Florian's Gate (25 page)

“You weren't so choosy when they first opened it twenty years ago.”

“At the time it was the only hotel approaching decency south of Warsaw. And they have not changed a thing since. Not even the sheets.”

“Don't be absurd. How do you take your coffee, Jeffrey?”

“Black is fine, thanks.”

“Such nice manners.” Gregor limped back into the main room bearing a steaming glass with no handle. He carried it by wrapping his fingers around the upper edge, above the level of the coffee. Gingerly Jeffrey accepted it, holding it as Gregor had. He started to raise it to his mouth, then stopped when he saw a quarter-inch of coffee grounds floating on the surface.

Gregor, who had already turned to draw up a straight-backed chair, did not see Jeffrey lower the glass. “Next time upon your arrival I shall ask you to come visit me by yourself while my cousin keeps his ill temper downstairs in the car. He won't even allow me to meet him at the airport.”

“I won't allow it because you make a scene when I refuse to submit to a ride in that deathtrap you call an automobile.”

“There are a dozen better ways to spend money than paying Tomek to act as driver for the entire time of your stay.”

“I have long since stopped trying to tell you what to do with your earnings. I suggest you do the same.” Alexander pushed
himself away from the doorjamb. “Come, Jeffrey. I am tired. We mustn't keep my cousin from his mole-like existence.”

Gregor was not the least bit put out by their abrupt departure. “Yes, go on, my dear boy. We can become acquainted another time, when my cousin is not such a bother.”

“Sorry about the coffee.”

“Nonsense. I was just about to make a cup for myself.”

He took Jeffrey's hand, leaned closer, and peered at him with bright gray eyes. “Alexander has told me quite a bit about you, and now that I meet you I see that he was not exaggerating. I am indeed glad that you have inherited more than just your grandfather's fine looks. I am even happier that my cousin has finally managed to find an assistant he can trust.”

A voice called up from the front door. “Coming, Jeffrey?”

Gregor patted Jeffrey's shoulder. “Go on, dear boy. We shall have ample time to come to know each other. Of that I am sure.”

The Hotel Cracovia took up an entire block. It faced the National Museum—the hotel's only redeeming feature, according to Alexander. In too soft an undertone to be heard by the sullenly inattentive staff, he described the hotel as typical of Communist hospitality. Jeffrey thought it was just plain tacky.

The lobby walls were one shade off blood red. The carpets were a mishmash of squares and floral patterns. The ceiling was water-stained and peeling. Light was supplied by military-like rows of hanging orange glass-and-brass globes, about the same size and aesthetic quality as a beer keg.

The guest rooms had beds nailed to one wall and a long table that served as both desk and television stand attached to the other. The bathrooms were narrow enough, as Alexander put it before closing his door on the world, to do everything at once. The mirror was set at the perfect height for Jeffrey to inspect his navel.

As Jeffrey unpacked his single valise, he wondered about calling Katya. He placed a call through the hotel operator,
who warned it might take as long as two days for a connection, then fell asleep waiting for the phone to ring.

CHAPTER 12

Breakfast took place in a cheerless, institutional-style room. Alexander was already nibbling absently at a piece of bread. He waved Jeffrey to the seat across from him. “I hope you slept well.”

“Okay, thanks. How about you?”

“I have found that as I grow older, sleep becomes a rare comfort at times,” Alexander replied. “I spent most of the night chasing that most elusive prey, then found myself being chased in turn by ghosts I could not see, only hear.”

Jeffrey inspected his boss, not pleased with what he saw. The man looked positively haggard. “Maybe you'd be better off spending the day in bed.”

“Perhaps you are right. It shall certainly be no easier to find by the light of day what eluded me all last night. But at least I can rest.” As the waiter approached their table, he asked, “What will you have?”

Once breakfast was ordered, Alexander said, “So. Tell me what you thought of my cousin Gregor.”

“I don't think I've ever met anybody like him before.”

“That is most certainly the case.”

“He sure is enthusiastic.”

Alexander smiled for the first time that morning. “My thoughts exactly. As a matter of fact, I once accused him of being overly enthusiastic about a life that had little to delight in. Do you know what my dear cousin said?”

“I can't imagine.”

“He replied that the word enthusiastic came from two Greek words,
en
and
theos
. Together the words mean to be one with the Divine. He then thanked me for the nicest compliment anyone had ever paid him.”

“Which meant, mind your own business.”

“In so many words. But my cousin did not stop there.
He went on to say that I lived on the basis that comfort was essential to a good life. He, on the other hand, only needed something to be enthusiastic about. Something that would draw him closer to his Maker.”

Jeffrey thought it over. “Did he find it?”

“Something to be enthusiastic about? That, my young friend, you must decide for yourself.”

“I can't thank you enough for this opportunity,” Jeffrey said. “All the opportunities, for that matter.”

“The first opportunity—the job itself—I suppose was in part a gift, and for that you are most welcome,” Alexander replied. “But you have earned all the others, and for this I too am grateful.”

“Would you mind telling me why I was hired?”

“When so many local antique specialists would have given their best dozen years on this earth to become an associate in a Mount Street salon?” Alexander nodded. “Because before such a person arrived on my doorstep, their own self-interests would have already been cast in the fires of greed and ambition, and then honed to a killing edge.”

“I think I see.”

“They would have had ample time to learn the lessons followed by most people in this trade, concepts such as loyalty to no one but themselves. Or the belief that honesty is a commodity to be traded just like that slow-moving chair in the back room. Or that duty is a word that went out with sabers and cavalry charges.”

“And with me you could start out fresh.”

“At least so far as the antiques trade was concerned, yes. My primary wish was to obtain the services of an intelligent, honest, trainable assistant. So long as most of the actual purchasing fell into my hands, you would have ample time to study and to learn. Time that you have used well, I must say. I am most pleased with the manner in which you have filled your idle hours.”

“I wouldn't call them idle.”

“Just as I said. You came to know each piece in the shop so well that you fooled even the best of them. I have heard some rather dreadful comments about you from the vultures that frequent auctions, Jeffrey. There could be no greater praise than to have them see you as a threat sufficient to make them take notice.” He examined Jeffrey from beneath his lofty eyebrows. “Most certainly you've been approached about how to line your own pockets while stabbing me and my shop in the back.”

“I'd never do that.”

“Of course you wouldn't. That is precisely my point. No doubt you've also received your share of offers in the meantime. Perhaps even a senior associate position in a major auction house?”

“A few,” Jeffrey admitted.

“Don't take them. You're not ready yet. When you are, when you can buy as well as you now sell, there is a certain shop on Mount Street that awaits you.”

“That's what I'm hoping,” he confessed.

“I won't tell you not to get your hopes up, Jeffrey. I am too practical to waste precious time on such nonsense. And I will not describe this as a test, for if I were not already sure of the outcome I would not be inviting you along. No, I want you to simply keep in mind that this is first and foremost a learning experience.”

“I understand.”

Alexander leaned over the table. “You will need to come up to the room with me before you go. I want you to carry my money belt. It contains ten thousand dollars. You are to carry that much every time you go for a buy. Many people will demand a cash advance, and it is important that you be able to acquire something valuable without delay, to ensure that it is not sold to someone else before you can return. Before you go in for a buy, slip a couple of thousand into your pocket. If you need additional funds, go back out to the car. Don't let them know you are carrying more than what you
have in your pocket. Remember, a thousand dollars is still a small fortune in Poland—more than many people earn in a year. And keep the money in your belt around to your back in case thieves search you.”

“Things are that bad here?”

“Most of the people we deal with are repeat clients, and Gregor knows almost all of the others. But don't take chances. If they think you have money and are vulnerable, they may decide honesty is too expensive a virtue.”

“I meant, things in general.”

“Things in general, as you say, are disastrous. The police are increasingly ineffective, and thieves know this. Poland is becoming a lawless land. The last time I was here, I decided to take a walk around my Warsaw hotel. On the first corner were addicts moaning for their drug. On the next, Rumanian refugees begging for pennies. On the next, two men beating each other's faces in. On the next was a police station with the men lounging out front. On the opposite corner was a church with its door locked and windows barred. At four o'clock in the afternoon.”

He glanced at his watch. “Gregor will be expecting you in about a half an hour. He'll have been up since the crack of dawn, as always. You are sure you will be all right without me today?”

“I suppose so. I'd rather have you come, but you really don't look up to it.”

“Which is exactly how I feel. This trip is not going as I had intended, but life seldom does.” Alexander pushed himself from his chair with a visible effort. Jeffrey hurried over and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you. I shall rely on your young strength today. Give Gregor my regards, and tell him to teach you well.”

“He is not ill, is he?” Gregor asked when Jeffrey explained Alexander's absence.

“Not really. Just exhausted.” He related the happenings of
the previous two days. “I have the feeling that it might have something to do with it.”

“Ah.” Gregor nodded his agreement. “I am so sorry to hear this. And on your very first trip as well.”

“Why is he like this?”

“The reasons are for him to say, my dear boy. They are his memories, not mine. All I can say is that your experiences in Schwerin have brought his worst nightmares to life.” Gregor began briskly preparing for departure. “That is enough on that, I should think. Shall we be off? We have much to do today.

“Despite what Alexander refers to as my apartment's minuscule proportions,” Gregor said as they left the apartment, “it has several major advantages. It is a fifteen-minute walk to the old town, and the building has only five floors and thirty-seven apartments. That is nothing compared to the monstrosities that the Communists have erected. You will be visiting a few of them.”

“I can hardly wait,” Jeffrey said, casting a backward glance at the building. He took in the dull gray exterior, the flaking windowpanes, the crumbling front steps, the dusty strip of unadorned earth fronting the curb, and wondered what a disadvantaged place must look like.

“My building was erected in the fifties,” Gregor went on, making his rolling way down the sidewalk. “At that time, buildings were still being made from brick and concrete rather than mortar blocks and steel. As a result this building is insulated, you see. My walls do not sweat in the cold. Nor do they freeze in the dead of winter, as happens in some of the newer buildings—the interior walls, I am speaking of. Sometimes I feel a little guilty not residing as most people do here, but as you can see my health is unfortunately not the best. One winter in such a place and I would be immobilized for life.”

He stopped in front of a stubby car the color of old mustard. Jeffrey looked it over, tapped the plastic hood. It was a square cigar box on skinny tires, designed to grow old swiftly
and fall apart. Gingerly he pushed down on his side; the car rocked like a boat in high seas. No shocks at all.

“Don't you think we would be better off having Alexander's driver take us around?”

“I wouldn't dream of such a thing,” Gregor replied, climbing in and shutting his door. It bounced back open. He reached out with both hands and slammed it into submission. He inserted the key and ground the ignition. Jeffrey sighed in defeat, slid onto the narrow seat. The car sounded like a motorized sewing machine. “This is an East German car, a Trabant,” Gregor said above the engine's whining putter. “In Poland they call them Hoennecker's Revenge. Hoennecker was the former ruler of East Germany.”

“Back in the U.S., people put quarters in motel beds and don't get as good a ride as this,” Jeffrey replied. He hung on to the door strap with both hands, tried to lift himself over the worst of the bumps. He turned his head as a bus coughed out a vast cloud of black smoke that engulfed their car. “Do they have a nick-name for buses?”

Gregor nodded. “Skunks.”

They left Cracow, turned onto a small secondary road, and began making their way through open farmland. The fields were verdant green, the sky a baked blue. Jeffrey rolled down his window and inhaled the fresh air.

They passed a smattering of run-down houses that gradually condensed and formed a small village. Jeffrey remarked, “It seems as if the main color of communism wasn't red. It was gray.”