Rage

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  “And how did I do?”

  “Honestly?” Wiktoria made a funny face, squinting. A child who’s not sure of her own maturity, as if slightly embarrassed.

  “Of course. A future prosecutor can’t tell lies.”

  “I was stunned by how you looked. That suit!”

  “Wika!” her mother cut in; she didn’t want any sexual undercurrents.

  “Calm down, Mom.” The girl said it in such a farcical tone that they all laughed. “What I mean is that on Mr. Szacki, his suit looked like a uniform. More than that—like a superhero’s costume. Every superhero has a costume, right? A cape, or a catsuit, or something like that.”

  “Wika, dear, you’re making me blush.”

  “But, Mom, what I’m saying is good. What I mean is that Mr. Szacki didn’t look like a public official. He looked better than that. Like someone who’s on the good side.”

  “I think you should talk to my junior prosecutor, Miss Sendrowska,” said Szacki to Wika, and Mrs. Sendrowska could tell that her daughter was flattered by being addressed like an adult. “He recently graduated from the National School, I think you’d like him. He’s much more like a superhero than I am. He always wears a suit, he’s always formal, always on duty. Sometimes I think his conscience has been replaced with the penal code. He’s not interested in motives or extenuating circumstances, personal entanglements or traumatic childhood experiences. He won’t rest if someone somewhere has broken the law.”

  “That sounds rather cold,” she said.

  “I think a cold attitude is an aid to justice,” he said. “Emotions obscure the case and prevent you from appraising the situation objectively.”

  “Do you work in pairs, like policemen?” asked Wiktoria.

  “No, not officially, but we work in the same room, and we help each other. For instance, I work very closely with Edmund Falk, my junior prosecutor. We tell each other everything. Sometimes I get the feeling he knows not just exactly what I’m working on, but he knows where I am, too, and what I’m thinking.” The prosecutor laughed, as if ashamed of his intimacy with his colleague. “Sometimes I catch myself treating him not as a junior but a friend, like a younger brother. Have you got any siblings, Wiktoria?”

  Mrs. Sendrowska froze. They never talked about it at home. It took her so much by surprise that she couldn’t think how to change the subject. She quickly put her cup on its saucer, spilling a little of the pale, milky coffee. Her mind was a complete void, but she really ought to say something—the silence was becoming more and more palpable.

  “What are you working on now?” Wiktoria finally asked.

  “A kidnapping.”

  “That’s interesting. Is it difficult?”

  “Kidnappings are always difficult. We never know if we’re still investigating a kidnapping, or eventually a homicide.”

  “That uncertainty must be awful. You have no influence on what the kidnappers are going to do. You must be imagining the kidnapped person is somewhere out there, at the mercy of God knows who. Especially if it’s a woman, the worst possible scenarios come into play. And knowing that one incautious move on your part could change everything.”

  Szacki nodded, seriously engaged in this theoretical conversation. Mrs. Sendrowska was proud that her daughter, who had only just ceased to be a minor, was capable of talking to an experienced lawyer in such a mature way. Maybe she really was destined to go into law. Even so, she’d prefer her to be a counselor or a notary—there was so much talk about violence toward female prosecutors. Assaults, acid attacks—she refused to think about it.

  “You’re right. Obviously we’re more like the police in this case, aiming to find and rescue the person being held captive. But if a crime has already been committed, we’ll do everything in our power to administer justice.”

  “Are you successful?”

  “Almost always. The criminals underestimate us. They watch too many movies—they think it’s easy to put pressure on someone, to blackmail them, and then just disappear, dissolve into the mist. They think all it takes is a bit of cunning and common sense. But we never ease up. Especially in the case of kidnappings. We keep searching to the bitter end. And we find them. The more the case matters to us, the more effective we are.”

  “Revenge?”

  “With the full sanction of the law.”

  “And have you ever been tempted to act outside the law?”

  She decided to react.

  “Wiktoria! My dear child, don’t forget you wanted to go stay over at Luiza’s tonight.”

  The girl was startled and turned her head so abruptly that her long ponytail almost whipped the guest in the face.

  “But, Mom, we’re not in court, we’re just having a chat and a piece of cake.”

  “My dear child . . .” She turned to Szacki. “Would you please excuse me for a moment?” And then back to her daughter. “It’s Mr. Szacki’s first visit to our home, and as far as I know his work does not involve operating outside the law, quite the contrary. So if you could . . .”

  “If you could not tell me off in front of guests I’d be grateful,” said Wika, proudly raising her head.

  Mrs. Sendrowska bit her lip but didn’t say anything. She was ashamed to find herself thinking that blood is thicker than water—she would not have spoken to her mother like that. Never. There were moments when Wiktoria’s genes, and the first few years of her childhood before she came to them, were apparent.

  “Please don’t argue, dear ladies.” The prosecutor was trying to ease the situation. “I don’t think any questions are too difficult or inappropriate. At worst I just won’t answer, but if I could put in a plea, I’d ask you to drop the fight against your daughter’s curiosity. Curiosity and a desire to know the truth are the mainstays of a good investigator. He or she won’t get far without them.”

  She didn’t think this statement particularly sharp, but she nodded, as if it were the wisest thing she’d heard in years.

  “I’m happy to answer because Wiktoria has brought up the greatest ethical dilemma we encounter in our work. It’s true, we’re often helpless. We conduct an investigation, we gather irrefutable proof, but because of some tiny detail, often a formality, all our efforts are in vain. Not only do we have to let a man go free when we know he’s guilty—and we’ve even got the proof—we also have to take it on the chin from society.”

  Taking advantage of the prosecutor’s lengthy speech—what a pretentious, flowery way he had of expressing himself—she discreetly wiped the coffee from her saucer with a napkin. She was tempted to tip it back into her cup but was afraid her mother would return from the world beyond to scold her in front of the company.

  “Then we do fantasize that justice should be done, or that at least something should be done. To punish, or hurt the criminal. Let’s face it, the organs of state have plenty of ways to harm a citizen. And none of those organs will refuse a prosecutor in a rightful case. Problems with taxes, passports, visas, permits, licenses, practicing their profession, interrogations, summonses, explanations. Sometimes, I must tell you, Wiktoria, power on that scale can be intimidating. If I insisted, I could hurt you, not just you, but your entire family to the fifth degree of kinship so badly they’d never get back on their feet again.”

  She cleared her throat. The prosecutor stopped talking and looked at her; there was a strange shadow in his eyes, and it crossed her mind that Teodor Szacki was not necessarily a good man. There was something about him—what was the right word? she wondered. Not hatred, not frustration, not aggression . . . it was on the tip of her tongue. Rage, that was it. A rather outdated word, it sounded quite biblical. But it suited him well.

  “You said ‘you.’”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m sure it was a slip of the tongue.” She laughed unnaturally. “You said you could hurt my daughter.”

  “Did I really? Do forgive me, it’s late, and it’s been a long day. Of course, that’s no excuse, I’m very sorry. I guess it’
s a sign that I must be going.”

  Wiktoria jumped to her feet in a childlike way and picked up her phone, which was lying in its usual place among the apples on the dresser, hooked up to the charger. A really good phone, an eighteenth-birthday present. She was pleased Wiktoria was looking after it—she kept it in a red-and-white-striped cover she’d crocheted herself.

  “I’ll send you a text, OK? Anything, so you have my number. It would be great to see you again.”

  Mrs. Sendrowska smiled. She may have been big, she may have come of age, she may have expressed herself in an adult way.

  But in fact her darling daughter was still a little cutie.

  19

  He took the phone from his pocket, waiting for the message to arrive. And wondered what next. Whether to keep playing, like so far, according to the rules of the clever high school student Wiktoria Sendrowska, or go on the attack. He may not have been in peak form, but hatred was giving him the extra strength to smash in the fucking heads of both these goddamn women against the snobby oak dresser or the vintage ceramic radiators. It would have been enough for him to rip dear Mrs. Sendrowska to shreds in front of her adopted daughter. For the little brat to see what it feels like when someone you love is suffering. Then he’d wonder what to do next.

  He imagined her skull striking the radiator. He imagined the skin splitting, the bone being crushed into the brain. Blood pouring from her broken head, steam and hot water gushing from the cracked radiator, Mrs. Sendrowska still conscious, too surprised to react, not aware of what’s happening. He tightens his grip on her black hair, twists it around his wrist, and slams her against the radiator again. More steam, more blood—the shards of bone lying on the floor look just the same as the shards of ceramic. It’s easy to spot the gray jelly-like bits of brain against them. Now her dear little daughter can see for herself what her mommy’s gray matter looks like. Right now at the closedown stage.

  Mrs. Sendrowska smiled at him over her coffee cup. He smiled back.

  Rage was filling every fiber of his being, turning every single action into an effort beyond his strength. He was trying to conduct a normal conversation, but he felt paralyzed. He was hiding behind words to avoid doing anything stupid. That was why he was rambling like a half-wit, as if giving a lecture on law, understanding only every third word of it himself. But drawing out his words, carefully selecting them, focusing on the inflections, as if talking in a foreign language—all that was allowing him to preserve relative calm.

  He got a text, which read Telno1.

  Just as she’d said: I’ll send you anything. “Telno1,” as if to say “telephone number one,” a stupid little joke from a smart high school student. She’d just tapped out whatever came into her head so he’d have her number.

  In reality the message was totally legible. Tell no one, or your daughter will burn at the chemical stake erected by the fucked-up Warmian inquisition.

  He stood up, politely said good-bye, and allowed Mrs. Sendrowska to show him into the hall. On the way he courteously admired the swanky house. In all honesty. The part of his consciousness that was managing to keep up the conversation genuinely admired the effort the Sendrowskis had put into restoring the splendor of this old German villa, successfully combining elements of the original architecture with modern Scandinavian design.

  He put on his coat and left without shaking hands with anyone. He was afraid that if he felt Wiktoria’s touch he wouldn’t be capable of containing his rage, but would kill her on the spot.

  He walked across the small garden, opened the gate, emerged onto the sidewalk of Radiowa Street, and took a deep breath. The air was different from before. Cold, crisp, promising snow. The frost had chased away the damp smell and dispersed the fog, and Olsztyn seemed in sharper focus than usual. Szacki often felt as if he were looking at the world through a misted lens here, as if everything were faintly blurred. Now for a change it looked as if the image had been put through a sharpening filter.

  He couldn’t kill her. For a while there was nothing he had wanted more, but he couldn’t do it. Because as well as rage, he was filled with an equal degree of unreasonable hope that Hela was still alive and he could still save her. If the price was to play the game according to Wiktoria Sendrowska’s rules, he was ready for it. If the price was to be his own death, he was ready for that, too. He was ready for anything. He received another text message from Wiktoria: o h.

  And it was all clear. He was to be there at zero hour—midnight.

  He hadn’t the least doubt where.

  20

  She’d been going up the mountain trail for a while now, and she’d worked up quite a sweat before she noticed there was a glitch in the Matrix. First of all, the weather was never like this in the Tatras. Well, perhaps it was, but she’d never seen weather like this on any expedition. Whether skiing with her mom or trekking with her dad, or taking a boring hike on a school trip—in these mountains she had only seen wet rocks, fog, and rain (or snow) clouds at eye level.

  This time she was walking along a stony path on top of a ridge, with scenes on either side that looked as if someone had pumped the air out so it wouldn’t obstruct the view. She’d had no idea there were so many mountains in the wet Tatras—she’d never seen farther than a hundred yards ahead before. What a fabulous experience.

  Suddenly she came to a steep wall with steps hewn out of it. It didn’t look safe, but was still more like a tourist trail than a climbing route. Especially as there was a massive, rusty chain attached to the rock alongside the steps.

  She pulled on it. It held.

  She grabbed the cold iron and began to climb. At first she felt wonderful, but the more air there was between her butt and the path below, the more anxiety crept into her mind, and the more she saw images of an inert body falling and crashing against boulders sticking out of the wall of rock before finally shattering on the stones below.

  Nervously she tightened her grip on the chain. Suddenly it sagged in her hand, as if made of rubber. She stared at the chain in amazement. She squeezed it again. It really was behaving like a rubber toy.

  She sniffed the chain. It smelled strongly of rusty metal.

  She shook it violently. Instead of rattling against the granite, it sounded like a rubber ball, bouncing off the wall.

  And that was when she realized she was dreaming. She looked at the world around her, repeated to herself three times that it was all in her head, jumped off the rock, and flew. Fast and decisively, not like Mary Poppins but like Robert Downey Jr.

  “Wheeeeee!” she shouted, gazing at the rapidly retreating mountains; from this perspective the granite ridge between two valleys was like the spikes on a gigantic green dinosaur’s spine.

  Her plan was to fly to Kraków, when suddenly she caught the strong smell of rusty iron again. She glanced at her hands and noticed to her amazement that she was still holding the rubber chain. Still attached to the mountains far in the distance, the chain was stretched to its limits, its links now as thin as fishing line.

  It would have been a funny sight, if not for the fact that suddenly the stretched chain began to pull her back with great force. She couldn’t let go of it, and now she was falling down, faster and faster, at high velocity and with a whistling in her ears, as the mountains came toward her at the speed of light. Now she could see the steps carved out of the wall, so she rolled into a ball and squeezed her eyes shut before impact.

  And that was when she awoke. Her muscles were tense and aching, her eyes were shut, and there was still a strong smell of rust.

  She took a deep breath, sniggered at the memory of her dream, opened her eyes, and felt tightness in her throat.

  Instantly she knew where she was. There was enough light in the room for her to recognize the texture of the rusted metal. She glanced down. Luckily her fears were unfounded—there were no remains, no teeth or fingernails swimming in gunk.

  The inside of the pipe was clean and dry, well maintained. To her surprise, she foun
d that she had her shoes and clothes on. Unlike the guy in the video who’d died naked.

  She knew she was going to die, but at least they hadn’t raped her.

  At the height of her rib cage the rust was grooved, scored with vertical lines. Hela shuddered when she realized how they got there. Someone had been so crazed with pain that they’d tried scratching their way out. Would she try to do the same?

  She glanced at her hands, tied in front with a thin rope.

  She probably would. As soon as the rope was snapped by the acid they were going to pour on her, she’d try to scratch through the iron, like everyone before her.

  She forced herself to tear her gaze from the marks and looked up.

  Straight into the eye of a camera.

  21

  Szacki opened the Citroën window, letting in frosty air that carried a strong scent of pine. The road to Ostroda meandered gently between wooded hillocks. It was wide, smooth, fairly new—in normal circumstances he loved driving out here.

  There was almost no traffic. He was alone with the forest, with winter hanging in the air.

  A few miles on, the forest ended, replaced by undulating meadows. A little farther, to the right he could see the lights of Gietrzwałd. To the left, the village of Naglady nestled between the hills. Closer to the road there were some old buildings, and closer to the forest there were some nouveau riche villas. It was actually quite an attractive place.

  He slowed down at a crossroads, but rather than turning toward the village, he went in the opposite direction, where there were no lights, just a meadow and a black wall of forest.

  The paved road soon changed into a graveled dirt road. But once he had passed a new development, that ended too. Farther on, it was just an ordinary Warmian cart track, bumpy ruts on either side of a ridge of withered grass that scraped against the oil pan.