Candlelight Stories

by Andrzej Galicki

  We stood now on the opposite side of the room, but her eyes were still fixed on the floating raft being tossed by the waves. Even from afar, the image breathed terror and tragedy, the sky over the heads of the survivors' ominous and angry billows of wind threatening to destroy the handful of frightened people at any moment. The only tiny sign of hope was the small point on the horizon, the upcoming war frigate. It was a godsend, the only chance of survival, but would it notice the raft? Would they be able to rescue them in time? On this particular point was also clearly fixed the eyes of Lena.

  “Take me away from here. He is tying me up. He wants me go back to the sea,” she continued more quietly, still looking at the picture.

  “Who is holding you bound?” I asked.

  “Who? The captain of Medusa, of course. There is only one vacancy in the launch. He wants it for himself.”

  “The captain of Medusa is dead. It has been for a long time,” I protested. “Lena, it is an old story. Stop thinking about it.”

  I began to regret that we had come here. The sensitive nature of Lena did not support this kind of experiences well.

  “Will you take me away from him or not? If you don’t answer me immediately, you will never see me again!” Now she looked straight into my eyes, her own grave and determined. I knew she was serious.

  “Of course, I will take you with me” I blurted out with conviction. “Whenever you want and wherever you want me to take you. But you have to tell me more. Why are you afraid? Who is causing you all this trouble?”

  Lena looked at the picture again.

  “Do you see that man sitting on the raft in front of us?”

  “Yes. A good friend of Gericault, Eugene Delacroix, himself a very well known artist, posed in order for this character to be painted. You cannot not know him. He was the one who painted the most famous portrait of Frederic Chopin.

  “Of course I know him,” she said impatiently. “It is not about him I am talking, but about the man whom he presents on the canvas. Do you know why he does not look towards salvation and why he has such a grim face?”

  “No. I do not know that.”

  “Because he knows what I know. There is a widespread belief that the survivors were rescued. This is a lie. They all died, every one of them. The rescuers didn’t want to save them. They thought that the case would not come out.”

  “But they were rescued. The captain of the Medusa was tried. It was a big case...”

  “Do you believe the newspapers? They lied then like they are lying now. If you believe them, maybe you are one of them yourself.”

  “I only believe you,” I said, seriously putting my hand over my heart. “What can I do to help you?”

  Lena pulled from her purse a little notebook, wrote something on a clean page, then tore it from the notebook. She folded it in half and gave it to me.

  “This is my address. Come there next Sunday evening, preferably at eight. I'll be alone. The Captain of the Medusa will not be home. You can help me get some of my things so I can run away somewhere far from there, somewhere where he’ll never find me. I am unable to do it alone. I have repeatedly tried, but I could not. With you I'll be stronger. I'm sure I can do it. You'll be on time?”

  “Of course, I'll be” I assured enthusiastically. “You may count on me.”

  She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me hard and long on my mouth. I suddenly felt her on me entirely and I thought that only a fool would not go after such a reward. Another week and I would have her all for myself. I felt already happy beyond description.

  The kiss ended as suddenly as it had begun. Lena pulled away from me. She looked again into my eyes, then turned around and disappeared into the crowd of visitors. I didn’t run after her. I stood rooted for a good few moments trying to understand if what was happening to me was not a figment of my sick imagination. But no, the page from Lena’s notebook with her address written on it was still in my hand. It read: Boulevard Raspail, second floor and the house number. It was actually somewhere near the Cafe La Rotonde, as she mentioned during our first meeting. It would be easy to find it. The only problem was that next Sunday was, so far, so damn far away…

  ***

  I did not stay long at the Louvre. I went to the Seine, crossing the Pont IX, then going to the shore and wandering along the water, eyeing the tourist boats floating down the river. I passed just near the corner of a high, vertical stonewall, thinking that I was alone here when suddenly, I felt fingers of steel tightening around my neck.

  A kind of invisible, inhuman force pushed me against the stonewall and a hard object was shoved against my ribs, hurting me badly. When I looked up, before my face appeared like a ghost the thin face of Sicilian. He looked at me straight in the eyes with the piercing glance of his black pupils, assessing the effect of his action.

  I stood stiff, pressed against the wall so petrified with fear and the attacker hissed menacingly, his eyes still piercing mine.

  “Less la tranquille, capish? Less la tranquille!!! Si non...” Here, he eloquently pointed with his chin the dark masses of water rolling at our feet.

  I closed my eyes in horror. I did not want to imagine my poor, dismembered body immersed in the waters of the Seine. Then the grip on my neck stopped and when I opened my eyes again, I was alone on the stone coast. I unglued myself from the wall and walked a few steps on stiff legs. Somehow, my knees did not want to bend for several seconds. Then they both abruptly bent at the same time. I had to lean back against the wall to keep from falling.

  "What the hell?"

  Finally, I started to think. "What did he say? That I had to leave her alone because if not, then..."

  I looked again into the dark water. No, I definitely did not want to be thrown there. I scrambled up the next stone stairs to the street and sat down on the bench next to the booth of a second-hand bookseller. I needed some time to bring my nerves to working condition.

  ***

  Right the next day, in the evening, I went for some reconnaissance. Indeed, the house at the address written by Lena was quite close. I made an effort to be very careful. Going slowly, I watched for the slim reflection of the Sicilian in the shop windows. I already knew that he could jump out of a mouse hole and grab a man 's throat at the same time. I did not see him, though.

  The house where Lena lived was big and old, similar to the other buildings on the Boulevard Raspail. I threw the usual, professional look up to see if the seventh floor had already been built. Unfortunately, it was already there so there was nothing for a roofer’s helper to do at this address.

  At the entrance gate, I didn’t notice the intercom. Probably they closed the gate every evening with a key, but certainly not before ten o’clock. I walked down the Boulevard Raspail thinking a lot.

  Maybe I should be armed? But, how? At the Rue de Rennes, I saw one shop window lined with spring knives, the whole choice of them, from very tiny to large ones. But if the police, by any chance, stopped me and found me with a knife, they would certainly not like it at all. At the very least, they could deport me to Poland with no right of return. Besides, the "Wet Job" was not for me, even in self-defense.

  I suddenly remembered that I had in my hotel room an old wrench left on the site by a plumber. Yes, that would do. After all, it was the proverbial Polish thug weapon, almost like a steel tube wrapped in newspaper.

  I felt briskly better at the thought that I would not be defenseless. Still, I had to be careful. Yesterday, I let myself down, acting like a loser. I wondered if the Sicilian was going to watch over her. Maybe he thought that he had succeeded in scaring me off, but he was deathly wrong. No way would a thin spaghetti eater scare off the Warsaw dodger. But then, what would I do with her once we found ourselves on the street? Should I take her back to my hotel? Sicilian might already know where I lived. Or should I ask my friends to hide her at least for some time? But then what if she learned how to smoke that shitty stuff? Absolutely not. I needed to think about it some more, lat
er perhaps. Maybe Lena had a plan. We would see on Sunday.

  That in mind, I walked each evening to Lena’s area, devising variants of the forthcoming action. Ultimately the anxiously awaited Sunday came.

  ***

  When I went out into the street, my legs automatically began to drive me in the direction of the Louvre. I let them go. Indeed, Lena and I had our rendezvous slated in the evening, but who knew? She might come anyway. For a long time, I wandered among the international crowd in the halls of the museum, but I did not meet her. Nor did I notice the long face of the Sicilian anywhere. I was suddenly reminded of my wrench. I had to remember to take it with me in the evening. I walked a bit aimlessly through the vast halls, but my thoughts strayed constantly around the evening meeting. What were we going to do next? Let us assume that she would be home alone, that we can quietly slip out into the street. And then what? Maybe catch a taxi? Or better yet, run straight to the subway. That was the easiest way to get lost. It depended on how much luggage she would have.

  Or maybe go to the airport and return immediately to Warsaw? If the Sicilian followed us there, I could send him two or three thugs from Czerniakow and he would flutter back on foot to Paris, never again daring to show his face on Polish soil.

  How many francs could a ticket to Poland cost? Maybe the train would be cheaper? And what? Leave Paris so suddenly? I hadn’t made yet enough money to go back. So my doubts doubled and I still didn’t know what to do. It was probably better to wait patiently for my meeting with Lena. I didn’t know enough to decide something now.

  I looked at the wall of the museum in front of me, at the painting where my legs had led me. The Raft of Medusa drifted among dangerous waves, the only glimmer of hope for the handful of terrified survivors in the vastness of the sea being that one tiny speck on the horizon - a sign that maybe not all is lost yet, that there was still a chance of survival. And yet one character turned his back to the possibility of salvation. What did he know? And why was he the only one who knew something the others didn’t? Well, maybe he was not alone. Lena also seemed to know it. But, how?

  I was sure that I remembered this story correctly. Several castaways survived, miraculously rescued by the encountered warship. And the Captain of the Medusa was put on trial for his heinous act of leaving his passengers behind at such a tragic moment. Did Lena invent her version of events? But why would she do such a thing? One must have a really sick imagination to distort history in such a way. It couldn’t be, and yet that face on the canvas, sombre, with a grim expression that Delacroix wore posing for his friend seemed to confirm the version of Lena. When someone sees approaching salvation, even just the possibility of it, it is natural to react just like the rest of the passengers on the raft, going out to meet it with all his heart, staring at it as if willing it to move closer, not turn his back on it. Something was definitely wrong with this painting. Many times I stood previously before the canvas, but my attention was never drawn so much to its symbolism.

  The picture was for me a typical academic painting that used models. It was made for the audience, for the stimulation of the viewers’ emotions. Today, this kind of theatrical poses would arouse only an indulgent smile, even compassion for the author, but then, it was different. I was always fascinated by this painting, but not by the raft, nor the people with their tragic circumstances, but something else. The most important for me was the second plane - the sea and the sky. These two elements were painted with such passion, one unknown to a mere "Sunday painter", like myself. I knew that even if I ate five pounds of paint, I would never be able to depict such a sea, and such a sky also. It must have been the gift of God. Even years of training and studying were not enough.

  With an effort, I tore my eyes away from the masterpiece. I absolutely needed to talk once again with Lena about it. Maybe I could find out something more. But not today. Today, I had more important things on my mind.

  I went outside and looked around. Lena was still nowhere to be seen, which meant I had to wait until the evening. Sicilian also didn’t show up.

  ***

  I left the hotel at half past seven. I left the wrench in my room, deciding the tool should be used only for the purpose for which it was designed. It was still light outside. Mme. Lou-Lou was walking with her Chihuahua along the sidewalk; and so I greeted her. "Bonsoir Madame Lou-Lou.” (Still, I got nothing for free.) Reaching the already familiar building on the Boulevard Raspail took me only twelve minutes. At first, I roamed around a little on the opposite side of the street, watching the house intently, particularly its front door. I did not notice anything suspect.

  Three minutes to eight, I pushed the heavy door and froze suddenly. But I didn’t even know her name! What would I say if the concierge asked whom I was looking for? Here, the apartments didn’t have numbers. I just know that I had to go to the second floor, but which door? I had no idea! The concierge window was open. I heard the bell ringing in while I was opening the gate, but no one showed up. I was lucky, from the depths of the yard, I heard a sound of rubbish bins sliding on the pavement of the court. I quickly ran to the staircase, pausing on the second floor. There were two doors to the apartments. Which one to choose? I knocked on the door on the left side. After a short while, I heard a rustling behind the door. My heart was jumping like crazy.

  The door opened wide.

  "Oh shit. Wrong door" I thought. In front of me, a man of about forty sat in a wheelchair, handsome with graying temples. He stared at me without saying a word.

  “Excusez Monsieur...” I started to retreat, already so nervous I forgot how to say the word ‘mistake’ in French.

  “Come in,” he replied in Polish. “I was just wondering if you were coming.”

  “But I came to...”

  “I know, I know. Come in and close the door. Come with me.”

  I made no further protest, doing as he instructed and we found ourselves in a nicely furnished living room with windows facing the street. We could hear the sound of cars passing below.

  "Where was Lena and what had he done to her? Was this the Captain of the Medusa?" One hundred questions swirled in my poor head. I could not understand what was going on.

  “Would you like to have a drink?” The man turned his wheelchair toward the wall on which was located a small bar laden with the bottles. I refused, of course, even though I felt the need to fortify my nerves. Something hung in the air, something strange, indefinable. I decided to wait.

  “I was hoping you would not come” continued the Captain of the Medusa, pouring in two large cognac glasses some kind of slightly brown liquid. He offered me one of them. When I refused again, he set it on the table next to the elegant leather chair.

  He invited me to sit with a polite movement of his hand. Again, I refused, shaking my head impatiently.

  “Where is Lena?” I burst finally. “I must see her immediately! Why are you hiding her?”

  The man took a sip from his glass, looking at me over the thin rim.

  “Luigi told me that he properly scared you off,” said he, not answering my question directly.

  “You unleashed on me this mafioso? You thought that such a gigolo could scare any old Warsaw dodger?”

  “I had hoped so. He was not supposed to hurt you, only slightly scare you so you would lose interest in your romance with my wife.”

  “Your wife?” I was completely dumbfounded at this point.

  My host sighed.

  “Please sit down,” he said. “I do not like to look up while talking to someone.”

  This time, I sat down. My hand found by itself the glass of cognac set on the table. I eagerly had a long sip. It must have been expensive shit because it tasted awful. The Captain of the Medusa nodded in satisfaction.

  “Now it will be easier for us to talk. Where do I start? Her real name is Magdalene. Here at home, she is Magda, but when she comes out of the apartment, she says her name is Lena. You see...” he paused and I suddenly felt that the words were comin
g out of him with difficulty. “She is sick. Seriously sick. The accident, which happened a year ago...” He thoughtfully tapped the railing of his wheelchair with his finger “very much aggravated her condition. She had it already in Poland, before our wedding. Such minor split of personality. The doctors claimed that it would pass with age. I was not bothered by it. Too much I was in love. Now, I care a lot because the situation has changed.”

  Again, he paused before continuing.

  “Of course, I still love her and she loves me, but when she comes out of our apartment, she becomes a different person. Especially here, in Paris. I do not know why. Maybe the atmosphere of the city influences her so. That's why I hired a private investigator to watch her, so that no harm would come to her. Once, she tried to leave me. Luigi found her at the Gare du Nord, crying. Back home, she does not remember anything. At home, she becomes again my Magda. I really have no idea what's going on in her subconsciousness. I just know what she says while sleeping. That’s how I knew that you were coming. I had planned to go out this evening. Just in case you showed up, however, I remained home.

  “I… I'd like to see her.”

  “Of course you do and you will. I do not think you have bad intentions. I, on my part, have nothing to hide. But do promise that once you see her, you will never try to see her again. It's really very bad for her.”

  “May I know what kind of accident it was?”

  “We had a small boat in Marseille, called Medusa. Once, we sailed with our friends to sea, far away to the northern coast of Africa. A storm broke up like we had never seen before. Medusa was smashed against the rocks. Both Magda and I were saved, but we were never the same. I had the spine injury. I do not know if I will ever walk again. Somehow, I managed to climb the rocks. And Magda? Already, you know. She is under the care of doctors.

  “And the others?”

  The Captain of the Medusa took the bottle of cognac by the neck and refilled our glasses.

  “There were two of them, Sophie and Pierre. Their bodies have never been found. The sea did not give them a chance. We obviously felt guilty, but then we did not even know what was happening to us. The sea during a storm is a scary beast. The waves never ask a man, which way he wants to be thrown. It was just a coincidence that the two of us lived. It could have been the opposite as well.”