Olen Steinhauer - The confession

The lighter was no longer in Martin’s hand. I didn’t know where it was.

“Surely he told you about Antonin. That’s his oldest friend. Did he talk to you about his friends, Martin?”

That’s when I noticed the source of the stink. In the corner, behind the shelves, were a few fresh turds. Martin had been too drunk to make it outside last night, or this morning.

“Stefan,” I said, but he didn’t hear me.

“Tell us about his friends, Martin, come on.”

“I don’t know,” Martin said. He sat up a little, as if to look dignified, and took another drag. “He talked, yeah, but he didn’t tell me nothing.” His voice was strangled and labored, and I wondered how a man like that could keep taking breaths.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Stefan settled a little lower, on his haunches. “So what did Josef talk to you about? He bought you drinks, he talked to you. What about, Martin?”

“Nothing nothing. I didn’t listen.”

“You’re not that rude, Martin. He told you about his friends, maybe, or how he used to be an art curator. Surely he talked about that.”

Martin squinted, then nodded slowly. “Yes, art. He wouldn’t shut up. Art.”

“Of course he did. And he told you why he stopped doing that. Why he stopped being a curator.”

Martin’s next drag was aborted by a fit of angry hacking that turned his face purple and ridged his neck with fat veins. Stefan looked away finally, and I caught his eye and nodded at the door. He shook his head and turned back.

“Why did he stop working in the museum, Martin? You know the reason. It was a good job, why give it up?”

“And you’ll leave me alone?”

“Sure, Martin. Then we’ll leave you alone.”

He squinted again, trying to think it over. His eyes were red all the way through. “He couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what?”

“Couldn’t live with himself.”

“Why couldn’t he live with himself?”

“Because.”

I cleared my throat. The stink was making my eyes water.

“Because why, Martin?”

“He was terrible,” said Martin. “A terrible person.”

“How’s that? How was he terrible?”

I stepped forward, and it shot out of me: “Because he was a goddamned drunk, for Christ’s sake!”

They both looked at me, Martin with some hesitant surprise, Stefan clearly angry.

Then, just as I had done the day before, I turned around and left.

Since we had brought separate cars, I drove back to the station to wait for him. On the way, I saw wives in windows brushing off their shutters and waving away pigeons, and in Victory Square there was a procession of university students. They had signs-small, hand-drawn boards-that demanded accountability within the universities. LET US GRADE PROFESSORS, SO WE CAN TRUST THEIR GRADES! Along their edge, a handful of bored, uniformed Militia looked on.

I didn’t regret my outburst; I didn’t care what Stefan thought. I’d had enough of his worthless needling, because when I looked into Martin’s decomposing features I felt like I was one with him again, in those black bars just after the war. Like I had never crawled out of that subhuman existence.

Leonek gave a smile for my benefit, but when I talked to him there was still that underlying misery. “You’re coming over tonight, then?”

“New tie and everything.” He flipped it up for me to see. It was green silk with small brown dots forming diagonal lines.

“I’m sure Magda will appreciate it.”

Emil passed me on his way to Leonek’s desk and gave a wink. “When are you going to invite me and Lena over for dinner?”

“When you get a decent tie.”

Mikhail Kaminski had set up a chair across from Brano Sev, and they were hunched on either side of the desk, conferring over typewritten pages from the files of state security. Their voices were a distant rumble.

I knocked on Moska’s door and waited for his voice: “Enter.” He was sitting at his desk, large hands prone atop piles of papers, and I was struck by the suspicion that he had been sitting like that all morning, immobile, while outside children played loudly on the sidewalk.

I sat across from him. “What do you know about this guy?”

“Who?”

“Kaminski.”

He glanced up to make sure I’d latched the door, then patted his shirt pockets and the coat hanging from his chair until he found a pack of cigarettes. He offered me one. We blew smoke simultaneously into the stuffy office. “Moscow sent him, but I only heard about it the day before he showed up. What can I tell you?”

“You can tell me why he’s here.”

“Does he need a reason?” He didn’t seem to like the taste of his cigarette, so he put it out. “You’ve heard about what’s been going on in Poland. It wasn’t so long ago they sent tanks into East Berlin and shot a lot of people. You think they want to do that here? They don’t like sending in tanks, any more than we like receiving tanks.” He readjusted himself in his groaning chair. “Kaminski apparently asked for this assignment. He was posted here after the war and claims he’s in love with our country. Says he wants to help shepherd our path to socialism. I checked his file, and it’s true-he was here after the war. I don’t think either of us knew him, but he worked with Sev. And you know what that means.”

It meant that, just after the war, Mikhail Kaminski from the KGB and Brano Sev from our own Ministry for State Security were partners in the quick cleansing of the Capital. It meant sudden disappearances in post offices, government ministries, and even the Militia offices-old friends of questionable loyalty vanished, replaced by fresh-faced automatons. Only Moska’s deft juggling of paperwork kept our office relatively untouched. I said, “So this guy is an old hack.”

“He’s an ambitious prick. Be careful around him. He puts on a good face, but take a look at his hand when he talks. He’s got a nervous trigger finger.”

I smiled.

“How was your vacation?”

“Didn’t get much rest.”

“I don’t think you mean that in a good way.”

“I don’t.” I smoked his cigarette a while longer. “I think you’re going to hear from Stefan. About me, that is.”

He frowned.

“He’s obsessed with this case, he’s got us going all over the place for nothing.”

“It is his case.”

“Maybe.” I put the cigarette out. “But I don’t have to like it.”

“Just bear with him, he’ll figure it out soon enough. He’s a good inspector.”

“He can’t seem to believe that anyone could commit suicide in these times.”

“But you can,” said Moska.

“Yes. I can.”

Stefan was there when I came out. He didn’t have his bag, and he was standing at his desk, shifting some papers around. When he saw me leave Moska’s office he stopped trying to appear occupied. He gave me a firm look, then nodded at the door.

I followed him through the busy corridor, past uniformed militiamen walking with secretaries, and out to the front steps. It wasn’t that hot, but Stefan was sweating.

“Yes?”

“I’ve had enough of this,” he began, then stopped. When he started again, it came out clearly and without hesitation: “I’ve put up with you for a long time now, and I thought that going off to the provinces would help things. But it’s only made them worse.”

“Investigate the suicide. I don’t care, really.”

He raised a hand. “That’s not what I’m talking about. This case is just another part of a four-year-long insult. Four years!” he said, shaking his head. “Ever since that shoddy book came out you’ve forgotten what we were to each other-we grew up together!”