“It’s out of the question, Pavel.” Hermann Schuster backed up my grandfather. “I’ll go instead.”
While Erika Schuster made a sour face at her husband for once again putting the village before his family, I answered my grandfather, “Every day all I hear from you is ‘Pavel do this, Pavel do that, Pavel you’re old enough to know,’ blah blah blah. So now I’m old enough.”
Since Granddad didn’t have a ready answer, Karl Koch took his part. “What will you accomplish by going to town, Pavel? Nobody’s going to take a greenhorn like you seriously.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Nobody’s going to pay any attention to a twerp like me. And that’s our chance to find something out about Pater Johannes. If his missing coffin really is just a misunderstanding, it can be cleared up easily. But if something else is behind it that none of us can see, then I could—”
“What the hell could be behind it?” the chauffeur interrupted me. “It was a mistake. As usual. In October we had seven bodies, and there wasn’t a driver who knew where they belonged. You wouldn’t believe how we had to wander all over the countryside. And all because of an insane bureaucracy where the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand’s doing. But eventually you dig your way through the paperwork and finally see the light. Every deceased finds his place at last. We’ll find your pastor for you.”
“Then there’s no objection to my keeping Istvan and Petre company,” I added.
Since nobody but Grandfather objected it was decided: Istvan Kallay, Petre Petrov, and I would go to Kronauburg to discover the whereabouts of Pater Johannes’s earthly remains. The coffin with Fernanda Klein was unloaded, and the three of us ducked into the back of the black car.
The driver proved to be a speedster. Although by now there was eight inches of snow on the ground, it was only a good hour until he was pulling up before a new tin sign with raised letters: PEOPLE’S HOSPITAL—HEALTH OF THE FATHERLAND—DISTRICT OF KRONAUBURG.
“You can’t miss it,” said the assistant as we three scrambled out of the hearse and breathed in great drafts of town air. Although the air was heavy with the stink of thousands of coal-burning dwellings, the smell of tar and ashes was like a fresh breeze. Istvan, who never smoked, asked the assistant for a cigarette to get the stale, sweetish scent of the hearse out of his nostrils.
“A word before we go in there, Pavel: you keep quiet. Let me do the talking,” he said.
Then we walked briskly to the hospital entrance and headed straight for the registration desk. Istvan asked a fat woman in an apron dress where we could find Dr. Petrin.
“In pathology. It’s in the basement, down three flights, and then keep turning right. What’s your business? May I see your papers? Do you have a clearance?”
But we were already on our way downstairs. We kept turning right past dozens of yellowed doors and through strange odors I couldn’t identify except for ammonia in a cleaning solution. But they all seemed to be trying to drive out bad smells with even worse smells. In the last corridor a young woman scurried by, the tails of her lab coat flying.
“Miss? Excuse me?” Istvan called after her. “Could you help us? We’re looking for Dr. Petrin.”
The lab coat stopped flying. “Do you have an appointment?”
“We’ve come from Baia Luna.”
“What? So far? Is it snowing up there yet? They say it’s the end of the world. But the mountains must be beautiful in the summer. What do you want with Dr. Petrin?”
“We’d like to speak with him personally, to clear up a misunderstanding,” the Hungarian replied.
“We’re looking for a corpse. Our dead priest has disappeared. You can understand—it’s urgent,” I burst out.
“Shut your trap!” hissed Istvan.
“No, young man, I don’t understand. But I’ll see if Dr. Petrin has any time for you. You’ve come so far, all the way from Baia Luna! But just a few minutes at most. I can’t promise you more than that.”
I was annoyed at being called “young man.” She wasn’t that old herself, but the way she strolled ahead of us, hands in her lab-coat pockets, her shoulder-length hair lying on the white material, and with such a gentle swing to her hips, I realized that the ladies in town were put together in a different way from the girls in Baia Luna.
She stopped at one of the yellowish-brown doors with peeling paint and opened it without knocking. We’d overlooked her name tag: DR. MED. PAULA PETRIN, SPECIALIST FOR INTERNAL MEDICINE. The pathologist sat down at her desk.
“What can I do for you?”
Petre’s jaw dropped, and so did mine. Istvan Kallay cleared his throat and pretended nothing in the world could surprise him. “So you’re Dr. Petrin? Forgive me, but I was actually expecting a man.”
“A man, that’s right. Me, too,” Petre managed to say.
“Well, you weren’t far wrong. My father was head of pathology until just recently. But now he’s enjoying his retirement—although I think winter on the Black Sea can’t be all that cozy. But please, what is it you want?”
With a quick frown Istvan let Petre and me know we should keep our mouths shut. “May I be frank?”
“Please do, go right ahead. But I don’t have much time.”
Paula Petrin listened intently as the Hungarian described the events in Baia Luna clearly and precisely, with no digressions or dramatic flourishes.
“So you say two people were murdered. Afterward they were brought here for an autopsy, and only one of the bodies was returned to your village. Very strange indeed. I haven’t been here long, but if such a thing had happened before, my father would surely have told us about it. Let me look this up.”
Paula Petrin opened a file drawer and her fingers glided over the index cards. She’s never peeled potatoes, I thought to myself. No girl in Baia Luna has such slim, well-formed fingers. Not even Buba.
“The bodies were picked up last Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“Then they must have reached our morgue that evening. But no one’s here on Sunday. So we should look at Monday. There’s always a lot going on on Monday because cases from all over the district build up over the weekend and have to be worked through. I’ve found it. Baia Luna. On Monday. Yes, you’re right. There must have been an unresolved death in your village.”
“No, two!” protested Istvan and Petre simultaneously.
“Hang on . . . here!” Paula Petrin laid an index card on her desk. “Fernanda Klein. Yes, I remember: an elderly woman from Baia Luna. I recall her quite clearly. Sometimes you can tell from the body what they were like when still alive. She must have been a pleasant person. Single, but terribly inquisitive, am I right? Angina pectoris. No doubt about it. Her heart wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Arteries clogged by calcium deposits. They build up over the years, and it’s a frequent cause of death in people of Mrs. Klein’s age. If I look at the data, the lady must have been living the last few years with enormously high blood pressure. Very likely her heart wasn’t up to some heavy exertion, and then—”
“Fernanda never had to exert herself,” Istvan interrupted the doctor.
“Well, it wouldn’t have to be some demanding physical activity. Sometimes a sudden emotional stress can cause an angina.”
“You mean a big shock?”
“Yes. You can’t rule that out. In an extreme situation—let’s say in a panic or threatened by danger—the human body reacts with increased blood flow to the heart. But if the vessels are narrowed by arteriosclerosis, the heart muscle doesn’t get enough oxygen. But what in heaven’s name could have given dear Mrs. Klein such a fright?”
“The murder of our priest,” said the Hungarian. “Fernanda Klein was our pastor’s housekeeper.”
“And that’s why we’re here,” Petre added. “Those guys slit Pater Johannes’s throat in the rectory.”
“That’s right,” confirmed Istvan. “The police picked up his corpse as well as his housekeeper’s to get them auto
psied, but only Fernanda’s coffin came back to be buried.”
Paula Petrin chewed her lower lip. “That’s really strange. But I give you my word, no murder victim with a slit throat was ever on my operating table. I can swear to that on a stack of Bibles. I can’t be of much help in your search for your pastor’s body. He definitely wasn’t here. Who investigated the case in Baia Luna?”
“A fat, elderly policeman with a thatch of hair. I think his name was . . .” Istvan rubbed his forehead.
“Patrascu!” exclaimed Paula Petrin.
“Exactly,” said Petre. “And this Patrascu didn’t give the impression he was going to bust his ass for anybody in his sunset years.”
“He seemed unmotivated, you mean,” Dr. Petrin corrected him with a smile. “But Patrascu is a good cop. The commissioner has been a friend of my father’s ever since I was a kid. Patrascu is a stand-up guy even if he maybe—to put it crudely—can’t get his ass in gear so easily anymore. Why don’t you go see him? The police station’s not far from here. I think Commissioner Patrascu can help you. Buy him a pack of Carpatis and tell him best wishes from his little Pauline. That’s what he always calls me.” Paula Petrin shook our hands. “Good luck! Let me know when you’ve shed some light on this dark business.”
Twilight was already falling, and the streetlights flickered on as we entered the Kronauburg District police headquarters ten minutes later. Istvan greeted one of the sergeants who had been in Baia Luna after Pater Johannes’s murder, the one who had asked about items of value in the rectory.
“Ah, a rare visit from the mountains. Got something to report?” The officer acted like an old acquaintance.
“We’d like to see Commissioner Patrascu.”
“You’re too late. The chief’s been gone since yesterday. I mean, the former chief. Finally retired after forty-five years. But you can make your report to me.”
Istvan hemmed and hawed. “We had business in town and thought we’d come see if there’s any new developments in the disappearance of our teacher Miss Barbulescu.”
“And I thought you were here because of that awful thing that happened to your pastor. We’re on the case, I can tell you that. And now you say your teacher has disappeared, too? I don’t know anything about that.” The cop turned to his colleagues. “Have you heard of a teacher gone missing up in Baia Luna? Name of Barbulescu?”
Head shakes all around until one of them remembered. “Patrascu was up in the mountains twice last week, wasn’t he? Maybe he knows something about the teacher.”
“As you can see”—the policeman turned back to us—“no such incident has been reported here. You have no idea how many people disappear and then show up again. There’s no way we can go looking for all of them. But if you want to ask the old man, no problem. He lives up on Castle Hill, Alte Schanzgasse 3, a yellow house with blue shutters. Can’t miss it. Buy him a pack of Carpatis, and he’s happy. And best wishes from his colleagues.”
On the market square in front of the police station, the illuminated façade of a shop caught our eye. To judge from its blinding white stucco, it must have just recently opened. Over the glass entrance hung a huge banner with red letters proclaiming THANKS TO THE REPUBLIC! THANKS TO THE PARTY! and beneath that something about the inevitable progress of Socialism and world-class products for the people. Petre suggested we detour into the shop to buy cigarettes for Patrascu.
As I entered through the double doors, I could hardly believe my eyes and nose. The only shop I knew was my grandfather’s store, where the smell of stale tobacco smoke mixed with the odor of fermenting sauerkraut. In this place, on the other hand, all the fragrances of the world reached my nostrils simultaneously. I recognized rose oil, baking bread, and fresh paint. Behind what seemed an endless counter stood a dozen pretty girls in white aprons. I caught a whiff of arrogance in the smug way they were dealing with the customers. I was floored by the variety on the towering shelves behind the counter. I spotted four different brands of toothpaste and twice as many kinds of soap, including the expensive Luxor with essence of roses that the stuck-up Vera Raducanu always asked for to make Grandfather look like a fool. Where Ilja had only one shelf of canned goods to offer (and even then you weren’t quite sure what was in them), the Socialist People’s Market was piled high with attractive pyramids of cans without number containing every vegetable imaginable. In contrast to our village store where we put out apples and pears in battered old baskets, the apples here were polished to a high gloss, displayed behind glass, and carried sonorous names like Golden Delicious and Jonas Deluxe chalked onto little black slates. Next to them were whole mountain ranges of glowing bananas, until a closer look revealed they were displayed in front of a clever system of silvery mirrors that optically multiplied the tempting fruit. But the peak of luxury was represented by three examples of a curious brown fruit spotlit on a white cloth inside a glass case. They reminded me of royal heads with a crown of prickly green leaves. The three fruits came from Hawaii, about which the only thing I could vaguely remember from Miss Barbulescu’s geography class was that it never snowed there. When I read the price for one of these so-called pineapples I almost had a stroke: as much as my grandfather earned in a month. I elbowed Petre in the ribs and pointed at the price tag. “Take a look at that!”
When we finally got to the head of the line, the brunette salesgirl asked pertly, “May I help you?” while eyeing my threadbare jacket with suspicion.
“A pack of Carpatis please, Miss,” said Istvan with exaggerated courtesy.
The girl went to the cigarette case, took out a pack, and slammed it onto the counter. “Anything else?”
Istvan didn’t answer. He fished a couple of aluminum coins from his pocket and tossed them across the polished surface with a flip of his wrist. While the indignant clerk retrieved the money from the floor, Istvan strode out with his head held high.
As we climbed the slippery wet cobblestone street to Castle Hill, I felt ashamed—of our pathetic shop back home, of Grandfather, of Baia Luna, of myself.
By the light of a streetlamp the yellow paint of the retired commissioner’s house did in fact stand out. It was in a row of other lopsided medieval façades that managed to stay upright only by leaning against one another. An iron lion’s head with a ring in its nose was mounted on the blue wooden door. Istvan knocked on the wood three times. We soon heard the rattling of keys, and Patrascu opened the door. A Carpati hung from his mouth, and he was stuffing his shirt into his pants with both hands.
“Good evening, gentlemen. What’s up?” Patrascu stared at us. His grinding lower jaw revealed his memory was at work. My face and Istvan’s apparently meant nothing to him, but he recalled Petre Petrov.
“You’re one of the crazy guys that went for Brancusi’s throat after what happened to your pastor.”
“That’s exactly why we’re here, Commissioner. Kallay, Istvan Kallay, if I may.”
“You could have saved yourselves the trip. I’m not on the force anymore, and I don’t have the remotest desire to be reminded of anything that has to do with my time in the service of the fatherland. Understood?”
“We bring greetings from your colleagues at the station,” the Hungarian attempted to alter the atmosphere.
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear . . .”
“And from your little Pauline, greetings from her, too,” I interjected. “Pauline . . . I mean, Dr. Petrin thought for sure you would be able to help us with our problem.”
Patrascu flipped his cigarette into the street and ran his fingers through his thatch. “You talked to Paula? What in heaven’s name did you want from that angel? Was it about the priest?”
We nodded.
“Didn’t I tell you to turn down your flame? Didn’t I say you’d get your ass burned otherwise?”
“Better get burned than freeze,” I blustered.
Patrascu couldn’t help laughing. “Funny, Pauline always comes out with stuff like that, t
oo. All right then, come on in. But I’m afraid I really won’t be much help. Besides, I have nothing to offer you. Since my wife died there’s not much going on in here.”
As far as I could judge in air dense with Carpati smoke, Patrascu’s parlor made a neglected impression. Our foreheads beaded with sweat in the sticky humidity. We took off our coats; Patrascu got out four glasses and poured us some konjaki Napoleon.
“None for me.” After all, I was only fifteen.
“If we’re going to discuss something among men, then act like a man. Cheers!”
I clinked glasses with them and drank. Istvan told him about the transfer of Fernanda Klein from the hospital in Kronauburg to Baia Luna and about Johannes Baptiste’s corpse and how neither the driver of the hearse nor Dr. Paula Petrin knew anything about it.
“Commissioner, you were there when the chauffeur drove the two of them from Baia Luna to Kronauburg. How come one corpse was autopsied but not the other one? First our priest is murdered in cold blood, and then his body disappears. We have to at least give Pater Johannes a decent burial, you understand.”
Patrascu stroked his beard and dragged on his cigarette. “It’s a nasty business, but I don’t know where your priest is either.”
“And if you knew?” I asked, emboldened by the alcohol.
“I’ll be honest with you.” The commissioner was silent for a while. “I’d keep mum about it. Yeah, I’d keep my mouth shut. And here’s why: I’ve worked my butt off for this country for forty-five years, and let me tell you: I’ve never seen so much nasty shit as in the last few years. And if an old geezer blabs too much—you people from Baia Luna have seen for yourselves how somebody like that is silenced nowadays. But this is all hypothetical, remember, only if I really had any idea where the priest’s body might be.”
I was trembling with excitement. If I was supposed to drink like a man, then I wanted to talk like a man, too. “If Dr. Petrin knew that Commissioner Patrascu took his own fear more seriously than justice, do you think little Pauline would have sent her best to you?”
The Madonna on the Moon Page 14