‘Oh, La belle Victoire! That’s another sad story.’
At last! I thought, and crossed my fingers.
‘After he came back and told me the whole tale, he often asked me, indeed he made me promise, not to abandon her, to look after her “if something should happen to him”. Of course, I was ready to help in any way I could, but she wasn’t an easy person to talk to – uncommunicative, shut up within herself, deliberately cold and unapproachable. Which wasn’t so surprising. After all, Poland was like some foreign desert to her, especially then. Worse, like a penal colony. Poverty and terror everywhere, and isolation at home. No friends, no social circle, no one to talk to. Just the handful of her father’s friends, most of them peculiar, embittered old men, crippled in one way or another by the war, apathetic and cowed. Imagine what it must have been like! Imagine yourself, at the same age, just as you’re finishing school, suddenly being carted off to – oh, I don’t know, to Lvov, let’s say; it used to be a Polish city. It was where your father studied mathematics before the war. How would you feel? And for her the change must have been even greater. Imagine: the Alps, a French lycée, elegance and sophistication, and then suddenly rubble and political madness, and grey laundry soap instead of Chanel No. 5. It must have been terrible!
‘She was like a bird in a cage. Desperate. Wouldn’t leave the house. Max was very worried. I reproached him more than once. “Why on earth did you drag her here? If you decided you wanted to come back, fine, that was your affair, but to bring her into all this . . . I’m sorry, but it’s just completely beyond the bounds of reason.”
‘“You don’t understand,” he’d say, “I had to. I had to get her away from there. I did it for her.” Then he’d lower his voice: “She was in danger there. They wanted to prey on me by attacking my family. They were going to kill them both and leave me till last.”
‘I gave up.
‘I got a better insight into the situation only when they locked him up and I wanted to help her, as I’d promised. At first I despaired of getting anywhere. She was so unforthcoming I felt like an intruder and a pest rather than a source of much-needed support. But I soon came to understand that her coldness wasn’t directed at me personally. The problem was that I was a friend of her father’s. And she wasn’t just badly disposed to him but frankly hostile. I don’t know if it had always been that way or if it was the result of recent events, of everything she’d been through. Whatever it was, she reacted very badly to anything connected with him.
‘It was like something out of a Greek tragedy: father’s best intentions harming his own daughter, injured daughter hostile to tormented father; the tragedy of a man who paid for his act of bravery with the loss of his wife, insanity, his daughter’s hostility and a lonely death in prison. A horrendous price. And there was something tragic in my own role, because if I wanted to keep my promise to help her I was forced, in a sense, to turn against him. It was the prerequisite for getting through to her, taming her and persuading her to act in her own interests.So when I saw that she’d been close to her mother, I tried to give the impression that I . . . too . . . had in fact been . . . closer to Claire than to Max. I told her about Claire’s studies at the French Institute, and about the time when Max was in Spain . . . She didn’t remember me – well, she was only three or four then.
‘But mostly I tried to intimate, as best I could, that although Max was my friend, I disagreed with much of what he did. I’d been against the idea of the child being born on Mont Blanc, against his going to Spain and against their return to Poland. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for his love of the Alps she wouldn’t have been born there – in France, in the West. And that one fact about her could turn out to be fundamental. For as the poem says, “stronger than hardship and education is the moment of birth”: the place where “the ray of light greets the newborn”. I tried to make her see that. And the same with Spain. If it hadn’t been for that strange, inexplicable impulse which made Max decide to “pit himself against the evil of the world”, she wouldn’t have grown up in Western Europe. She wouldn’t be bilingual – indeed, if she’d stayed in Poland under the occupation she mightn’t be alive now. There’s no evil that some good doesn’t come of it. Perhaps this, too, would one day turn out to have been a kind of blessing. After all, she musn’t forget her middle name! But if some good was to come of it, if Providence was to be kind to her once again, she couldn’t turn away from it peevishly. She must help it along, give it a chance.
‘Finally, after much persuasion, I managed to persuade her to go to university. To study French, of course – in the Department of Romance Languages. It gave her a goal in life, and she could meet people with whom she had something in common: a knowledge of French and of France. And her position among them would be strong, for she had a significant advantage: she’d been there. You have no idea what it meant then to have been to Paris – to have been to the West at all, let alone to have been born there and to speak the language without an accent.
‘So she went. Naturally she had no difficulty with her studies: top marks, prizes at the end of the year – I know all about it because she and Freddy were . . . in the same year. And even in those days, if you did well there were all sorts of opportunities, including trips to the West. Especially after October ’56 and the “thaw” that followed. And sure enough, some time in ’57, when all sorts of people started getting passports and going to the West, either “privately”, to visit family, or to give lectures and attend conferences, she was one of two students to get a UNESCO grant for some sort of language course in Paris, at the Sorbonne. And then it all started.
‘She was refused a passport. Even though she was the top student in her year and politically quite neutral; even though both the department and the rector’s office intervened on her behalf. When I found out about it I decided to do something, though she hadn’t asked me to. I got in touch with someone who had contacts in the Security Services and asked him to look into it. He came back looking troubled. There was nothing to be done; they wouldn’t give their reasons. The thing didn’t smell good. It probably had something to do with her father’s death in prison. The reasons for his imprisonment. Whatever came out during the investigation. If he’d been rehabilitated, like so many others, things might have been different – but so far he hadn’t been. And no one had even applied to have it done.
‘“How can you apply to get him rehabilitated when he was never sentenced?! There wasn’t even a trial!”
‘My contact shrugged. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. My arms aren’t long enough.”
‘After this episode she became diffident again. Although she didn’t know what this man had told me, she behaved like a person profoundly convinced of the ineluctability of her fate. She was caught in a trap. She would never get out. Coming back to Poland had been a curse of destiny. She was doomed to stay here forever.
‘I wanted to fulfil my promise to Max. I tried to help her, to act in her best interests. But what were her best interests? What Max had wanted for her, or what she wanted for herself? Max had brought her here from France because he had feared for her life. Was he right or was he insane? How could one know for sure? I thought he’d made a great mistake, and made her unhappy. What was I to go on, whom was I to side with? In the end I said to her, “I’m told it was because of your father that they wouldn’t let you out. Whatever happened to him, they’re responsible, and they know that perfectly well. They’re responsible for his death, and they’d like to conceal the fact. So I think it’s time to put some pressure on them. The best defence is attack. It’s time to act. You have to apply for his rehabilitation – even for damages. And you must do it now. If you want your freedom, you must fight for it. I’ll help you in any way I can – I have some contacts here and there – but the first, decisive step must be yours. And I think you owe it to him. Whatever you think of him, however you judge him, he was a wonderful man. They don’t make them like that anymore.”
‘
She wouldn’t even listen. She found it loathsome and repulsive and was highly mistrustful of everything. She thought any kind of contact with the realities of life here, especially with the authorities, could only harm her. She preferred a different strategy – concealment and disguise. The strategy of the sphinx. Behind her mask, by night, secretly, she would dig away patiently until, little by little, she got what she wanted. With no help from anyone. It was exactly what Max would have done! In that way she was just like him.’
Constant halted and straightened up. We were standing in front of my house.
‘Well, here we are,’ he said, in a lighter tone. ‘You see, it wasn’t so bad. Maybe just a bit cold.’
I looked around desperately for some handhold, something I could use to haul myself up. To have reached the summit without at least putting one’s foot on it would be unforgivable – a defeat that was not to be borne. I had to think of some way to keep him talking. Unfortunately the props I had so carefully prepared now proved, as usual, quite useless. Once more I was forced to improvise.
‘True,’ I agreed cheerfully, ‘even quite pleasant. Why don’t we take one more turn? There’s a very nice square just around the corner.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I still have to get home, remember.’
‘Of course.’ I hung my head. But I bounced back quickly and announced in a brisk, decisive tone, ‘Well, in that case, now I’ll walk you home a little way – at least back to the viaduct.’ And to forestall any objections I moved off at once, saying as I did so, ‘Well, it’s been a good ten years since then. So did she get what she wanted?’
‘If she had,’ replied Constant, hurrying after me, ‘she wouldn’t be here. But, as you know, she is. It follows, therefore, that she didn’t.’
‘Do you mean that she didn’t succeed or that she admitted defeat?’
‘A person with a name like that never admits defeat,’ he said, with a strange blend of sadness and irony.
‘So what did she do? How did she try?’
‘I told you. She tried all sorts of ways. First there was that woman, her supervisor, what’s-her-name . . .’
‘Surowa?’
‘Yes, that’s it – Surowa. She tried through her. Then, when that didn’t work, she tried through the Centre, where she’d started to work – like her mother. And now . . . now I’m not quite sure. I can only guess. I lost touch with her.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Injured pride.’
‘Yours or hers?’
‘Hers, of course. You don’t think I could take offence at anything she did?’
‘What was she upset about?’
‘She asked me a favour – it was the only time she ever asked me for anything – and it happened to be something I couldn’t do.’
‘What was it?’
‘Oh, it’s not very interesting.’
‘Still . . . it’s interesting to me.’
‘Well, she asked me if Freddy, when he went to France, would meet a certain man, explain the situation to him and ask him, on her behalf, to marry her. To send her a so-called letter of intent, and if that didn’t get her a passport, to come himself. And if that didn’t work either, to marry her by proxy.’
‘Was it love, or . . . a marriage of convenience?’
‘What do you think! Of convenience, of course!’
‘Then why couldn’t you do what she asked?’
‘Because,’ he replied, ‘Freddy absolutely refused.’
My heart skipped a beat. ‘Why?’ I asked, emanating unconcern. I even managed a slight smile.
‘I don’t really know. He never explained. I can only guess . . . she meant something to him.’
So it was true! I remembered Freddy’s nervous laugh at the sound of Madame’s name. ‘But in that case,’ I said, ‘he should have been all the more eager to help her, surely? Why didn’t he want to?’
‘Think about it!’ snapped Constant with some irritation.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t see anything wrong with it, if it was just a formality . . .’
‘Oh, you’re too young to understand these things.’ He gave me a condescending pat and stopped again.
That’s it, I thought. It’s over. I was right.
‘Well, run along home now, otherwise we’ll be walking each other back and forth like this forever. And remember, not a word to anyone. If you talk, you’ll get everyone into trouble: me and her and yourself.’
‘You needn’t worry,’ I said, taking off my glove to shake his hand, seeing that he was doing the same. ‘But there’s just one more thing I’d like to ask, if I may . . .’
‘Well?’
‘When I mentioned that she was our headmistress, and that she was going to reform the school, Mr . . . Freddy, I mean, and you, too, you both looked surprised – taken aback. And Freddy said, “So she really did it . . .” as if she’d done something he’d expected. What did he mean?’
‘You mean you still don’t know? After hearing the whole story?’ He shook his head in gentle remonstrance and looked at me pityingly. ‘What kind of person can be the head of a high school in this country?’ he asked. ‘What is the one essential condition every candidate must fulfil?’
‘There are exceptions.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘You have no proof.’
‘The end doesn’t justify the means.’ He extended his hand. I shook it. ‘All the best! Good luck!’
His hand in mine was dry, cold, bony.
‘Thank you for everything,’ I said solemnly. ‘Especially for your trust.’
‘Trust isn’t something you say thank you for,’ he said, without releasing his grip on my hand. ‘It’s something you don’t betray.’ Then he let go of my hand and put on his glove.
We separated. I listened to the sound of his receding footsteps. Then there was silence.
My temples throbbed and I felt dizzy. I closed my eyes for a moment. In the darkness the image of an empty chair sprang out at me, as if the old electrician from the festival had turned a faint spotlight on it.
FOUR
The Logos-Cosmos Bookshop
In the dining-room the radio was on at full volume. Through its dreadful hissing, whistling and buzzing, like the howls of the damned from some infernal abyss, one could distinguish, faintly but clearly, the voice of a well-known announcer on Radio Free Europe. He was deploring, in the harshest terms, the latest iniquities of the ‘Warsaw regime’, just then indulging in a burst of vindictive repression after the perfectly innocent, as well as entirely sound and commendable, speech recently given at the university by a certain famous philosopher on the tenth anniversary of the ‘Polish October’ of 1956.
Deafened by the avalanche of information that had come down upon me in the past few hours, I longed only for complete solitude and quiet. But the screeching from the radio – ‘subversive’ waves, ‘jamming’ waves, and other less definable waves struggling for supremacy – had its benefits, for it gave me a chance to sneak in unnoticed by my parents and thus avoid questions about where I’d been and with whom – simple enough to answer, but inconvenient. Unfortunately, I had barely taken off my anorak and begun to creep stealthily toward my room when the din abruptly stopped, choked off by a twist of the volume dial, and I heard my mother’s sharp voice.
‘May I ask where you’ve been?’
I halted in mid-step, my hand on the knob of the door to my room.
‘I was out for a walk with Constant,’ I replied. I tried to make my tone convey the obviousness of this truth.
‘Couldn’t you have said so when you were going out?’ she retorted, deftly returning the ball with a slight spin.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ I tried to sound contrite, hoping that would be the end of it. ‘I just didn’t, somehow . . .’
‘You just didn’t, somehow . . .’ she echoed, stressing the negative.
‘Do you think I have something to hide?’ I snarled, instead of swallowing the reproach and letti
ng it go.
‘I don’t think anything. I’m merely making an observation,’ she replied evenly. And the voice of Radio Free Europe sounded again as the screeching resumed.
After some hasty evening ablutions I got into bed and turned off the light. The house was quiet, the radio in the dining-room mute. I lay on my back in the dark with my eyes closed and inspected my spoils.
Just over two weeks had passed since the moment when, sitting on the park bench after my mauling at the hands of the Viper, I had made the bold decision to investigate Madame and taken my first uncertain steps in that direction. In that short time I had, contrary to my own expectations, progressed a very long way. When I started out I’d known next to nothing; now my knowledge was simply immense. How many other people (apart from the Security Services, of course) knew as much as I did? The saga of her birth, the wartime peregrinations, the escapes, the French lycée, the catastrophic return, the death of her parents; the harassment, the feeling of being besieged and the struggle to get out at any price, even through a pact with the devil. I knew her life, even her motives, as if I were a member of her family: a brother, a close friend, a confidant.
I thought back to the moment when, excited and pleased with myself, gloating over the fruits of my reconnaissance mission, I had seen where she lived. This paltry achievement had then seemed stupendous. The distance separating me from the star that was the subject of my observations seemed to have shrunk by light-years, transforming what had been a flickering point of light into a huge solar disc. I looked back on this now with a pitying smile. If that was such a huge step forward, the events of this evening, by comparison, were like landing on the surface of a planet.
Indeed I was standing on solid ground. Before me was a landscape of varying hues and shapes, light and shadows. But could I understand what I was seeing? Or, rather, did the things I saw represent the ultimate reality? After all, what we see is merely appearance, one of the many forms or masks that reality assumes; beneath it lie other, perhaps infinite layers. The blue of the sea and sky, the green of mountains and forests look different at each stage of our approach; our view changes as we go from magnifying glass to microscope to the physics of elementary particles. Where, then, does seeing end? Does it have a limit?
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