‘You have other concerns? If it would help, go to the end of them.’ He paused and then added. ‘Why not start with John?’
Anselm couldn’t help but smile. At last the invitation had come to enter the grey area between himself and the Prior. Its shadow had followed him from Larkwood to Warsaw and back again. It lay between them here, among the hives. It fell upon the wild, trampled flowers .
‘I suppose I feel let down,’ conceded Anselm, shifting a little on the bench. ‘Pushed aside when I turned up to help; pulled back once I’d gone away Pushed and pulled when it suited. He might have shared more earlier, willingly rather than leave me to find out later by chance.’
The Prior thought for so long that Anselm thought he’d fallen asleep, but then he spoke, seeming to aim across the clearing, his head angled to one side.
‘You’re disappointed because he never told you about his mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nor about his shame and his longing to change her story and his own?’
‘Yes.’
‘His gamble with a man who called himself the Dentist?’
‘Yes:
This was part of the ground covered by the Prior and John all the years ago, trekking through the woods to Our Lady’s Lake. The Prior wouldn’t say so, of course, but leaving aside Exodus 22, previous knowledge of John’s past was the one explanation for why he’d sent Anselm to Warsaw without a moment’s hesitation. He’d made his mind up (in principle) thirty years earlier, when the chance to call on Anselm had seemed impossible to imagine. But then an archive had turned up in Dresden and Róża had flown to London.
‘Did you ever explain to John why you came to Larkwood?’ asked the Prior from a seeming tangent. ‘Did you tell him why you were leaving behind a way of life he’d shared and understood?’
‘No.’
He’d tried, but his friend’s mind hadn’t engaged with the mesh of Anselm’s words. This, too — he was sure — had been ground covered long ago in the woods. The Prior wasn’t surprised, and he had something to say:
‘Sometimes, Anselm — and especially with the most important parts of our lives — we cannot share who we are. We can give the facts, as information, to a stranger; but with a friend we want to give that little bit more, something that changes the facts into flesh and spirit … and at certain times we can’t do it. Because, ultimately we cannot give away our depths: they lie beyond our grasp. It is when we most want to do so that we realise how immense we are … more vast and mysterious than the night sky; and alone.’
Anselm nodded, thrown off balance.
‘John didn’t give you plain facts because you were his friend. He wanted to give you so much more and couldn’t. But when the time came — and he waited patiently in the darkness — he sent you into his troubled past to find him. And now you know more than anyone else; more than you could reduce to words, if asked. This is friendship, Anselm. Knowledge beyond the reach of language. It’s what bound Róża to Father Kaminsky.’
The Prior had lanced a hidden abscess, instantaneously healing Anselm of a resentment that he hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge. He felt peculiarly light in his body and clear-headed with a sharper appreciation of the matters that had lowered his head in the cloister. His head fell now and the Prior, seeming to understand, spoke with a familiar tone of command:
‘Your concerns; go to the end of them.’
There was so much on Anselm’s mind: not just Róża’s mysterious victory over Otto Brack, but the tragedy of half-redeemed lives that peppered the surrounding landscape; Irina in Mokotów, Sebastian exiled, and Aniela smiling for no good purpose, while men like Frenzel lived as though the premiums would never stop coming in (an arrangement, admittedly that was now under close review). But the question that most troubled Anselm was how to understand Otto Brack. What was his relationship with evil?
‘Róża gave me a bit of a slap in the face when the Shoemaker was dying,’ he said, scratching the back of his head. ‘My entire outlook on Brack had been fixed by this inclination — and I can’t get rid of it, even now — that but for certain experiences, Brack would have been just like you and me. He might even be here in Larkwood, causing bite—size trouble. So I started building up this defence, before God and Man, about a damaged childhood, a limping boy who ended up in the hands of Strenk who’d only made things worse by forcing on the wrong sized boots. You know what I mean, it’s the stuff about screws, loose and tight. Damaged will, and all that. Father Nicodem was on board, too, but Róża wouldn’t have it, not completely’
‘What did she say?’
‘That he’d made a free choice. That damaged people can make undamaged choices, and I thought, blast it, you’re right, there’s a freedom in this, a total liberty, and thank God I’m not tied down to the effects of a cat jumping in my pram or someone’s messing around with a flat-head screwdriver. Róża says Brack did what he did because he wanted to. He was a vengeful man who didn’t want to leave his injuries behind. In Strenk he’d found himself another father who told a different kind of bedtime story, a grown-up one, and he wanted to listen so he could learn the words. Like John —like me, put in similar circumstances — he fancied his place in history.’
The Prior made a light cough, as he did when he wasn’t sure about a proposed change in the work rota. He unhooked his wire glasses and began fiddling with the paperclip repair and said, ‘Do you remember, once, you wondered if Brack was simply an evil man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, when you sat with him in the Warsaw Hall, what did you see?’
This was the nub of the problem for Anselm. It was why he’d been lifting up volume two in choir rather than volume three, pulling the red ribbon rather than the blue.
‘He spoke to me,’ began Anselm, scuffing his feet. ‘It was a sort of confession. He wanted to tell the whole world about his crimes, that he was proud of them, in a way for having grasped the nettle. And as I listened, I thought there’s room here for the cat and the screwdriver, sure … and I still do, despite Róża’s point that he’d made a lot of choices … but either way the picture of the man was uniformly dim.’
The Prior waited.
‘But as he was speaking I thought I saw someone else behind his words and actions … it was as though someone decent was trying to break out, to crack the hard surface of who he was. Whether the hardness was due to circumstance or choice didn’t really matter, there was some good in him. Even as he did something wrong he was trying to do something right. And I wondered if events had layers, and people had layers, and that evil might be the obliterating painting on top, but that in time, with the right kind of chemicals — something strong but not so strong to bleach the prosecutor’s hair — we might be able to get it off and find out whatever it is that still lies behind the original canvas with its unimaginable depth of colour.’
This refusal to believe that one layer saturated or transformed the other, his wondering if they could remain distinct was based not on an outbreak of pity, or a desire to reinstate the damaged childhood defence. Rather it was because as Brack had stumbled away he’d been like a man blinded by light. The truth, revealed, had had a coruscating effect on him. Out of his confusion he’d recalled another story, told by Mr Lasky recognising that his life should have been something noble and good.
‘I tried to reach him, just before he died,’ said Anselm. ‘He’d made the briefest of confessions, seconds before he was shot … that he’d always known where he was going and I threw him a few words, not my own, but something to hang on to. I don’t know if he caught hold. Something flared and then a light went out.’
‘This, then, is that the end of your concerns?’ asked the Prior. He bent his glasses into a workable shape and fixed them on to his enquiring face.
‘No,’ replied Anselm. ‘I’m ashamed that I want to look past his actions. I don’t know why I think it matters, but I do.’ Anselm dropped his voice as if he didn’t want to hear himself. ‘Brack, too, h
ad an immensity to dwarf the stars. What happened to it? Could he throw away so much? Is it even possible? Is it even right for me to try and reclaim it on his behalf when, in his shallowness, he destroyed the immensity of others?’
The Prior was squinting now Bees were drifting round the clearing, in their own way rather busy ‘Anselm, do you remember when we were in the woodshed?’
He nodded.
‘I was working and you were watching? You wanted to understand everything.’
Anselm considered the first remark superfluous but he agreed in order to advance matters.
‘Well, I suspect you now understand far more than you want to, far more than is comfortable for any man: The Prior examined Anselm, aiming again. ‘But don’t change. Don’t lose heart. The hunger is part of who you are. It might enable you to help those who can’t be helped. People who deserve no help.’
‘What do you mean?’
The Prior stood up and settled a frown upon Anselm. He coughed lightly again, smuggling his arms into the sleeves of his habit.
‘You’ve always wanted to understand the criminal as much as you’ve longed to help the victim,’ he said, in a low, kindly voice. ‘That’s why I let you go to Warsaw It’s why I’ll always let you help people who’ve fallen between the cracks on the pavement to justice. You look beyond crime and punishment. You’re a lawyer in a habit, a man who asks different kinds of questions, who seeks different kinds of answers. And in that unusual position you’ll always hear things that others could not, should not and will not hear … sometimes from the victim, at others from the criminal, but always from someone who’d never say them to anybody else. You’ll see things, too, in the darkness: He regarded Anselm fondly as if he were somehow important, to him and to Larkwood. ‘This gives you a special kind of opportunity which only comes to those who, understanding that little bit more — who’ve seen behind the screen of guilt — can’t judge so easily and won’t condemn. It means every once in a blue moon you just might be able to say something of importance to the person who is rightly condemned … who can hear it, precisely because it comes from the mouth of someone who understands better than they judge. Maybe you helped Otto Brack, Anselm, when everyone else had failed. You were certainly his last chance.’ The Prior looked at his feet as if he’d drifted off a well-marked path. ‘There are lots of good people out there who defend the widow and the orphan, who bring killers to the courts of justice, and still others who speak up for the Good Thief. But I think there’s room for a troubled maverick who keeps an eye out for the bad one, the prodigal who never came home:
The Prior, having finished, seemed vaguely embarrassed. He nodded a few times and made a sort of wave, and then backed off towards the aspens. He passed through the low branches, head down, his scapular flapping in the breeze.
Anselm remained still for a while, astounded by the paradox. He’d gone to Warsaw as Róża’s public representative and returned as Brack’s private advocate. For the first time since he’d been at Larkwood the totality of his vocation had come together. The two parts of his life, past and present, converged, without the one eclipsing the other, bringing a new kind of focus. He looked around, seeing the enclosure with sharper eyes. He listened to the hum of activity; he smelled the crushed flowers and the flattened pasture. He was whole, though he hadn’t felt any previous fragmentation.
‘Thank you,’ he said, wondering to whom he was the more grateful: Róża for the light or Brack for the darkness. They were both curiously essential gifts to his self—understanding.
He rose, light-headed, resolved to tie up the one remaining loose end. Something from the grey region.
Chapter Fifty-Six
A mildly eccentric benefactor had long ago made a curious bequest in Larkwood’s favour: a single bottle of Echézeaux, Gran Cru 1977. Given the size of the community it could hardly be drunk; given its provenance it could hardly be sold, the upshot frustrating the express stipulation of the donor that it be ‘enjoyed for a celebration of some special character’. It had remained at the back of a cupboard until Anselm informed the Prior of his intentions. Before progressing with the menu, however, he made a quick call to Krystyna, just to confirm his suspicions.
‘Well, I shouldn’t really tell you this,’ she said, merrily turned informer, ‘I mean, he told me not to say but since you’re friends, and he paid all the bills, I suppose there’s no harm. Yes, you’re right, he did stay here, a few months before yourself But that’s our secret, yes?’
‘As if you’d told me in the Warsaw Hall.’
In due course John came to Larkwood for a few days’ recollection before the academic year got underway It was his wont to snatch such moments. Celina would have come, too, but she was inundated with work that flowed in and out of season. If she managed to finish early — this was her message — she’d join them later. John didn’t say as much, but he’d evidently embarked upon a new life in recent months, tentatively making his way forward with Celina holding his arm. It was touching to observe; and consoling, knowing of the great devastation caused by Otto Brack. Autumn had dawned, tingeing the treetops with a hint of yellow The guesthouse was empty save for the two old friends. Lunch had been prepared in Larkwood’s careless kitchen. Anselm had begged for anything out of the ordinary.
‘What is it?’ asked John, tasting the purée.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ replied Anselm. ‘It’s purple.’
‘It’s disgusting.’
‘Try the wine. It’s a deep red.’
He did, suddenly slowing his movements, his mouth warmed by a revelation. ‘It’s un—be-lievable. Why are we drinking holy nectar?’
‘To fulfil a legacy’
‘May all your friends die with like intentions.’
John ate some purée and drank some wine, scowling and smiling by turn.
John, do you think I’m completely stupid?’ ventured Anselm.
‘I wouldn’t go that far. Why?’
‘Well, I’ve been reading Wittgenstein and I’ve found some clever ideas.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Two, in fact.’
‘Go on.’
‘First, someone who knows too much finds it hard not to lie:
John thought for a while. ‘Very true.’
‘And, second, a confession has to be part of your new life:
‘Agreed.’
‘Get going, then … or would you like a little help?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘John —’ Anselm paused, letting the quiet grow rich and heavy, like the wine — ‘you knew Celina was the informer all along, didn’t you? You’ve known since nineteen eighty-two, shortly after you came home, I suspect, when you realised that the only other person who’d known you’d be at the grave of Prus on All Saints’ was someone close enough to open your journal … which you then destroyed, not to get rid of the evidence against you, but because it was a silent accusation against her; just as you brought proceedings not to recover your reputation, but to absolve her from the consequences of the crisis. If you had any doubts that her arm had somehow been twisted, she effaced them when she could no longer look at you. When she left on the day you’d won, though we all knew you’d lost.’
As if to punish himself for the subterfuge, John helped himself to more purée.
‘You believed that the Dentist had ruined you and you wanted retribution,’ said Anselm. ‘You also guessed that your dealings with him were linked with his plan to find Róża. Of course, your problem was that you didn’t know the name of the Dentist. There was no way of finding out. And even if you did know, how could you bring him to a court … no court would recognise any wrong, against you.’ He paused. ‘But then the SB-Stasi archive turned up in Dresden. How did you know it had been transferred to Warsaw?’
‘A report by Celina Hetman on the BBC World Service.’ John dabbed his mouth with a large starched napkin. ‘I went to the IPN and asked Sebastian to take me through the file on the Shoemaker. That brou
ght me to Brack and Polana. And I found out, at last, why Róża wore two rings.’
‘Which explains how Sebastian came across Brack’s crimes in the first place,’ surmised Anselm. ‘There were lots of other files and he didn’t just land on that one. You were the first to open the cover and then he, like you, found himself in Róża’s universe, something unexpected and beyond his experience.’
John nodded, without guile, and Anselm concluded that his friend knew nothing of OLEK; that while they’d plotted a route to Brack, this had remained Sebastian’s secret. When John had sat in that Warsaw office, he hadn’t been able to see the pallid face of a man who’d just discovered his grandfather’s role in the Terror. He’d heard the tension in Sebastian’s voice, no doubt, and sensed the resolve, but had simply put them down to principle and ambition. They had a lot in common, John and Sebastian: they’d each been on the trail of family shame, driven by vicarious remorse, neither truly understanding the other. Anselm didn’t pause to reflect further; he said, ‘In fairness to you, revenge wasn’t your sole objective. Perhaps it’s not even the right word to capture the scope and breadth of your project —’ he refilled John’s glass — ‘true, your aim was to bring down Brack for what he’d done to you, but far more important was your intention to bring justice into Róża’s life, clear your name by default, and — unless my imagination deceives me — to engineer the seemingly impossible: the recovery of Celina … whose voice you’d tracked on the World Service.’
John’s slow appreciation of the wine told Anselm he was right. Very good, John seemed to say Lots of depth, there, with nuance and a beguiling finish. Assured, Anselm went on.
‘Your primary objective — which fulfilled all your purposes — was to send Sebastian after Róża: to persuade her to give evidence in the proposed criminal trial. Because, from any perspective, the unresolved murders of Pavel and Stefan were by far the most serious matter. They stood tall in your mind, far above the risk of things turning out badly for yourself as CONRAD or Celina as an informer. Getting Róża into a courtroom was the all in all. And that is when the problems began.’
The Day of the Lie Page 36