The Madonna on the Moon (45 page)

“Not me,” said Matei. “Believe me, I didn’t. They let me go because I said I hadn’t even been in the shop when the equipment was being sold. All my uncle
said—over and over again—was that a Gypsy with a beard and an older man and a young guy, meaning you, were in the store. He didn’t know your names. He also couldn’t recall
where you were from—just somewhere in the mountains. Then they searched my uncle’s private rooms. They found the television and confiscated it on the spot. They’ll show up here
pretty soon; that TV set put them on the scent.”

I could feel the fear rising inside me. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Raducanu smiled when he saw the TV. My uncle got out your receipt to prove that everything about the trade had been legal and he hadn’t received any stolen goods. As soon as
the security agent took a look at it, he smiled even more, as if he recognized the piece of paper. But that can’t be so, can it?”

“Yes, it can. Raducanu was up here once. They wanted to take the TV from us then, too, but my grandfather showed them the receipt to prove he was the legal owner of the set.”

“I don’t get the whole thing. But tell me the truth: why do you need a darkroom in Baia Luna?”

“Village festivals, weddings, ID photos, portraits,” I said. “I wanted to photograph life in the village and then sell the pictures. It’s too far to Kronauburg and,
anyway, Photo Hofmann does good work, but they’re expensive.”

“I can’t imagine earning any money taking photos here in this hole, but I’ll take your word for it. Especially now that you have no more competition from Hofmann the
photographer.”

“What do you mean?”

“You really are in the dark up here. Motorcycle accident down by Campina.”

The color drained from my face. “Was Herr Hofmann killed?”

“It was all over the papers: ‘Master Photographer Dead.’ He was doing seventy-five on a straightaway. Went right under an army truck, without a helmet. Took them hours to find
his head—it was thirty yards out in a cornfield, sliced clean off. That’s what it said in the
Courier,
anyway.”

“But how could it have happened? What time of day was it?”

“I only know what I read in the paper: going too fast and lost control. When was it, now? Sunday before last, I think, the day after that big party shindig in town.”

I felt dizzy. “Matei, did you know that Herr Hofmann was from Baia Luna? His son Fritz and I were in school together.”

“No, that’s news to me. I only knew Hofmann from the newspaper. He ran around with the fancy crowd. I saw him a time or two in town on his way to the Star of the Carpathians. Not my
scene. Too slick. They say Hofmann was thick as thieves with our party boss Stephanescu. But wait . . . now that I think about it . . . At the party rally I was on the market square—free food
and drink, you know—so me and my friends were really helping ourselves. We even stayed when they started their stupid speeches. Stephanescu was standing on the podium next to the president.
But Hofmann wasn’t there. I would have noticed, because he was always hovering around the big shots. But on that Saturday he wasn’t onstage. There was a pretty girl, a blond, taking all
the pictures.”

When I was silent, Matei continued, “No wonder you were so surprised by Hofmann’s death if his son was a friend of yours. The newspaper was full of eulogies, pages and pages of them.
The longest was by Stephanescu.”

“What’d it say?”

“Something about eternal friendship lasting beyond the grave. If you ask me, he was laying it on a bit thick for my taste, if you know what I mean.”

“No, not really.”

“How should I put it? The expression of sympathy seemed a bit overdone, phony somehow. The magical gaze of the master, a life for photography, the unerring eye of a great artist, and so on
and so forth. And that Hofmann would live forever in his pictures and stuff like that—when it was common knowledge that his assistants took the photos. He was an ass kisser who took portraits
of the party cadres that looked just like they wanted to see themselves. Well done technically, sure, but where’s the art in it?”

“It’s not something I can judge. But what made you come up here from Kronauburg just to warn us?”

Matei looked surprised. “But that’s obvious. Maybe I’ll need help someday, too. Anyway, think of something before that Raducanu gets here. He’s a nasty guy and capable of
anything.”

As Matei was taking his leave to get back to Apoldasch in time to catch the evening bus to Kronauburg, I regretted being suspicious of Gheorghe Gherghel’s nephew instead of thanking him
and accepting his offer of friendship.

I was alone. I had poured oil onto a fire, and now it was flaring up and threatening to consume me.
Keep your flame turned down, or you’ll have a fire on your hands that will burn you
badly
. That’s what Commissar Patrascu told us after Johannes Baptiste’s murder. The captain with wiry hair hadn’t had time to enjoy his retirement. Had it really been all
that cigarette smoke that killed him? And now, Heinrich Hofmann. I had a fearful foreboding. My photographs glued to the windowpanes had been aimed at Stefan Stephanescu. But had they hit Heinrich
Hofmann instead? Whoever had discovered the pictures had prevented them from causing any trouble for the Kronauburg party chief. But if Stephanescu had heard about the photo posters, which I
assumed he did, then he would order his people to find the perpetrator, the person with the negatives. And wouldn’t he also be furious with Heinrich Hofmann? Shouldn’t the photographer
have kept the revealing negative so well protected that there was no possibility of anyone stealing it? Did the friendship between the two of them end when Hofmann became a security threat to the
party chief? Why wasn’t Heinrich at the party rally? And the motorcycle accident just a day later? Without a helmet, when I’d never seen Fritz’s father get on his Italian bike
without a helmet?

I needed someone to share the unbearable burden of these questions with. And my fear, too. They were after me. I was a monkey wrench in the works of the powerful. I’d lost control of the
tiller. But there was no one to relieve me of my fear. Fritz lived in Germany. Did he know of his father’s death? I thought it unlikely he and his mother had come to Kronauburg for the
funeral of his hated old man. I longed for Buba, would have liked to take her hand and flee, get out of there, go somewhere, farther into the mountains. Would we have made it through, like the
rebels down in Walachia? Or to Germany, like Fritz? But I hadn’t the slightest idea where Buba was or who she was living with. I had asked her uncle repeatedly, but Dimitru had sworn a
thousand oaths that he didn’t know where his niece had ended up.

Stephanescu was going to send his henchmen to Baia Luna, if they weren’t already on their way. Raducanu would be showing up soon. Very soon, and certainly not alone. I wouldn’t get
away with playing a cheap trick on him a second time. I had to act, and right now. All traces that led from the display windows of Hofmann’s photo studio to Baia Luna had to be removed. I
couldn’t deny the trade of the TV for the darkroom equipment and the telescope, not after Raducanu’s visit to Gheorghe Gherghel. But there couldn’t be any evidence that a darkroom
had actually been set up in the village. Only Ilja, Kathalina, and Dimitru knew of its existence. Now I’d see whether my family could not just stick together but also be smart. I called
Grandfather, my mother, and Dimitru together for an urgent conversation. I had to show them some of my cards without letting them know about my failed attempt to topple the Kronauburg party chief
from his pedestal. Once I gathered them together, we all sat down, and I turned to my mother without beating around the bush.

“Do you remember that disgusting photograph you found under my mattress?”

Kathalina blushed. “Oh yes, very well.”

“And do you remember the guy who was squirting champagne?”

Embarrassed, Mother nodded. “Why are you bringing up that horrible thing again?”

Dimitru interrupted, “What kind of filth are you talking about, Pavel? And can you tell me why I have to sit and listen to this?”

“That photograph showed a naked woman and some half-naked men, among them the Kronauburg party secretary,” I explained. “Fritz Hofmann found the picture in one of his
father’s moving crates and gave it to me. And Dr. Stephanescu has a powerful interest in never allowing that picture to be copied and distributed. And that’s why he’s having the
Securitate search for the negative.”

“I don’t understand,” said Grandfather. “Why don’t they search in Hofmann’s studio? What’s it got to do with us?”

“Heinrich Hofmann had a motorcycle accident ten days ago. He’s dead.”

“How awful!” Kathalina said and covered her face with her hands. “You say he’s dead?”

“Yes. The trouble is the Securitate thinks I’ve got the negative. They’re after me.”

“But how did they get that idea?” Ilja wondered.

I lied. “I don’t know. Probably because I was a good friend of Fritz’s. Or maybe because of the telescope and the photo stuff. After all, it looks suspicious to have the lab
equipment if you don’t have any negatives. How am I going to explain to the Securitate that we needed the darkroom for your Madonna photos? They’ll put me right into the nuthouse. They
already grabbed Gheorghe Gherghel. His nephew Matei was just here. He says they arrested his uncle yesterday because he let us have the darkroom setup. It’s against the law now.”

“The basic question is,” Dimitru interjected, “do you have the negative? Yes or no?”

I lied again. “No. But the Securitate’s going to turn this place upside down. We have to hide everything: the darkroom, your telescope, the camera!”

“Including Dimitru’s Madonna photos?” asked Grandfather.

“Everything’s got to go.” I thought for a moment. “Except the radio.”

“Okay,” said Dimitru. “Do you have a plan?”

“Yes, more or less.”

Kathalina was trembling with fear, and suddenly it was all too much for her. “I knew it!” she cried out. “All this craziness of yours brings nothing but trouble. Now the
security agents are coming to get all of us. You’ll all end up in prison, and so will I. Just because of that dirty picture!”

“Calm down, Mother.” I put my arm around her shoulders. “You burned that picture.”

Kathalina was sobbing. Finally she wiped her tears away with her apron. “I . . . I . . . I . . . ,” she stammered in embarrassment, “didn’t burn it. I wanted to, but then
. . . I hid it.” Mother left us sitting at the table, went upstairs, and returned, blushing bright red. She opened the door to the stove.

“Are you crazy?” cried Dimitru. “You can’t burn that!” The Gypsy jumped up in a flash and grabbed the photo out of her hand. He stared at the picture and winced. He
didn’t seem surprised so much as unable to trust his eyes. He held the photo up to the light and then looked at it up close again, as if seeking something hidden in it. Then he tapped his
finger on the man with the champagne bottle.

“This one, Pavel, he’s Stephanescu?”

“Yes.”

“I see,” murmured the Gypsy. “And he wants to get his hands on this photo and the film. For evidential reasons. Should we prevent that? Yes, we should. Which makes the
situation serious—very serious.”

“Give it back,” wailed Kathalina. “We’ve got to burn it.”

“Of course, of course, my dear! Ashes to ashes. But all in good time. It’s still too early to burn it. You’re afraid this photo is a threat to us. No, no, it isn’t.
It’s a threat to this Stephanescu. It’s giving him a giant headache. But Pavel’s going to protect this picture, protect it like a holy relic, not like those fakes the Gypsies try
to sell you. It’d be a mistake to throw it into the fire, believe me. An
error fatal.
But it would be an even bigger mistake to let this precious photo fall into the hands of the
Securitate. Pavel, do you know of a safe hiding place that would never occur to those chuckleheads in the Security Service?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” Dimitru handed me the photo. “Can we hide the lab equipment there, too?”

“No. There’s not enough room. But your Madonna pictures will fit.”

Dimitru closed his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” asked Grandfather, who was fidgeting as if sitting on hot coals.

“Shhh. I’m thinking of a hiding place and asking Papa Baptiste for heavenly succor.”

“Johannes Baptiste,” I cried, “that’s it! I know a place the Securitate will never look for all that lab junk.”

Dimitru opened his eyes. “Me, too.” And then, without pausing for breath, “Are you all ready to do a little playacting? We should rehearse a little.”

“What do you mean ‘rehearse’? What kind of playacting?”

“It’s simple. When that Lupu fellow shows up here, we’ll all be onstage and ready to raise the curtain. Then we’ll give a performance inspired by our phantasmagorical
rationality. A dog only barks when you’re afraid of it. We’re going to turn the world upside down and throw that cur Raducanu a bone that’ll give him plenty to gnaw on.”

Two hours later we’d worked out our strategy and practiced our parts for the performance. Mother had calmed down, felt reassured, and knew exactly what she was supposed to do and say. I,
too, had put aside my fear, and Dimitru was rubbing his hands together as if looking forward to the encounter with Lupu Raducanu with malicious glee.

Since we expected Raducanu and his men to turn the whole village upside down looking for the darkroom, I went over to the Petrovs’ to warn Petre and his father Trojan that their house
would probably be searched. The carbine and scope the Petrovs occasionally used to go poaching could cause them some problems. It turned out my warning was superfluous. “They can search all
through the mountains till they’re blue in the face.” Petre laughed.

When I was sure Baia Luna was asleep, I stole into the church, opened the tabernacle, and put in the Madonna pictures and the photo. Then I pinched a couple votive candles and met Dimitru in the
laundry room of the rectory.

The lab was just as I had left it two weeks ago. As expected, it smelled strongly of chemicals, and as planned, Dimitru had brought along the little bottle of Rêves de la Nuit perfume that
had been gathering dust in our shop for years. Dimitru lit the candles while I opened the cellar window. Then I disposed of the cloudy brown developer liquid, rinsed the sink clean, and
disassembled the enlarger. A half hour later all evidence of the presence of a darkroom had been removed. The Gypsy dragged in a few worn-out mattresses that had been stacked in the basement
hallway and sprayed everything with Rêves de la Nuit to drive out the lab odors. There was an overwhelming scent of roses, and I felt a twinge in my heart: it was the same perfume Angela
Barbulescu had used. I saw her again in her sunflower dress, hanging from a black beech on the Mondberg.
Your last hour has already struck,
Angela had written in her farewell letter to
Stephanescu. She was mistaken. Angela Barbulescu had not found justice before she died or since then either. And my attempt to destroy Stephanescu with the compromising photo had been a miserable
failure.