Rage

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  “It’s after hours,” said Myślimir, slightly alarmed by the madness in the stranger’s eyes.

  “It’s a matter of life and death,” rasped the stranger in a metallic voice.

  “You don’t understand, I could lose my job,” said Myślimir once he’d heard more, finding it hard to conceal his excitement at having the chance to deliver such a cinematic line.

  The prosecutor drummed his fingers on the desk. He was clearly trying to control himself, but furious impatience radiated from him.

  “You can’t, because there’s a law requiring the Public Records Office to provide information to the prosecution service. I’ll send you all the necessary paperwork afterward.”

  “But there are procedures, and the law on data protection—there really can be serious consequences as a result of backdating documents.”

  For a moment the white-haired prosecutor looked as if he was about to make threats that would prompt this pencil pusher to cooperate, but suddenly his tense face relaxed, and the fire in his eyes dimmed.

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” said Szacki quietly, “because I’ve reached a point in life where I have no more desire to lie. Last night my daughter was kidnapped, and every trail I’ve followed in a state of total hysteria since the day began has proved a dead end. I’m banging my head against a brick wall, while somewhere out there my little girl is probably dead. I could seek out regulations that would formally force you to cooperate. I could make all sorts of elaborate threats—prosecutors, of all people, know how to make life uncomfortable. But I beg you, as a human being, please enter these names in your system and let’s see what comes up, OK?”

  Without a word he switched on the computer and logged into the database.

  “What’s the name?”

  “Piotr Najman.”

  He typed it in, the program thought for a second, and then brought up a list of over a dozen people.

  “Do you know the date of birth?”

  “The early 1960s.”

  “There’s one here, born on November the nineteenth, 1963.”

  “That’s the one. What do you have in his file?”

  “A birth certificate and two marriage certificates.”

  Hearing this, the white-haired prosecutor took a very deep breath, raised his head, and with his gaze fixed on the ceiling exhaled again, smiling.

  “Perfect. You’re actually helping to expose a very dangerous criminal who will stop at nothing. Would you please give me the name of the bride from Mr. Najman’s first marriage certificate?”

  He clicked.

  “Of course. Beata, maiden name Wiertel, born in Reszel.”

  “I need her national identification number.”

  “Six, eight, zero, two, zero, two, zero, zero, one, eight, five.”

  “When was the wedding?”

  “September 1990.”

  “And the divorce?”

  “The marriage ended in November 2003.”

  He waited until the prosecutor had made a note and added, “But not as the result of divorce.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The marriage didn’t end in divorce—the wife died.”

  This information, though perfectly ordinary from the viewpoint of a public records official—marriages and deaths were what their job was all about—had an electrifying effect on the prosecutor. He reeled, as if about to lose consciousness and fall off his chair.

  “It’s not possible,” he said. “She’s got to be alive. The lady with long black hair just has to be alive. Otherwise none of it makes sense.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  For the first time, Myślimir was frightened. Until now he had felt a bit uneasy, but the excitement prompted by this unusual situation had muted his anxiety. But at this point he was scared. The stranger did have a prosecutor’s ID, but there were screwballs among the prosecutors, too, maybe even dangerous ones. The bizarre remark about the lady with long black hair could be an indication that the man had lost touch with reality.

  “Please check again, would you? You must have spelled it wrong. You must have made a mistake. You probably looked at the wrong entry. That’s criminal incompetence!”

  A hysterical note had appeared in the prosecutor’s voice, but this time Myślimir didn’t feel fear—he felt offended. Nobody was going to accuse him of incompetence.

  “Look, sir, maintaining the public records may not be rocket science, but it’s not simple either. You could say it’s the cornerstone of the state, monitoring how the population rises and falls. We do our job very thoroughly, and we know how to read the data.”

  Though it hadn’t seemed possible, the prosecutor went even paler.

  “Please show me her death certificate.”

  He opened the document and moved the monitor, staring at the boxes on the form himself out of curiosity. It occurred to him that as he was the public records official, he knew their secrets. In this scene the prosecutor was the hero, and he was an eccentric, slightly crazy expert, whose knowledge would allow him to solve the riddle.

  “It doesn’t look like a death certificate.”

  “It doesn’t look like the ones issued at the registry. Because what you get there is actually a copy of the death certificate, in most cases abridged. What you see here is the full death certificate, the official state document.”

  “OK, I get it. Can you decipher this for me?”

  It crossed Myślimir’s mind that the prosecutor was like a one-man impatience factory—he could sell the surplus in jars and make a good living out of it. Not that anyone in Poland was suffering from a shortage of impatience, but who knew? There was a demand for dumber things than that.

  “Of course.” He started off calmly, knowing well that to begin with the conversation would be ordinary, nothing shocking, and a little later there’d be some minor revelations, but even so, the flash of inspiration would only strike the hero very suddenly once it was all over. Fiction had its rules. “Here are the official signatures, the name of the registry, and the certificate number, but that won’t interest you. Then the decedent’s details. Beata Najman, maiden name Wiertel, born 1968 in Reszel, last place of residence Naglady.”

  “Where is that?”

  “A village outside Gietrzwałd. The place where the Virgin Mary revealed Herself.”

  The prosecutor gave him a strange look.

  “She died in Naglady, too.”

  “When?”

  Myślimir felt a tremor of emotion.

  “The precise details are unknown, because she died under tragic circumstances. Look at this: the date and time of death should be recorded here. We usually get this information from the hospital or the doctor confirming the death. But in other instances, they record the place, date, and time when the remains were found.”

  “And?”

  “And in this case Mrs. Najman’s remains were found on November the third, 2003, at six thirty a.m.”

  “Go on.”

  “Husband’s details: Piotr Najman. And the decedent’s parents’ details: Paweł Wiertel and Alicja, maiden name Hertel. Finally the details of the facility reporting the death, usually this is the hospital, but in this case, we received the information from the city police headquarters.”

  “Are there any circumstances or cause of death?”

  He shook his head. The prosecutor stood up and began to pace the room, the tails of his coat flapping behind him like a cape. He was clearly thinking very hard.

  “Earlier I asked what there was in Piotr Najman’s file. You said a birth certificate and two marriage certificates. Najman is dead, but as I understand it, the police probably haven’t sent you the forms yet. How long do they have, officially?”

  “Two weeks from identification.”

  “Right. But Piotr Najman has a five-year-old son, too. Why doesn’t his file show a connection with the child?”

  “From the point of view of the state, the child is a separate citizen. He has his own file, which includes his birth certifi
cate, and to which his marriage certificate and death certificate will eventually be added.”

  “Meaning that parents’ files don’t ever include a record of their children’s birth?” The prosecutor raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is that some kind of a goddamn joke? Doesn’t this fucking country have a database that tracks what happens to its goddamn citizens?”

  Myślimir shrugged.

  “To tell you the truth, I thought you guys had something like that.”

  “You guys?”

  “The police, the prosecutors. You put in a name, and it all comes up on the screen.”

  The prosecutor sat down heavily.

  “It comes up on the screen. We can check the penal register, which only lists those who’ve been convicted by force of law. Can you show me a list of people with the last name Najman who were born between 1988 and 2003?”

  “Are you looking for children from that marriage?”

  The prosecutor nodded.

  He typed the information, and three records came up.

  “First this one.” The prosecutor pointed at the name Paweł Najman. “Named after his grandfather.”

  He opened the file.

  “Bingo,” he said. “Paweł Najman, son of Piotr and Beata, maiden name Wiertel, born April the second, 1998.”

  For a while he was pleased he’d managed to find something important, but as he ran his gaze down the items in the file he gulped. He hated being the bearer of bad news—his family had always laughed at him for running and hiding whenever he had to deliver anything other than good news.

  “Unfortunately he’s dead too.”

  The prosecutor didn’t react.

  “I’ll show you the death certificate, OK?”

  He opened the relevant document.

  “He died on November the seventeenth, 2003.”

  “Which date?” Szacki’s eyes grew wide with amazement.

  “November the seventeenth.”

  “Ten years. Exactly ten years to the day,” whispered Szacki. “So there is something. Was he killed in an accident too?”

  “No, he died in the hospital. Hmm, that’s curious.”

  “What?”

  “Usually the kids recorded here have died at the children’s hospital.”

  “And?”

  “The death was reported by Dr. Angela Zemsta at the Provincial Psychiatric Clinic.”

  14

  She was reveling in being alone. Some people take advantage of solitude to listen to loud music, dance around the room, or watch TV at full volume. She always used the opportunity to switch off everything—radios, telephones, the TV, even the boiler, so she wouldn’t hear hissing and bubbling in the pipes.

  No washing machine, no dishwasher, no computer with a wailing fan and a buzzing hard drive. Even the plug to the fridge. The first time she did it, she was amazed to find how many domestic appliances make a noise of some kind. Even her desk lamp. There must have been something wrong with it. When it was on it just shone, but when it was off it let out a weird, low murmur.

  By now she was a pro at this, and it only took five minutes to get rid of all the noises in the house. Afterward she always sat still for a while, listening to her own breathing, her pulse, the gurgling in her stomach—all those sounds made by the human factory.

  Then she’d walk around the house, noticing all the noises we’re not usually aware of, because they’re drowned out by hundreds of other more insistent ones. For instance, the sound of our thighs brushing each other when we’re walking. If she was wearing pants or panty hose it had sounded artificial, so she had conducted her ritual of silence naked. Depending on the time of year, her thighs brushed as softly as the pages of a book being turned, or made a slightly wet noise, like someone licking their lips.

  It was very sensual.

  Now she was standing naked in front of the huge bedroom mirror, brushing her long, black, shimmering hair. The sound of brushing her freshly washed hair had a squeaky quality, a bit like running a wet finger down a crystal wineglass.

  She used to have even longer hair, but she’d trimmed it for comfort because the summer had been so hot. Now she regretted it.

  She put down the brush, took hold of her hair on either side of her part, and straightened her arms.

  Now it looked like a raven’s wings.

  She let go of it. The hair fell with a gentle rustle and clung to her naked body.

  It was a shame about her hair. A shame about her body. A shame about everything.

  15

  The public records official was annoying him beyond belief, but Szacki was making every effort not to let it show. The chubby man, who had childlike energy, though he must have been about thirty, never ceased to smile, or make meaningful faces and squint like an actor at a provincial theater who has no idea how to perform with dramatic tension. Of course, Szacki didn’t expect all that much from someone who listened to children’s songs at the Public Records Office, and besides, he realized he was in Myślimir’s debt.

  But those faces were driving him up the wall.

  This research into the public records was becoming such an emotional ride that he could feel every beat of his heart and was seriously afraid of being struck down by a heart attack before he had the chance to make use of the information.

  He almost leaped out of his seat when it came to light that Najman had a first wife. At once he’d imagined a forty-five-year-old woman with black hair, taking revenge on her ex for his past crimes. The theory held water for a whole ten seconds, until he discovered that she was even deader than her husband.

  It was like being hit below the belt. Physical pain.

  Then it turned out Najman had a son. A son who may have witnessed his mother’s death—perfect material for an avenger. A bit young, but the right motive can work wonders. Too bad. The son hadn’t outlived the mother for long. Another miss. But this time he’d gotten a consolation prize—he turned out to have been in the care of Dr. Zemsta, whom Szacki already knew. At least that gave him a foothold.

  He glanced at Myślimir, looked at his computer screen, and for the first time that day felt that something might work out.

  He thought about what he’d seen at KFC. He thought about the small boy who saw his dad going off to the restroom and automatically held out his hand, without even looking to see if someone was there. Because the little fellow knew his paw would instantly be grabbed by his older sibling. That was how it had always worked, still works, and will continue to work, because the tie between siblings is one of the strongest and most unbreakable. Spouses are unrelated people who have chosen to spend their lives together. It matters, but not as much. Children must eventually break away from their parents in order to become real people. And parents have to let them sever the tie that was once the cornerstone of their existence.

  The tie between siblings never has to be broken. Of course it may be stronger, or weaker. But being in such close contact at the time in life when the world is new means no people on earth can be closer than siblings.

  That was why the little boy had so trustingly held out his hand, and why it had instantly been seized. Pure instinct, prompted by unconditional love.

  “Please check the two remaining entries,” he said.

  “Do you think they’re siblings?” asked the official.

  “I don’t think so, I’m certain,” he said, eager to find out the killer’s national ID number. “I’d bet everything I’ve got.”

  In fact he didn’t have much, and he wasn’t too worried about property. But if Myślimir had taken the bet, the prosecutor would have lost all his possessions.

  Neither Paulina Najman, born in 1990, nor Albert Najman, born in 1994, were in any way related to Piotr Najman and his wife. They weren’t even siblings—they were both from a place called Dubeninki, which, judging by the name, must have been close to the Lithuanian border.

  “It’s not possible,” said Szacki. “Please check again a few years earlier—maybe they had a child befor
e they got married.”

  Myślimir checked. They found Maria Najman, born in Gietrzwałd in 1982, but she wasn’t related. It was a very long shot anyway—Najman’s first wife was only seventeen at the time. Old enough to have a child, but 1980s Poland wasn’t twenty-first-century Britain, with teenagers multiplying like rabbits.

  “It’s not possible,” Szacki repeated, wanting to bewitch reality. “I can’t explain it to you, but there has to be a sibling, otherwise none of it makes sense. Otherwise nothing fits. Could a child have been born somewhere else, in another province?”

  “Of course. Each hospital always reports births to its own local Public Records Office. Even if the parents register the child’s birth in the place where they live as well, the registration form will be sent to the office in the place where the hospital is located, and the birth certificate will be kept there.”

  Szacki cursed, colorfully, and at length. Myślimir made no comment, but his eyes flashed with excitement.

  “There is one more possibility,” he said.

  Hearing this, Szacki stared at the official in anticipation.

  “The child was adopted.”

  “And what then?”

  “Then, in the case of full adoption, a new birth certificate is prepared. The date and place stay the same, but the child is given a new last name, sometimes a new first name, and a new national identification number. The adoptive parents are added to the certificate as the biological parents.”

  “And what happens to the old birth certificate?”

  “It becomes classified. It doesn’t come up in the database—only the manager has access to it.”

  Szacki wondered if this lead was worth following.