The phone rang twice more stubbornly, but Eva ignored it.
Tomorrow afternoon, she would confront Comrade John in front of his children and wife.
What if they didn't believe her and kicked her out of their apartment?
Eva didn't care. Comrade John would learn that if necessary, Eva could go even further.
She would put an end to this horror.
The cuckoo?
That would be even easier.
She went into the living room. She took out a blank sheet of paper and a pencil from her husband's stationery set.
"He chewed the end," she giggled, examining the pencil closely.
By the time her husband arrived home, she had finished a multi-page letter. She hadn't waited for the weekend to tell him about the phone harassment, the whispers around her aunt, Olga's escape, or Elisa. The letter also revealed the identity of the "cuckoo."
In her mind, she had begun calling the comrade who placed the bug in the clock the "cuckoo."
Eva still didn't know whether the "cuckoo" intended to spy on Márk, on herself, or both.
The "cuckoo" was also the one who, in childish mischief, had tugged the elevator door, trapping Eva between two floors. That would look good in the report the "cuckoo" would submit to his superiors.
There was one thing Eva didn't write in the letter. She wanted to tell it in words.
Looking deeply into Márk's eyes, she wanted to tell him that she wanted a child.
Two interrogations awaited her.
And here was the methodical harassment surrounding her.
All because, ten years ago, she had rejected that vile man.
It was a dangerous letter.
Too dangerous.
She wanted a fresh start to expand their family. It depended entirely on Márk.
Eva knew that Olga had left the door open for her before escaping beyond the Iron Curtain. Now Eva also knew who the liaison was.
It was a dangerous letter.
She asked her husband to leave everything behind and escape.
But what if Márk had long been compromised too?
What if he had broken like the others?
Eva was taking a risk.
She placed the letter on the kitchen table, face down. Next to it, a blank sheet of paper and the pencil.
She was too timid to look at Márk's face while he read the letter.
She returned to the living room and waited quietly.
She tried reading, but the book didn't hold her attention. She counted the minutes until her husband came home.
When the key turned in the lock, Eva felt strange physical symptoms. Her heart jumped, her pulse rose.
"Well, life can be like this," she thought.
She didn't mind feeling like a teenage girl, head over heels in love with her husband.
Márk read the letter. Then he remained silent for far too long. He didn't get up from the kitchen table, didn't move.
The silence became oppressive until he finally began to write.
He didn't look at Eva when he handed it back.
And immediately afterward, he left somewhere, wordless.