back and stomach in transparent patches. His socks seeped with each squeeze of his toes. On the ground floor the elevator was broken: the door jammed half open, the light inside flickering like the weakening heart of a dying animal. Despite having to climb thirteen flights of stairs he encountered no other people. It was eerie for an apartment block to be silent in the middle of the day. There were no children playing in the corridors, no mothers with shopping, no doors slamming shut or neighbors arguing—the bustle of ordinary life muffled by the heat wave now in its sixth day. In housing projects constructed in this fashion the concrete hoarded heat with the greed of a miser collecting gold. At the top of the stairs Leo paused, catching his breath before entering apartment 1312, unseen by the other occupants of the thirteenth floor.
Surveying the cramped surroundings, he pinched the shirt off his torso as though it were a series of leeches feasting on him. He crossed the living area into the kitchen, running his face under the water. The pressure was weak, the water disappointingly tepid. Nonetheless the sensation was pleasant,and he remained underneath the stuttering flow with his eyes closed, allowing the water to run over his cheeks, lips, and eyelids. He turned the tap off, water dripping from his face and snaking down his neck. Opening the small window, he found the hinge stiff even though the building was only a few years old. The air outside was still, not a trace of wind, a block of heat wedged around the building. Opposite him the identically designed residential tower shimmered like a mirage, the vertical lines of thousands of windows quivering in the sunlight.
The apartment was typical in almost every way. There was only one small separate bedroom and consequently the living room had been crudely partitioned to create an additional sleeping area. This makeshift division was common in many households, a line hung from wall to wall with a sheet draped down for privacy shielding two narrow single beds from the kitchen area. Leo moved to the border between the communal space and the sleeping area. Bags had been packed, one beside each bed, ready to go. He tested their weight. They were heavy, one notably more so than the other. Over many years, having searched hundreds of apartments, he’d developed an acute sense for anything out of place. A person’s home revealed secrets in the same way that a suspect revealed their guilt, through the smallest details. In apartments, clues could be the amount of dust on a surface, tiny scratch marks on the floorboards, or a single sooty fingerprint on a desk. Leo’s eye was drawn to one of the beds. With the intense summer heat there were no heavy blankets on the beds, just a thin sheet, enabling an easy view of the mattress. It displayed a small bump, like a headless pimple, almost imperceptible, hardly worthy of attention except to someone trained by the secret police.
Guided by these instincts, Leo crossed into the sleeping area and squeezed his hand under the mattress. His fingerstouched the edge of a book. He pulled it free. It was a notebook with a hard cover. There was nothing written on it, no title or image. It was not one of the cheap flimsy books used by many schoolchildren. The paper was expensive. The spine was stitched. He turned it over, checking to see how many of the pages were creased. Half the journal had been filled with writing, perhaps two hundred pages’ worth. He tipped it upside down, shaking the contents. Nothing fell out. With the preliminary examination over, he flicked to the first page. The handwriting was neat, small, precise, written in pencil, the tip of which had been kept pinpoint sharp. There were several faint smudges where words had been rubbed out and written over. Time and care had been spent on it. He’d examined many diaries in his lifetime. Often entries were written in haste, scrawled, words flung down without much thought.
Surveying the cramped surroundings, he pinched the shirt off his torso as though it were a series of leeches feasting on him. He crossed the living area into the kitchen, running his face under the water. The pressure was weak, the water disappointingly tepid. Nonetheless the sensation was pleasant,and he remained underneath the stuttering flow with his eyes closed, allowing the water to run over his cheeks, lips, and eyelids. He turned the tap off, water dripping from his face and snaking down his neck. Opening the small window, he found the hinge stiff even though the building was only a few years old. The air outside was still, not a trace of wind, a block of heat wedged around the building. Opposite him the identically designed residential tower shimmered like a mirage, the vertical lines of thousands of windows quivering in the sunlight.
The apartment was typical in almost every way. There was only one small separate bedroom and consequently the living room had been crudely partitioned to create an additional sleeping area. This makeshift division was common in many households, a line hung from wall to wall with a sheet draped down for privacy shielding two narrow single beds from the kitchen area. Leo moved to the border between the communal space and the sleeping area. Bags had been packed, one beside each bed, ready to go. He tested their weight. They were heavy, one notably more so than the other. Over many years, having searched hundreds of apartments, he’d developed an acute sense for anything out of place. A person’s home revealed secrets in the same way that a suspect revealed their guilt, through the smallest details. In apartments, clues could be the amount of dust on a surface, tiny scratch marks on the floorboards, or a single sooty fingerprint on a desk. Leo’s eye was drawn to one of the beds. With the intense summer heat there were no heavy blankets on the beds, just a thin sheet, enabling an easy view of the mattress. It displayed a small bump, like a headless pimple, almost imperceptible, hardly worthy of attention except to someone trained by the secret police.
Guided by these instincts, Leo crossed into the sleeping area and squeezed his hand under the mattress. His fingerstouched the edge of a book. He pulled it free. It was a notebook with a hard cover. There was nothing written on it, no title or image. It was not one of the cheap flimsy books used by many schoolchildren. The paper was expensive. The spine was stitched. He turned it over, checking to see how many of the pages were creased. Half the journal had been filled with writing, perhaps two hundred pages’ worth. He tipped it upside down, shaking the contents. Nothing fell out. With the preliminary examination over, he flicked to the first page. The handwriting was neat, small, precise, written in pencil, the tip of which had been kept pinpoint sharp. There were several faint smudges where words had been rubbed out and written over. Time and care had been spent on it. He’d examined many diaries in his lifetime. Often entries were written in haste, scrawled, words flung down without much thought.
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