So he told her she looked good. She stared at him as if she didn’t understand. “Really, you do.”
“Why you are here?”
“I’ve left.”
“Left?”
“I’ve moved to Vienna.”
“You—” She squinted at him over the rim of her glass. Then she lowered the glass.
“Here
now?”
“Pa da
,” he said.
She exhaled. “We go to the terrace, no?”
When she turned and he followed, he saw that it was true; she did look good. Where on that August night she had been clumsy and drunk, now she seemed to have gained many years. Maybe it was the sobriety, or the haircut, that had smoothed the movement of her hand when she stopped by the table and lifted a fresh glass, that made her new smile seem easy and unaffected. Maybe it was simply that over the last months she had grown accustomed to a life with no word from him.
Or maybe it was the easy idealization that comes from a vivid, drug-induced hallucination.
There was a drunk man with his own champagne bottle sleeping against the steel railing; he didn’t wake as they closed the glass doors and Brano lit a cigarette. She watched him inhale, rubbed her arms against the cold, and shook her head.
“You looking very good, Brano.”
“No I’m not. I look old.”
“Like strong old man. Is very attractive.”
The dancing lights from the city blurred in his periphery. He wondered why she had cut her hair like that. Before, it had reached her shoulders, a loose bundle she would tug behind her ear. Now she looked like a little boy. He wondered if he should ask, then wondered how he could wonder such stupid things at his age. Cerny had spelled it out for him. No matter the haircut, she remained what she had always been, from the beginning. A spy. Who met with Russian agents in her apartment. “Don’t lie to me anymore, okay? I’ve had enough of that.”
She furrowed her brow, then relaxed. Then, with effort, she furrowed again. “I not know what you saying.”
It was strange, how easily she lied, how her inept grammar gave the illusion of innocence. “I almost came back here,” he said. “I did. Almost. I almost had the ticket.” He stopped; he was rambling.
“What you mean?”
“I’m not a fool, Dijana. I don’t like being used.”
“What?” Her teeth were gritted behind her lips. “What you say?”
He didn’t answer. He waited. If this was a hallucination, he had a better imagination than he thought.
“Why you are here?”
“Because.”
“Because?”
“Because.”
Her glass was already empty, so she set it on the railing, then smiled thinly—yes, another false smile. “Maybe we have coffee when you not so drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said, but when he turned to the cityscape he almost tumbled.
“I think it not a bad idea I go.”
He looked back at her and, seeing her green-edged eyes again, felt the air leave him. Quietly, he said, “Am I really that stupid?”
“Now—yes.” She squeezed his arm. “But tomorrow, what knows?”
She smiled and leaned forward, her lips brushing his cheek. He could not hear the kiss, but he felt it.
The drunk man was waking up. He slid a little to the left, hanging on the railing. And she was walking away.
Brano wasn’t sure what had happened. He felt an urge to grab her arm, or to shout some stupid lie like
I love you
—any cheap trick to keep this remarkable illusion a little longer.
Through the terrace doors, Brano watched her glide across the floor, find her coat on a rack, and leave.
“Everyone’s stupid,” said the drunk man. He slid a little more to the left, trying to rise, and knocked Dijana’s glass off the railing. After a second they heard the crash against the concrete patio below.
Brano fought an urge to throw Sasha Lytvyn over the railing as well.
Day 20. The Subject left the party at one in the morning, meeting a taxi by the front gates. This agent followed the car into the center, but it did not take the Subject to his apartment. Instead, he was delivered to the Volksgarten, the Dr. K. Renner Ring entrance. As the park was closed, the Subject was forced to climb over the gate—a difficult maneuver, as the Subject appeared to be very drunk. This agent followed him to the Temple of Theseus, where he circled the structure a few times, then stood in front of the statue and spoke to it. He spoke primarily in his own language, though occasionally he switched to German. Phrases included: “Find a nice girl for me, will you?” and “Paperwork, yes, and a bad conscience.” This agent is unable to make sense of the words
.
By three, the Subject had passed out, and this agent carried him to the Hofburg gate, then radioed for assistance. This agent then took the Subject home. He said little on the ride, but did thank this agent for his assistance, asking at his door if he was really alone. “No,” this agent told him. “You’re not alone.”
The Subject seemed very pleased with that answer
.
9 APRIL 1967, SUNDAY
•
“You look
well, Brano. Not so lonely anymore?”
“I get out some.”
“Sure,” said Ludwig. “It’s good to see. We were a little dismayed by that depressive crap you pulled at first. But we know as well as you that Vienna can be a very alienating place. It’s funny how, the bigger a city is, the more people it has, the more alienating it becomes.”
“Yes. That’s a funny thing.”
“And you know what, Brano? You’re a damn lucky man.”
“I never thought of myself that way.”
“Open your eyes. I once knew a girl in Heidelberg. A beautiful girl. We were going to school together. She was from Amsterdam, over for a few weeks. On her last night we—well, you can imagine. It was dark, the stars were out, I was charming … it was wonderful. Really. I think back, and even after all these years, that girl was the best I ever had. Can you believe it? A nineteen-year-old girl.”
“I can believe it.”
“But then she left. The next day. I was completely and utterly in love, and you know what?”
“What?”
“Her parents had moved while she was gone, so the address and phone number I had were no good. I learned this from the new tenants, but they didn’t know where the family was. I was truly and completely screwed.”
“Is this leading somewhere, Ludwig?”
“I think you know what it’s leading to. Your girl is back. It was obvious to even to our denser associates on Friday that you are still hooked.”
“Then it must be true.”
“Don’t kid me, Brano. You’re a romantic, just like the rest of us. You’ve found her again. Don’t tempt fate by screwing this up.”
“You know what, Ludwig?”
“What’s that?”
“I just might do what you suggest.”
The Austrian raised his whiskey. “I give a lot of useless advice, I know this. But with love I know what I’m talking about.”
“You seem to.”
Ludwig grinned. “Okay, Brano. Enough of that. Tell me what you and the great Filip Lutz have been talking about.”
“A lot of things. Primarily him. He’s got a huge ego.”
“That’s true. But he’s good at what he does.”
“If what he does is being a slanderer.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“He talked about his interviews with exiles. I suspect he embellishes their stories before they make it into print.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because otherwise you won’t pad his bank account.”
Ludwig’s grin spread over his face and his lips parted to let out one short laugh—
Heh
. “You really believe that?”
“He’s got a new car, a Fiat.”
Ludwig shrugged. “He’s just a smart capitalist. You know how much longer Lutz thinks your anachronistic system has left?”
“Three years.”
“What do you think of that?”
“I think Filip Lutz is an optimistic man.”
Ludwig crossed his arms over his chest. “You want to take a little walk? It’s a beautiful day.”
Ludwig paid, took the receipt, and gave Brano his hat. They made themselves small to squeeze around the packed tables, and once they were outside, the Austrian asked Brano if he had a cigarette. Brano lit two. As they passed the flags of many nations fluttering in front of the Hotel Sacher, Brano said, “What’s on your mind?”
Ludwig took a drag. “I just wanted to give you some advice.”
“I thought you’d already done that.”
“Not about love, Brano. I want to warn you not to escape anymore.”
“We’ve been through this, haven’t we?”
Ludwig didn’t say anything until they had turned onto Kärtner Straße. “It’s different now. You have to realize that when I picked you up and then gave you that apartment, I did it of my own accord. My associates have never made a secret of their disagreement.”
“What do they want you to do?”
“They don’t care what deals I’ve made. They want you in prison, Brano. And they don’t want you to ever come out.”
“I see.”
“I’m not sure you do.” Ludwig tossed away his half-smoked cigarette. “I’ve had a few poor years in the service. Some mistakes have been mine, others were my responsibility. And when you eluded us a couple weeks ago, my associates reminded me of each mistake. I’ve had to fight hard to maintain our deal, to keep you out of prison. But if you leave again, it will be out of my hands.”
“And what about you?”
“What?”
“What happens to you?”
Ludwig frowned. “There’s an open desk in Accounting—I’ve been told this more times than I’d like to remember.”
“Oh.”
The Austrian patted Brano’s shoulder. “Just go see your girl and get out of my hair, okay?”
Brano caught the number 38 tram north to Döblinger Hauptstraße, got out, and paused, looking up. Hers was the concrete tower near the corner, up from the train overpass. It was noticeably plain in a city of Habsburg baroque. He waited with a small crowd for the light to cross the street. Once he reached her building, he glanced back as the sunburned man sneezed into a handkerchief. Brano entered the building.
On a panel were three strips of buzzers above a speaker grille,
FRANKOVIĆ
halfway down the last row. He pressed it and waited.
Through the glass doors behind him, the sunburned man took a small 35 mm camera from his trench coat and brought it to his eye.
“Ja?”
said the speaker.
“Wer ist da?”
He opened his mouth.
“Hallo?”
“Dijana?”
A pause. Then his language. “Is you?”
“
Pa da
,” he said.
The door buzzed, and he pushed through.
He couldn’t remember if she was on the third floor or the fourth, so he took the stairs instead of the elevator, recalling the last time he’d taken these stairs, in August, following as she walked in her tight, flesh-colored pants, one hand reaching back, holding his. But unlike then, his knees tingled, and he couldn’t tell if he was moving fast or slow until his quick, shallow breaths began to make him dizzy. His palms were dripping.
On the third floor, he heard her voice from above. “Brani? You is there?”
He galloped the next flight to find her in her doorway, pink-cheeked, wearing jeans and a black turtleneck. Self-consciously, she pushed dark hair behind an ear, but, trimmed short, it wouldn’t stay.
Somehow, he had forgotten that she was taller than he. Her hesitant smile, which brought out a dimple, was glued to her face as she kissed his cheeks. He wanted to squeeze her entire body but was afraid that would scare her.
“So you really are here,” he said.
“We talked, no? You was too drunk to remember?” Even her high voice seemed different.
“I thought maybe you were a hallucination.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said, then cocked her head. “You stop writing. I don’t know how is your life.”
“Things didn’t go well for me back home. I thought it was a good idea to leave.”
“To come here.”
“To leave,” he said. “And what about you? How are the cards?”
For an instant, she didn’t understand. Her eyebrows came together, and her lower lip rolled out. Then she smiled. “Oh,
tarot?
No, no, Brani. I’m not do that anymore.”
“Why not?”
She laughed. “You want we go in?”
He laughed, too, easily, relieved.
Her apartment was airy, with wood floors and old, heavily padded furniture. Essentially the same as August, except for a new beige chair, where, with one knee propped up to support an acoustic guitar, sat a young man with a mustache and blond curly hair long enough to cover his ears. He nodded at Brano.
Brano nodded back.
“Wolfgang,” said Dijana as she walked on to the bathroom. “Introduce yourself to my boyfriend.” She said this in German.
Wolfgang’s face shifted, as if the bones beneath his skin had moved. He leaned the guitar against the arm of the chair, stood up, and stuck out a hand.
“Grüß Gott.”
“Grüß Gott,”
said Brano.
Wolfgang settled back down, opening a hand toward the sofa. Brano sat. They said nothing, half-smiling and listening to Dijana run water in the bathroom, humming. When she reappeared, she smiled at Brano. “You like my boyfriend?” she asked Wolfgang.
The young man stood up. “So I guess today’s lesson is cut short, Dee?”
Dijana nodded sternly.
“Pa da.”
The men shook hands again, and Dijana walked Wolfgang to the door, closed it after him, and turned to look at Brano on the sofa.
He didn’t say anything at first, because her long body seemed unapproachable. There were so many things that Brano, the
zbrka
rising again, did not understand. He didn’t understand how he could be here in her apartment—how he ever could have been given access; he didn’t understand why she had sent away her handsome friend for him. He didn’t understand how she could be looking at him in that way. He supposed Cerny had always been right, and she was a spy. What else could explain her desire for an old man with a cold heart? But right now—right now, he didn’t care.
She squatted beside him. “Wolfgang, he manage the bar where I work. Jazzklub Abel, on other side of canal, at Große Mohrengasse. Maybe you hear of it?”