by Xavier Mayne
“Or maybe he wasn’t trying to hide them,” Donnelly suggested. “He sent them to someone in the Foreign Office—perhaps this was his confession?”
Imre shook his head gravely. “I’ve never seen any sign that he regretted his behavior at all. If he wanted to confess, wouldn’t he have asked his only living relative to come hear it? If it was a confession, he had to know that I would be among the first to find out about it. And I’d be the one who would have his guilt on my shoulders for the rest of my career.” Imre reached out for the well-thumbed black book, but then recoiled from it in renewed disgust.
“Imre?” Donnelly said softly. “There’s something else you should look at.” He picked up the envelope that had been cast aside when the box was opened. “It’s addressed to you.”
“What?” Imre looked at Donnelly with eyebrows raised in an expression of overwhelmed exhaustion. But he reached out and took the envelope from him. On its surface, his name was inscribed in a much surer hand than the one on the outside of the pouch, though it was still recognizable as his grandfather’s bureaucratic script.
“I don’t know if I can take another surprise,” Imre said softly, turning the envelope over and over in his hand. “And how did he possibly imagine I’d be the one to open the pouch?”
“Only one way to find out,” Donnelly said. “You need to know it all before you decide what to do about what your grandfather’s left behind.”
Imre pondered this for a moment, then set his jaw. He slid his finger under the flap of the envelope and withdrew a square of ivory writing paper. He unfolded it carefully, gently pressing the creases out of it until it lay flat on the bed before him. His grandfather’s regimented cursive marched across the page in ruler-straight lines, evenly spaced and perfectly formed, as if the letter were a sample in a penmanship manual. Imre cleared his throat and began to read.
To my grandson, my dearest boy, my Imre—
His voice faltered at the end of the salutation and tears again filled his eyes. “I used to lie awake at night, dreaming of hearing those words,” he whispered. “Only now, with his humanity obliterated, when he’s proven that I am descended from a monster, does he assert our relationship.” He shook his head, bereft. “Now that it’s a curse.”
“Take your time,” Donnelly said. “Would you like another drink before going on?”
Imre shook his head. “Better to get through it, I think.” He took a deep breath and began again.
This morning I watched as you were received as the new cultural attaché to this uncultured country we now both inhabit.
Imre paused, a somewhat frantic look on his face.
“I thought you said you hadn’t seen him since he brought you to school?”
“I haven’t. The day he’s describing was more than three years ago, but I remember it clearly—he wasn’t there.”
The men shrugged to each other.
I couldn’t be there in person, of course, but they were kind enough to film it and send it to your very proud grandfather. From what I hear, such a post was long in your hopes, and I congratulate you on attaining it. I wish I could have offered my congratulations in person.
Seeing the fine young man you have become has affected me far more than I could have predicted. It has changed me, in fact—changed me utterly. I hope you will understand I do not exaggerate in saying this.
Seeing your pure and masculine form today as your credentials were received, I realized what a monstrous thing I have done to so many young men not much different from yourself.
The person who delivered to you this letter has, if my wishes have been observed, also given to you a small notebook, one I carried with me from my earliest school days. It is a memoir of sorts—a devil’s diary, I see now. It wasn’t always. For years it has been my trophy, my secret gallery of triumphs. It is now my greatest shame.
What you hold in your hand is the best explanation I could ever offer for my absence from your life, Imre. Its pages contain the name of every boy I ever led astray, and how many times they suffered from my corrupted nature. I was determined that your name should never be among them. And so I was forced to stay away.
I barely knew your grandmother; she was a mistake I made early in life. I never laid eyes upon your mother—in fact, I never even knew her name until that horrid excuse for a man she married starting making demands. I hoped the car I sent would silence him.
Seeing you as an orphan—my flesh and blood—should have been enough to keep me from ever imagining you in the way I saw all boys your age. But I was weak in the face of my craven appetites, and once I had delivered you to school, I knew I could never see you again.
I wanted to forsake my monstrous ways, but I was not strong enough. Not until today.
You may ask yourself why, if I see my crimes clearly for what they were, I was unable to keep myself from committing them. I justified my actions to myself in myriad ways—that the boys I forced myself on enjoyed our contact as much as I did, that I was opening them to a world of physical pleasure they might otherwise never have known, that I was following in the classical footsteps of great Greek philosophers. In truth—and truth is all that is left to me now as I look back on a life filled with horrors—I knew, ab initio and always, that what I did was wrong.
I do not deserve the accolades that were heaped upon me when I withdrew from diplomatic service. I do not deserve the respect or even empathy of someone of your character. And I certainly do not deserve to enjoy an unsullied reputation after I have shuffled off this mortal coil. What you hold in your hand is my legacy. I will not destroy it, because I intend it to destroy my name after I am gone. I entrust it to you, Imre. Please see that it reaches those who will investigate my crimes and see justice done. It is my funeral pyre.
I came of age in a time when relations between men were outlawed. Because even a bare simulacrum of courtship and marriage was forbidden men like myself, my carnal as well as my romantic urges moldered inside me until they were forced out in furtive and criminal ways. I offer this, by way of explanation if not expiation: when all relations between men are forbidden, when there is no socially sanctioned structure in which men can build healthy relationships, the result will be dark, vile, criminal. Please understand me—I don’t justify my crimes by blaming “society.” I ask only that you reflect on this: yes, I should have been imprisoned for having sexual relations with boys. But I also would have been imprisoned for having sexual relations with men my age. And even once the criminal sanctions were lifted—and this did not occur until 1967!—I still would have lost my job, my pension, and all that I have worked to accomplish in my career.
But enough of an old man’s confession. I did so much wrong to so many people during my life that I can never make restitution. I only ask that you now commit yourself to doing three things that may serve to reduce, however slightly, the suffering that I have caused.
The most distasteful task I will commend to you first. You must deliver the enclosed diary to the Crown Prosecution Service immediately. I trust no one else to accomplish this. I do not wish to burden you with descriptions of crimes you had no knowledge of and were powerless to prevent, but I will simply say that there is ample evidence contained in the pages of that book to indict several prominent members of the current government.
This will be difficult, Imre, and I am deeply sorry to have inflicted this heavy responsibility upon you. Some damage will, alas, accrue to your own good name from its association with mine. For that I apologize.
The second task will be more arduous but, I hope, less onerous. I have granted you power of attorney over the fortune I have amassed over my years (honestly, I must stipulate—my crimes have been carnal, not fiscal). I wish you to take one-half of those funds and disburse it among the young men I have listed in the diary. You may apologize on my behalf if you wish (I am truly repentant, though I don’t expect you to accept my word), or you may join them in cursing my name—that is for you to decide. If they have died,
please deliver their allotment to their survivors. Each is to receive an equal portion, except for those marked with a double asterisk in the book; to them deliver a double share, for their suffering was accordingly greater. I shall not burden you with details.
The third task will, I hope, be for you a source of not only contentment but eventually pride. With the remaining half of my estate, I ask you to establish a foundation dedicated to protecting the youth of whom I have taken such shameful advantage. I preyed on both the indigent and the aristocratic, and children from all backgrounds deserve protection. I leave every detail up to you. I make only one condition: that you name it after someone you respect. Let my name accompany me into the grave.
I thank you for being willing to read the scribbles of an old and dissolute man. You have done me a great service, one that I did nothing to deserve. I wish you well, my dear grandson, in all that you do. Great things lie ahead for you, this much I know. May you have every happiness I was denied, and denied myself.
Imre fell silent, and stared for a time at the baroque signature of his grandfather. “I feel like he’s dead already,” he said finally. “It’s hard to think of the man who wrote this lying alone in a hospital, breathing numbered breaths. I’d given up on the very idea of ever seeing him again, but now….”
“Do you think you’ll go visit him?” Donnelly asked. He rose to pour more bourbon, sensing it wouldn’t go amiss.
“I don’t know.” He took the glass from Donnelly with a faint smile, then took a long drink. “Imagine if your grandfather was on his deathbed, and before you went to him you found out he had been a Nazi. Not just a soldier following orders, but one of the really bad ones. Like he struck out on his own and set up an extra concentration camp, just for his own amusement. Sure, he says he’s sorry, but does that really matter at this point?”
“I can’t imagine having to figure that one out,” Donnelly replied, shrugging empathetically. “But even if you never see him again, he has at least given you the ability to do some good. No one has to know he was the one who made it possible.”
Imre gave a miserable grunt. “Yeah, that’s going to be great. I get to spend the next who knows how many years tracking down the kids my grandfather fucked and giving them a few bucks for their trouble. Sounds like a great time.” He covered his face with his hands, silent in his shock and grief.
“Someone I love very much tells me my optimism is both the best and the worst thing about me,” Donnelly said, thinking of all the times Brandt had cast him that special look in response to some sunny-side-up comment. “But here’s what I think. Your grandfather’s wishes don’t have to be followed in order. Set up the foundation first and start doing some good in the world. Then, once the criminal case is underway, you can start getting in touch with his victims. That way you can have support mechanisms in place for them, and they’ll be able to see that life will be better for the next generation. They may also be more willing to cooperate with the prosecution of anyone else who still might be committing these horrible crimes.” He smiled hopefully at Imre, who had lowered his hands and was listening attentively.
“You are amazing,” he said, shaking his head and smiling—genuinely smiling—for the first time since the pouch had been opened. “This person you love is really lucky to have you in their life.”
Donnelly grimaced sheepishly. “He’s actually my fiancé.”
Imre chuckled. “Figures. All the good ones are taken.” Then his eyes grew wide. “Sorry about the kiss earlier. I clearly thought things were going a different way. Between us, I mean.”
“I’m the one who should be apologizing. Sandler was desperate to find out what happened to the pouch, and he figured I might be able to, as he put it, ‘turn your head.’ I’m flattered that it worked.”
“It did, it did,” Imre assured him. “You are certainly in the right line of work. I think you could make anyone confess to anything if you kiss them like that.”
“The department is surprisingly rather opposed to officers seducing suspects,” Donnelly replied.
“Oh, so enhanced interrogation techniques are off the table all of a sudden?”
They shared a laugh, the tension in the room evaporating.
“Well, I guess I need to deal with this,” Imre said, looking down at the horrid black book.
“I think if you tell the ambassador it was intended for you all along, she may be willing to overlook the entire thing,” Donnelly offered. “I mean, in the end all you did was accelerate the delivery of something that was going to come to you anyway. With the added bonus that you can hand over the book to the proper authorities even more quickly. Aside from the treaty violation, no harm no foul, right?”
“For an officer of the law, you’re a little fast and loose, aren’t you?” Imre paused for a moment, frowning with concentration. “Though you may have a point. The Vienna Convention is an agreement among nation-states, so its provisions don’t apply to individuals within the embassy staff of a single nation.”
“Do you know the ambassador well?”
Imre nodded. “We’re not friends, exactly, but we’ve worked together on several cultural projects over the last couple of years. Why?”
“Just wondering what’s she’s like. One hopes she’s the kind of person who would look at the big picture and see that good purpose will be served by your having the pouch sooner rather than later.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to have you along to offer that justification on my behalf.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “Throw in a little kiss and I think you’ll have her won over.”
“She’s not another Fabienne Maillard, is she?”
Imre burst out laughing. “I am happy to report that there is only one Fabienne Maillard. You’ve had the pleasure, then?”
“It seems like the pleasure was all hers,” Donnelly replied with a roll of his eyes. “Everyone else in the world seemed to be merely decorative accents, viewed over the rim of her martini glass.”
“That’s her exactly!” Imre hooted with laughter. “The ambassador is a dear friend of hers, but she’s of a much more serious bent. Plus, she’s married to a man her own age, so that sets them apart pretty starkly.” Imre looked at his watch. “Well, this evening got away from us, didn’t it? Sorry for all the drama—every single day of my life before this one was absolutely normal, I swear.”
Donnelly got to his feet. “Never settle for normal,” he said as he pulled Imre into an embrace. “You have some heavy marching orders. It’s a lot of responsibility, but you will do a lot of good for a lot of people. And remember this….” He released Imre to arm’s length and looked him seriously in the eyes. “You are not your grandfather. His sins are not yours to carry, or to excuse, or to beg forgiveness for. You are your own man, and a damn good one.”
“Thank you, Gabriel. You’ve appeared in my life exactly when I needed the help you have to offer. I hope you have a lovely time at Normandy.”
Donnelly looked away sheepishly. “About that,” he began.
“Let me guess, your grandfather was as much fiction as mine is unfortunately real?”
“No, I did have a wonderful grandfather. But the reason for my trip is… I’m getting married next week. In a castle in Devon. To Officer Ethan Brandt, the love of my life.”
Imre smiled and practically vibrated with happiness. “I am so glad to hear that. I wish the two of you the very best.”
“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s someone who’s waiting in agony to find out what happened to his pouch. May I let Sandler know that his responsibility for this pouch is complete?”
“Yes, please do. And give him back his messenger bag, along with my best regards. If he’s interested, I’ll be sure there are many more commissions in the future.”
“I will.” Donnelly beamed at Imre, then pulled him into another enthusiastic hug. “Good luck, Imre. And please, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you in the future.”
“And you m
ay likewise rely on me,” Imre whispered. He kissed Donnelly on both cheeks. “Good night, Gabriel.”
“YOU DON’T seem that relieved,” Donnelly said, having just spent the better part of an hour describing what had transpired at dinner and in Imre’s cabin.
“I’m still trying to take it all in,” Sandler replied. “You have to remember I’ve never lost a pouch before, and now to have one stolen by none other than the very person it was ultimately destined for? That just doesn’t happen.”
“As someone who has had many things happen to him lately that just don’t happen, I am uniquely prepared to give you advice. And my advice is: let it go. The universe has seen fit to yank you back from that particular precipice, so just let it go. You’re still employable, and in fact I think Imre will seek you out for future courier duties. Your buddy Ankur turned out to be good people, and you can keep working up a sweat together all the way to Southampton. Life is good, my friend, very good.”
Sandler smiled. “You’re just whacked out on endorphins because you’re going to be in the bulging arms of your fiancé in just over twenty-four hours. I think you’d tell a smoldering Joan of Arc to just let it go.”
“Right you are,” Donnelly replied, giving a joyful little bounce on his way to the bedroom. “And now I’m going to turn in. Give me about four and a half minutes, and I’ll be so fast asleep, you and Ankur could bang away at each other until noon and I wouldn’t have a clue.” He stepped into the bedroom, then poked his head back out. “I will, though, insist on details.”
“It’s a deal,” Sandler said. “And Gabriel, I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me. You’ve saved my career, such as it is.”
“You are good at what you do, and you are good in general. You didn’t need saving. I just helped things along a bit.”
“Well, I owe you. Thanks.”
“It was my pleasure. A bizarre, exhausting pleasure. And now, I bid you good night.” He closed the door behind him, stripped off his clothes, and collapsed on the bed. He was, true to his word, completely unconscious four minutes later.