“Kemper,” he said. “Don’t forget. His wife’s name is Doris.”
“Doris?” she said, flailing, but before he could say anything else, the guard led him away.
“Later,” he said over his shoulder, watching her fold her arms across her chest as if she were cold.
The guard stood at the door while he washed his hands. Flakes of dried blood, forgotten, came off in the water, turning it rust-colored. He stared at the drain, suddenly weak, then washed again, and again, until the water ran clear. On the way back, passing a long row of cubicles, he spotted Anna over a waist-high partition. She was bent over a desk, her arm moving, and for a moment he thought she was washing her hands too. Then he saw that she was writing, signing a paper. He imagined the statement-his father’s depression, the upheaval of the weekend, his state of mind, all signed away now, more blood down the drain. When she looked up, her face blotchy from crying, she was startled to see him, as if Nick had died too. Then she took in the guard leading him by the arm and looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Anna,” he said, forcing her to turn back. “I’m sorry.”
“They said you found him,” she said, her voice distant with grief.
“Yes.”
“He wanted me to go to my sister’s. After the concert. I thought he wanted to be with you. Was that it?” The troubling detail.
“No.”
She nodded, piecing it together, then turned away again, cutting him out.
“I wish you had never come,” she said.
Zimmerman was waiting with a pot of coffee, talking to Novotny, who sat on the windowsill eating a salami sandwich.
“Tell me about your trip to the country,” Zimmerman began.
“It rained,” Nick said dully.
“Yet you told the hotel you were going to Karlovy Vary. Why?”
Deeper. Zimmerman’s voice droned on, elaborately polite, refusing to be discouraged by Nick’s vague replies. There was always another question. He had all the time in the world, his patience as relentless as a light in the face. Wasn’t that the way they were supposed to do it? The bright lamp hurting your eyes. No sleep. Shouts. Beatings. But nothing here was what he’d expected. He thought of the watchtowers at the border, his first sensation of fear, a movie iron curtain bristling with menace. But the countryside had been placid, the pokey guard interested only in his car. Now Zimmerman talked patiently, lulling him. But what did he really want? There was no way of knowing. The polite questions might be as deceptive as the placid landscape, still after all lined with barbed wire. So Nick stalled, repeating himself, giving away nothing that mattered. And after a while it was easier. The story became real to him. There was something wrong with the car. Molly did have business in Vienna. Why not? He saw that Zimmerman recognized it too, the tipping point after which nothing would be revealed, because the lies were now true. His eyes, shrewd, witnesses to a hundred interrogations, began to anticipate Nick’s answers — the cards fell where he expected them. Why go on? Unless this was part of the weakening process.
They took a break. Zimmerman sighed and lit another cigarette, his manner easy and intimate. He reminded Nick, in fact-an odd thought-of his father, the resigned irony, the personal reaching out. Trust me. He’d watched his father the same way, trying to guess how much was true behind the words, sorting through his conversations as if they were index cards. Except his father was dead. What if everything he’d said had been true, all of it? No hidden meanings or little deceptions, just what he’d said, the story he’d proved by dying. While Nick had wasted time wondering if he could trust him. He looked up at Zimmerman. But not him. Only the dead could be trusted here. Had Anna really been with relatives? Wouldn’t it have been easy to- Improbable. But then, everything was improbable. A list. They’ll want this, he’d said. What did Zimmerman want?
“Can I ask you a question?” Nick said suddenly.
“Yes, certainly.”
“Did they find anything? When they searched his desk?”
Zimmerman stared at him, trying to figure out what he meant. So they hadn’t. “What did you expect them to find, Mr Warren?”
“I don’t know. A note.”
“No,” Zimmerman said quietly. “No note.” A beat. “You don’t think a note would have been left out where it could easily be found?”
“Then where was it? If the list didn’t exist, then none of it was true, and it had to be true, because he was dead. But Zimmerman was waiting.”
“Is that your experience?”
Zimmerman shrugged. “Every case is different.”
More questions. The afternoon passing, only faint light now against the wall outside the window. They were alone, Novotny having left, giving up any pretense of following their talk. When he came back, it was with a burst of Czech, agitated. Zimmerman raised his eyebrows and followed him out. The quiet was worse. The interrogation at least was a distraction; his whole mind was forced to pay attention. Now it was released, skittering back to his father on the lawn, cradling him.
