The Day of the Lie (28 page)

‘You realised what had
always been obvious,’ said Anselm, compassionately, ‘easily missed because you
were guided by love; you saw, at last, that you had a debt to your child
greater than your loyalty to the Shoemaker and the Church, greater than the
claims of any political cause or institution. You faced what you’d run away
from; the obligation to bring your husband’s killer to justice,
in the name
of your child,
even if
that child
never knew it.’

He passed a brooding,
abandoned factory, its windows sealed with breeze blocks; he nipped through an
arch adjacent to a substantial residence that had been halved, the outline of
floors and rooms like scars on the wall, its doorways bricked up. Rotten fruit
lay on the pavement and strips of white plastic banding curled up in the
gutter. A cheap market had been and gone. The warm smell of decay entered
Anselm’s lungs. He increased his speed, trying to escape the sudden
recrudescence of the Dentist.

A chess match came to
mind.

Anselm had been toying
with an unusual sacrifice: a queen for a pawn — something to shock and disturb
his abstracted opponent.

‘I had this source,’ John
had said, moving a bishop to QP4. ‘He listened at closed doors. Told me what he’d
heard. Fed me good stories.’

He’d been a voice on the
other end of a telephone, a man who’d called himself the Dentist. His stories
turned out to be sweeteners, because the Dentist turned out to be a
high-ranking officer in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, trying to lure John
on side.

On side for what?

John had said he didn’t
know, because he’d been kicked out of Warsaw.

Only, thanks to Irina,
Anselm had learned a little bit more about this episode in John’s life. Before
taking that plane to Heathrow, John had been locked in a prison cell, his jaw
swollen from a good kicking. He’d called Brack, and Brack had come to say
goodbye … and all this happening in the immediate aftermath of Róża’s
capture.

‘Which isn’t surprising,’
replied Anselm to his clouded mind. ‘John was arrested at the same time as Róża.
Brack’s creeping around as the Dentist had nothing to do with
Polana.
They
were separate operations. Remember? Brack’s interest in teeth fell outside the
joint SB/Stasi mandate. His dealings with John had nothing to do with his plan
to catch Róża and the Shoemaker.’

Anselm came to a
junction he didn’t recognise. He must have taken a wrong turn. Not caring he
pressed on as if Frenzel’s pals were on to him, wanting blood because he’d
bought those flowers for a piece of the boss’s property. Ahead was the bright,
modern skyline west of the river; he’d easily find a bridge. Like one of the
Magi from the east, he’d found an unexpected truth, and the only way home was
by a different route, because truth changes where you’re going and how you get
there.

‘The Dentist was Brack.’
Anselm wouldn’t let the matter go. It was as though he’d turned round to check
where he’d got lost. ‘Now there’s a truth I didn’t expect.’

John’s hand had reached
into the darkness of a sewer to touch Brack’s outstretched fingers. The
touching had troubled John (he’d said), and it troubled Anselm now, because
unexpected truths, lined up, often make greater sense of each other. And Anselm
had stumbled across another one in Róża’s statement.

John had told her a
family secret: his mother had died during his infancy Mr Fielding, an
indecisive man, had remarried swiftly. He’d ended up exiled to a Washington
basement, his career in the slow lane. Róża called it a personal story tied
up with the greater struggle. It had been the reason for John’s coming to
Warsaw … where, by chance (unknown to Róża) he’d shaken hands in the
dark with Otto Brack.

‘What’s the link?’

What connection lay
between the death of John’s mother and Brack’s emergence as the Dentist in the
life of her son? There had to be one. Proximity of two mysteries in time and
place was unlikely to be a coincidence — that was Anselm’s rule of thumb: it
served him in theology and it had served him at the Bar (he’d never been at
ease with chance as an explanation: it was harder to justify than a miracle). The
connection, if there was one, remained obscure. But this much was clear: Brack
had been manoeuvring John as much as he’d been manipulating Róża.

‘Why didn’t you tell me,
John?’ asked Anselm. ‘Why not tell me about her death and the greater struggle?
For God’s sake, we drank stolen altar wine together. We played Misery You came
to Larkwood and learned how to pick fruit that was ripe.’

Darkness entered his
mind like a cold, paralysing wind. All at once he came to a halt.

There ahead, on a small
piazza, in the blue night shadow of trees and shrubs, were a group of musicians
… five of them … all in various attitudes of performance: a violin, an
accordion, a drum, a guitar and a banjo.

But there was no sound
and no movement.

On approaching the band
Anselm saw that they were statues … life-sized figures waiting for the dance
to begin, for the people in all the sealed tenements to come out and stamp
their feet and clap their hands. They were waiting for Róża, and Irina,
and so many others …

The imported meaning
bounced back, smashing straight through Anselm’s disquiet. This gathering of
folk playing in unison was like a prophecy whose fulfilment no servant of Brack
or Frenzel could hinder, even if they were to come running round the corner
right now and beat Anselm senseless — as another band of thugs had once beaten Róża
and so many other friends of the truth. Ultimately the executioners couldn’t
win. The entertainment had been booked … for anyone who dared to come out of
their blocked up lives.

Fired up with a quite
foreign energy, Anselm strode away easily finding the bridge back to the west
bank of Warsaw. He was being drawn forward, no longer leading an investigation
but following the beat of a drum. He’d found the name of Róża’s informer.
He knew why she’d been silent and why she’d now speak for her child. Everyone’s
illusions would soon be shattered — Brack’s, Kaminsky’s and the Shoemaker’s,
for sure; and maybe those of Anselm and John. It didn’t matter. They were all
moving relentlessly towards a time of music.

Part Five

Klara’s Child

Chapter Thirty-Four

A thick-set man in jeans and a leather
jacket quickly opened the rear doors of the light blue Nyska van. The engine
chugged, pumping sickness into the cold evening air. As John was thrown into
the back, a fist crashed into the side of his head. A siren screamed. The van
lurched forward and the two big lads standing over John lost their balance.

At a police station they
kicked him into a holding cell. As the man in jeans ripped the film out of the
camera, John spat the blood from his mouth and said, ‘When you’ve finished dial
55876. Tell him Conrad needs a dentist.’

The door slammed shut.
Footsteps sauntered back to the main desk. John rolled over on the bed, seeing Róża
in the hands of those louts. He lived out the scene as if he were watching a
film reel jammed on the same few seconds, the figures juddering back and forth.
Two hours later a key turned in the lock and a man in a long camel overcoat
sauntered into the cell. With affected delicacy he used one finger to close the
door, leaving the guard in the corridor to turn the handle. John sat up,
staring at the man in astonishment.

‘Well, well, well,’ said
the Dentist, shaking his head. ‘You have been a silly boy’

This was the first time
they’d met. Until now, their dealings had all been verbal, over a secure
telephone line using a secure number. But this was a face he’d seen before …
in the cemetery.

‘You shouldn’t have
given them the number,’ said the Dentist, critically.

He’d opened the buttons
on his overcoat and sat on a chair, hitching his trousers at the knee. He was
very smart. The shoes were brand new, with that mirror-shine. The socks were
pulled high.

‘They wouldn’t let me
use the phone. They kicked me in the teeth instead.’

‘I didn’t think you’d go
and take pictures.’

‘That’s what journalists
do. I collect news.

‘Not when it can burn
the hand that feeds you. My hand.’

‘I didn’t know you’d be
there.’

‘Maybe we should talk
more often.’

The Dentist shrugged inside
his camel coat. He seemed uncomfortable. The material of his grey jacket was
bothering his neck. The knot in the silk tie was fat, making a sort of maroon
pedestal for his face. He was well shaved, his skin shining. Short, parted hair
had a faint tinge of oxidised brown.

‘Well, did you get to
meet the Shoemaker?’ His greenish eyes flashed a passing interest.

‘No. Thanks to you.

John swallowed the
complaint. The Shoemaker had been there. He’d been within reach. If only the
blockhead had stayed in his office, wherever that might be. If only he’d left
John alone to get on with his job.

‘You’ve not been
following me, have you?’ John’s leg began to bob up and down.

‘What did you say?’ The
question had stung. It had struck at the heart of their relationship. ‘Who the
hell do you think I am? Do you have any idea how much I’ve done for you?’

‘I’m sorry it’s just
that I got a beating in the van, and I …’ John stroked his swollen jaw
Confusion erupted at the thought of Róża walking calmly towards the
Dentist. She
knew
him. How could Róża know the Dentist?

‘I want you to let her
go:

‘Who?’

‘Róża Mojeska.’

The Dentist frowned. His
top teeth stabbed at his lower lip. ‘You’re not serious:

‘I am. Let her out.’
John had influence and he was going to use it. ‘Otherwise the deal’s off.’

‘My goodness, you
are
serious.’

Unless John was
completely mistaken, there was a hint of humour in his voice. The faint mockery
riled him. ‘Do you think I’m joking?’

‘No, of course, not. It’s
just that, well, I’ve got a job, too, you know You seem to think I can just
pick and choose my fights.’ He stood up, shrugging his coat again, thrusting
his hands deep into the wide pockets. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘No, that’s not enough.
She has to walk free. It’s not my fault a wheel came off today And I want to
see her …’

‘You’re going too far,’
said the Dentist. ‘You’re wading out of your depth. You’re heading into my
waters. They’re dangerous.’

All at once the Dentist
looked tired; even bored; and possibly … sad. He examined John from afar,
nodding to himself His eyes moved around his clothes and features, just like
John’s had moved over his. The mutual appraisal was like that awkward weighing
up when someone new enters the family What you think doesn’t really matter;
they’re here to stay You put the best foot forward and hope for the best. And,
by the look of the leather, the Dentist had gone for
Churches,
the
Oxford
style. He’d put on his Sunday best.

‘I want her address.’
John stood up as if finding height over the Dentist might add some pressure. ‘Don’t
you see? I have to tidy up what happened in the graveyard. I was there. You
were there:

The Dentist made a face,
as if to say he hadn’t thought of that. Part of his remote sadness predisposed
him to being helpful. His teeth nipped his bottom lip. ‘Thirty-seven Miron
Buildings, Niska Street. You say nothing of me, do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okay’

‘Don’t get tetchy’ The
Dentist moved towards the door. ‘You’ve compromised me once already’

Turning around he
studied John with a new intensity. ‘You shouldn’t have called, you know It
complicates things.’

John nodded. He’d made a
mistake. He made lots of mistakes.

‘We can’t meet again, do
you understand? Our relationship is over.’ The Dentist looked aside, absorbed
by his thoughts. ‘For now, the deal’s on hold.’

‘Okay’ replied John,
uncertainly As far as he was concerned, nothing need change. There was still a
lot of work to be done. They needed to talk more, that’s all.

‘See if you can get her
out,’ said the Dentist, standing up.

‘Who?’

‘Róża,’ snapped the
Dentist, his voice low and running. ‘You’re right. She’s seen us together. If
you can persuade her to jump, I’ll get the passport.’

The Dentist knocked on
the door and waited for the guards, rocking impatiently on his heels, his back
to John. When they came, he stepped outside without even a glance behind.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Anselm’s street map led him to a parish
church ten minutes walk to the west of the city centre. It stood on the edge of
a residential complex by a railway line that climbed towards a bridge. Anselm
could almost smell the presence of the river. Flanked by major thoroughfares,
the neighbourhood was somewhere and nowhere, a triangular patch of land left
behind when the road and rail people had done their bit for Warsaw’s post-war
infrastructure.

Father Kaminsky spoke
English quite well. His French was good, though his German was better. To get
at Dante and Cervantes he’d learned Italian and Spanish, which left him
comprehensively unprepared for small talk. His Russian was faultless. He liked
Czech. Latin was another option, though the vocab might not cover the nuances
of life under Stalin. So said the visiting curate from the United States when
taxed on the phone by Sebastian. He viewed his host with unadulterated awe.