Priceless

by Zygmunt Miloszewski

  Determined to play the tough guy, he smiled and put a piece of meat into his mouth.

  “Did you know that only humans and other primates are more intelligent than pigs? Don’t you think pigs understand what happens to their babies?”

  He had a hard time swallowing. He put down his knife and fork and set the half-eaten dish aside. He looked at Zofia, smiling with satisfaction, and at her coal-black eyes, her blond bangs, which now and then she blew back, and her thin, almost childlike hands, clasped in front of her. And in spite of all, he couldn’t really get mad at her.

  “You know, I didn’t leave you,” she said.

  Were they finally going to have this conversation? Here, in the cellar of a Lviv restaurant stylized to look like a country cottage?

  He knocked back a shot of vodka and nodded to the waiter for another.

  “That’s interesting,” he said. “You packed your suitcase, slammed the door, then snuck in while I was away to get the rest of your things and left the keys in the mailbox; yet now you say you didn’t leave me.”

  She rested her chin on her hands. In the warm glow of the candles, she looked enchanting. “You left me emotionally, and you gave me no choice. It’s true that I moved out of your apartment, but you abandoned me and owe me an apology.”

  He couldn’t believe he was hearing this. He drank another shot and ate a slice of salo.

  “And what’s that? White cheese?”

  “No, it’s salo.”

  “What?”

  “I could say it’s like pork fat, but it’s not the same. Salo is more like a way of life.”

  “It’s lard, you mean. Is that from a piglet too?”

  “No, it’s from an elderly pig that was tired of life and pleased to see the ax. Salo is sacred—you can’t put me off, whatever you say. They even coat it in chocolate here.”

  “Stop, you’re making me sick.”

  “Are you seeing someone?”

  “Sorry?” The question threw her off.

  “I asked if you’re seeing someone.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Come on, for old times’ sake. Are you seeing someone?”

  “Nothing serious. A little dating, a few crushes that burned out quickly. And one real prospect for a solid relationship. He’s a lawyer; I met him through friends at the ministry. Very handsome, the Russell Crowe type, but more athletic.”

  “Great. So he does sports?”

  “He’s a skiing and tennis instructor, but now the main thing is sailing. You know, regattas and oceans and the like. He says only life where the wind and the waves meet makes him feel free.”

  She smiled and reached across the table for a slice of salo. “What about you? Do you miss me?”

  “Like the plague.”

  “Apologize.”

  “For what? For a stupid joke?”

  “For abandoning me, for forcing me to leave you. You’ve never apologized for that. You owe me as much.”

  “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny when you tell someone who’s supposed to be very close to you to ‘get out because you’re wasting our time and our lives.’”

  “I don’t like to use strong words—”

  “That’s new.”

  “—but taking that remark out of context is pretty low.”

  “No, Karol, you’re wrong. Context doesn’t matter with words like that. There are words that can’t be forgiven, words that end everything. And what you said to me is the meanest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  She reached for another slice of salo, then drank the shot of vodka sitting in front of her. She nodded to the waiter for more.

  “I’m sorry. But that’s not a reason for you to eat my dinner.”

  “Say it properly.”

  He thought of giving a snappy comeback, then realized it was pointless; he didn’t find this amusing. For years he’d told himself it was her fault, that she’d started it. And he’d almost come to believe it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m truly very sorry.”

  He was expecting triumph and mockery, but instead Zofia abruptly stood up and left.

  2

  She made it to the restroom and burst into tears.

  After she cooled down she carefully wiped her eyes with a paper towel. She’d left her purse at the table, and now she couldn’t touch up her mascara.

  She took several deep breaths and left the restroom; she’d have liked to stay there longer, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. As she squeezed her way through the fake country cottage, she thought about what to say.

  Then she noticed Karol wasn’t alone. Instead he was embracing a tall man, and the waiter was putting a bottle of vodka on the table.

  Karol introduced the stranger as Serhiy, a specialist, as if he meant the kind that broke kneecaps. He certainly didn’t look the part. He had on a thin black turtleneck over his well-built chest, black suit pants, and a thin belt with a silver buckle. But despite the costume of a typical mafioso, his face looked benevolent and kind.

  He spoke Polish well, with minor errors.

  “Karol’s wonderful,” he gushed, as if he were in love with him. “Without him we’d never have recovered that portrait. I don’t know if you’ve heard—”

  “The portrait of Varvara Nikolovna Khanenko,” she interrupted him, “by the Spanish Impressionist, or rather Post-Impressionist, Ulpiano Checa, painted in the late nineteenth century, looted by the Germans from Kiev. Oil on canvas, three by two, as I recall.”

  She knocked back a shot, giving Serhiy a moment to soak it in.

  “It’s quite an accomplished portrait; at auction it’d be worth fifteen thousand dollars, but for you Ukrainians it had emotional value. It’s a portrait of the wife of Bogdan Khanenko, founder of what is still the most important collection of foreign art in Ukraine, famous chiefly thanks to a single Velázquez and some Old Masters. Unfortunately several hundred paintings from the same collection are still on the list of losses, including another one by Checa. Are you involved professionally, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Serhiy, please.”

  “Are you involved professionally, Serhiy?”

  “I’m a specialist.” He pronounced it “speshy-a-leest.”

  “Yes, I know, I heard. But a specialist in what?”

  She felt the familiar twinge of irritation. Lately it didn’t take much to annoy her.

  “Zofia,” said Karol, “things are a bit different here from in Poland. Serhiy works in our area; he’s an art historian by training. But by profession he’s simply a specialist. A specialist in . . . let’s say solving tricky situations. He knows people who know people. Serhiy is a born navigator of interpersonal relations, good at obtaining genuine information.”

  “From people and from memory,” added Serhiy.

  Zofia took a long look at his sincere face.

  “We have to find a man nobody knows anything about,” she finally said.

  “As ever,” said Serhiy, smiling. “As ever.”

  3

  He thought the pain after loss was like a jumpsuit made of thorns. He’d spent a long time seeking the right metaphor, and this one seemed to him the most apt.

  Maybe that was why when Zofia and Karol were hammering out their emotional traumas at a restaurant in Lviv, Lisa and Anatol were in bed at a boardinghouse in Croatia, and there was something desperate about the intensity of their sexual intercourse.

  Anatol wanted to forget, to stop hearing the voice that kept telling him that only true love can heal the heart.

  Lisa wanted the image of Sten Borg in a ball of fire to vanish from her mind and for the dying man’s bestial howl to stop echoing, if only for a while.

  So they weren’t so much making love as screwing each other senseless. When they finally lay back, scratches all over, damp with sweat, they both knew they’d just had the greatest sex of their lives. And that they really did feel better, if only for a little while.

&nbs
p; “So what’s with the paintings?” asked Anatol.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you—why do you need those paintings? I don’t get it. I have no idea about art, and I’ve got no money. From where I stand you had it all. Why on earth risk it just for a painting you can’t even boast about? Did you get paid to steal them?”

  “No. I have them all. I won’t tell you where I stored them. Honestly, I did sell some of the ones that didn’t impress me much, just for some spare cash.”

  “How much?”

  “A few million.”

  He burst out laughing. Maybe he could like this woman.

  “Shall I tell you how I understand painting?” she asked after a pause. “Don’t worry, I’m not Dr. Lorentz; it won’t turn into a lecture.”

  “OK.”

  “Painting is light. It’s simple physics. The light picks everything out of the void, and reflects off everything in various ways, and that’s what produces colors. Painting is an attempt to render that fleeting moment when an infinite number of rays of light reflect off the world and land in the eye. Simple?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Of course, many painters managed to do it earlier. But it was only my Claude and the other Impressionists who showed that light is life. Their paintings say we’re living in a world of light. Not in a world where light dispels the darkness. Not in a world where light leads us through the gloom, where it’s waiting at the end of a dark tunnel. Simply in a world of light and life. You know they never used black?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s not that they were dogmatic, but they achieved everything by mixing only the colors of the rainbow. And what is a rainbow? Light refracted through drops of water. Their best works are the ones that capture a moment of light, like a droplet of life. Every day, all over the world, there are an infinite number of these moments, and together they form life. And in each of their works I can see those moments and think about how great it is to be alive. Do you believe in God?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Neither am I. I probably don’t. But I do believe in mankind. In Le déjeuner sur l’herbe, in Woman with a Parasol, in Swan Lake, in the Polonaise in A-flat Major, in Reims Cathedral, David Copperfield, and Ronia, the Robber’s Daughter. Show me a god who can make something like that.”

  “You know what the believers say. Crocuses in a highland glade, horses at a gallop, size thirty E . . .”

  “So I’m too flat-chested for you?”

  He laughed.

  “I know what you’re trying to say,” she continued. “But nature is beautiful by chance. The sun is a ball of gases, a horse has evolved as it is because those traits better suited survival, the mountains look the way they do because of colliding tectonic plates, and the wind and the rain and so on. It’s beautiful, but there was no creative act to make it so. We know how it occurred, thanks to physics, chemistry, and biology. If a creator does exist, then his creation was limited to throwing a few hydrogen atoms into the void and saying Hey, let’s see what happens. For me that’s Dadaism, or not even. Only mankind is capable of purposefully creating beauty. And I may be flat-chested, but I’m pretty good in bed.”

  He kissed her on her flat chest, got up, and stretched. All his muscles ached. He went over to the terrace door and flung it open. It was about fifty degrees; the air was pleasantly cool and smelled of salt, a nice change after the arctic conditions they’d endured in Sweden. There’s nowhere like the Mediterranean Sea.

  They’d flown via Munich to Trieste, where they’d rented a small Fiat Panda, and in an hour and a half they had driven the sixty miles from the Italian port to the Croatian town of Rovinj, crossing through Slovenia. It had taken another hour to find a place to stay. It was out of season, and almost everything was closed, on top of which three days before Christmas most of the Croatians weren’t interested in hosting foreign tourists.

  They’d overpaid, but the place was beautiful. He went out onto the cold stone slabs of the terrace and looked around. At two in the morning all they could hear was the sound of the lapping sea. Their villa was at the edge of the Old Town, located on a headland; before him Anatol could see a narrow street, a jetty with several yachts covered for the winter, and the dark waters of the Adriatic, from which a few hundred yards away loomed the elongated shape of the tree-covered island of Sveta Katarina, formerly known as Santa Catarina.

  Standing on a hill, silhouetted by the moonlight, was a building, which a hundred years ago had been the fairy-tale residence of Ignacy, Count Korwin-Milewski.

  There was a light on in one of the windows.

  4

  It wasn’t that she was avoiding Karol after what had happened yesterday. She just wasn’t looking for his, or anyone else’s, company. She had a good sleep, ate breakfast, and, figuring she deserved something sweet, had a large slice of Sacher torte. It was delicious, and she had to admit that Karol was right—the Vienna coffeehouse was a good enough reason to stay at the Hotel Vienna.

  Then she forced herself to go outside. She felt like staying within the safe space of the hotel but decided that putting on a show of normality was the best way to keep sane. Otherwise she’d keep endlessly analyzing and debating everything.

  So she walked around wintry Lviv, surprised to find that although it was December 23, there was no sign of the sort of madness that took over in Poland before Christmas. She remembered later that in Ukraine both the Greek Catholic and the Roman Catholic Church celebrate Christmas according to the Julian calendar, in early January.

  She soaked up the local atmosphere. Lviv looked poor; despite some efforts, it was impossible to hide decades of Soviet neglect. It was obvious that nobody had taken care of this city for a long time, and now, even if someone wanted to, there was no point.

  What a pity, she thought. The city was exquisite; it had its charm and positive energy, and she felt good here. It seemed more genuine than most of Europe.

  I’m starting to think like Karol, she scolded herself. Less artificial, more genuine, more natural. Soon I’ll be resorting to the same reverence for life far away from civilization. Fresh milk from a cow, strawberries only in June, and handpicked chanterelles from the forest, a deeper yellow because the foxes have pissed on them. Giving birth by candlelight on sheepskin rugs.

  She was standing by a statue of Ukraine’s national poet, Taras Shevchenko, when suddenly Serhiy sprang up like a ghost. He was wearing a three-quarter-length leather coat.

  “I have some information,” he said, pronouncing it “een-for-may-shun.”

  5

  Rovinj was straight out of a brochure: the small Mediterranean houses in the Old Town, located on an oval headland that pointed into the Adriatic, were built so close to the water that it was a miracle they didn’t fall in. The Old Town climbed up a hill, and there on the summit was Saint Euphemia, a Roman martyr whose hilltop basilica housed her relics and had a distinctive bell tower modeled on the one at Saint Mark’s in Venice.

  After breakfast they found the tourist office and discovered that Sveta Katarina Island belonged entirely to Hotel Katarina, which was only open from April to September. The ferry to the island didn’t operate out of season either, though normally it ran twelve times a day, but they were given contact details for boatmen who could take them to the island.

  Two hours later they were on the island, standing on a concrete jetty, watching the motorboat head back to the city. From here the panorama of Rovinj was stunning—the old city rising out of the sea, with the basilica and its bell tower soaring above.

  On the other side of the strait, life was in full swing: there were cars on the move, people wandering around, and hints of jazz coming from a café. On Sveta Katarina there was no life, no music, and no movement. Just the lapping of small waves bouncing off the algae-coated quay.

  “A bit like a horror movie,” said Lisa, zipping up her jacket. “A deserted hotel out of season, the old palace of an eccentric count, his grave hidden
among the trees, and sinister secrets. I wonder what we’ll find here?”

  “A drunken security guard, a pool full of leaves, and some abandoned lounge chairs,” said Anatol.

  He put his arm around her, and they set off along a path between the trees. Though he wanted to ridicule Lisa for her fears, he too felt uneasy as they entered the dark wood on the isolated island.

  Lisa took up the game again: “And a doll, lying among the dry leaves at the bottom of the empty pool; an old, creaking swing rocking by itself; a beach ball bouncing down the steps toward us, plop, plop, plop.”

  They came out of the woods into a square in front of the Hotel Katarina. They looked at the hotel, then at each other, and couldn’t hide their disappointment. The Katarina looked like the typical prefabricated buildings that stood by the thousands along the coasts of Turkey, Tunisia, and Egypt. The yellow facade was a cross between Moorish style with Renaissance galleries and a German beach resort. The place was full of architectural odds and ends—mainly balconies and loggias—as if to hide the fact that this grand edifice was just a reinforced concrete block but with a view of the sea. If Milewski’s palace had become this monstrosity for sunburned British tourists, the Count must be turning in his grave.

  “Does anyone actually live here?” asked Lisa.

  “Someone must. I can’t believe it would just be left empty without any security.”

  “So should we go and see if the caretaker and his family are inside? Murdered, skinned, and posed at the table as if waiting to eat?”

  They crossed a small bridge over a dinky fountain, passed a cute little hedge, and went into an arcade by the main entrance. Anatol had just placed a hand on the swinging door when suddenly a small child shrieked from inside. Something about the protracted, agonized “noooo!” made Anatol’s hair stand on end. They’ve tracked us down, he thought. They anticipated our coming here, got here first, and already started the killing.

  Quickly he opened the door and ran inside to save the child; all his senses sharpened as he tried to determine which direction the scream had come from.

  Straight ahead was the reception desk, to the left a wide hallway leading to the restaurant, to the right, some steps leading upstairs and a door into some offices. He raced down the hallway, tearing a wrought-iron lamp from the wall to use as a weapon. A few steps farther, another shrill scream assured him that he was running in the right direction.