The Confession (16 page)

On the
drive back I explained the connection to Emil. He frowned at the fields. “Why was his name on Maneck’s notepad?”

“They were probably friends. What’s Antonín’s address?”

Beatrice had given it to us with Antonín’s extra key. “Karl Marx fifty-nine.”

K
——
R
—5—: K. Marx 59.

The apartment was another one near the Tisa, but in the Second District, and on the ground floor. It faced a small, overgrown courtyard through barred windows. Books had been tossed casually around, clothes strewn on the chairs, and a smell of fried eggs lingered in the kitchen. Emil brought out his pistol.

It was soon clear that the apartment was empty, though someone had eaten there not long ago. There was no sign of forced entry.

“Another spare key?” Emil suggested.

“Or Antonín’s key.”

The apartment had been treated roughly, but not destroyed; I didn’t think anything had been taken. Someone had slept in the bed recently.

Emil looked through some canvases leaning against the wall. Family scenes: dinner tables, children in a lake, an overfull Trabant driving to holiday. The signature was quite legible:
A. Kullmann
.

We went through the apartment and came up with little. Whoever spent the last few days there had left only old food in the kitchen—potatoes, eggs. There were crushed cigarettes on a plate beside the chair in the living room, and a couple books on the floor around it—a volume of Kandinski’s writings on the spiritual in art, and a book on Socialist Realism. Our anonymous man was a reader—that was the only thing we learned.

A small room with a large window housed the studio. Empty tubes of oil paints littered the floor with crumpled newspapers. A couple canvases—more family scenes—had been destroyed with a knife. “When artists get frustrated, watch out,” said Emil, then stopped at the canvas on the easel. It was empty except for the image of a hand, a couple inches wide, that had been painted in the center—or, it had been begun. The brushstrokes were awkward—they trembled—as if Antonín had been terrified when he painted it.

I looked around the corridor. Clean enough, and empty. The buzzer on the only other ground-floor apartment was marked
SUPERVISOR
, but there was no answer to my ring. An old man came through the front door as I was heading back, and I asked if he knew the building supervisor.

He squinted up at me. “Supervisor?”

I pointed at the door.

“Yes, some time ago.” He pressed his temple with a finger. “I suppose, yes.”

“And now?”

He shrugged with opened hands. “Haven’t had one for I-don’t-know-how-long. What can you do?”

“How about here?” I nodded at the open door. “Antonín Kullmann. Did you know him?”

“How could I? A man like that doesn’t talk to us.”

“A man like what?”

“You know. Didn’t have time to talk to us proles.”

“Bourgeois?”

He touched his temple again. “You’re not kidding.”

“Did you ever see anyone else go in there? Another man, perhaps?”

“I didn’t look. I’m no spy, you know. Why did you say,
did?”

“Did?”

“You said,
Did
you know him. Is he gone now?”

“He’s dead.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “So his apartment’s free?”

It was
getting late, and Emil had plans with Lena, so I told him I’d see him in the morning. I called home using Antonín’s phone. Ágnes had received a red ribbon for her fitness aptitudes, and was being chosen as a group leader. “The Pioneers are funny. I don’t think I understand half of what they tell us, but the sports aren’t bad.”

“What about your French? How’s that coming?”

“Our Pioneer chief said that French was below me. That’s what he said word for word.”

“Well he’s not your father. I expect you to study tonight.”

Her grumble broke apart through the telephone lines.

“Your mother around?”

“She’s going to be late too. I told her not to be out with more than three friends.”

“Why not?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the Militia? They even told us in class about the new law. After dark, more than four people together can be arrested for hooliganism.”

“I see. Can you make yourself dinner?”

“I’m not a
child,
Daddy.”

I found a tin of orange juice in the refrigerator. I was no longer particularly interested in finding out who had stayed here. If it was the killer, he hadn’t left obvious clues. In the morning I’d call in the lab coats to dust for prints, but for now I could do nothing. So I focused on who Antonín was. In some desk drawers were newspaper clippings chronicling his shows. He’d had his first one in the Museum of National Contemporary Art—Josef Maneck’s place—in 1948, and soon after became a regular fixture of the state-owned museums. There were even clippings from a German newspaper praising his early work, some of which traveled to Paris and Köln as part of a series of “international friendship exchanges.” I knew a little German, and could muddle through an article about him, published in 1954, that described “the rise and fall of Antonín Kullmann.” According to the critic, Antonín had burst upon the socialist world in 1948 as a full-fledged genius “by any regime’s standards.” His compositions were ahead of their time and utterly original. But in 1952 that changed. Antonín, in the statement that accompanied his 1952 Köln East/West Friendship Exhibition, claimed to be reinventing himself. But to the German critic it was not a reinvention, but an eradication of the Antonín Kullmann of the earlier exhibitions:

Some of our local critics, on the other hand, felt his genius was continuing to grow “by great schismatic leaps.”

Once I started looking, I found papers everywhere. Reams of typewritten sheets—half-written artist statements, catalogs for upcoming exhibits and, in the bottom drawer of the bedroom bureau, typed drafts of letters. I took them to the living room and settled into the sofa.

Antonín had been a meticulous man. In his correspondences he seemed to work out different versions—sometimes three variations of one letter—before sending them off. There were some addressed to gallery owners and critics—a couple names I recognized—and one was to his ex-wife, Zoia. It was dated 1 November, two weeks ago, about a week before his death, and there was only one draft. The second, presumably, had been sent.

The entire letter was nullified by a large red X.

I went through everything, but could find no replies to his letters, and no address book.

I looked again at the trembly hand on the studio’s easel. It was green-tinted and the paint was very thick. I touched it and jerked back as the small hand smeared onto my index finger. I washed it off.

The pictures on his walls were scenes of socialist utopia—one by the famous Vlaicu, the others by himself, though in one corner I saw the “new” Kullmann and the “old” Kullmann side by side. First, a factory scene of determined, muscled men at work. Nothing new. The second one was entirely different. Two men sitting at a table in a dark room, and on the table was a pig’s head, with black flies hovering over it. But the pig’s head glowed, casting fly-shadows on the wall and lighting the men’s faces. I didn’t know if I liked it or not. It left me with an unsettled feeling.

I bought a cheese sandwich from a store in the neighborhood, then looked at the painting again as I ate, sitting at Antonín’s typewriter. I rolled in a fresh sheet. But nothing came. I typed a few useless words and found myself surprised that the
T
did not stick. Its ease almost disconcerted me, and the whole machine felt too foreign, too perfect. I finished the sandwich, grabbed the Kandinski book, and settled into the chair again. Although Kandinski was not actually banned, he was certainly in disrepute, and the only places one could find his works were the used bookstores with their spare selections of dusty, twenty-year-old paperbacks like this one. I didn’t make it much further than the introduction, where Antonín or the other man had marked some lines that still stick with me:

I woke to the key turning in the lock, and for an instant didn’t know where I was. The floor lamp was still on, and I had to blink to adjust to the light. On the other side of the room, the apartment door opened a little, stopped, then closed again.

I ran. The glass front door was easing shut, and in the dark street a figure bounded away. I skipped over craters in the sidewalk and shouted for the runner to stop. But despite his visible limp and the bag bouncing on his shoulder, he was small and quick, turning the next corner, then the next. By the time I stopped to catch my aching breath, he was gone.

I drove
through the Friday morning work crowd up to the Sixth District, to Unit 21, Block 10. The entryway was one of those dismal greens that give the feeling of being underwater, and the elevator was broken. So I climbed to the fifth floor and knocked. Stefan was in his underwear. “This is a surprise. Finally decide to finish me off?” He was smiling, but when I stepped forward, he stepped back.

I peered past him. “Have any coffee?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll buy you a cup.”

I waited for him to dress. His view was like ours: blocks upon blocks; up, sky. He lived the same way ever since Daria left him; he lived like the bachelor he would always be. This, I supposed, was why he and Magda used my marital bed.

I considered talking to him then. We could have it all out in the open and start settling things finally. But when he wandered out of the bedroom and found his shirt under a sofa cushion, I changed my mind. Magda had said she was making her own decisions, and this, in the end, was the only way. It was not up to him, or to me. He pressed a hand against his swollen belly to flatten the wrinkles of his shirt, but it didn’t help. What did she see in him?

In the car, he leaned forward and frowned. “That your engine? You need to have it looked at.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

He shook his head. “I’ll take a look if you want. I just hate to have cars going around sounding like that.”

I stared at him until he shut up.

We went to the same place he had been going to for years. Café-bar #338. A dark workers’ hole almost in the Third District where Turks drank coffee from very small cups. “Why don’t you try another bar?”

He shrugged. “Why should I? I’ve brought Leonek here. He likes it.”

“
Leonek
likes it? I wouldn’t think so.”

“Because of the Turks? Come on, Leonek’s a bigger man than that. These guys didn’t kill his family.”

“Well, neither of you has any taste.”

We got coffees and rolls and settled on knee-high stools around a low table. A thin Turk with a little beard raised his cup to Stefan, and Stefan nodded back. “Out with it,” he said to me.

“I’ve found your Antonín.”

“Antonín?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

He knew, but it took a moment to settle into his skull. “
My
Antonín?”

“Antonín Kullmann. He was found in the Canal District, burned to a crisp.”

His tongue moved around his teeth, then he swallowed. “So that was Antonín.”

“I talked to his mother, in Drebin. He was an artist, and Josef Maneck showed his stuff. He has an ex-wife named Zoia who’s married to a clerk. He was trying to get her back.”

Stefan folded his hands beneath his chin.

“I think the killer came by last night, but I lost him.”

“The killer?”

“Maybe.”

He finished the roll and ordered another coffee from a barmaid with striking dark eyes. Then he watched me a moment. “And you’re bringing this information to me?”

“It’s a case.”

“You’re right.”

“And I can be a big man too.”

“I’m glad.”

We returned to Antonín’s apartment and went through everything again. There was nothing new, but Stefan was thorough as he read the letters and examined the newspaper clippings. I pointed out the letter to Zoia mentioning the
sense of my mortality
. “He may have known he was going to be killed.”

“Uh-huh,” said Stefan. He looked at the cigarettes still dirtying the plate beside the chair and read their brands. “This one’s yours?”

“Yeah.”

He examined the bed, then went on to the bureau. The clothes were good quality, expensive, and I wondered if Lena Brod would approve of them, or if I was too much of a prole to know the difference. As he searched he told me what little more he had learned about the dead curator, Josef Maneck.

“Before he was sent to the bottling plant, he was doing very well for himself. The Culture Ministry gave his museum a significant percentage of their budget.”

“Why?”

He straightened. “This is where I become embarrassed. It was because of his contribution to the art world, having brought some genius—an A. Kullmann—to the attention of the public.” He shrugged. “I never followed up on it.”

“You should be embarrassed.”

“Anyway,” he said as he went back to searching, “in ’fifty-one the heavy drinking began and just got worse. He drank throughout the day, hid it from no one, and after he’d drunkenly insulted enough Ministry officials, they sent him to the bottling plant. The drinking didn’t stop.”

“Did you catch up with Martin again?”

“He disappeared.”

“I saw him hiding from you in the Fourth District. What did you do to him?”

Stefan smiled. “Maybe I was a little pushy.”

“What happened after the bottling plant?”

“Josef survived. That’s a mystery, how he made ends meet. I suspect someone was helping him out.” He appraised the living room as he walked to the paintings on the wall. “Probably Antonín. Hey—this is good.” He took down the one I’d noticed and brought it to the window, turning it so the pig’s head became even more illuminated.

“Josef made this guy famous.”

Stefan turned it in the light. “This painter made himself famous. Josef just came along for the ride.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Here’s another one.”

I brought him the factory scene, and when he took it his head slipped back, as if afraid of catching something. “What happened to him? This is trash.”

We held the paintings side by side. Beneath each signature was a year. The good one was dated 1949, the factory scene last year, 1955.

Stefan grunted. “It’s criminal. That’s what it is. Someone with this much talent, and he sells his soul. To make
this
.” It was more than he could bear. He tossed both paintings on the sofa and reached for his hat.