A Grain of Truth (16 page)

Szacki briefly considered the words coming from the cloud of smoke above the barbecue.

“It’s not exactly like that,” he replied. “On the one hand you’re right, people commit murder with whatever’s to hand. A butcher uses a meat cleaver, a mechanic uses a tyre lever, a hairdresser uses scissors. But on the other hand the first thing they usually do is try to get rid of that clue. And here the murder weapon was lying next to the corpse, washed and sterilized to boot, carefully prepared for us, so as not to give any circumstantial evidence except for one thing: to imply that this is some sort of filthy Jewish-anti-Semitic case. That’s why we think it’s a smokescreen.”

“Maybe it is, but I’m sure you don’t buy that sort of ritual razor-blade at the local supermarket.”

“No, you don’t,” agreed Szacki. “That’s why we’re trying to find out where it comes from.”

“With moderate success,” added Basia. “There’s a slightly worn inscription on the handle, saying ‘Grünewald’, and I’m in touch with a knife museum in Solingen in Germany to find out more. They claim it might be a small pre-war manufacturer from the district of Grünewald, which is in Solingen. They still make various blades, knives and razors all over the place there, and before the war there
were dozens of workshops and artisans of that kind. Some of them Jewish, for sure. We’ll see. It’s in a perfect state, it looks more like a museum piece, part of someone’s collection, than a
chalef
that’s actually in use.”

Szacki winced; the word “collection” made him think of the loathsome word “hobby”. But at the same time it shunted his thoughts onto a new track. Knife means collection, collection means hobby, hobby means antiquarian, and antiquarian means… He stood up; he did his thinking better on the move.

“So where do you buy this sort of knick-knack?” asked Andrzej, saying Szacki’s thought aloud. “At an auction? At an antique shop? At a secret den of thieves?”

“The Internet,” replied Szacki. “E-bay, Allegro. There’s no antique shop in the world nowadays that doesn’t sell on the Internet.”

He and Basia swapped knowing glances; if the knife was bought at an Internet auction, there must be some evidence of the transaction left. Szacki started mentally sorting the tasks that would have to be performed on Monday in order to check up on it. Lost in thought, he wandered off into the depths of the garden, leaving the Sobierajs and their house behind him. By the time he went back, walking right round the apple tree, he had a list ready; but instead of being satisfied with this new idea, he felt anxious. There was something he had overlooked, something he had failed to notice, he had made an error. He was absolutely sure of it, as he went over and over the events of the last few days, trying to find the flaw. But he couldn’t. It was like having a name on the tip of your tongue that for all the world you simply cannot remember. An unbearable itch in the middle of his skull.

Now he could see the Sobierajs’ villa, or rather cottage, in its full glory. It was in the Kruków district; in other words, a long way from town by Sandomierz standards, near the bypass. Past the chimney, on the other side of the highway, he could see the church with the unusual roof shaped like an upside-down boat. Szacki was finding it hard to get used to the idea that here having your own home did not mean, as it did in Warsaw, luxury and membership of the elite
that had broken free of the high-rise towers, and that in Sandomierz this was the same sort of standard middle-class home as a fifty-square-metre flat in a big city. But so much more human. There was something natural about coming out of the sitting room onto the patio, about having a garden with a few apple trees, spending a lazy Saturday on deckchairs by the barbecue, and breathing in the first scent of spring.

He didn’t know this world, but he thought it was lovely, and he envied those who didn’t appreciate it and never stopped complaining about their house and garden, about the endless work they required, and that there was always something that needed doing. Even so, urban Saturdays in flats, at public swimming pools, in shopping centres, in cars and on smelly streets were like a punishment compared with this. He felt like a prisoner set free after forty years in jail. He didn’t know how to behave, and had a strong physical sense of the discomfort of not belonging. Nothing about him belonged here. His solitude compared with their friendship – because he wasn’t sure it was love – his cold big-city manner compared with their warm, provincial nest, his caustic quips in response to stories that rambled on pointlessly, his pressed suit compared with their sports clothes, and finally his can of Cola compared with their beer. He told himself that if not for the interview with Szyller, he’d be sitting slouched in a sweater finishing a second beer, but he knew himself too well. That was the whole point – Prosecutor Teodor Szacki never sat slouched in a sweater.

Now he felt down, as he slowly walked back towards Basia Sobieraj; her husband had disappeared into the house. The grass dulled his footsteps – either she couldn’t hear him as he stopped right behind her, or she was pretending she couldn’t. She was offering her freckled face to the sun, with her shoulder-length ginger hair tucked behind her ears; in the parting he could see the roots – typical Polish mouse, with a subtle trace of grey already. She had a small nose and lovely full lips, which, even without make-up, clearly stood out peachy-pink against her pale complexion. She was wearing a mohair polo neck and a long pleated skirt, and had
her bare feet on a stool – a typical Polish stool with white legs and a greenish seat. She was wiggling her toes comically, as if trying to warm them up, or mark the beat of a song she was humming in her head. She looked warm-hearted and serene. Infinitely far from the women he had been dealing with lately, the owners of clean-shaven pussies who produced vulgar moans and liked rough sex in stilettos. Szacki thought of the date ahead of him that evening with Klara at a club and sighed out loud. Basia idly leant her head back and looked at him.

“Your freckles are showing,” he said.

“I haven’t got any freckles.”

He smiled.

“Do you know why I invited you?”

“Because you noticed how horribly lonely I am, and you were afraid that if I top myself, all this Jewish shit will land on your head?”

“Yes, that’s reason number one. And reason number two… will you smile again?”

He smiled sadly.

“Well, exactly. I don’t know how life has turned out for you, Teodor, but a man with a smile like that deserves more than you seem to have now. Do you know what I mean?”

She took hold of his hand. She had the dry, cool palm of a person with low blood pressure. He returned the squeeze, but what was he meant to say? He just shrugged.

“In Sandomierz the winters can be dreadful in the usual provincial way, but now the spring’s coming,” she said, without letting go of his hand. “I won’t tell you what that means, you’ll see for yourself. And…” she hesitated, “and I don’t know why, but I thought you ought to leave the dark place you’re in.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t answer. The build-up of emotion rising in his chest was slipping out of his control. Self-consciousness, sentiment, embarrassment, envy, grief, the pain of transience, pleasure at the touch of Barbara Sobieraj’s cool hand, envy once again – he couldn’t control the snowball of emotions. But he was very sorry that such an ordinary thing as spending a lazy spring
morning with someone in a garden at home had never been his lot. A life like his was meaningless.

Andrzej Sobieraj came out onto the patio holding two beers, and his wife’s grip loosened; only now did Szacki remove his hand from hers.

“I must be off to do that interview,” was all he said, and bowed stiffly.

Szacki walked away rapidly without looking round; on the move, he automatically did up the top button of his graphite-grey jacket. As he was closing the garden gate he was already mentally formulating scenarios for his conversation with Jerzy Szyller. Nothing else interested him.

II

Everything lies in the graveyard now, and what’s left seems very far away, veiled by feelings that are inconceivable. What a strong sense of regret and determination, what a thirst for destruction, the pure and simple desire for revenge. Strong enough to occupy one’s thoughts non-stop, ad nauseam, to keep repeating in one’s head every element of the plan; it seems there can be no question of a mistake, but the fear is no less for that, the tension doesn’t disappear. I want to run away, but the plan doesn’t allow for running away, I must wait. This waiting is appalling, the noises are too loud, the lights are too bright, the colours too garish. The ticking of the clock on the wall is as infuriating as the chimes from the town hall; every passing second drives me to distraction. I’m longing to remove the batteries, but that’s not in the plan – a broken clock could be a clue, a piece of evidence, a pointer. It’s tough, it’s very tough holding out.

III

Szacki was just about to press the doorbell, but he withdrew his hand and slowly walked along the fence surrounding the property. Was
Szyller watching him? He couldn’t see a face in the window, or the twitch of a curtain, nor were there any cameras. Was he having his coffee? Watching TV? Reading the newspaper? If he were waiting for the prosecutor conducting an inquiry into a murder case, he probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate on everyday tasks. He’d be loitering by the window or standing on the porch, exceeding his daily quota of cigarettes.

Jerzy Szyller’s house was on the slopes of Piszczele gorge, for where else should the home of one of Sandomierz’s most distinguished and richest citizens be? Judging by the size of the neighbouring properties, the owner must have joined up two or three plots of land, thanks to which his tasteful Polish mini manor house was surrounded by a well-kept garden. No follies, no little paths made of granite slabs, no ponds or temples of Diana, just a few walnut trees, a new growth of spring grass, and a climber winding around the veranda on one side. If not for the distinctive portico supported by stout columns, and if not for the red-and-white flag hanging rather wistfully from a mast by the entrance, Szacki would have thought: Germany. Although no, in Germany there would have been some obvious stylization, the plastic windows would have been divided by gold strips, but there was something genuine about Szyller’s house. The columns looked wooden and tired, the roof sagged slightly under the weight of the shingle, and the whole building was like a dignified old man who is doing very well, but has clocked up the years. A sort of Max von Sydow of manor-house architecture.

He pressed the bell and the homeowner answered so speedily that he must have had his hand on the intercom. So Szacki was right.

Jerzy Szyller was boring and monotonous; Szacki let him ramble on. Despite a show of openness and joviality, the man was extremely tense, a bit like a patient at an oncologist’s, who’s going to talk about anything at all rather than hear the verdict. Feigning friendly interest, the prosecutor was taking a good look at his host and his surroundings.

“Forgive me, please, for keeping the name of the place to myself, I don’t think there was anything illegal about it, but naturally I wouldn’t want to get anybody into trouble.”

“But did you transport the whole house from the east, or just part of it?” asked Szacki, thinking Szyller used too many words – trying to drown out the tension in a way he had observed hundreds of times before.

“The mansion was pretty much destroyed, it was built in the mid-nineteenth century, and as you can imagine, after the war naturally no one took care of it, and it fell into ruin, but luckily enough for it the Belarusians never turned it into a state farm or the like, I think it was simply too small, and besides that, the land in the vicinity was barren. My specialists took it apart beam by beam, once it was here we had to replace and supplement about twenty per cent of the structure; the roof was recreated on the basis of some pre-war photos that had survived in the Wyczerowski family. In any case, the count and countess’s descendants turned up here a couple of years ago, I must say it was a very nice…”

Szacki switched off. In a while he would shunt Szyller off this bloody tedious tale, but only in a while. For now he was registering things. The tone of Szyller’s voice – low and velvety in greeting, it had imperceptibly got higher and higher. Good, let him get a bit anxious. He couldn’t see a wedding ring, he couldn’t see any photographs of women, he couldn’t see any photographs of children, and considering the fact that Szyller was a classically good-looking, well-off man in his prime, that was strange. He could possibly be gay. His meticulous clothing and the impeccable, but refined elegance of the interior also spoke in favour of that. Instead of pictures in gilt frames, there were a few graphics and engravings. Instead of an ancestor with a sabre, there was a portrait of the homeowner, painted in the symbolist style.

Szyller finished his boring oration on transporting the house from Belarus to Sandomierz and clapped his hands emphatically. Plus one for the gays, thought Szacki, and awarded them another point a little later, when his host leapt up to fetch some chocolates, laid out – yet another point – on a small cut-glass platter. Minus one for movements – Szyller moved energetically and softly, but there was nothing camp about it; the softness had more in common with the movements of a predator.

He sat down, crossing his legs. He reached for his shirt cuffs in the typically male gesture of a man who has come home and wants to announce the end of the day by rolling up his sleeves. Yet he withdrew his hand before touching the buttons. Szacki kept a stony face, but he felt a sudden twinge of alarm. Something wasn’t right.

“Let’s start,” he said, taking a Dictaphone out of his jacket pocket.

Szacki pretended to be bored, and to be plain about it, he really was a bit bored, but he wanted to put Szyller off his guard and let him give the game away. He had taken his personal details, told him about liability for making a false statement and politely expressed surprise that the interviewee was fifty-three years old – he really didn’t look older than forty-three – and now for a quarter of an hour he had been hearing about Szyller’s relationship with the Budnik couple. Nothing but big fat platitudes. He was rarely in touch with them, as you know, relations between businessmen and politicians aren’t well regarded, ha ha ha, though naturally they knew each other and ran into each other at official events.