The National Treasure

by William P Wood

  “I have no claim on her. We’re completely divorced. Anyway, we’re all citizens of the world.”

  “We will be soon,” Henselt said with conviction. There was no doubt whose world he intended that to be.

  “I’ll take you to her. There is something very serious,” Janusz let his voice sink low, sombre, portentous, “she must tell you. Frankly, Major, I’m very glad you’re here. This situation is beyond me.”

  “Situation? What’s going on?” Henselt followed Janusz toward the living room.

  “Lidia better tell you herself. Something has to be done before he does something abominable.” That should get Henselt’s attention.

  But it didn’t.

  Henselt was beside Janusz as they went into the living room where Lidia was poised on the sofa, the curtains pulled back flooding her and the grand room with stark morning light. “I’ve seen you before,” Henselt suddenly and alarmingly suspicious, stared at Janusz.

  “Quite possible. I travel a great deal. Paris? Vienna?”

  “No. More recent.” Henselt was fixed on Janusz, and didn’t even seem to notice Lidia, who was primed to launch into her role, hands fidgeting with a silk handkerchief, distraught expression. “You look like the handyman. What’s his name?”

  “You must mean Rybak. He’s ill upstairs. High fever.”

  Janusz had given Peszek his instructions an hour earlier: “If anyone asks, anyone, Karol, you are Ignace Rybak the farmer. You’re the handyman here.”

  Peszek had shaken his head from the bed where he was still heavily coated with blankets. “I thought you were Rybak.”

  “Change of plans. Now you are.”

  “I don’t know…”

  Janusz had lost patience and said loudly in exasperation, “Rybak, Rybak, Rybak. Ry-bak. Keep your eyes closed, too. Yours are too distinctive.” No time for temperamental artists now, Janusz had thought.

  “Don’t get so excited, professor. I can do that.” Peszek had grinned conspiratorially like a child admitted to an exciting game.

  So now Janusz had no hesitation in correcting Henselt.

  Henselt paused and Janusz noted the light coating of sweat and the nearly imperceptible jumps of his cheeks. “Yes, of course,” Henselt said quickly. “Faces run together, you know. Hundreds, thousands go by every day. Nothing individual anymore. Amazing,” he laughed abruptly and oddly. “You’ll have to register, Rudzinski, composer.”

  Good. The chemically frisky Henselt had re-appeared. Good Lord, Janusz thought, this rapid jumping back and forth could make you crazy. Well, as long as it had made Henselt crazy that was all that mattered now.mn

  “Whatever you say, Major,” he replied. “I’m not staying here. I’m called to the capital.” Another lie was as good as the ones before and after it and Janusz figured this one was hard to prove. “It’s sheer luck I stopped by and Lidia told me the awful … well, she’ll tell you herself.”

  “Indeed. I thought she and I were going to be alone.”

  Janusz compelled Henselt to turn to Lidia as if she had magically appeared out of thin air, which, given his altered perceptions, might in fact be exactly how it seemed to him. Henselt nodded then nodded again, smiled, mechanically pressed ahead and handed her the spray of roses with a jerky flourish. “For you, the hardest ones to get.”

  Janusz admired the briefest, most telling hesitation Lidia allowed before she accepted the roses, as if her concentration were so consumed by another object she barely realised where she was. Don’t overdo it, he silently and fervently pleaded, watching her.

  Lidia leaned up from the sofa, gently putting the roses down on the teak coffee table like she was laying them to rest. “Dieter. You have no idea how much I need you now.” Tremulant voice, obvious distress.

  Henselt sat by her, their knees touching, and Janusz had transformed apparently into an exotic piece of furniture because he was ignored with an absorption on Lidia that was total. Janusz noticed the salient props: hat on the sofa; and that polished leather pistol holster. Janusz stayed very still, invisible.

  “What’s wrong? What can be so wrong?” Henselt asked fiercely, taking one of her hands in his and holding it.

  Every joke and most music – well, the kind that Janusz loved and respected and believed he wrote – consisted of a precisely set opening and then, either quickly or slowly, a satisfying climax derived from the elements of the opening.

  Lidia had effectively produced the opening. Now with her face down, then raised with the kind of timing most singers and actors would envy, she began crying, shaking slightly. Perfect, Janusz thought, she’s talking to that maître d’ again. Henselt practically begged her to tell him, trust him, confide in him. He had her hands, then he was putting his arms around her. Janusz willed himself to stay absolutely stony silent and motionless when he saw that.

  Because Lidia, tentatively, then in a sobbing, revolted torrent of exclamations and vivid images, told the instantly enraged Henselt what horrors Dr Daniel Sakovich intended to inflict on her that very afternoon. Her skill at improvisation was spectacular; Janusz heard ‘abominations’, ‘violations’ and ‘sadistic’ used imaginatively and hideously. She wasn’t improvising, he realised sadly. The frantic thrashing last night through which he had held her, comforted her, was when she saw exactly what Sakovich had in store for her.

  As she cried, leaned on Henselt, pulled back in revulsion at the things she was compelled to unburden, Janusz watched the young major’s face go rigid, redden cholerically like an old man’s spiking high blood pressure. Janusz could almost hear the sound of Henselt’s motor racing so fast it would come apart; if he was a percussion section, every drum and cymbal was pounding and clashing at the height of its capacity.

  Which is why, Janusz the immobile bipedal piece of furniture thought with satisfaction and hope, it’s called a climax.

  It ends the music.

  Thirty-Three

  In a nice piece of timing and stagecraft by whoever arranges these things, Janusz just then caught the sound of another car crunching on the gravel driveway. Before the booming knocker could sound, he said “I’ll get it. That’s got to be the doctor.”

  Lidia groaned. Henselt was on his feet. One hand was clenched. The avenging knight to the rescue of his lady.

  Janusz wondered how long it would be for Henselt to take Dr S away. Quick greetings, short explosion of fury, marched out, no goodbyes. Well, allow five minutes, give or take, he thought with helpless glee. If all went well.

  Janusz opened the door, composing himself, no personal pun unintended, into unreadable blankness. No clues to the quarry. Dr Daniel Sakovich smiled. He was dressed in a beautiful black suit and a new black Homburg which sat on his round head like it was perched on an egg. He brushed by Janusz, then stopped.

  “You look different,” he said.

  “So do you.” It was not a compliment.

  “A shave, some special eau de cologne. I’ve waited a long time for this, Maestro. I’m putting my best foot forward.” He thought that was funny for some reason and shook with silent laughter. He was revoltingly eager. He took off the Homburg, then his overcoat, draping it carefully over his arm. It did not escape Janusz’ notice that Dr S had not brought his medical bag for this visit. “There’s another car outside.”

  “Major Henselt’s here,” Janusz said evenly. “He stopped by.”

  “Wonderful! Lead on, Maestro!”

  So he did. Henselt had stationed himself in the middle of the room, blocking Lidia on the sofa. He was solid grey, basaltic in the sunlight, his glasses shiny.

  Janusz stopped near the sofa. Always leave the stage to the principals, he thought. Lidia gave him a covert glance, then ostentatiously wiped a tear with her handkerchief.

  Dr Sakovich stuck out his white hand. “Good morning, Major! Or maybe it’s already afternoon! Unexpected to see you. I have you down for tomorrow at ten.”

  Major Henselt did not acknowledge the hand. He stared at the doctor, slight tremors ri
ppling over his face, if you looked carefully and closely. “Is this a social call?”

  Janusz caught the icy hardness of the tone. So did the doctor. He let his hand drop and said, a little less jovially, “Well, yes. I came to pay my respects to the lady of the house.”

  “What about her husband, the composer Rudzinski?”

  “Her husband?”

  “Standing behind you.”

  Janusz remained silently observant. Dr Sakovich, uncertain about the sudden descending temperature in the living room, turned slightly to him. He put his hat and overcoat on a chair as he said, “Oh. Yes. Of course. Good to see you again!” The effort was forced. He knew something was very wrong but didn’t know exactly what it was. Hard to defend when you don’t know the direction of the attack.

  Lidia stood, white-faced and outraged. “You liar! You disgusting liar! I’ve told Dieter everything you’re planning.”

  Janusz was again impressed with her impeccable timing and demeanour. Just the right hint of hysteria.

  “Lidia’s been completely candid,” Henselt said in his weird, calm cadence. “I didn’t give you credit for so much imagination.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what either of you is talking about. I stopped by purely as a social matter, in the area …” Dr Sakovich was plainly a man who did not improvise well. He needed time and space to brood and organise. He had neither now.

  “You’re a sickening, twisted little bastard!” Lidia shouted, then apparently began sobbing convulsively. Oddly, Henselt didn’t go to her, so Janusz seized the cue and put his arms around her, whispering encouraging stage directions. He gave Dr Daniel about two more minutes before he was unceremoniously hustled away to the metal-roofed warehouse and the inevitable fate waiting for him there.

  Except. Except that Henselt said, “Mr Rudzinski’s upset your degenerate scheme. You didn’t plan on him showing up.”

  Now the very worried doctor became irate, “That’s untrue, Major. You’ve been told a lot of lies. I don’t know why. I have my suspicions about this man,” he gestured contemptuously at Janusz, “who is undoubtedly involved with the recent partisan activity …”

  “You should have reported him immediately.”

  “Listen to me, she came to me with this man, Rybak.”

  Henselt smiled grimly and terribly. “The handyman?”

  “No, not the handyman. He’s Rybak,” and he jabbed his stubby finger at Janusz who shook his head to show how deceitful it was.

  “He’s the composer, Rudzinski,” Henselt replied, still apparently emotionless. “I’ve banned his decadent music.”

  “She told me his name is Rybak. I knew it wasn’t right away.”

  “Yet you didn’t report him to me.”

  “You obscene bastard!” Lidia swore, straining it seemed to pull from Janusz’s consoling embrace. “You came here! You took advantage that you know Dieter. You said he’d help you do whatever you wanted to, to …” and she faded into tears again.

  Janusz sucked in an angry gasp.

  Dr Sakovich realised now that he was outnumbered. “Lies. She’s lying. I never said anything about you, Major.”

  Janusz heard his cue so he said sombrely, “Major, Dr Sakovich told us about a drug he’s prescribing for you or procuring for you, some sort of stimulant. He said that made you his servant. You would do anything he told you to do.”

  “Rudzinski’s lying!” the doctor shouted, trying to back away.

  “You said he’s Rybak.”

  “That’s what she told me,” he groped angrily toward Lidia. “My God, she’s a partisan! She’s got one of them upstairs! She’s working for them …”

  Which, Janusz presumed as he and Lidia clung together, the very picture of outraged virtue, would be Major Henselt’s moment to haul the frantic, blubbering doctor away.

  Except. Except again, he did not.

  Henselt, with the same graceful and efficient one-handed motion he had used to put his uniform hat under his arm while clutching a spray of roses, opened the black leather holster at his side, took out the pistol, and shot Dr Sakovich in the left eye twice. Done.

  Curtain down.

  Thirty-Four

  Lidia didn’t scream, not exactly, but she made a high-pitched outcry of surprise and horror. This piercing yet plaintive sound certainly saved Janusz’ life.

  In very rapid order, Dr Sakovich was punched backward, his head hitting the marble apron of the fireplace with the sound of a melon dropped from a height, his shattered glasses spinning off. Janusz also started in shock. Henselt’s arm with the pistol at the end of it like the two were one lethal instrument, swung to Janusz. There was no doubt that he was going to eliminate the second of the rivals or claimants or whatever image flickered in his altered reality, to Lidia.

  All right, Janusz thought, accepting the inevitability of this one-man firing squad, the work was done, neatly stacked in Lidia’s studio, ink on graph paper, and on top, his own fumbling reach for an ode to joy.

  Except. Except, thanking again whoever arranges happy interdictions of will and act when the interdiction does the most good, Lidia cried out and pitched forward so Henselt’s lethal arm swung away from Janusz.

  She went so far as to grab Henselt and he had to make an the instant decision of whether to continue to hold his pistol and shoot her former husband in front of her or switch to another path. Janusz felt a rush of time and destiny in that split second.

  Henselt lowered the pistol, as he put one arm around Lidia and thoughtfully turned her from the now bloody ruin of Dr Sakovich spread out and staining her carpet and fireplace. The pistol was holstered.

  “Cover him up,” Henselt ordered Janusz. To Lidia he murmured what would be considered extraordinarily inappropriate sentiments of endearment and apology under the extreme circumstances, if any of the three of them were making such judgments.

  “Thank you, Dieter,” she said. “Good Lord, thank you,” and more along those lines. Plainly her talent for improvisation was faltering, too. She was blanched-looking and genuinely jolted to her core.

  Janusz draped the doctor’s overcoat on him, making an effort to avoid searing the corpse’s condition in his mind. For good measure, and because it seemed symmetrical, he laid the Homburg on the doctor’s covered face. Dies Irae again, Janusz thought. This wasn’t the result he and Lidia had envisioned, but it would do.

  Now I’ve experienced death’s panoply, Janusz thought. Accidental, poor Walicki and Dunin, from the air and the machine gunned victims, now simple unalloyed murder. My own unholy trinity completed. Death has no more surprises around the next corner.

  Shaken, Lidia led Henselt from the living room, through the French windows, to the granite patio, like they were stepping outside for a breath of air or to take a relaxing drink.

  Janusz’s mind was blurry with confusion and excitement. What to do now? What was Henselt going to do? He had reverted in a flash, it seemed, to the attentive, well-mannered young architect, but that was obviously subject to instant revolution. Is he going to take me away? Back to the waiting room of death in the town? Good Lord, some clear path ahead would be much appreciated.

  He stopped a little behind Lidia and Henselt. Henselt said, “Well, Rudzinski, that was something, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re shocked. Lidia’s shocked. I’m profoundly sorry. But, you know, personal feelings are secondary when there is a mission, a historic task that must be carried out.”

  “Yes, Dieter. We have to keep in mind that we’re living through history right now.” Lidia glanced at Janusz. Unhappily, he saw that she had as little inspiration about what to do next as he did.

  Henselt nodded and gazed at her. “I have to report this incident when I get back to headquarters. I’ve disposed of a partisan bastard. Now, I better see your handyman, yes? Complete the design.”

  “I’ll take you to him,” Lidia said, chewing her lower lip.

  Janusz wonde
red why Henselt nodded four times when once was sufficient and why his hand kept flickering around the holster. The thrill of murder or the excitement of action? We’re in a cage with a wild animal who’s still hungry.

  The movement to their right made both Janusz and Lidia turn, although Henselt seemed momentarily absorbed in an inner theatrical performance, nodding every so often, right foot tapping to an unheard beat. “What is she doing?” Lidia gaped.

  Gabriela quite leisurely and casually led the mare and the two cows from the garage. She looked over at the patio. She waved. One of the cows lowed impatiently.

  She heard the shots and had to come out, Janusz thought, because she’s not like other little girls who would cower in the garage or pretend it hadn’t happened. Gabriela must see for herself. So here she is. Exposed to the wild animal.

  Henselt paused in his nodding and tapping when he saw Gabriela. He smiled widely and strode very quickly, almost double time, over the green lawn and its sprinkling of fruit trees. Janusz silently snapped a command to Lidia with his hand to stay on the patio, but she came with him when he hurried after Henselt.

  “What’s he saying?” Lidia hoarsely whispered to Janusz. “It sounds like a whoop.”

  “He’s whooping like an Indian in the movies,” Janusz said.

  And like the movies, the following sequence occurred without preface or hesitation. Gabriela smiled at Henselt and the young major unholstered his pistol and making the childish whooping sound, pointed it first at the mare, quick shots, then one cow, quick shots, and the second cow, quick shots.

  The animals went down like they instantly deflated. Not quite like Walicki so many years ago, Janusz thought with the distance that true horror provides when it begins capering before us, but enough so that the comparison, while reductive as far as the late lieutenant was concerned, still held. We die like every other animal, Janusz flashed. Often mute. Often startled. Often rudely stunned. He wondered if the dead mare concerned herself, in that briefest space between existence and oblivion, with the absurdity of the exit she was compelled to make: shot by a crazed young officer who apparently imagined he was in a cowboy and Indian moving picture play. Did she even suspect that under normal circumstances, this same young officer would be in civilian clothes, labouring intently over blueprints and designs for structures people could enjoy or use? No, of course not. A mare on the cliff of non-existence had no such introspection. She just wondered, perhaps, why the man was pointing something at her and making a strange sound. Then nothing. But, take Lieutenant Walicki or even the repulsive Dr Sakovich scattering his gore in the house, either of them or both had the opportunity for a flash of sad reflection before the final curtain slammed down.