He leaned backwards and stared at the stag trophies on the wall above the wild boar tusks. He heard someone coming down the stairs. He didn’t move. The last thing he wanted to do was bump into Amandine. And if it was Maria, he would be unable to stop himself from embracing her. She had only winked when he had told her the day before that he was spending the weekend hunting in Scotland. She had said something in Polish he didn’t understand, but he had not asked for an explanation. He had also mentioned that he had an appointment the following morning with Jokke for a complete check-up. Although he felt better, the usual fucking pain had been bothering him the last couple of days. The vodka from the evening before hadn’t done much to help. They had enjoyed a quiet night together for the first time in their relationship.
He had left her asleep when he had slipped back to his bedroom at five the following morning after his alarm had gone off.
He had asked her what she had done after “Madame” had returned so unexpectedly. With an incredibly cool head, she had changed back into her maid’s outfit, quickly cleared away the broken vodka glass, returned the evening dress to its proper place and closed the cupboard. She had then made her way downstairs as if nothing had happened.
“I would go to war for you,” he had said, a colourful phrase he had borrowed from his grandfather for addressing people you can trust, whatever the circumstances. “My grandfather used to say: ‘You’re the best horse in the stable’,” she had replied.
She had also been quite taken aback at Madame’s uncharacteristic kindness towards her, the first time in all the years she’d worked for her. It had reassured her. They had managed to escape a major disaster in the nick of time. He hadn’t seen Amandine for the rest of the evening. She had even taken breakfast in her boudoir after the seven-thirty mass and Maria had told him she was still being conspicuously pleasant towards her.
He stood up, walked over to the gun cabinet, stretched, and removed one of the stag trophies from the wall. He gently rubbed the antler’s shiny ivory-coloured points with the tip of his index finder and then the dark-brown warts on the shaft. He could still remember every detail of beautiful Balnacoil in the Scottish Highlands and how the stag had warily emerged from a cluster of juniper bushes and proudly jaunted into a valley, shrouded in a light mist.
He returned the trophy to its hook, opened the door and checked the landing. There was a strange silence in the house, as if it had been empty for months.
His mobile suddenly started to beep. He closed the door, returned to his desk and picked up the mobile from the floor.
“Hello…”
“Albert?” Walter de Ceuleneer’s trumpeting voice was immediately recognizable.
“What’s the matter, Walter?”
“Am I free to talk?”
“Yes, no problem.”
“I just had a call from Ramiz…”
“And?”
“He’s adamant…”
“And what does that mean?”
“He wants to know if you’ve forgotten about previous services rendered… you know…”
Albert said nothing.
“He said this was the last time he’d call…”
“Is that a threat?”
“Not sure, but I didn’t like the sound of his voice.”
“Tell him I can’t do anything for his nephew. It’s impossible.”
“He also said something about finding it hard to respect those in power when they leave their friends in the lurch.”
“I just cleaned my Mannlicher,” said Albert.
“So you can do absolutely nothing for him?”
“Nothing, and that’s the end of it.”
“I’ll pass it on. He wanted to know if he could have an audience at your office.”
Albert burst into a gravelly laugh. “Tell him I’ll be at my office tomorrow morning from nine o’clock. It’s a public place, open to Belgians and Albanians. Only the Pope gives audiences.”
“You seem to think it’s a laughing matter…”
“Far from it, I’ve never been so serious in my life.”
“Can I quote you?”
“With my compliments.”
“See you tomorrow then, seven o’clock at the airport?”
“I’ll be there, dear Walter. Weidmannsheil! Good hunting!”
“Weidmannsheil!”
Albert returned his mobile to its place beneath his desk, walked to the door, opened it and stuck his head outside. He could still hear Amandine talking to Maria upstairs. Were they rummaging through old clothes together? Amandine was prone to such whims, then everyone else had to drop what they were doing. If she were to kick the bucket before him, he knew exactly what he would do. On the day of the funeral he would empty those fucking wardrobes, pile those fucking outfits in the garden, douse them with a jerrycan of petrol and whoof!
Ramiz Shehu took a deep breath, swelling his torso to make himself look even more than the massive three hundred pounds plus he actually weighed (his scales stopped at three hundred).
He lit a cigarette and inhaled, held the smoke in his lungs for some time then gently exhaled. His pig-eyes gave him a cold, empty, shark-like look. A large moustache dyed with henna accentuated his baldness. A scar ran all the way from his right eye to his neck. He was relaxing in a leather armchair in the unventilated living room above his shop “Sacco”, on Antwerp’s Falconplein. He shuddered with what people in the desolate mountains of Eastern Albania call Malisor Madness: an unshakeable determination to settle scores for a deeply wounded sense of honour, a sacred duty to be fulfilled by every man of principle, which took second place to one thing only: gjakmarrjé - blood feud.
He grabbed the telephone with his broad hairy talon and slowly punched in a number.
“Nazim?”
He had a deep, throaty voice. Something resembling a smile appeared on his lips.
When the remarkably agile Albert caught sight of a couple of stag and half a dozen hinds sauntering over the mountain ridge about two hundred yards from where he stood, his evident sense of harmony with his surroundings (heather, juniper bushes and the occasional crooked spruce) prompted a series of associations and mental leaps, which cheered him immensely. Neolithic joie de vivre, he thought. The creation of humankind on the sixth day was one big mistake. He held his breath and turned to his guide, John Cummings, who was lying flat on his belly beside him, binoculars pressed to his eyes. The ghillie concentrated his gaze, completely absorbed in one thing only, a privilege normally reserved exclusively for animals. Albert peered through his binoculars and observed the stags grazing undisturbed, the hinds following their example, but more skittish, looking up from time to time, stationary, nose to the wind, ears open and alert, tails wiggling. The wind was blowing towards him, ideal conditions. One of the stags had magnificent antlers and an ash-brown coat, darker than the other, which was clearly younger. Suddenly, one of the hinds leaped playfully away from the others, pretending to take flight. Then it sauntered back and propped its nose under the larger stag’s tail. The stag turned its head, stretched its neck and emitted a short barking sound.
Cummings looked up and whispered: “They’ll probably mate tomorrow…”
Albert nodded. “Is the dark one good enough?” he whispered back.
“I’m not sure,” said Cummings laconically, returning to his binoculars.
Cummings was short and thickset, with red curly hair and a heavy beard, in which only his nose and eyes were visible. His blond-haired hands grasping his binoculars were covered with scars. His clothes were dog-eared and worn, and his green wellingtons covered with patches.
Albert removed the rubber caps from his Mannlicher rifle’s sight and checked to see if the lenses were misted. They were clear. He replaced the rubber caps and grabbed his binoculars. It was cold and wet. The sun had just risen and the dew was beginning to glisten here and there on the heather. Lying on his belly in the wet grass next to Cummings, Albert bowed his head to relieve the pain in his neck. He wr
iggled his toes in his brand-new wellingtons. He could feel the sweat building up under his sleeveless body warmer. The dreaded pain was absent. Jokke had done an internal examination the previous morning, but his prostate had turned out to be normal. He felt reassured, at his best here in the wild loneliness and silence of the Highlands, in his element.
Cummings spat tobacco juice into the grass by his shoulder, looked to one side and whispered: “We wait. They’ll hang around. Probably.”
The wind picked up and the mountain ridge disappeared in a bank of dark-grey clouds. Albert knew from experience that the weather could be unpredictable in this part of the world. According to Cummings, unexpected showers of heavy rain were called “rain-buffs”. Cummings said little and only spoke when he had to. From time to time he would volunteer information about the wilderness around them - tracks, smells, the landscape, the behaviour of the fauna - but even then it sounded as if he was talking to himself.
Albert liked Cummings and preferred to have him as his stalking partner. He also preferred stalking to coursing with dogs.
“The big one looks fairly good,” Cummings whispered without removing his binoculars. “Six points…”
Albert knew that the man was prone to understatement. His heart started to race and his mouth became dry, as it always did immediately before a shot. Maria was going to be delighted with her surprise trophy, he thought. He pushed back his Gore-Tex cap and took in the unparalleled open landscape. It must have been the same in Roman times, he thought, when they built the wall to keep out the Picts. All he could hear was the gentle rush of the wind. It started to drizzle, but Cummings pretended not to notice. He snorted and spat tobacco juice into the grass for the umpteenth time, a tic he repeated at ten-minute intervals. He could pick out a target at six feet and more. Albert couldn’t resist a smile.
Cummings was one of those people he could tolerate for ever. He reminded him of some of the farmers he had known as a boy. Walter called him “the Shadow”, because he never wandered further than a couple of yards from Albert’s side during a hunt. Walter was stalking in a nearby valley with Will Mackenzie. They had made the usual bet: a bottle of malt for the biggest deer. The bottle was given to the ghillie, but usually emptied by the entire group.
“Sir,” Cummings whispered.
“Yes…”
“He’s a good one. Get him.”
Albert cleared his throat, removed the caps from his sight, rested the butt against his cheek, unfastened the safety catch and waited until the herd came into view. He slowly lined up the cross-wire with the chest of the larger stag - the place hunters refer to as “the spot” - held his breath and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
A second shot followed, then something unexpected happened, something so unexpected it set his heart thumping: the herd had vanished from the face of the earth. He checked his sights and glanced at Cummings: Cummings had also vanished.
A wave of panic ran through his body. He jumped to his feet and shouted “John!”
Albert woke with a jolt, startling the warm body pressed against him.
“Mr Albert, what’s the matter?” a woman’s voice asked.
Albert was shaking from top to toe. His back was soaked with sweat.
“It was a dream…” he spluttered. “I was hunting…”
She switched on her bedside lamp.
“It’s five o’clock. You should get up.”
He turned on his back, closed his eyes, rested his hand on her belly and started to fiddle with her pubic hair.
“How about your belly?” she asked.
“So so,” he said. “I’m seeing a doctor friend later, at ten.”
“Mm… I know…”
“Maria…”
“I’m going to miss you in Scotland.”
“Me too, Mr Albert.”
He remained on his back, panting for breath like an old man, and said nothing.
“When do you get back?” she asked.
“Sunday evening…”
“Will you come to my bed? To our bed?”
“Yes, Maria, yes…”
She fell silent. He looked at her and saw the tears in her eyes.
“Kochanie…”
She threw her arms around him and rested her warm head against his cheek. He buried his nose in her thick auburn hair, which drove him wild. He wanted to say: “I’ll bring back something for you”, but he checked himself. He wanted to surprise her.
“You should get up,” she said for a second time and sniffed away her tears. Albert had to laugh. Just like Cummings in my dream, he thought. For one reason or another he longed to go hunting. At the same time the following day he would probably be wandering around the Highlands with “the Shadow”.
Maria freed herself from his arms, jumped out of bed stark naked, ran to the door, got up on the tips of her toes and plucked a bulb of garlic from the string her mother had given her to ward off evil powers, witches and ghosts.
She sat beside him on the bed and gave him the garlic. He gently caressed her smooth, warm, muscular back.
“Take it with you,” she said.
He kissed her and got to his feet. He knew she didn’t like long farewells.
“See you Sunday.”
“Keep the czosnek with you all the time,” she said.
“Will do, kochanie.”
“Say something else.”
“You’re my Third Woman according to Buddha.”
She whimpered and shook her head back and forth.
He turned quickly, opened the door, peered outside and listened. Nothing but the sound of traffic on Amerikalei. He looked back, but she was already in bed with the sheets pulled over her head.
He crept silently downstairs. As he passed Amandine’s bedroom, he thought: even if she were to catch me in bed with Maria she would pretend nothing had happened.
He sat on his bed and sniffed at the bulb of garlic. It was so dry it had lost its smell.
25
Albert adjusted his alarm clock to six forty-five, lay back, pulled the duvet up to his neck and fell asleep immediately.
Maria Landowska got up around five thirty, washed herself with cold water at the sink in her room, pulled her black maid’s outfit over her bra and panties, and made her way downstairs to the kitchen, where she clattered around as she did every day, preparing breakfast for Mr Albert and Madame, who usually ate in the dining room. She poured herself a cup of coffee and warmed the teapot with the idiotic cosy with hot water.
Baroness de Vreux got up at six o’clock sharp, took out her curlers, brushed her hair, sprayed it with lacquer, splashed some water under her arms and put on pantyhose, a skirt, a blouse and a three-quarter-length jacket. She appeared in the kitchen ten minutes earlier than usual and invited Maria with a smile to accompany her to the chapel to help her carry a large box of candles. It wasn’t the first time. Maria reluctantly slipped on a nylon anorak and sandals. At twenty past six, the women left the house and crossed Amerikalei. Maria Landowska was head and shoulders taller than the woman at her side. She was carrying a heavy package under her arm as if it weighed nothing. She had to slow down her pace to allow the woman to keep up. They entered Saint Michael’s church via a side door that lead to the library. A door at the end of a corridor opened into the shadowy chapel, where a dozen or so elderly men and women were on their knees at prayer. Candles were burning next to the altar in front of a statue of Our Lady with a crown on her head and a sceptre in her hand. A child with the features of a wizened old man rested in the curve of her left arm.
“Stay with me until mass is finished,” Baroness de Vreux whispered. She pointed to a chair at the end of the row. The Opus Dei priest, a thin forty-year-old with a pallid complexion, hurried into the chapel accompanied by an altar boy, and started to recite the prayers of the mass according to the Latin rite in a loud voice, his back to the assembled congregation. The men and women, who had nodded to one another when they arrived, all held sets of rosary beads. T
hey prayed with their eyes closed. A vague odour of candle wax, incense and damp cellar filled the chapel. They got to their knees during the consecration, and everyone - with the exception of Maria - went forward to Communion, which they received on the tongue, returned to their places and knelt in prayer, their hands covering their faces. Baroness Amandine pretended not to notice that Maria had not gone to Communion. When the mass was over, those present exchanged a “kiss of peace”, placing their hands on each other’s shoulders and touching cheeks.
Baroness Amandine gestured that Maria could leave the candles where they were. When they stepped out of the chapel into the busy morning traffic, Baroness Amandine suddenly stopped in her tracks, looked at Maria with a strange grin, removed an envelope from her handbag and said: “This is a ticket for the train to Warsaw. The train leaves at ten thirty from central station with a connection in Brussels South for Cologne and Berlin. I’ve included twenty thousand francs as a reward for loyal service.”
“But… what about my clothes?” Maria spluttered, her face ash-grey, gasping for breath. She stared at Baroness Amandine with her eyes wide open.
“They’ll be sent on later by mail. And now I would like you to get out of my sight for ever,” Baroness Amandine concluded. Her final words were uttered with complete indifference.
She raised her head, fleetingly covered her mouth with a limp right wrist, turned and carefully crossed Amerikalei with a look of satisfaction on her face.
Maria Landowska was stunned rigid. She staggered backwards, sat down on the bluestone steps of the church and stared vacantly at the envelope, which she held in her hand as if she had no idea what to do with it.
At seven thirty, Albert was preoccupied with his daily ritual in front of the bathroom mirror. The pain in his groin was gone and he had filled the WC with a healthy waterfall. These old muscles of mine are still made of iron and steel, he thought, pulling in his belly, inspecting his hirsute athletic torso, admiring his profile and humming his favourite ‘Dark Eyes’.
The Public Prosecutor Page 27