If you wanted to truly disappear and never be found, the blocks were the perfect spot. Hiding in plain sight, inside the concrete beehive. Our labyrinth was a constant nightmare for the so-called real Belgradians from across the river, spoiled by conventional names and arrangements of streets, and for the couriers delivering stuff to people who behaved as if they did not wish to be found.
And you could make others disappear. Who knew if anyone would ever notice. What if Kozma was actually onto something? This predator could have been operating right under our noses for years.
“What did you mean about taking the first shift?” I asked.
“Just like in the army, two hours. The women usually arrive around eight, so we still have a little time left.”
Did I expect anyone to come tonight? Not really, but I was ready for Kozma’s game. We entered his apartment, the layout of which was the mirror image of mine, if we ignored the additional seventy-five square feet his had, another mystery that was probably the result of the builder’s negligence.
Kozma set up a folding chair in front of the door. I spotted numerous grease stains around the peephole, probably from his forehead. Next to the doorframe, a notebook was hanging on a string. I had one just like that, but in my kitchen. I used mine to write down every penny I spent, keeping track until my next pension payment arrived. I doubted Kozma had his for that purpose.
I asked him how long he’d been spying on the young man.
“Four girls,” he said. If they came twice a week, it meant Kozma had been active for at least a fortnight. All that time I’d failed to notice he had a new project. What kind of a friend and neighbor was I? I wondered.
We sat mostly in silence until we heard the heavy front door open or the buzzing sound of the intercom, and then he’d spring to his feet, peer through the peephole, declaring, “Baby,” or, “Dog.” He would write it down in his notebook. During Kozma’s shift, we welcomed two babies and three dogs back from their walks.
When the front door opened for the first time after eight, he got up again to take a look. I knew he saw something interesting because his back stiffened.
“It’s her,” he said.
“Let me see.”
I had enough time to catch a quick look before she disappeared to the left toward the staircase. Deep slit skirt, strong calves, assured walk. Black hair hiding her face. I listened until the clatter of her heels died down, then I unlocked the door and stepped out.
“What are you doing?” Kozma hissed.
While I was sneaking out into the corridor, I felt his disapproval behind my back, but despite this he followed me. We stood by the handrail listening to her footsteps, counting floors. She stopped on the top floor and knocked on a door. Someone opened it without any greeting. The door slammed shut behind her.
Kozma dragged me by my collar back into his apartment. He peered at me intensely in the darkness of his hallway, as if expecting me to admit defeat, but the fact that some woman had shown up on the fourth floor did not necessarily mean anything. I said nothing.
“Now you’re waiting for her to come out, or not come out,” he said. “Wake me up at half past ten.”
I fought the urge to go to the toilet frequently. Whenever I ran off to the bathroom, I left the door open so I could hear any sounds from the hallway and I hurried back as soon as I squeezed out those few precious drops.
During my shift, two students from the first floor arrived home from their night out. I watched a drunken neighbor from the second floor fail at unlocking the door and eventually took pity on him, buzzing him in. “Thank you!” he shouted into the air, to no one in particular, unaware as to who had let him in.
Then it got quiet in the building, with no one coming or going.
I listened to Kozma snore. I listened to planes flying over us, a noise I’d gotten used to. Part of the problem was that we got used to everything.
When no one went in or out for a long time, I started nosing around the apartment. On the kitchen wall I studied framed photographs of Kozma’s family. He lived alone, just like me. It’s probably why we got close so fast. But it was not by choice that he lived alone, as it was in my case. His wife and daughter were no longer with us, and his son acted as if he weren’t — living in Canada and refusing to speak to his father. All the pictures looked yellowed as if from another, more ancient time. They probably were, especially for Kozma.
The black-haired woman did not come back down. At least not by eleven, when I woke Kozma, having let him sleep an extra half hour.
He looked at me quizzically and I shook my head. Getting up without a word, he moved over to the chair, while I lay down on the couch, covering myself with his blanket.
I was woken by daylight. I didn’t immediately realize something was wrong, but I slowly became aware that I should have taken over well before sunrise.
Kozma shrugged. “I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You were sleeping so soundly.”
He was right. I hadn’t slept that well in a long time.
“Nothing much happened anyway,” he added. His eyes were so red I did not doubt he’d stayed awake the whole time.
We heard steps outside. “People going to the market,” he explained, yawning, and struggled to stand up in time to see who it was. “It’s him!” he whispered loudly, although no one could hear us.
“Is he carrying a suitcase?” I asked.
He shook his head, frowning. “If he’s headed to the market, this may be the perfect time to get into his apartment. To see for ourselves what’s going on up there.”
“What do you mean, get into his apartment?”
“Well, I have the keys.”
“What? Where did you get them?”
Kozma could not hide his conspiratorial smile. “It’s a long story.” He opened a locker in the hallway and took a bunch of keys off a hook. “Mira found his keys left in the lock of his mailbox one morning. She took them for safekeeping and tried to return them, but he was gone for the whole day. She told me all about it over coffee. I offered to return them for her because she had to go to her mother’s. Eventually I did, but not before I made copies.”
“I can’t believe it. How long have you had them? Why didn’t you go into his apartment sooner?”
“I needed a lookout.” He dangled the keys under my nose. “Coming?”
I came because I had no other choice. Over seventy years old and this was the first time I was about to break into someone’s home. But I didn’t feel guilty, maybe just a bit excited.
I prayed that we wouldn’t run into anyone, because we would have had a hard time explaining what two retirees from the ground floor were doing upstairs. Not even the roof would serve as an excuse since it was sealed off.
It was smooth sailing till the third floor when we heard a door open one level below. We flattened ourselves against the wall and waited for that someone to leave. When we arrived at the apartment door, instead of immediately putting the key in, Kozma knocked. He wanted to be sure no one was home. But if he was right, there would be no one alive in there anyway.
We both took deep breaths and entered. Inside, there was a long, naked corridor. The apartment did not look so much abandoned as not lived in. That’s why the voices we heard from the next room caught us off guard.
Behind closed doors, two men were talking. I could pick out a few words, “turnout,” “electoral roll,” and “polling board.” My knees buckled as I completely panicked. I ran straight for the door, colliding with Kozma who reached it first. He darted into the hallway as if launched from a circus cannon and tumbled down the stairs. I followed close behind him, as always.