The Madonna on the Moon (18 page)

“Now we will carry the coffins into the church,” Hermann Schuster addressed the driver, who looked at him blankly. “What coffins?” He opened the tailgate of the hearse.
There was only one.

“There’s got to be two,” several voices called out. The men waiting to carry the caskets hurried over to peer into the black vehicle. “Only one coffin! He’s right,
there’s only one. Have you taken leave of your senses?” The driver and his companion didn’t know what to say except “Quiet please!” and “Must be some
misunderstanding.” But once people realized the obvious error couldn’t be corrected by making a fuss, they settled down.

The chauffeur dropped his pious manner. “We had the clear order to transport a coffin with one body from Kronauburg to Baia Luna.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “It says so
right here: ‘Cleared for transport: Johanna Fernanda Klein, d.o.b. July fifteenth, 1886, in Trappold, single, deceased November ninth, 1957, in Baia Luna. Signed, Dr. Petrin, Institute of
Pathology, People’s District Hospital, Kronauburg.’ One deceased. One coffin. Those are our orders.”

“Fernanda is not deceased, she was murdered!” Petre Petrov flew into a rage, and others joined in. “Where’s our pastor? Where’s Johannes? Where is he?”

“We don’t know anything about a priest,” reiterated the chauffeur and his assistant. “There must be some misunderstanding, some error in the planning. Happens all the
time. The problem’s in Kronauburg. Best thing would be for one of you to come back with us and clear things up right there.”

The assistant explained that, unfortunately, the hearse only had two seats, one for the driver and one for him. But they were happy to take two or three people back to Kronauburg as long as they
didn’t mind sitting in the back. It smelled a little, but everything was clean—guaranteed. They just shouldn’t think about whom that space was normally reserved for.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Petre spoke up. “I’ll come along.” The other men hesitated at the thought of spending a good three hours bumping through the mountains
in the back of a hearse, but they were also unwilling to send an impetuous seventeen-year-old to poke around the police station and the district hospital in Kronauburg.

“You’re too young, Petre,” objected the Hungarian Istvan.

“So go yourself then!” said Simenov the smith in a nasty voice.

Istvan thought it over for a moment. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“But I’m coming with you,” Petre stubbornly insisted and left no doubt he was not to be dissuaded.

“I’m going, too!” People turned around and looked at me with a combination of surprise and disapproval.

“I forbid it!” My grandfather’s voice had never sounded so stern.

“It’s out of the question, Pavel.” Hermann Schuster backed up my grandfather. “I’ll go instead.”

While Erika Schuster made a sour face at her husband for once again putting the village before his family, I answered my grandfather, “Every day all I hear from you is ‘Pavel do
this, Pavel do that, Pavel you’re old enough to know,’ blah blah blah. So now I’m old enough.”

Since Granddad didn’t have a ready answer, Karl Koch took his part. “What will you accomplish by going to town, Pavel? Nobody’s going to take a greenhorn like you
seriously.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Nobody’s going to pay any attention to a twerp like me. And that’s our chance to find something out about Pater Johannes. If his missing coffin
really is just a misunderstanding, it can be cleared up easily. But if something else is behind it that none of us can see, then I could—”

“What the hell could be behind it?” the chauffeur interrupted me. “It was a mistake. As usual. In October we had seven bodies, and there wasn’t a driver who knew where
they belonged. You wouldn’t believe how we had to wander all over the countryside. And all because of an insane bureaucracy where the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand’s
doing. But eventually you dig your way through the paperwork and finally see the light. Every deceased finds his place at last. We’ll find your pastor for you.”

“Then there’s no objection to my keeping Istvan and Petre company,” I added.

Since nobody but Grandfather objected it was decided: Istvan Kallay, Petre Petrov, and I would go to Kronauburg to discover the whereabouts of Pater Johannes’s earthly remains. The coffin
with Fernanda Klein was unloaded, and the three of us ducked into the back of the black car.

The driver proved to be a speedster. Although by now there was eight inches of snow on the ground, it was only a good hour until he was pulling up before a new tin sign with raised letters:
PEOPLE'S HOSPITAL—HEALTH OF THE FATHERLAND—DISTRICT OF KRONAUBURG
.

“You can’t miss it,” said the assistant as we three scrambled out of the hearse and breathed in great drafts of town air. Although the air was heavy with the stink of thousands
of coal-burning dwellings, the smell of tar and ashes was like a fresh breeze. Istvan, who never smoked, asked the assistant for a cigarette to get the stale, sweetish scent of the hearse out of
his nostrils.

“A word before we go in there, Pavel: you keep quiet. Let me do the talking,” he said.

Then we walked briskly to the hospital entrance and headed straight for the registration desk. Istvan asked a fat woman in an apron dress where we could find Dr. Petrin.

“In pathology. It’s in the basement, down three flights, and then keep turning right. What’s your business? May I see your papers? Do you have a clearance?”

But we were already on our way downstairs. We kept turning right past dozens of yellowed doors and through strange odors I couldn’t identify except for ammonia in a cleaning solution. But
they all seemed to be trying to drive out bad smells with even worse smells. In the last corridor a young woman scurried by, the tails of her lab coat flying.

“Miss? Excuse me?” Istvan called after her. “Could you help us? We’re looking for Dr. Petrin.”

The lab coat stopped flying. “Do you have an appointment?”

“We’ve come from Baia Luna.”

“What? So far? Is it snowing up there yet? They say it’s the end of the world. But the mountains must be beautiful in the summer. What do you want with Dr. Petrin?”

“We’d like to speak with him personally, to clear up a misunderstanding,” the Hungarian replied.

“We’re looking for a corpse. Our dead priest has disappeared. You can understand—it’s urgent,” I burst out.

“Shut your trap!” hissed Istvan.

“No, young man, I don’t understand. But I’ll see if Dr. Petrin has any time for you. You’ve come so far, all the way from Baia Luna! But just a few minutes at most. I
can’t promise you more than that.”

I was annoyed at being called “young man.” She wasn’t that old herself, but the way she strolled ahead of us, hands in her lab-coat pockets, her shoulder-length hair lying on
the white material, and with such a gentle swing to her hips, I realized that the ladies in town were put together in a different way from the girls in Baia Luna.

She stopped at one of the yellowish-brown doors with peeling paint and opened it without knocking. We’d overlooked her name tag:
DR. MED. PAULA PETRIN, SPECIALIST FOR
INTERNAL MEDICINE
. The pathologist sat down at her desk.

“What can I do for you?”

Petre’s jaw dropped, and so did mine. Istvan Kallay cleared his throat and pretended nothing in the world could surprise him. “So you’re Dr. Petrin? Forgive me, but I was
actually expecting a man.”

“A man, that’s right. Me, too,” Petre managed to say.

“Well, you weren’t far wrong. My father was head of pathology until just recently. But now he’s enjoying his retirement—although I think winter on the Black Sea
can’t be all that cozy. But please, what is it you want?”

With a quick frown Istvan let Petre and me know we should keep our mouths shut. “May I be frank?”

“Please do, go right ahead. But I don’t have much time.”

Paula Petrin listened intently as the Hungarian described the events in Baia Luna clearly and precisely, with no digressions or dramatic flourishes.

“So you say two people were murdered. Afterward they were brought here for an autopsy, and only one of the bodies was returned to your village. Very strange indeed. I haven’t been
here long, but if such a thing had happened before, my father would surely have told us about it. Let me look this up.”

Paula Petrin opened a file drawer and her fingers glided over the index cards. She’s never peeled potatoes, I thought to myself. No girl in Baia Luna has such slim, well-formed fingers.
Not even Buba.

“The bodies were picked up last Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Then they must have reached our morgue that evening. But no one’s here on Sunday. So we should look at Monday. There’s always a lot going on on Monday because cases from all
over the district build up over the weekend and have to be worked through. I’ve found it. Baia Luna. On Monday. Yes, you’re right. There must have been an unresolved death in your
village.”

“No, two!” protested Istvan and Petre simultaneously.

“Hang on . . . here!” Paula Petrin laid an index card on her desk. “Fernanda Klein. Yes, I remember: an elderly woman from Baia Luna. I recall her quite clearly. Sometimes you
can tell from the body what they were like when still alive. She must have been a pleasant person. Single, but terribly inquisitive, am I right? Angina pectoris. No doubt about it. Her heart
wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Arteries clogged by calcium deposits. They build up over the years, and it’s a frequent cause of death in people of Mrs. Klein’s age. If I look at
the data, the lady must have been living the last few years with enormously high blood pressure. Very likely her heart wasn’t up to some heavy exertion, and then—”

“Fernanda never had to exert herself,” Istvan interrupted the doctor.

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be some demanding physical activity. Sometimes a sudden emotional stress can cause an angina.”

“You mean a big shock?”

“Yes. You can’t rule that out. In an extreme situation—let’s say in a panic or threatened by danger—the human body reacts with increased blood flow to the heart.
But if the vessels are narrowed by arteriosclerosis, the heart muscle doesn’t get enough oxygen. But what in heaven’s name could have given dear Mrs. Klein such a fright?”

“The murder of our priest,” said the Hungarian. “Fernanda Klein was our pastor’s housekeeper.”

“And that’s why we’re here,” Petre added. “Those guys slit Pater Johannes’s throat in the rectory.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Istvan. “The police picked up his corpse as well as his housekeeper’s to get them autopsied, but only Fernanda’s coffin came back to
be buried.”

Paula Petrin chewed her lower lip. “That’s really strange. But I give you my word, no murder victim with a slit throat was ever on my operating table. I can swear to that on a stack
of Bibles. I can’t be of much help in your search for your pastor’s body. He definitely wasn’t here. Who investigated the case in Baia Luna?”

“A fat, elderly policeman with a thatch of hair. I think his name was . . .” Istvan rubbed his forehead.

“Patrascu!” exclaimed Paula Petrin.

“Exactly,” said Petre. “And this Patrascu didn’t give the impression he was going to bust his ass for anybody in his sunset years.”

“He seemed unmotivated, you mean,” Dr. Petrin corrected him with a smile. “But Patrascu is a good cop. The commissioner has been a friend of my father’s ever since I was
a kid. Patrascu is a stand-up guy even if he maybe—to put it crudely—can’t get his ass in gear so easily anymore. Why don’t you go see him? The police station’s not
far from here. I think Commissioner Patrascu can help you. Buy him a pack of Carpatis and tell him best wishes from his little Pauline. That’s what he always calls me.” Paula Petrin
shook our hands. “Good luck! Let me know when you’ve shed some light on this dark business.”

Twilight was already falling, and the streetlights flickered on as we entered the Kronauburg District police headquarters ten minutes later. Istvan greeted one of the sergeants who had been in
Baia Luna after Pater Johannes’s murder, the one who had asked about items of value in the rectory.

“Ah, a rare visit from the mountains. Got something to report?” The officer acted like an old acquaintance.

“We’d like to see Commissioner Patrascu.”

“You’re too late. The chief’s been gone since yesterday. I mean, the former chief. Finally retired after forty-five years. But you can make your report to me.”

Istvan hemmed and hawed. “We had business in town and thought we’d come see if there’s any new developments in the disappearance of our teacher Miss Barbulescu.”

“And I thought you were here because of that awful thing that happened to your pastor. We’re on the case, I can tell you that. And now you say your teacher has disappeared, too? I
don’t know anything about that.” The cop turned to his colleagues. “Have you heard of a teacher gone missing up in Baia Luna? Name of Barbulescu?”

Head shakes all around until one of them remembered. “Patrascu was up in the mountains twice last week, wasn’t he? Maybe he knows something about the teacher.”

“As you can see”—the policeman turned back to us—“no such incident has been reported here. You have no idea how many people disappear and then show up again.
There’s no way we can go looking for all of them. But if you want to ask the old man, no problem. He lives up on Castle Hill, Alte Schanzgasse 3, a yellow house with blue shutters.
Can’t miss it. Buy him a pack of Carpatis, and he’s happy. And best wishes from his colleagues.”

On the market square in front of the police station, the illuminated façade of a shop caught our eye. To judge from its blinding white stucco, it must have just recently opened. Over the
glass entrance hung a huge banner with red letters proclaiming
THANKS TO THE REPUBLIC! THANKS TO THE PARTY!
and beneath that something about the inevitable progress of
Socialism and world-class products for the people. Petre suggested we detour into the shop to buy cigarettes for Patrascu.

As I entered through the double doors, I could hardly believe my eyes and nose. The only shop I knew was my grandfather’s store, where the smell of stale tobacco smoke mixed with the odor
of fermenting sauerkraut. In this place, on the other hand, all the fragrances of the world reached my nostrils simultaneously. I recognized rose oil, baking bread, and fresh paint. Behind what
seemed an endless counter stood a dozen pretty girls in white aprons. I caught a whiff of arrogance in the smug way they were dealing with the customers. I was floored by the variety on the
towering shelves behind the counter. I spotted four different brands of toothpaste and twice as many kinds of soap, including the expensive Luxor with essence of roses that the stuck-up Vera
Raducanu always asked for to make Grandfather look like a fool. Where Ilja had only one shelf of canned goods to offer (and even then you weren’t quite sure what was in them), the Socialist
People’s Market was piled high with attractive pyramids of cans without number containing every vegetable imaginable. In contrast to our village store where we put out apples and pears in
battered old baskets, the apples here were polished to a high gloss, displayed behind glass, and carried sonorous names like Golden Delicious and Jonas Deluxe chalked onto little black slates. Next
to them were whole mountain ranges of glowing bananas, until a closer look revealed they were displayed in front of a clever system of silvery mirrors that optically multiplied the tempting fruit.
But the peak of luxury was represented by three examples of a curious brown fruit spotlit on a white cloth inside a glass case. They reminded me of royal heads with a crown of prickly green leaves.
The three fruits came from Hawaii, about which the only thing I could vaguely remember from Miss Barbulescu’s geography class was that it never snowed there. When I read the price for one of
these so-called pineapples I almost had a stroke: as much as my grandfather earned in a month. I elbowed Petre in the ribs and pointed at the price tag. “Take a look at that!”