The Day of the Lie (48 page)

‘I tried to reach him,
just before he died,’ said Anselm. ‘He’d made the briefest of confessions,
seconds before he was shot … that he’d always known where he was going and I
threw him a few words, not my own, but something to hang on to. I don’t know if
he caught hold. Something flared and then a light went out.’

‘This, then, is that the
end of your concerns?’ asked the Prior. He bent his glasses into a workable
shape and fixed them on to his enquiring face.

‘No,’ replied Anselm. ‘I’m
ashamed that I want to look past his actions. I don’t know why I think it
matters, but I do.’ Anselm dropped his voice as if he didn’t want to hear
himself. ‘Brack, too, had an immensity to dwarf the stars. What happened to it?
Could he throw away so much? Is it even possible? Is it even right for me to
try and reclaim it on his behalf when, in his shallowness, he destroyed the
immensity of others?’

The Prior was squinting
now Bees were drifting round the clearing, in their own way rather busy ‘Anselm,
do you remember when we were in the woodshed?’

He nodded.

‘I was working and you
were watching? You wanted to
understand
everything.’

Anselm considered the
first remark superfluous but he agreed in order to advance matters.

‘Well, I suspect you now
understand far more than you want to, far more than is comfortable for any man:
The Prior examined Anselm, aiming again. ‘But don’t change. Don’t lose heart.
The hunger is part of who you are. It might enable you to help those who can’t
be helped. People who deserve no help.’

‘What do you mean?’

The Prior stood up and
settled a frown upon Anselm. He coughed lightly again, smuggling his arms into
the sleeves of his habit.

‘You’ve always wanted to
understand the criminal as much as you’ve longed to help the victim,’ he said,
in a low, kindly voice. ‘That’s why I let you go to Warsaw It’s why I’ll always
let you help people who’ve fallen between the cracks on the pavement to
justice. You look beyond crime and punishment. You’re a lawyer in a habit, a
man who asks different kinds of questions, who seeks different kinds of
answers. And in that unusual position you’ll always hear things that others
could not, should not and will not hear … sometimes from the victim, at
others from the criminal, but always from someone who’d never say them to
anybody else. You’ll see things, too, in the darkness: He regarded Anselm
fondly as if he were somehow important, to him and to Larkwood. ‘This gives you
a special kind of opportunity which only comes to those who, understanding
that little bit more — who’ve seen behind the screen of guilt — can’t judge so
easily and won’t condemn. It means every once in a blue moon you just might be
able to say something of importance to the person who is rightly condemned …
who can hear it, precisely because it comes from the mouth of someone who
understands better than they judge. Maybe you helped Otto Brack, Anselm, when
everyone else had failed. You were certainly his last chance.’ The Prior looked
at his feet as if he’d drifted off a well-marked path. ‘There are lots of good
people out there who defend the widow and the orphan, who bring killers to the
courts of justice, and still others who speak up for the Good Thief. But I
think there’s room for a troubled maverick who keeps an eye out for the bad
one, the prodigal who never came home:

The Prior, having
finished, seemed vaguely embarrassed. He nodded a few times and made a sort of
wave, and then backed off towards the aspens. He passed through the low
branches, head down, his scapular flapping in the breeze.

Anselm remained still
for a while, astounded by the paradox. He’d gone to Warsaw as Róża’s
public representative and returned as Brack’s private advocate. For the first
time since he’d been at Larkwood the totality of his vocation had come
together. The two parts of his life, past and present, converged, without the
one eclipsing the other, bringing a new kind of focus. He looked around, seeing
the enclosure with sharper eyes. He listened to the hum of activity; he smelled
the crushed flowers and the flattened pasture. He was whole, though he hadn’t
felt any previous fragmentation.

‘Thank you,’ he said,
wondering to whom he was the more grateful: Róża for the light or Brack
for the darkness. They were both curiously essential gifts to his
self—understanding.

He rose, light-headed,
resolved to tie up the one remaining loose end. Something from the grey region.

Chapter Fifty-Six

A mildly eccentric benefactor had long ago
made a curious bequest in Larkwood’s favour: a single bottle of Echézeaux, Gran
Cru 1977. Given the size of the community it could hardly be drunk; given its
provenance it could hardly be sold, the upshot frustrating the express
stipulation of the donor that it be ‘enjoyed for a celebration of some special
character’. It had remained at the back of a cupboard until Anselm informed the
Prior of his intentions. Before progressing with the menu, however, he made a
quick call to Krystyna, just to confirm his suspicions.

‘Well, I shouldn’t
really tell you this,’ she said, merrily turned informer, ‘I mean, he told me
not to say but since you’re friends, and he paid all the bills, I suppose there’s
no harm. Yes, you’re right, he did stay here, a few months before yourself But
that’s our secret, yes?’

‘As if you’d told me in
the Warsaw Hall.’

In due course John came
to Larkwood for a few days’ recollection before the academic year got underway
It was his wont to snatch such moments. Celina would have come, too, but she
was inundated with work that flowed in and out of season. If she managed to
finish early — this was her message — she’d join them later. John didn’t say as
much, but he’d evidently embarked upon a new life in recent months, tentatively
making his way forward with Celina holding his arm. It was touching to observe;
and consoling, knowing of the great devastation caused by Otto Brack. Autumn
had dawned, tingeing the treetops with a hint of yellow The guesthouse was
empty save for the two old friends. Lunch had been prepared in Larkwood’s
careless kitchen. Anselm had begged for anything out of the ordinary.

‘What is it?’ asked
John, tasting the purée.

‘I honestly don’t know,’
replied Anselm. ‘It’s purple.’

‘It’s disgusting.’

‘Try the wine. It’s a
deep red.’

He did, suddenly slowing
his movements, his mouth warmed by a revelation. ‘It’s un—be-lievable. Why are
we drinking holy nectar?’

‘To fulfil a legacy’

‘May all your friends
die with like intentions.’

John ate some purée and
drank some wine, scowling and smiling by turn.

John, do you think I’m
completely stupid?’ ventured Anselm.

‘I wouldn’t go that far.
Why?’

‘Well, I’ve been reading
Wittgenstein and I’ve found some clever ideas.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Two, in fact.’

‘Go on.’

‘First, someone who
knows too much finds it hard not to lie:

John thought for a
while. ‘Very true.’

‘And, second, a
confession has to be part of your new life:

‘Agreed.’

‘Get going, then … or
would you like a little help?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘John —’ Anselm paused,
letting the quiet grow rich and heavy, like the wine — ‘you knew Celina was the
informer all along, didn’t you? You’ve known since nineteen eighty-two, shortly
after you came home, I suspect, when you realised that the only other person
who’d known you’d be at the grave of Prus on All Saints’ was someone close
enough to open your journal … which you then destroyed, not to get rid of the
evidence against you, but because it was a silent accusation against her; just
as you brought proceedings not to recover your reputation, but to absolve her
from the consequences of the crisis. If you had any doubts that her arm had
somehow been twisted, she effaced them when she could no longer look at you.
When she left on the day you’d won, though we all knew you’d lost.’

As if to punish himself
for the subterfuge, John helped himself to more purée.

‘You believed that the
Dentist had ruined you and you wanted retribution,’ said Anselm. ‘You also
guessed that your dealings with him were linked with his plan to find Róża.
Of course, your problem was that you didn’t know the name of the Dentist. There
was no way of finding out. And even if you did know, how could you bring him to
a court … no court would recognise any wrong, against you.’ He paused. ‘But
then the SB-Stasi archive turned up in Dresden. How did you know it had been
transferred to Warsaw?’

‘A report by Celina
Hetman on the BBC World Service.’ John dabbed his mouth with a large starched
napkin. ‘I went to the IPN and asked Sebastian to take me through the file on
the Shoemaker. That brought me to Brack and
Polana.
And I found out, at
last, why Róża wore two rings.’

‘Which explains how
Sebastian came across Brack’s crimes in the first place,’ surmised Anselm. ‘There
were lots of other files and he didn’t just land on that one. You were the
first to open the cover and then he, like you, found himself in Róża’s
universe, something unexpected and beyond his experience.’

John nodded, without
guile, and Anselm concluded that his friend knew nothing of OLEK; that while
they’d plotted a route to Brack, this had remained Sebastian’s secret. When
John had sat in that Warsaw office, he hadn’t been able to see the pallid face
of a man who’d just discovered his grandfather’s role in the Terror. He’d heard
the tension in Sebastian’s voice, no doubt, and sensed the resolve, but had
simply put them down to principle and ambition. They had a lot in common, John
and Sebastian: they’d each been on the trail of family shame, driven by
vicarious remorse, neither truly understanding the other. Anselm didn’t pause
to reflect further; he said, ‘In fairness to you, revenge wasn’t your sole
objective. Perhaps it’s not even the right word to capture the scope and
breadth of your project —’ he refilled John’s glass — ‘true, your aim was to
bring down Brack for what he’d done to you, but far more important was your
intention to bring justice into Róża’s life, clear your name by default,
and — unless my imagination deceives me — to engineer the seemingly impossible:
the recovery of Celina … whose voice you’d tracked on the World Service.’

John’s slow appreciation
of the wine told Anselm he was right. Very good, John seemed to say Lots of
depth, there, with nuance and a beguiling finish. Assured, Anselm went on.

‘Your primary objective
— which fulfilled all your purposes — was to send Sebastian after Róża: to
persuade her to give evidence in the proposed criminal trial. Because, from any
perspective, the unresolved murders of Pavel and Stefan were by far the most
serious matter. They stood tall in your mind, far above the risk of things
turning out badly for yourself as CONRAD or Celina as an informer. Getting Róża
into a courtroom was the all in all. And that is when the problems began.’

‘Because Róża was
trapped,’ said John, slowly putting down his glass. ‘Which I couldn’t have
anticipated. Sebastian rang me after she’d been to the IPN and we both accepted
that we’d have to let Brack go. I never thought she’d turn to me. But after she
left Hampstead, I thought of you, hoping that somehow, with Róża’s
statement, and Sebastian’s help, you’d set off on the left,
na lewo,
and
wangle your way to a point where the many lives lived in secret might be
brought to the truth … mine, Róża’s and Celina’s. That you would speak
for us all. And that with Celina’s exposure, sensitively handled, Brack could
be brought to court.’

Anselm had nothing else
to say At such times, Gilbertines fall silent. For some odd reason the apparent
hiatus compels others to carry on talking.

‘When you called me for
that meeting, I thought I was finished,’ said John. ‘I’d hoped you’d flush out
the truth without anyone having to say anything, but you forced me to speak for
myself I had to tell Róża about my relationship with Brack, which could
only portray me as the informer. Which is why I asked you to invite Celina. I’d
no idea what would unfold. I just realised she had to speak up, too … not to
get me off the hook, but for herself … because this would be her last chance
to come out of her hole in the ground … wherever it was she’d gone when she
left me. In the end, Anselm, you said nothing; you made us all speak for
ourselves.’

They finished off the
purée and some braised matter that might have been lamb, chicken or pork. Fish
was an outside chance. They argued about that one, unable to come to any
friendly agreement. The debate threatened to turn violent, so Anselm rose to
make coffee. Standing in the nearby kitchenette, he rummaged for biscuits,
listening to John’s voice sail through the open door. The kettle began a low
grumble.

‘You know, Anselm, there’s
something that I can’t quite fathom about Brack’s behaviour.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘This is a man who hated
the Shoemaker. He was into thought control, the suppression of free speech …
he was up to his neck in class conflict:

‘Past his teeth.’

‘Well, part of his plan
to trap me entailed the publication of the Shoemaker’s ideas throughout the
English-speaking world and beyond. They’re out there now, thanks to him. Can
you get more stupid than that?’

Anselm didn’t reply He
was looking for the sugar.

‘You’d have thought that
was a price too high,’ called John, wondering if Anselm was still there. ‘Same
thing with Celina. He got her films released. And he never even seized that
last documentary … yet he must have known that his dog-eat-dog superiors
would lay half the blame at his door, since it came from his would-be daughter.’