! The hawk is flying low.
From the Carpat to the steppes, he marks his territory.
The borders are ringed with fire!
Gavra ran back to the Hotel Metropol. The doorman grabbed his arm. “What happened?”
“It’s over,” Gavra said, gasping. “It’s all finished.”
The doorman wasn’t sure what he was referring to. “The demonstration?”
Gavra pushed past him and got to his Citroen. “Everything.”
He sped the whole way, passing Militia cars that were too busy listening to radio reports to bother ticketing him. People began running from their televisions into the streets. Near his block, the streetlamps were out, and in his headlights people filled the road. He had to slow down. They were jubilant, patting his roof and shouting, “The tyrant is gone!” Someone threw red wine on his windshield, and he turned on the wipers. He made it to Block 183, on the edge of the Eighth District, where he shared his apartment with his close friend Karel Wollenchak. Near the front door, one of the neighborhood drunks, a hairy man named Mujo, noticed him. He stood up, clutching a bottle of rakija, and said to his fat friend, “Hey, Haso! Look who’s here!”
Haso stood as well. There were three other drunks with them, and they all came to meet him. Mujo said, “You get the news, comrade?”
Gavra’s stomach hurt, but he didn’t panic—it was all about math, spatial relations, escape paths. “I saw it all, Mujo.”
“You couldn’t keep them down?” said Haso.
“It’s over, comrade,” said Mujo.
Gavra, unlike some others, had never made a secret of his employer. It was sometimes useful. Once, he’d helped an old woman living below him get a gall bladder operation at Pasha Medical, the private Ministry hospital. But at a time like this, no one would remember his generosity.
“Enjoy your drink,” he said, pushing past them, but one of the drunks grabbed his shoulder.
“Hey,” said a slurred voice.
Gavra snatched the hand and quickly turned, twisting the arm high so it hurt. The drunk moaned.
“Hold on,” said Mujo.
“Just keep your hands off me,” said Gavra. He released the man and continued into the building.
The foyer was empty, but there were more neighbors on the stairwell, all men, clutching bottles of cheap liquor. Everyone knew him, but they didn’t say a word, preferring to lean back against the wall and watch him pass. When he reached the third floor, a wet dollop of spit struck the back of his neck. He didn’t slow down.
Karel was peering out the window when he came in, while on the television a news commentator reported on crop yields. “Listen to that,” said Karel. “This year’s was the highest wheat yield in history. What do you think of that?”
“We’ve got to go.”
Karel, he could see, was hysterical. His dark, fleshy cheeks were perspiring heavily. “We can stay, you know. They’re going to show a repeat of last April’s birthday parade. That’s always a treat.”
Gavra grabbed his friend’s shoulders. “Listen, Karel. We can’t stay here; it’s dangerous, and it’ll only get worse. Pack a bag right now, and we’ll leave.”
“What should I pack?”
“Clothes. Money. And your documents. Now go.”
While Karel went through his wardrobe, singing to himself, Gavra crouched in the bathroom, where he kept a Makarov pistol and
thirty rounds of 9mm ammunition hidden under the drain, wrapped in a plastic bag. Then he went through his extensive record collection and picked out a few things to save. The Velvet Underground, Pink Floyd, and Elton John. He threw them into Karel’s suitcase.
“What about my records?” said Karel.
“Do you need them?”
“Wow.” Karel almost laughed. “I really don’t.”
The men were still in the stairwell, but they had shifted up closer to the third floor, so Gavra and Karel had to push through them. Karel, toting his suitcase, said hello a few times, but no one answered. Karel wasn’t a member of the Ministry for State Security, but his guilt was by association. Someone behind them said, “The faggots are running!”
Another: “You better walk fast.”
Gavra used one hand to clear the way, the other in his coat pocket, gripping the Makarov.
He didn’t have to use it. Despite shoulders thrown in his path and a sore kidney from someone’s knee, they reached the foyer without bloodshed. Mujo, Haso, and their friends were back beside the entrance, drinking again. “Have a nice trip,” said Mujo.
Haso raised his bottle. “Drive safe!”
When Gavra and Karel reached the car, the laughter followed them, but the drunks stayed where they were—they’d had their fun. One side of the Citroen was covered in red paint that said MINISTRY FAGS.
“Who did that?” said Karel.
Gavra took off his coat and rubbed the still-wet paint until all that could be made out was the letter M.
TWELVE
•
I couldn’t move. The red screen had been followed by a report on agricultural yields and then a replay of the 28 April parade in honor of Tomiak Pankov’s seventy-first birthday. Katja finally got up to turn it off. “Use the remote,” I said.
“What remote?”
“What?” My ears were humming.
“What remote?”
“The television’s remote controlled.”
“Tell me where it is, and I’ll use it.”
Of course, I didn’t know. It was Lena who watched television, not me, and she’d hidden the little box somewhere only she knew. I started to cry, then stopped myself.
We heard more voices from the street. Katja opened the window and leaned out to look. She said, “Come see.”
I didn’t want to see anything. I pulled my robe tighter and stared at the black television screen.
She said, “The street’s full of people.”
“Good for them.” Through the open window, I could hear their chants—Ole, ole, the dictator has fled!—as if they were at a soccer game.
“I hope Aron’s all right.”
“What?”
She’d told me this before, but I’d missed it. After Lena’s murder, she called her husband again and told him to meet her at my apartment, so she could give him the pass for the roadblocks. She reminded me of this, but without annoyance. I, on the other hand, was annoyed by everything she said. It was eight—Aron’s shift had ended at five—and there was still no sign of him.
I got up but didn’t join her at the window. Instead, I went to the kitchen and examined the cabinet where we kept our alcohol. Where I kept my alcohol. I took down a bottle of vodka and filled a shot glass. I didn’t put the bottle away. The shot went down and was followed by another. It was the only way I could think of to get rid of the pain that stiffened every muscle in me.
I heard a gunshot. A long-barreled rifle. Katja jumped back from the window and looked at me standing in my robe, the glass in my fist.
“What was that?” I said.
“It wasn’t a Karpat.”
Another shot, and a few screams from the street. Katja stood to the side of the window and slowly tilted her head to look out. I turned off the lights and joined her. Down in the street, the crowd was panicking, splitting down the middle and running to the sidewalks for cover. The shots came from above us, and at one point I saw a muzzle flash from a rooftop on the other side of Friendship Street.
Then silence. The marchers were squeezed into doorways, while in the darkness on the other rooftop we saw a shadow, hunched, running across to other roofs.
For just an instant, I stopped thinking about Lena. “What was that?”
“Ministry, I bet.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Not even they would …” I didn’t finish the thought, because someone started banging on my door.
“Aron,” said Katja. She flipped on the light and hurried to the door but found Gavra standing in the corridor beside a small, heavyset
man with dark skin. He looked like a Gypsy, and his battered suitcase convinced me he was. Katja was stunned to see them. “Gavra. Karel.”
I’d never met Karel before, but Katja had. The two men had come over to Katja and Aron’s for dinner a few times.
Gavra nodded at me as he came in. “You mind, Emil? We need a place to spend the night.”
“Of course.” I shook Karel Wollenchak’s damp hand. “Emil,” I said, and he smiled bashfully as he set down his suitcase.
It struck me, during the following minutes, that the apartment had never been so full of people. My detectives had visited on their own, often to discuss cases, but never as a group. Lena would have liked this—she liked being among people.
As I poured shots for everyone and went to dress, my mood shifted. I wondered if the last sober years of Lena’s life had been full of boredom. I wondered if, because of my natural inclination toward solitude, she’d spent her last years miserable. And then I was convinced of it.
The feeling only intensified when Aron arrived a half hour later. I knew him well. He was flustered and chubby, also dragging a suitcase he’d hurried back home to fill. On the drive to my apartment he’d run into problems. “Mihai Boulevard is impassible. Completely. It’s thick with people. Then the car gave out near the Georgian Bridge, and I had to walk the rest of the way.”
Gavra flipped back and forth between the two television stations, which were still broadcasting prerecorded Party celebrations. Then he went to the radio and found a newscaster who was as panicked as the rest of us.
“At this moment there’s a crowd—I can see them from my window—trying to break into the station. There must be, I don’t know, five hundred people down there. They’re shouting, Let us in! Let us in! It’s … to tell the truth, I’m scared. I don’t know what they want, but after what happened in Victory Square, anything’s pos-sible. I’ll remain on the air as long as I can, all the way to the end.”
“What happened in Victory Square?” said Aron.
Gavra told us everything he had seen.
“Pankov ran away?” said Katja.
“It was the presidential helicopter.”
“We saw snipers,” I said.
“Snipers?” Karel looked frightened; his euphoria had long since faded.
Gavra related what the army captain had told him, about support from the rooftops. “They’re Ministry sharpshooters.”
By then we’d all taken seats in the living room. I’d left out the vodka bottle, adding the scotch as well. Aron shifted in his seat; I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking about how right he’d been these last six months.
I didn’t know what Gavra was thinking, but he later told me. He was working over his next steps. He knew that if he and Karel could make it to Hungary, they could go wherever they wanted—but the truth was, he wasn’t finished here. He couldn’t leave until he understood why he’d been sent to America to protect an old emigre.
Katja admitted to us that, despite her fear, and despite the danger of snipers, she was relieved. “I mean, we’ve all been waiting for this, haven’t we?” She wasn’t so different from Lena.
We nodded our agreement—even Gavra, whose job was to protect Pankov’s government—but none of us spoke, as if my living room were bugged.
“So we should be out there,” she said. “It’s logical. If all of us go out—if everyone goes out on the streets—then
events will go our way. But if we stay in, things could still go back to the way they were. That’s why they’re shooting out there. They want us to stay inside.”
She was right, of course, but the fact was that I didn’t give a damn about any of this. Only hours ago I’d watched my wife die. I didn’t care who ran the country, or if a revolution was stomped into submission with firing squads. I didn’t care about anything.
Ferenc wrote in his most famous book, The Confession, that all married people live a second, fantasy life in which they’re no longer chained by marital ties. A make-believe world where you live alone but are never lonely. I think he was obsessed by this idea, because it became the focal point of his later book, The Cat and the Czar, which excited the French so much.
Though I understood what he was getting at, I’d never lived that fantasy life myself. Instead, when I thought about being without Lena, my stunted imagination made it into a homicide case. I could only imagine her being murdered, and then the rage that would follow.
I know why I did this—because I’m a man, and men want to believe in a primal, violent part of themselves. A force that, if let free, is unstoppable. A force that demands respect.
In that fantasy, it was all about me. My grief, my destitution, and my anger. So much self-righteous anger, and an unbearable desire for revenge.
The reality, at least that night, was different. All I wanted to do was crawl under my bed and shut off the world. I wanted everyone to go home.
By midnight, most of us were drunk. I know I was. I’d insisted that Katja and Aron stay, because we still heard sporadic gunfire outside. Gavra sometimes came to me and tried to whisper in my ear about what he’d learned during his travels, but I wasn’t listening. I was listening, instead, to the radio. Around eleven, the frightened commentator disappeared. His voice rose to a shrill pitch as he told us the invaders had reached the studio, then his microphone cut off. We never learned what happened to him.
After five minutes’silence, a confused group of excited young men took over. They called themselves Free Radio Galicia, harking back to the old name for the largest part of our country, and they gave out information about the progress of the marchers, telling everyone to do what Katja had suggested: go out and join the struggle. Power in numbers, they kept saying. You must go outside.
Victory Square Page 12