Night fell together with the fog. Eva's head rested on Márk's chest. Neither of them was asleep. They hadn't turned on the light in the apartment, but they didn't miss it either.
Eva searched for Márk's hand beneath the blanket.
Márk was surprised when, after the kiss, Eva pulled him closer with such passion.
The listening device.
Neither of them cared that they might be causing uncomfortable moments for the comrade on the other end of the wire. Only later did they move to the bedroom.
Now neither of them spoke.
Everything was perfect.
This was what she had wanted.
Márk still hadn't told her anything about his trip.
Somewhere halfway between the living room and the bedroom, he mentioned that Paul's book had also passed the censors.
Wednesday. A workday for both of them. Eva left for work happy and well-rested.
For a long time, she hadn't been able to feel anything toward men.
The dictator's son had taken that away from her with a single sentence.
She hadn't felt much even for her husband.
Márk had been the perfect choice. An intellectual. Reliable. Calm. Not a drinker…
Since yesterday afternoon, Eva had been burning whenever Márk crossed her mind.
Around noon, Eva was sent for at work. It was the same plainclothes officer who had knocked on the door yesterday for the unofficial conversation.
He asked to speak with Eva separately. He didn't want complications.
Eva was already tired. Elisa had been clumsy all day again.
Olga had fled the Eastern Bloc. It was better if the comrade knew.
Eva already knew from Lucas.
Her face remained expressionless.
The intermediary…
Eva shook her head. Olga had never spoken about escaping. She had never tried to recruit her into anything. She had never mentioned the imperialists.
No.
No.
No.
Eva knew she would be officially questioned.
She didn't know when the official interrogation would begin.
She waited for her husband to come home. She made herself look a little nicer. Maybe she should have her hair permed.
She sat in the living room, reading the newspaper.
The dictator, his wife, and his son…
The dictator's son had gotten married.
Ever since, he had been posing diligently in every newspaper with his wife and his socially acceptable, foul little offspring.
She would not let this crawl between her and Márk.
Trivial. An insignificant rejection.
Eva hadn't needed it.
They had plenty of suitors. Women.who were dumb as rocks and talentless in every way.
She would not let this crawl between her and Márk.
She had rejected the filth. A banal thing. The dictator's son probably didn't even remember it.
Years later, it still haunted Eva.
To hell with the dictator and his son!
Eva thought of Olga.
What had she done that she had to flee the Eastern Bloc?
Or rather—what had been done to Olga?
Eva corrected herself immediately.
She looked at herself in the mirror once more.
She would get her hair permed.
Six more minutes. Márk would be arriving.