The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  Their first meeting in years seemed almost a tableau in some drama.

  Even in the shadowy light her face blanched noticeably, the expression reminding Michał of a startled bird’s. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” At once he doubted himself as to her identity, for this woman seemed younger than thirty-five. “It is Iza?”

  She nodded. “No need to apologize,” she stammered. “My thoughts were elsewhere.—Jan Michał, is it you? Really you?”

  “My lady.” Michał gave a little bow.

  She gave a hint of a giggle. “I see that it is, indeed. It’s been a very long time.”

  “I’m sure I look very different.”

  “Well—of course. You’ve grown up. You’ve had adventures. You’ve—you’ve become a man, Jan Michał.”

  “I’m simply called Michał now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s just something that evolved out of deference to my mother so that the name Jan would not be a constant reminder of her missing husband.”

  Iza nodded in understanding.

  “I see that time has been gracious to you, Iza. May you have adventures, too, now—”

  “That I’ve left the convent? I can assure you I’m not seeking adventures. I’m content with my own chamber, a fire in winter, and a good book.”

  Michał laughed. “They may find you in any case. Adventures, I mean.”

  “Only if Mother sends them my way.” Iza seemed to immediately regret her lightly sarcastic words and her body tensed, her arms pulling the package to her bosom. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  “Material?” Michał asked.

  Iza nodded, her honest face reflecting the realization that her mother had spoken of her errand. She was at a loss for words. That her mother had been speaking of her seemed to cause her to draw back, as a deer might at the sight of a yeoman. Iza nodded uncertainly and shifted from one foot to the other.

  Michał had not meant to embarrass her. He wished to engage her in conversation, but calculating that Iza intended to take flight, he excused himself instead, saying he would see her at supper. She gave him an indecipherable smile. As he moved down the stairs, he heard her footfalls on the Persian runner softly moving away. For all the lost years, the little reunion on the landing had been brief. Strangely awkward, too, he thought. Perhaps she was as unsure of his disposition as he was of hers. Life had taken them on very separate paths. He had thought little about her over those years, so the fact that he found himself somehow intrigued now came with a little jolt.

  It wasn’t until after he reached the ground floor that he heard the distant echo of her door closing on the first level. This delay gave him pause: Had she taken the time to peer over the railing, watching him as he descended? What had she thought of him?

  “Fish for supper?” Zofia cried. “Again? And for the main course!”

  Michał looked from the scowling Zofia, at the head of the table, to Iza, who sat directly across from him. Iza was casting a covert smile at Elzbieta, Wanda’s pretty twelve-year-old daughter, who was collecting the soup bowls in advance of Wanda’s laying down of the fish and potato course—and who, out of the ways of servitude or out of fear of Zofia, knew not to return an overt smile.

  Iza’s mother was not to be ignored. “I take it this was your request, Izabel? Is this Lent? Is this Friday? Am I suddenly in the poorhouse? Or have you made an unholy alliance with a fishmonger?”

  Michał suppressed a laugh out of concern for Iza.

  Iza, however, did smile and allowed a light laugh. “This is a different kind of fish than what we ate yesterday, Mother. This is—”

  “Fish is fish, Izabel. One smells as much as the next and they all stare up at you with the blankest expression. It really puts me off my appetite quite completely.”

  “I’m sorry. We could arrange to have them beheaded in the kitchen.”

  Michał’s eyes honed in on Iza, expecting to see what he had not detected in her tone: sarcasm. But her face seemed relaxed, her eyes as honest as the blue sky. She was the quintessence of innocence.

  Zofia ignored Iza, turning to Michał. “It seems the good Carmelite sisters ruined my daughter’s taste for animal flesh.” Her disapproving eyes went to her daughter. “Don’t they eat any kind of animal, Izabel?”

  “They do on occasion, Mother, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Well, in my first year as part of my kitchen duties, I had to kill the chickens. It’s one thing to have a fish on your plate and quite another to put a poor chicken’s head on the block and lift the axe.”

  Zofia gave this brief consideration. “You needn’t be faint-hearted. There are others here to lift the axe.”

  “And then,” Iza continued, “if you don’t get it into the pail immediately the headless creature will run about with blood spouting into the air until it drops. It’s quite horrible.”

  The image had little effect on Zofia. “Your ghoulish description merely reminds me that I have a taste for czarnina. I’ll tell Wanda directly.”

  “Duck’s blood soup? Mother, really!”

  “And I want a full week without fish, do you hear? If you must putter in the kitchen, getting in the way of staff, you are not to alter the menu.”

  Michał chuckled. “Do you putter in the kitchen, Iza?”

  Iza’s eyes were cast down upon her fork as she poked delicately at her fish. “I keep a winter herb garden there, near the big windows. I enjoy experimenting with herbs. Maintaining a garden was my task at the convent, outside in the summer, of course, and inside during the winter months.”

  “I see,” Michał said. “The food must have been rich in flavor.”

  “They say that hunger makes the best sauce,” Zofia piped.

  Iza ignored her mother’s quip. “Oh, I also worked with herbal medicines. I confess that I would be found with Brunfels’ Herbarum Vivae Eicones in hand when I should have been reading the Holy Book.”

  “Truly?” Izabel Gronska was, he decided, quite charming in a guileless, retiring sort of way. She wore a simple gown of dark blue that covered her arms and neckline, and with no jewelry to set it off, she should have looked like a spinster, but the effect actually made her look almost girlish. Like her mother, she had the dark hair credited to the Tatar bloodlines so prevalent in Southeastern Poland where Zofia was born, but unlike Zofia’s olive complexion, her skin was porcelain white. And her eyes were round rather than almond shaped and a vivid cornflower blue instead of black. The effect of the light eyes and visage framed by the black hair proved startlingly attractive.

  “It’s an occupation she should have left behind, Michał,” Zofia was saying.

  “But I enjoy it, Mother.”

  Zofia pushed her plate away. “Just leave the maids to do what they’re paid to do. Lord knows, there are more entertaining things to do this side of cloister walls.”

  “The fish has been well prepared,” Michał offered. “They say that to taste good, fish must swim three times.”

  Iza immediately laughed while Zofia shot Michał a quizzical look.

  “They swim in water, Cousin Zofia,” Michał explained, “then in butter—and finally in wine.”

  “Ah,” Zofia said, all but ignoring Michał’s attempt to meliorate the tension and changing the subject. “We have an invitation to a concert and ball at the Belweder Palace, Michał, and she doesn’t wish to go.”

  “Given by the Grand Duke Konstantin, I assume?” Michał asked. It pained him to think that one of the residences of Poland’s last king was home to Russian royalty. That Tsar Nicholas called himself King of Poland brooked no respect from most Poles. No, the last true king of the one-time Commonwealth of Poland and Lithuania had been the weak but well-meaning Stanisław.

  “Of course,” Zofia was saying, “The young Fryderyk Chopin everyone is talking about is set to play some of his own compositions.”

  Michał’s silence—or perhaps expression—was not lost
on Zofia.

  “You don’t approve?”

  Michał shrugged. “Of Chopin, I have no opinion although my brother Józef was tutored by Chopin’s father at piano prior to his electing to go into the academy. But of Konstantin? No, I don’t approve. Commoner or Grand Duke, one Russian in Warsaw is one too many.”

  “Michał,” Zofia said solicitously, “be careful in saying such things now that you are here in the capital. This is a far cry from provincial Sochaczew. The Russians are here and they have the power. One must dance with the devil or—”

  “Not dance at all,” Iza blurted.

  Zofia’s gaze shot to her daughter. “It’s the dancing that must put you off, Izabel, isn’t it? Not the politics. What can you know about politics, having been shut away as you have?”

  Zofia’s caution had caught Michał’s attention. “Are the politics,” he questioned, “such that we can’t speak our minds in our own homes?”

  “Perhaps one may dare to do so, Michał,” Zofia replied, “but it is best not to be too open about one’s more liberal opinions. They say the secret police are plentiful as blades of grass these days.” She fell silent and gave a tight smile as Wanda reentered the dining hall with an apple cake. It was only after the cake had been cut and Wanda had retreated to the kitchen that Zofia finished her thought. “So it’s best to be cautious, Michał.”

  Michał nodded and did not answer. As a guest in Zofia’s home, he would not venture further into the political realm where he was certain he and Zofia clearly differed.

  Zofia spoke after a while, shifting to a thread of thought Michał had initiated. “Michał, why did Józef give up his piano lessons? Why, we might be going to see him perform had he persevered!”

  “I don’t know why he lost interest. But I do know his going into the military broke my mother’s heart.”

  “Indeed,” Zofia said. “Losing one son is more than enough. It was thoughtless of young Józef to go against Anna’s wishes.”

  “Well, I think,” Iza offered, “that he had his own path to take.”

  Zofia shot a hard look at Iza, her dark, slivered eyes narrowing further. It was not lost on her—or Michał—that Iza intended the comment as an indictment against her own mother. Michał noted Zofia’s sharp displeasure at her thirty-five-year-old daughter’s little mutiny and could only imagine to what extent she had attempted to control Iza’s life—before Iza took refuge in a convent.

  Iza was working at her cake and did not notice—or chose not to notice—her mother’s displeasure at being contradicted.

  Zofia refused the apple cake and excused herself, begging off to go to her room and prepare to attend the opera. “I don’t need any more apple cake. Eventually a woman ends up wearing her desserts in the most inappropriate places.” The dark eyes flashed toward Iza. “You don’t have that awful religious garb anymore to cover up your cakes and dumplings, Izabel. Something to think about.”

  In Zofia’s wake, Iza calmly applied her fork to her cake. Michał saw no change in her visage. She was unperturbed. However, Wanda, who had returned to collect dirty dishes and who well knew Zofia’s barbs, looked up from her tray as she retreated to the kitchen, her eyes widening slightly and her mouth forming a subtle but perfect little o.

  The dining chamber remained awkwardly quiet as the two maids returned to collect the plates and utensils from the evening meal, making several trips through the swinging door leading into the kitchen.

  Finally, Michał and Iza sat alone at table. “I must congratulate you, Iza.”

  “Me?” She looked up, her alabaster skin coloring slightly. “Why?”

  “For the way you respond to your mother.”

  “Oh.”

  “You exhibit such patience. She doesn’t irritate you?”

  Iza smiled. “Oh, yes, a great deal.”

  “But you’re an adult now. And she treats you—well, you’re very patient.”

  “I have a great deal of patience—up to a point.”

  “And then— ?”

  “Then something happens and—and I snap.” On her last word, Iza brought her fork forcefully crashing down on her dessert plate, the porcelain intact but ringing out its hurt.

  Caught unaware, Michał blinked at the clanging. A moment later the kitchen door swung open just enough for Elzbieta to poke her head in, her blond braids falling forward.

  “It’s nothing,” Iza said, waving her away, the blue of her eyes at once innocent and clever, “my fork slipped.”

  Michał laughed once the wide-eyed servant’s face vanished. “Well, it’s good to know you have a flashpoint. Although you do have a sneaky little parry when it’s least expected.—Did you snap in the convent?”

  “I’m afraid so. Not regularly, but there were occasions.”

  “Is that why you left?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I see.”

  After a moment of silence, Iza asked, “You’re wondering why I did leave. Everyone does.”

  Michał shrugged, unable to deny it. “It’s none of my business, Iza.”

  “I was asked to leave, Michał. That’s the truth of it. You see, I never took my final vows. I was timid about doing so, had been for years. And then, when I thought I was ready—well, it’s complicated. In the end, Mother Abbess insisted my vocation was a delusion.”

  “And was it?”

  Iza released a long, sad sigh. “Oh, I loved the life, Michał, the quiet, the meditation, the isolation. And the work in the kitchen, too! Kitchen chores are so simple, honorable, and rewarding. My herb garden was everything to me!”

  “Then why— ?”

  “Didn’t I take my vows? I finally had to face the truth that I didn’t have a true vocation. I was there under false pretenses and the abbess at last pressed me on it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was running away, Michał. My mother had her mind set on marrying me off to someone of her choosing. I’m not at all like her—and she doesn’t understand that. And I don’t think she’ll ever really forgive me for entering the convent.”

  “She didn’t visit often, I know, but surely—”

  “Often?” Iza said, her finely shaped mouth falling slack. “Is that what she told you?”

  Michał nodded.

  “Michał, relatives are allowed only one visit a year.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t,” Iza countered, and for a moment the subject hung fire. “Michał, Mother never visited me—not once in those seven years!”

  Michał had no reason to doubt her, but the knowledge that Zofia had effectively written off her daughter for years on end left him stunned. And now he noticed the tears brimming in Iza’s eyes. “Iza, I’m so sorry—”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Mother and I will never see eye to eye, and I’ve finally resigned myself to that.—Now, what plans do you have for your visit?”

  Her interest at once pleased Michał and diverted the subject of her relationship with her mother. “I’m here to see how young Józef is making out at the academy. And I’ve already met with Prince Czartoryski on some political matters. I’ll have to see him again.”

  Iza was taken by surprise. “Prince Adam Czartoryski?”

  “Yes. Oh, your mother had a fine story for us when she visited Topolostan back in June. She said he had proposed to her some years ago, but his offer came just after he had had an unhappy romance with the tsarina of Russia, and she did not wish to accept him on the rebound.”

  Iza began to laugh and Michał marveled at the transformation in her visage. He thought her quite beautiful, charmingly so.

  “I hope you took the story with a grain of salt, Michał.”

  Michał hesitated, then said, “I have to tell you my mother said it was probably Zofia who proposed.”

  At that precise moment Zofia appeared in the doorway, sending a shock through Michał and a rush of blood to his face. He prayed she hadn’t heard his comment.

  “I’m off to the
opera,” Zofia announced, “though I daresay I shall be bored to death. I live for the intermissions. They’re the true entertainments.”

  Iza laughed all the harder. No blushing on her part.

  “What are you two talking about? It’s good to see you laugh, Izabel.”

  “It was nothing, Mother. Just silliness. You have a good time.”

  Zofia smiled uncertainly, as if she knew a secret was being kept from her. She cast a glance at Michał, one that seemed to commend him for being a good influence on her daughter. She flashed one last puzzled look at her daughter, turned and left.

  The two waited until Zofia was out of earshot. “I suspect your mother’s version is the true historical story,” Iza said, still laughing, “but you won’t believe the addendum I have to add to the Prince Adam Czartoryski epic!”

  “And what is that?”

  It took some effort for Iza to calm herself. “Before I entered the convent Mother had her heart set on my marrying a wealthy magnate. They came through this house like a circus parade. Why, I remember one whose face resembled the backside of a boar. But at the end of the parade, it was the Prince Adam Czartoryski on whom she had set her sights for me!”

  “Good God! He was still unmarried all those years later?”

  “Yes—and old enough to be my father! I did my best to keep distance and appear unattractive—and he eventually found another.”

  “His present wife?”

  “Yes, and what truly angered Mother was that his wife was even younger than I!” Iza covered her mouth as mirth overtook her yet again. “Oh, I do hope it worked out well for both of them.”

  Michał joined Iza in her laugh at Zofia’s expense.

  Michał sat alone sipping at a brandy in the reception room. A small fire flickered in the grate. He had asked Iza to join him, but once they had had their little laugh at table, she had reverted to her serious mien. Michał put it down to her lack of social interaction behind cloistered walls. There seemed to be a dichotomy in her character: she could display playfulness, wit, and—in light of her admitting that she could “snap”—a healthy impatience; and yet she appeared quiet, retiring, and perhaps even fearful at times. Michał sensed that it would take her a while to feel more comfortable in company. It occurred to him then that perhaps she had never been comfortable in company. What if—her mother’s meddling notwithstanding—her lack of social skills had led her to the convent? When he had met her on the stairway landing earlier, her eyes had been veiled and colorless, but as the supper played out her eyes seemed less and less like those of a cloistered nun. At table she had displayed innocence, reserve, sagacity, patience, humor, and hurt. And those eyes—they coruscated blue cleverness. She was a mystery, a very pretty mystery.