The Warsaw Conspiracy

by James Conroyd Martin

  For his final set, Fryderyk Chopin did play livelier compositions, wonderful mazurkas of his own creation. These, however, did not afford Iza the opportunity to dream. She found herself caught up in dark thoughts about her parentage. Her mother had told her years and years before that her father was a brave count who had died at the ramparts of Praga in late 1794, defending his city from the great onslaught of Russians. He died in what became known as a great massacre in Praga, the Warsaw suburb across the Vistula. What truth is there in this story? she asked herself. What if my father is one of the Russians with whom her mother associated? Her heart thumped. Dare she approach her mother about the matter? Odd as it was, she found it easier to confront two strangers than to challenge her own mother. Still, one way or another, she determined, I must know. I must!

  It was not until the end of the concert that Zofia told Iza there was to be dancing. It was a deliberate omission, Iza knew, but she was too upset about what she had overheard to care. As she accompanied her mother to the refreshment table and then to the Mirror Hall that was to serve as the ballroom, she made up her mind to confront her mother in the carriage on the way home.

  The orchestra was already playing a polonaise as they entered the Mirror Hall. Zofia turned to Iza. “You will dance, won’t you?”

  Iza knew it was more a statement than a question. She drew herself up, managing a smile. “It’s been too long, Mother, and I’m happy just to watch the spectacle and enjoy this little French cake and sparkling wine. And besides there are many young girls here who will be taking the available men.”

  “Don’t worry, dearest. I’ll find you a partner.” Zofia was moving away, into the crowd, even as she finished the sentence.

  Iza stood alone, her stomach tightening. Her mother issued no idle threats. She thought of relocating herself but knew her mother would search her out with some stuffy gentleman she had cajoled into asking her spinster daughter to dance. How humiliating! How much more she would rather be home reading Delphine, a novel by Anne Louise Germaine de Staël that addressed the freedom of women in a patriotic society. A good little while passed and hope took seed that her mother would have no luck finding her a partner when someone tugged at her sleeve. Her heart dropped.

  Iza turned to find not some old widower, but a familiar face. “Why, Viktor, you surprised me!”

  Viktor gave a little laugh. “You look more like I terrified you.”

  “Oh,” Iza laughed. “I cannot deny the terror. But then I was overwhelmed with relief to see it’s you. You see, Mother promised to find me a partner—so I turned expecting to find a cadaver at my side.”

  “I’m tired, but not that far gone,” Viktor said, laughing.

  “Is Barbara here—oh, I should love to see her!”

  “No, I came alone as a favor to my superior. Barbara is at home with the twins.”

  “A good place to be. This place is so—so swamped with people.”

  “Don’t look now but it looks as if your cadaver still has the ability to perambulate. As I speak he is approaching us as if on a mission.”

  “Oh, no!” Through the tall mirror nearby she saw that Viktor was exactly right.

  A mazurka was just starting.

  “Ahem! May I have this dance, young Izabel?” Iza turned around. “General Kozlowski at your service, Mademoiselle.”

  No time had been given for a battle plan. Iza observed the bargain her mother had made. The general had brought his heels together and was now bowing before her. When he looked up, she saw that he was neither as old nor as weather-worn as she had expected . . . late forties, perhaps. And while he wasn’t ugly or uncouth, the increase in her heart rate was not the result of attraction. Still, she felt as if she had to allow him one dance.

  But fate in the personification of Viktor intervened. “I’m afraid, my good General,” Viktor announced, “that the young lady has pledged this dance to me.”

  “I see,” the general said. “To the victor the spoils, heh?” He punctuated his comment with a hiccup of a laugh. “Perhaps the next one, then?”

  “No,” Viktor said before Iza could reply. “All of the lady’s dances are pledged.”

  The general’s head went back in surprise. “Indeed?” He harrumphed and his face ran scarlet. His gaze moved from Viktor to Iza.

  “Don’t look to her, General,” Viktor said in a kind of growl, “I suggest you take my word for it.”

  The general’s surprised gaze went back to Viktor. “Another time, then,” he said, giving a perfunctory bow to Iza and skittering away.

  “Now you’ve done it! You’ve broken a heart, Izabel.”

  “I? You were mean to him,” Iza said. “That was not necessary.”

  “I suppose that I was. Meanness works, however, as I just demonstrated. Should I apologize, Izabel?”

  “No, that would further humiliate him. Oh, I see you’re merely being flippant and have no intention of apologizing.”

  “Oh, Izabel—”

  “Please call me Iza. Only Mother calls me Izabel. And I must confess I had to stifle a laugh when he used that dull cliché about victors and spoils. What irony—he couldn’t have known your name is Viktor, could he?”

  Viktor shook his head, laughing as his cool, pale blue eyes spilled over her. “Spoils indeed. I don’t think it will be very long.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before you do break hearts.”

  Viktor’s abruptly rude manner toward the general had taken her by surprise. She was not the only one who could be snappish. And now his gaze, voice, and words unnerved her. She certainly had not meant to invite such familiarity. He seemed to be flirting with her. Out of want to say something, she suggested they be true to the excuse given the general—and dance.

  “I’m afraid not,” Viktor said, his eyes moving down momentarily and with purpose toward the floor, to his feet.

  Iza immediately remembered his lameness. “Oh, I am sorry, Viktor.”

  “Don’t give it a thought,” he said, although his face had darkened. “No harm done. What say you to going into the Portrait Room where it is less crowded?”

  Iza nodded agreement, more out of embarrassment over her faux pas than any notion that his suggestion was appropriate. Was it appropriate? Oh, he was handsome enough with his fine Russian features beneath thick blond hair. But he was, after all, the husband of Barbara, her dearest friend from childhood.

  Viktor took the lead in conversation and in the path to the Portrait Room. “And what is new in the Gronska household?” They walked slowly enough that Viktor’s limp was scarcely noticeable.

  “Nothing at all, really,” Iza said. “Oh! I should say that we have a guest.”

  “Oh?” They stopped in front of a painting of King Stanisław and Viktor turned to her.

  “Yes, Michał has come in from Sochaczew.”

  “Has he? I saw him there last May. It was quite a festive occasion. Ostensibly it was for his birthday, but between you and me, I think they were actually celebrating the Third of May Constitution. You Poles can be sly, you know.”

  Iza shot him a fiery glance in lieu of unkind words about Russians.

  Viktor ignored it. “Probably thought I would be offended.”

  “Would you have been?”

  “Not at all. What’s offensive about a constitution that exists only in the past, only in the memory of Poles?”

  Iza bristled at his arrogance and condescension. She glanced up at the image of King Stanisław, recalling that he had ushered in the Constitution—and had lost the throne for doing so. “It exists in our hearts, Viktor.”

  “Indeed. Ah well, anyway, Barbara and I thought you would be accompanying your mother to Sochaczew. She had been looking forward to seeing you.”

  “No, I—I wasn’t quite ready for such an adventure.”

  “What brings Michał Stelnicki to the capital?”

  “Why, I don’t know. A change of scenery, perhaps.”

  “To see someone?”

/>   “I told you, Viktor, that I don’t know.” She took several paces toward the portrait of Queen Jadwiga.

  “Perhaps,” he suggested, catching up to her, his eyes—shadowy blue in the candlelight—laughing, “he has come to see you.”

  Iza felt heat rising to her face. “No more than to see my mother. Viktor Baklanov, you are testing me!”

  “Teasing a little, maybe, not testing. But if he hasn’t come to see you—”

  “Oh!”

  “What?

  “I forgot—he’s going to see his little brother Józef. At the Officer Cadets School.”

  “Why do you suppose he is doing that?”

  “Why?” What an odd question, Iza thought. “Why not? Michał promised his mother to check up on her youngest. That’s all.”

  “I see.” They silently looked at another portrait, that of King Jan Sobieski, the man who—with his winged hussars—had led an army of allies and saved Europe and Christendom from the Turks in 1683. It was he who had ennobled Iza’s grandfather for his service at the Battle of Vienna. She demurred mentioning these things and instead retraced in her mind the conversation about Michał. Had she said something out of turn? There was something odd about Viktor’s questioning, as well as a sudden intensity he tried unsuccessfully to mask. Or was her imagination at work? They moved along, making small talk and giving cursory attention to the portraits. When they moved from one portrait to the next, Iza felt his hand on her waist as if he was directing her. The sensation was not a welcome one; her reaction was to step ahead in a Iivelier fashion so that his hand would fall away. At the final portrait Viktor turned to her. “I must beg off, Iza. Time to get home to my responsibilities. I’ll return you to your mother.”

  “No, no, I’m just fine in here for a while,” Iza said, realizing she felt a cool surge of relief. “You go ahead and do give Basia and the boys my love.”

  Viktor nodded, bowed from the waist, and moved away rather quickly, heedless that his limp caused one woman to turn and stare through her lorgnette.

  Viktor was her closest friend’s husband, but in her few meetings with him Iza had yet to warm to him. Now she felt a stinging complicity in the way he had treated General Kozlowski. She thought it odd, too, that he referred to his family as responsibilities. Was there a message in that? And the way he had appraised her, the way he had touched her, gave her pause. In the future she would have to be careful in his company.

  Her eyes alert so that she might avoid the general Viktor had crushed, Iza returned to the Mirror Hall in search of her mother.

  She was making her way through a throng of people when a hand clamped on to her shoulder and spun her around. “Where have you been, Izabel?” The dark eyes sizzled with anger and the reddish incandescence in her face was no reflection of the fuchsia gown.

  “In the Portrait Room, Mother.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “I was speaking with Viktor Baklanov.”

  “He’s here? A lot of good he can do you. What in God’s name did you say to General Kozlowski? The man seemed humiliated and he’s a very eligible widower.”

  “I’m afraid Viktor said something discourteous.”

  “Oh, but you are the one who declined to dance, yes?”

  Rather than further indict Viktor, Iza remained silent.

  “I have another gentleman in mind, so you are to wait here and—”

  “Mother, I wish to go home.”

  “It’s out of the question,” Zofia whispered. “Invitations like this do not come every day.”

  Iza put on her sternest face. “Still, I wish to go home.”

  “I have no intention of leaving.”

  “That’s fine, Mother. I’ll take the carriage home and send it back for you.”

  “You’re to stay, do you hear?”

  “I’m not about to dance with anyone.”

  Her mother went silent and Iza prepared for a storm. But she saw now that her mother’s eyes had fastened on the Grand Duke Konstantin, who had just left his dance partner and was crossing the chamber. Zofia’s interest in her daughter was snuffed out at once, like a candle in a downpour. “Very well, go if you must,” Zofia hissed and gave a dismissive wave of her hand.

  Fate had won the match for Iza, who watched her mother moving quickly to put herself in the path of the Grand Duke, a man with a myriad of medals on a military coat and the face of an aging shoemaker.

  In no time Iza was crossing the drive in front of Belweder Palace, her eyes searching the line of vehicles for the Gronska carriage, her mind attempting to compute the distance back to the city center.

  She had to call up to Kasper—the stable boy and occasional driver—to jar him into consciousness. The boy jumped down immediately, his eyes downcast in embarrassment. “So sorry, milady, I—”

  “My mother is staying a while longer, Kasper. You’re to wait for her. Tell her I’ve gone on ahead.”

  “But, beggin’ pardon, milady. How— ?”

  “How am I to go? Why on the two feet God gave me, that’s how.”

  Kasper’s deep blue eyes loomed large. “But—it’s late and dark. And the city is no place for a lady alone.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I can take you, milady, and still get back well in time.”

  “I realize that, Kasper, but I have not had a good look at the city at night in years. And I wish to have a gander.”

  “It’s best you take the scenery in from the carriage window, milady.”

  Iza smiled tightly. “Just tell my mother I found my own way home, will you?” Iza turned about, effectively closing the subject, and made for Avenue Ujazdowskie.

  Her mother would be livid, she knew, but didn’t care. And she didn’t care about scenery. She needed time to reflect on what she had heard tonight about her mother, about herself.

  Here, so close to Belweder Palace, Avenue Ujazdowskie ran through parkland, trees, and thickets to the immediate right and shadowy, darkened buildings to the left, across the street. An occasional street lantern pointed the way north, but the avenue was dark and all but deserted. Iza pulled the black satin evening cloak closed. It was light, made for dress attire, not for warmth, and it was no match for the cold November night. She moved quickly, rejecting the idea of surrender to the chill—or to the stableboy’s warning.

  Her thoughts became caught up on the enigma that was her mother. Were the things those women had said about her true? Or were they but malicious gossip and exaggerations that arose from jealousy or some other motivation? She wanted to believe the latter. It was much easier to do so. The largeness of her mother’s personality, she thought, invited legend and legend thrived on fiction. Everyone knew that the barest facts grew, over years, into fantastical legend.

  And yet, there was that question that had doggedly haunted her since childhood. Just who was her father? Was he a Polish lord who had died bravely fighting the Russians at Warsaw’s ramparts? The details had always been terse and when pressed further, her mother became morosely dark, and Iza could not determine whether it was anger at her daughter’s insistence or sadness about a lost, long-ago love.

  What kept her mother so taciturn about this matter and so loquatious about others? Iza ruled out shame at having a child out of wedlock. Not her mother. She could boldly face down an army. Iza tried to imagine her mother in love. Knowing how her mother looked with a critical and even designing eye upon courting and matches and marriages today, she found it difficult to imagine her fully entranced by a man. But if she had been in love, with whom? Her mother had never provided Iza with a name for her father. Why? Had she consorted with Russians as that wretched Olga had said? Or perhaps she had loved a Russian. That was reason enough to avoid his name. Iza stopped in mid-step. The thought that she might be half Russian pierced like a lance to her heart.

  A cold wind came against her, making her shiver and push on. She put her head down and hurried along, determined to avoid thoughts of her mother.

  Sudd
enly a distinct cracking sound broke the frigid quiet. Iza stopped and turned around. It had sounded like the breaking of a twig underfoot, but the street was empty of people. Neither were any vehicles within sight. She looked to the shrubbery and trees that flanked the avenue to her right. The bare branches stirred slightly, but she caught no sight of any living thing. Even Warsaw’s legendary red squirrels knew enough to avoid the cold night. She had the oddest sensation that she was a lone figure in some artist’s eerie landscape—and that she was not truly alone.

  Iza looked ahead to see where the park gave way to the capital’s political and diplomatic district and hastened her steps, her ears alerted to the slightest sound. She sensed that someone was nearby, that she was being observed. The trees certainly afforded cover for anyone following her. Her heart quickened. If only a carriage-for-hire would come by . . .

  When she came at last to the end of the parkland where both sides of the avenue boasted mansions of aristocrats and wealthy merchants alongside of the official edifices, she slowed just a bit, breathing more normally. A private carriage passed by, the coachman gawking at the sight of her.

  While far from bright, the area was better lighted and here and there two or three souls were moving quickly about their nighttime missions. She pressed on. With each intersection Iza relaxed a little, and when she came to Saint Aleksander’s Church she crossed herself. She arrived then at Three Crosses Square, where nine streets meet. Allowing but a cursory look at the three gold-covered crosses that stood like black shadowy sentinels against the starless sky, she navigated the wide Avenue Jerozolimskie, passing into Nowy Świat, a fashionable street of palaces, town houses, a market, and a park. Here people were on the street, and Iza was relieved to see it well lighted. However, when she passed Świętokrzyska and Nowy Świat led into Avenue Krakowskie Przedmieście, posted lanterns became scarce—as did people on the street—and poorly tended this night. Iza’s shoes echoed eerily on the bricks. Caution caught her up again when she heard the echo of a man’s boot steps at some distance behind her. She did not, could not, turn around. Had the sounds been forthright and distinctive, she would have paid them no mind, but these came slower and softer, as if someone meant to muffle his footfalls. Iza picked up her pace, and so too did her heart.